The Corso Emmanuelle is a hive of activity, but all in typically slow motion. The Apes, loaded with vegetables, fruit and fish, are fringed by portly dowagers and skinny spinsters taking their time to make up their minds about what they are going to treat themselves to for lunch.
Sandro is chatting to a couple of middle-aged downbeats. He waves smartly, but he is commanding too big an audience to want to break off his spiel. And Giuliana appears from the door of the panificio, smiles and waves him towards a café, but he resists her offer.
Ric decides to walk up over the saddle to Canneto to Marcello’s yard, rather than take the bus through the tunnel. The exercise, he decides, will drive the ache of the previous evening’s swim from his limbs.
The Lunga is busy and the escurzionisti are, like a shoal of expectant piranhas, already limbering up for the arrival of the tourists off a colossal cruise liner wallowing in the bay.
An Aliscafo pulls in to the dock; a man announces its onward stops, the speakers atop the ticketing hut projecting his amplified voice in the tones of a tired bingo caller.
Stern-faced Carabinieri are checking the identity of all those waiting on the pier.
Before the road curves round to the Porto Pignataro and the tunnel through to Canneto, he cuts left up the hill and winds his way through a hamlet of low houses towards the saddle that connects Monte Rosa to the spine of the island. As he passes each gate, dogs rush at him, barking wildly, and in places he has to watch his step as the rough-and-ready road is potholed and uneven. The glare from the sun high over his right shoulder is relentless and the dust thrown up by his footfall hangs lazily in the air.
Ric follows the footpath at the end of the road and climbs up to the saddle. But, once there, the trail narrows and leads on up to the first of the twin peaks, Pietra Campana. He has to backtrack to locate the slender, overgrown trail which leads down to Canneto. The pathway is little more than a gulley-like run-off cut deep through the vegetation. He loses his footing and stumbles down, reaching out to hold onto anything that will slow his descent. In doing so, he grabs a handful of agave and cuts his palm on the serrated edge of the leaf.
He swears at no one in particular as he hops and jumps down between the steep banks of the path.
By the time he comes out by the entrance to the tunnel, he is sweating, one knee is grazed and his right palm is bleeding. “Next time, you idiot, take the tunnel like everyone else.”
The yard, the Cantiere Nautico Maggiore, sits a hundred or so metres up a turning on the left. The road is deserted, dusty and crowned in the centre. A low white wall topped by a wire mesh fence runs along one side; old shacks with bleached-wood walls and doors held closed with heavy, rusting padlocks line the other. Marcello’s yard is deserted.
Ric checks the sun and reckons it is a little early for lunch. He drags the heavy iron gate back and steps into the yard.
Scuffling and growling alerts him to the arrival of a hairy black mongrel. As he turns to face it, he realises it is too late for him to dash back out of the gate and so raises his arms to fend it off.
But as the dog leaps at him, the chain tethering it to the kennel extends fully and the dog halts in mid-flight, twists like a circus acrobat and lands on all fours in front of him.
The ferocious mongrel, eyes wild and frothing at the mouth, barks madly. It’s frustration at not being able to reach him adds fuel to the fire of its fury.
They stare each other down until a mutual respect is established and the dog retires to the shade.
The Mara, supported by a crude assortment of jack stands and blocks, sits up in the middle of an uneven row of a half dozen more modern sailing boats. She looks uncomfortably out of place among the detritus of the yard and reminds Ric of a maiden aunt abandoned amidst a mob of drunken labourers. Hoists, chains, rusting engines, discarded outboards and broken spars litter the yard. And, at the back beneath a lean-to, a bench displays all the elaborate paraphernalia of the sailmaker. Coils of waxed cotton sailtwine, seaming and roping palms, sidehole cutters and hooks, spur grommets, turnbuttons, thimbles, jib hanks, slides, shackles and boxes of wooden and multi-coloured parrel beads are strewn about. And, under the bench lie rolls of sailcloth: yellowed flax, greying hemp and white cotton of varying weights, some crosscut and others radial, and all manner of more modern polyester and nylon, both laminate and woven.
Marcello is nowhere to be seen, so Ric walks over and around the back of the Mara. The propeller is missing, the stern tube has been disassembled and, in places, the hull is badly in need of anti-fouling; clearly, old Camille has not had the Mara out of the water for some time.
A wooden ladder stands up against the stern of the sloop. He checks it is secure and climbs up to the deck. The hatch cover is closed and, once he’s pushed it back, he steps down.
Inside, the cabin is sweltering in the midday heat and the stale odours of drying cedar, engine grease and diesel foul the air.
Ric slides his mattress and a section of the bed aside, bends down and lifts the small cover off the hatch in the floor.
Where he expects to see the two small plastic bags, one containing the gun and the other the money and passports, there is only one bag. The gun is missing.
“Damn! What the hell do I do now?”
