“La Strega, you say, eh? At La Casa dei Sconosciuti?”
Ric assumes he’s referring to Valeria and the cottage, and he expects the man to follow up his questions with some sharp remark about how Ric is living with a woman old enough to be his grandmother. But he doesn’t. He busies himself poring over the tow-hitch of an archaic tractor, so Ric replies simply, “Yes.”
Signor Maggiore is medium height and barrel-chested, and his jet-black hair frames a wide face dominated by a heavy brow, a brow which extends like a broad lintel over his arrow-straight nose. Ric recognises him as the figure who walked behind the hearse and who led the mourners of the funeral cortège two days before.
“You are English? We can speak English. It will be easier.” He lights the stub of cigar wedged between his teeth.
“Well, I’m probably more Welsh than English, but that would be splitting hairs given the circumstances.”
The man frowns, but Ric feels this more from the brief and intense flash of his eyes, rather than any obvious alteration in the contours of his forehead.
“No, I understand what you say, but it is important to split hairs. The people from Wales are not the same as the people from England. This will be like saying the terroni are the same as the polentoni, which is not true. The polentoni are from the north of Italy; they have money and die young from stress-related illness. We are the terroni of the south; we live long because we understand that life is simple.” He clears his throat, spits aside and bends to the coupling of the trailer.
“You get many British tourists here?” Ric asks.
“A few, not many. We are not sophisticated enough for the British. Or, maybe it is that we are too sophisticated. Who knows?” He wipes his hands on an oily rag. “Why? You want to meet people from your own country? You have a boat, why would you want to meet people of your own kind? Usually people with boats don’t want to meet people of their kind; that is why they travel by boat, alone, eh.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s more that so many people here speak English, I hadn’t expected it this far south.”
Signor Maggiore leans back, hands on hips and stretches out his short back: “Many different reasons for this. La Strega speaks good English because she was a film actress. Escurzionisti speak good English because they must speak it to earn money. I speak good English because I had a good teacher.”
“Bongiorno?”
The broad Liparotan eyes Ric a little suspiciously. “Si, Leonida Bongiorno, the comunista. I was not one for learning, but he was a good professor for me.” He pauses for a moment and weighs Ric in his mind. Whatever conclusion he reaches, he dismisses it.
“But, I have to fix boats for every nationality, so it is a good ability for me. Not,” he says, pointing out to sea, “boats like this, eh?”
Ric turns and shades his eyes to watch a gargantuan motor yacht open at the transom to disgorge a sizeable tender and several jet-skis. It is absurdly monolithic in proportion; at least twice the size of the Kohar, the Armenian’s yacht in Corsica: “Not so much gin palace as champagne palace.”
“Si, they get bigger and bigger, like big hotel, perhaps one day even bigger.”
“You could hide a small army in one of those.”
The man Valeria has referred to as Il Velaccino glances up at Ric. “Si, or many bad people, fugitives, illegal immigrants… last summer a little bird told La Polizia in Milazzo that one of these boats, a Russian boat, was taking a Serbian war criminal to Africa to escape the Court of Hague. They arrest the boat and bring it here, to Marina Lunga. Big important happening: much chest puffed out and growing taller for La Polizia. Then,” he begins to chuckle, “then they find out it is not a Serbian war criminal, but it is a member of the Russian Parliament – the Dumas – on his way to a party with Il Cavaliere – Berlusconi – in Panarea.” He laughs, bends, slaps his thigh, and wipes his eyes with the same oily rag with which he has just wiped his hands. “Ah, it was what you would call priceless. Many red faces; many cocks suddenly walking like hens. Much amusement for us, eh? La Polizia, they go back to Milazzo to argue with each other. Perhaps they don’t come to feel the heat in our kitchen for a while, eh?
“Now, I have work and soon the sun will be high. What can I do for the Mara?”
Ric explains the problem with the packing around the stern tube seal and Marcello Maggiore says he can fix it, only the boat will have to be out of the water for a few days.
He plucks the cigar from between his teeth, examines it and then rubs his lower lip in thought: “You cannot stay on Mara while she is out of the water. This is not possible, I don’t have the correct braces; only enough to keep her up while we work. You can stay at La Casa dei Sconosciuti, with La Strega?”
“How long’s a few days?”
“Maybe five, maybe a week? I have others waiting and it will help me to have Mara at my yard if I need to order parts.”
“Five nights might be too long on Valeria’s sofa. For her, I mean. I’d be better off taking a room in town.”
Signor Maggiore examines his cigar once more. “I have an idea. Your name is…?”
“Richard Ross, Ric will do.”
Il Velaccino examines his own hand before offering it. “Marcello, pleased to meet you, Ric.” His fingers are lean and strong. “You are a friend of La Strega?”
“Sure.”
“Then, I have a monolocale in the town, in a vico near the Garibaldi. I rent it out in the summer. Now it is empty, so you can have this for as long as it takes me to make the repairs.”
“Sounds good to me,” Ric replies, surprised the man has not demanded a fee for the accommodation. “Thank you.”
Marcello relights his stubby cigar, takes a couple of drags and walks away, checking the straps on his trailer as he goes. “Now I must work; we can talk later. You want me to come to Casa dei Sconosciuti or I see you in Marina Corta?”
“The Corta will do. I don’t have that much kit. What time?”
“Oh, I see you at passeggio.” He waves his cigar in salute.