At passeggio Ric decides to take a stroll out to see Valeria. There is more he needs to know about the man she calls the sailmaker and he feels he has exhausted his credit with Sandro.
The Maddalena is still closed, so he takes the steps up towards San Nicola. There is a late Mass taking place in the Santa Anna and apart from the echoes of the priest’s solemnities and the tidal swell of murmured chorus from the congregation, the town is peaceful.
He passes by the house of Marcello in Capistello, there appears to be no one at home bar a dog sleeping on the veranda, and the sun is setting as he turns down the lane that leads to the Casa dei Sconosciuti.
Valeria is not in and he realises that perhaps it was her he had seen waiting for the Aliscafo.
As he walks back, he watches the sea cast off its soft imperial purple only to lay bare its stark obsidian veneer. There is little or no breeze and the clouds have long departed to the higher reaches of the mountains of Sicily, where they can rest more easily in the cooler atmosphere.
Mass is still in progress at the church and Ric is at a loose end. So he follows the Via Sant’Anna and turns down the Vico Cupido. Surprised that it is open so late, he stops off at the Pasticceria d’Ambra for cannolicchio.
He is, for some reason he cannot fathom, under the impression that he is being followed; the hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck bristle every now and again. But, standing outside the parlour eating his finger of ricotta filled pastry, he can see no proof that his concern is anything other than a self-conscious reaction to knowing the Beretta is now in the wrong hands.
Old Nino is sitting beneath San Bartolo, leaning on his stick. He is listening to an argument between two younger men, who now and then turn to Old Nino as if to seek his affirmation.
Ric sets himself carefully beside the old man, who tilts his head towards Ric to let him know he has recognised a newcomer on the low wall.
“Buonasera, Nino.”
His face creases into a happy beam. “Ah, buonasera, Ric. Cumu va?”
“As it goes, Nino. You know how it is.”
The old boy chuckles, “Yes, I do. It goes the way it always goes: some days our skies are blue; some days they are not. But forgive me a moment; I must settle a dispute between two young friends.”
The two men arguing before Nino are both younger, but, Ric decides, that probably puts them in their late seventies. They wear pork-pie hats, striped, short-sleeved shirts, and their grey trousers are supported by thin braces. However, their clothing is not what is remarkable.
Nino holds up his slender palm as a signal he wants to speak, “Per favore,” he asks, gently, “un’altra volta, per favore.”
They turn to the old man. They are flabbergasted that he should interrupt their squabble. But when they see their referee has a visitor, they touch the rims of their hats and slope off like scolded dogs.
“Twins, eh? They come to me because they believe that as I cannot see them, their similarity will not confuse my judgement and therefore I will be able to understand the subtle differences upon which they argue.”
The gentle hubbub of the Corta is broken only by the arrival of a smart pulmino from a luxury hotel. The occupants alight; their clothing far too this season, their tans too yellow for them to be anything other than tourists.
“You have found out something of this ancestor of yours?” Nino asks.
“Possibly. I found a gravestone up by the chapel wall. The inscription reads ANTONIO SCIACCHITANO and gives his date of passing as LUGLIO 1930. It says he was an INTEGERRIMO CITTADINO.”
Nino sighs and repeats, “Integerrimo…” thinking for a moment, staring into the darkness before his eyes, remembering, calculating. He smiles, exposing his yellowed teeth, “This word, it means an honest man. Yes, it means honest. But, it also means something more. I remember the Americans have a saying, an expression, some slang for this word. They would say this of a man one could depend on. They would say this man was a solid citizen. That is the word: solid. It speaks well of your ancestor.”
“Well, that’s reassuring, Nino. Thank you.”
“But the date you say: July 1930. This date,” he stares once more into the distance, “this date, it is important…” The old man is silent for a while; his face impassive as he tries to recall the significance of it.
The lanterns in the Corta cast a gentle, muted glow over Old Nino as he wrestles with his memory.
Eventually, the corners of his mouth turn down and his expression changes to one of resignation. He shakes his head very slowly. “No, I am sorry. Tonight my recollections are dim. But there is a puzzle to this date and I must try to find the right pieces and put them together in the right order. I apologise, my friend, I will apply myself to the task. Come and see me another time. Or, when I recall, I will send for you.”
Ric waits until he understands that Old Nino has closed his mind to the task of remembering. “Thanks for trying, Nino, I appreciate it. Don’t lose too much sleep over it though; I’m sure I’ll get to the bottom of it in good time.”
“Sleep?” Old Nino repeats. “Sleep and memories: God may be the master of my sleep, but my memories he cannot rule.”