But before he can answer his own question, he hears the scrape of the gate outside and a car pulls into the yard.
Ric replaces the cover, slips the board and bed back into place, and steps up through the hatch to the deck.
Marcello is taken by surprise. “Hey, Ric,” he calls up, taking the stub of his cigar from between his lips and shading his eyes from the sun, “you should have called. If I had known you were coming I would have brought cold drinks.”
Ric slides the hatch cover in place and quickly, but not too obviously quickly, descends the ladder.
“No matter, Marcello, I thought I’d walk over to see how she was coming along.”
But the short, curly headed Liparotan is, like his dog, suspicious of Ric.
“Hope you don’t mind, my friend,” Ric says, as innocently as his nervousness at being caught in the act will permit. “I thought I’d left something on the boat.” Now it is his turn to watch the man back.
“Oh, yes? What thing is this that you have left on the Mara? We have been in the cabin, but I have not touched any of your things.”
Ric waits, studying Marcello. If he is lying, he gives away no trademark tell.
“Sure. I mean I’m sure you wouldn’t. I didn’t think you would. It’s just that I can’t remember where I’ve left a couple of items of clothing. ‘Suppose they must be at Valeria’s. Maybe she’s kept them back to iron them.”
Marcello grins. “So, now La Strega is doing your laundry. Mm, well, be careful or she will have the shirt off your back, as you English say.” He chews his cigar and raises his eyebrows. “A little old for you, don’t you think?”
Then Ric remembers the other reason he has come to see Marcello and his expression darkens. “But, apart from the clothes I can’t find, I wanted to see you. What the hell do you mean by leaving me out in the middle of the ocean last night?”
Marcello grimaces, examines his cigar, deems it not worth relighting and tosses it aside. The dog races over to consume it as though it is prime steak.
“Yes, of course. This was bad mannered of me. For this I must apologise.”
But if Ric thinks he is worthy of any better treatment than the cigar, he is mistaken. “Just that?” he asks, incredulous. “I could have drowned out there. How did you know I wasn’t knocked unconscious by the boat that ran us down?” He points at the wound above his eye, carful not to touch it.
The barrel-chested man scoffs dismissively, “How did you know it was not the same for me?” He takes a step back. “Come, let me show you something.” He waves Ric over.
The dog makes to run at Ric, but Marcello snaps at it and it retreats, tail between its legs.
Over to the left of the yard lies the small skiff they had been fishing in the night before. But unlike the larger sail boats it is not up on blocks; rather it is lying on its side and halfway between the keel and the slender Plimsoll line the hull sports a gash large enough to put a boot through.
“You see this!” he says more than asks. “This is why I had to leave you.” He waits for Ric to take in the extent of the damage. “How long do you think I would be floating with a hole like this? And what was the point of two of us swimming. The water was coming in faster than the motor can drive her through the water. I make it back just in time.”
Ric remembers Sandro saying he had seen Marcello in the Corta some time before he arrived.
The breach in the hull of the little boat is overlaid with blue paint and Ric recalls the hull of the boat bearing down on him. He fingers the plaster above his right eye.
“Okay, Marcello, I’m sorry about your barca. I had no idea you’d been holed. I thought you’d run off and left me.”
Marcello chuckles, “Oh, I did, my friend. I did. But I remember you telling me you were in the Marina Militare – the Marines – so naturally I think it will not be a problem for you to swim this little distance to the shore.” He looks Ric up and down, lingering on the jellyfish welts on his forearms. “And I see, apart from caressing the medusa, you made it back in one piece. They hurt, eh?”
“They do.”
“You must piss on the pain. I know it sounds unpleasant, but this is the best cure.”
“Thanks, Marcello,” Ric groans, “but I can do without the old wives’ tales.” He hesitates. “I guess I owe you an apology for thinking you’d run out on me.”
The man bobs his head from side to side as he appreciates Ric’s rather begrudging acknowledgement. “Okay, okay, now I have apologised and you have apologised, so let’s go have a beer. It’s too hot to stand out here playing buone maniere.”
At a café down the front in Canneto, a waiter, wearing yesterday’s clothes and a thousand-yard-stare, serves them a couple of beers and a bowl of green olives. Marcello pops an olive in his mouth, chews thoughtfully for a moment and then flicks the stone at a skinny dog which has sidled in to sit at his feet.
“How goes it with the Mara?” asks Ric.
Marcello shrugs, “Slowly. There is much that is a problem.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, my friend, you will be here for a while unless you want to go somewhere else and return when I have finished.” Marcello flicks another olive stone. The dog snaps and catches it in its mouth before dropping it at its feet.
“The seals are worn and as a result the propeller shaft is out of balance. This means that it is possible the main bearings in the engine are worn. If we put everything back together, there is no guarantee the engine will not have more problems.” He holds up his stubby fingers in surrender. “I am at your command. You tell me what you want me to do.”
