The shops along the cobbled Garibaldi are closing. The women, bored, accepting, reluctant and relieved, are hooking down their carefully arranged displays of garments, packing away driftwood carvings, metal sculptures and fridge magnets, and exchanging weary moans with their neighbours.
Halfway up the rise dark-skinned, hijab-wearing women sit outside their shop. They bounce giggling children on their knees, cooing and poring over them as one might a favoured pet.
Marcello turns off the street and walks between the family, pausing and stooping to pinch a cheek. “Buonasera,” he says and the women smile and nod in appreciation.
Ric follows him into and down a narrow alley.
“Melanzane!” he mutters: “Arabs, Berbers, Tebos, even Jews,” he says over his shoulder. “We inherit them all from Tripolitania: you would know it as Libya. Oh, and Somalis too. These days Africa begins at Rome, but then again,” he chuckles, “ignorance begins at Perugia!”
The alley is narrow, only just wide enough to accommodate Marcello’s broad shoulders, and bounded by a continuous terrace of houses whose iron balustrades protrude from low balconies. The passage is a meeting of shadows, and only the dim glow from corner lanterns and the occasional soft chevron of light projected through slatted shutters interrupts the dark. Murmurs and whispers, rhythmic and gentle on the ear, are broken only by a harsh exchange or the barking of a dog.
At the end of the alley, Marcello turns right into a second, slightly broader alley, but one that is little different from the first. Ric is trying to keep his bearings and searches for a sign on the walls to tell him the name of the alley.
“Not far,” says Marcello, hesitating as though he has momentarily lost his way in the maze. He turns left, stops abruptly and fishes in his pocket for a set of keys.
The wooden door opens towards them. They enter and Marcello flicks a light switch.
Immediately in front of Ric is a staircase and to his left a modest room, which is both kitchen and living room. The tap at the basin, he notices, drips.
“There is a bedroom upstairs and a bathroom. There,” he points to a door at the back of the room, “you will find a wash room with a toilet. It’s not much, but it will be better than La Strega’s sofa; a little more private too.”
“What do I owe you?” Ric asks. The thought of sleeping in a real bed that is firmly tethered to the ground is all consuming.
“There are clean sheets in the bedroom and a towel in the bathroom. I have someone do this for you,” Marcello replies, ignoring his question. “If there is something missing, you tell me, eh? I will ask her to get the right things? You didn’t bring your clothes?”
“No, I’ll get them in the morning. Valeria is washing them; I guess she’ll tell me when they’re ready.”
Marcello stops and turns to look at Ric, studying him again as though he is trying to make up his mind about some doubt he harbours. “Yes, of course, I am sure La Strega will come here. È una ficcanaso: she is always curious, eh?” He touches the end of his nose briefly. “Now you must sleep and tomorrow morning we will take Mara out of the sea and try to find out her problem. You have all you need from the boat? Once it is out of the water it will not be good to climb up? You think it is the seal around the shaft for the elica, the propeller.”
Ric is trying to remember if he’s left anything on the Mara which he might need. “I reckon so. The morning I arrived at San Giuseppe, this guy turned up out of the blue, patched up the stern tube with something that looked remarkably like pasta; didn’t charge me for the pleasure. Nobody seems to want to let me pay for anything, not even for the beers this evening. I hate to think what’s going to happen if you all call your markers in on the same day.”
Marcello is watching him as though reading his face: “Tell me: this man, what did he look like?”
“Wiry build, light-brown hair, thick glasses, constant smile.”
“Oh,” Marcello nods slowly, his expression strangely deadpan, “Salvo, yes, I know him. He works for me, sometimes. Curious, he did not tell me. Ciao, Ric. We will come to collect the Mara in the morning and together we will sail her to Canneto, eh?”