They sit a while longer and watch the children play. Mothers and fathers gossip, debate and gesticulate at one another as though at any moment their disagreement will erupt into violence.
“How is Valeria? You have seen her?” the old man asks.
“Not today. I thought I caught a glimpse of her down by the pier, waiting for the Aliscafo. She is not at home. Perhaps she has gone to Milazzo.”
Old Nino nods, thoughtfully. “Of course, I forget. Today is the day she goes to the hospital for her treatments.”
“Treatments?”
But the old man is suddenly embarrassed: “Forgive me, I speak out of turn. On occasion my tongue lets me down. Forget I said this thing to you.”
And with that, he holds out his hand for Ric to shake.
“Ciao, Nino. E grazie.”
“No, my friend,” Nino replies, “it is I who should thank you. You force me to question my memory; in this way I recall many happy times.”
He leaves the old man sitting beneath the bearded figure of the patron saint of the island and strolls across the Corta in the warm evening air.
Sandro is nowhere to be seen and Ric reasons it is probably because he is sleeping off the antipasti.
Giuliana is dawdling by the café. She shoots him a mischievous grin as he walks towards her. But, after the foolishness of the evening before, he decides it would be in his better interest not to encourage her, so he acknowledges her with a brief smile and walks on by. She pouts, playfully. Her uncle, the stern-faced café owner, barks at her and throws Ric a menacing glance.
The African women are sitting, toying with their children outside their shop halfway up the rise of the Garibaldi. They smile broadly as he steps between them. The narrow vico swallows him and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness.
Ric turns left and right and comes upon the alley which leads along to the monolocale Marcello is so generously loaning him.
As he reaches the door, he is aware of a figure rounding the corner before him. The man has purpose and does not break his stride as he approaches.
Once again, Ric feels the hairs on his arms and his neck stand up and he hesitates before bending to retrieve his key from beneath the flower pot. He will have to turn side-on to the man to let him past, but there is something about his gait and poise that tells Ric he is not about to pass him by casually.
The man is only a couple of paces away when he draws something from his pocket and raises his arm to strike Ric.
Not having the room to square up and set his feet, Ric has to crouch to avoid the blow. The cosh comes down heavily on his left shoulder and knocks him off balance.
He tries to grab the man’s arm, misses and the cosh comes down very swiftly a second time.
There is little else Ric can do but launch himself at his assailant. As he does so, he leads with the heel of his right palm and punches upwards towards the man’s throat. He doesn’t connect though; he merely catches him on the side of his neck. But the blow carries sufficient force to drive the man backwards and upwards, unbalancing him.
Ric follows on with another blow to the man’s solar plexus, which does connect.
The man gasps, winded, and staggers back.
Inclined to maintain his advantage, Ric is about to slam his fist into the man’s chest, when he is aware of footsteps behind him.
Knowing he is now trapped in the alley, he turns, grabbing the rubbish bin of the house opposite, and half throws, half pushes the bin at the approaching man’s feet.
The second man stumbles over the garbage bin and falls heavily. But, in the breathing space, his original attacker has gathered himself and lands a heavy blow to Ric’s kidneys.
The punch stings and stands him up. With nowhere to go and understanding that he must finish the brawl sooner or risk being worn down by fighting on two fronts, he kicks out at the inside of the first man’s knee and, when he doubles, Ric clasps his hands and delivers him an upward cuff that smashes into the side of his head, bending him up over backwards.
The man behind Ric has regained his poise and throws himself forward, but rather than retreat, which is what the man expects him to do, Ric plants his feet and steps back to thrust his left elbow hard into the oncoming man’s chest, using his right arm to drive home the weight of the jab.
The second attacker recoils and he too staggers back.
Ric, though, is not finished and knows he must press home his advantage before either of the men can recover. So he steps over the bin and delivers the fellow a short arm to his face and an uppercut to his jaw. The second man slides down awkwardly, reaching out to the wall of the alley in the vain hope of preventing himself from crashing to the ground.
Ric stands his ground now, turning to face the door of the monolocale, watching and waiting for the slightest movement that might tell him the men have not had sufficient.
They stagger to their feet, linger for a moment, deciding, then turn and run off in opposite directions down the vico.
Ric waits and listens: all he can hear is the thumping of his heart and the coldly laboured rasp of his breathing. His ribs are viciously sore and his shoulder feels as though it has parted company from his chest.
He hangs on to the wall until he can no longer hear their footsteps.
“Now,” he coughs as he bends down very slowly to remove the key from beneath the flower pot, “let’s try that again, shall we?”