Ric sighs, “Given the circumstances, what would you do?”
Marcello grins and looks up to the heavens and replies, “Oh, you have two choices: I take out the engine and replace the bearings or you pray that you do not meet a big storm and need to rely on the motor to get you out of trouble. It is simple.”
“I’m not big on relying on the weather.”
“It is wise not to be so,” Marcello replies, nodding. “The weather can be a fine friend, but a cruel enemy.”
Ric considers the shipwright’s advice. “I noticed the hull could do with some attention.”
Marcello nods again, “Yes, but it is not as bad as it looks. This you could do later.”
“Talking of hulls,” Ric says, sipping his beer, “the boat that ran us down last night?”
“Yes. What about this?”
“I noticed the paint on the hull of your skiff is dark blue. Any idea who has a boat that colour? You seem to know everyone hereabouts; I imagine you’d know who that boat belonged to.”
Marcello glances at Ric; a brief, hard, penetrating glance. “Yes. I have given this much thought.”
“And?”
But the Liparotan does not answer, he simply gazes out at the horizon; a flat line broken only by the low outline of Panarea and, behind it, the larger cone of Stromboli and the small cloud permanently suspended above it.
“No, this was not a boat from Lipari; it was both too big and not big enough. It was not a peschereccio, a tourist barca, a taxi mare or a playboy’s motoscafo. And it was not one of those boats like the floating hotel in Porto Salvo. This boat was both big and fast; it was from Milazzo.”
Ric thinks for a moment and remembers the hull bearing down on him. “If I remember rightly it had a blue hull with numbers painted in white just below the rail.”
Marcello is watching him, expectantly, “Go on, my friend.”
“So it was an official launch of some kind?” And as he pictures the prow rearing up out of the night and the rail above him and the glancing blow, he realises, “It was the Carabinieri launch, wasn’t it?”
Marcello is deep in thought, chewing an olive. When he has finished stripping the flesh off it, he picks it from between his lips and flicks it at the dog. “No it was not, my friend. It was La Polizia. It was they who caused you to swim back to the beach.”
Ric frowns. “Can you make a claim against them?”
“Yes, I could if I thought it would be of benefit.”
“So have you?”
“You see this dog, Ric,” he nods at the scrawny hound sat at his feet. “You know why it sits so far from my feet and waits for me to throw it food it cannot eat?” He pauses, though not long enough to suggest he is expecting a reply. “It sits in the hope that one day I will throw it a piece of food it can eat. But, it will not sit so close to me that I find its smell unpleasant, because then it knows there is every chance I will kick it and no chance that I will give it anything to eat. It is the same with La Polizia and Lipari.”
“But the boat wasn’t showing any navigation lights.”
“This is true and this is interesting.”
“Because…?”
“Because it means they were expecting trouble at the opera and they did not want anyone to know they were waiting near the stage.”
“Candela?”
“Yes, Ric: Candela.” Marcello sips his beer and fidgets in his seat. “It means they knew something was going to happen. But if they knew something was going to happen; why did they not do something about it before it happened? This is also what is interesting.”
His conclusion is punctuated by the nasal rasp from a scooter tearing past the café.
The beer suddenly seems flat and Ric feels curiously vulnerable; the matter of the missing Beretta is preying heavily on his mind.
“I was talking to one of the escurzionisti a couple of days ago,” he says. “He told me word about town was that there was going to be trouble with Candela.”
Marcello’s ears prick up, “He did? Which one was this?”
“Don’t know his name,” Ric replies, hoping he has adequately sold his untruth.
“People here have nothing better to do than talk. It is the one commodity you do not have to buy, eh?”
Across the dusty road, the promenade is deserted. Like most sensible people, the beachcombers and strollers have settled for siesta. Even the dog resigns itself to finding a shady spot. It nurses its arthritic frame upright and turns a skinny tail.
“Talking of talking,” Ric says, “Valeria and I went to see that old guy you pointed out to me the other night.”
“Old Nino?”
Ric chuckles at the thought of the extraordinary, elderly blind man who could tell so much about him simply by shaking hands. “Yes. Valeria thought he might shed some light on my ancestor. Interesting guy! It’s as you said the other evening; he has a remarkable memory.”
Marcello scoffs; something Ric is beginning to understand he does whenever Ric brings other people into their conversation, “That old fool! You would hear more sense in the cemetery.”
And, as Marcello mentions the cemetery, Ric remembers Old Nino suggesting he spend a bit of time there.
He stands and stretches. “I must be going, Marcello. Thank you for the beer.”
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Marcello winks, “I will add it to your bill. What do you want me to do with the motor in your boat?”
“Damned if I know,” Ric replies, wondering how he is going to be able to pay for the repairs with the small amount of cash he has left stowed in the Mara. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yes, Ric, later. Of course, we will see each other.”