In Lipari, the bus station at the pier for the Aliscafo is seething with people. One of the hydrofoils is just pulling out, a huge plume of black fumes bursting from its twin funnels. Carabinieri are still checking identity papers, taxis come and go, and the queue for the petrol station snakes round the corner and up the hill by the cemetery wall.
Ric notices Valeria is making her way down the pier amidst the throng of arrivals. The bags she carries suggest she has been shopping for clothes.
When she stops at the alimentari at the bottom of the Corso, he walks over. “Hi, Valeria. You look particularly radiant this afternoon.”
She turns as she is taking a brown paper bag full of grapes from the gravel-voiced woman behind the counter. “Hello, my young friend! It is so nice to see you.” She smiles, studying him for a second. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you look like a man who’s making hard work of doing nothing. How is your face? How is the Mara?” She looks somehow younger; gone are the dark rings around her eyes and her skin glows.
“Could be worse; could be better.” He fingers the abrasion at his temple. “Marcello and Salvo are taking the engine out today; should have the work done in a few days. Can I carry your bags for you?”
They stroll up the Corso together.
“It is hot here today. Messina was cooler,” she says by way of conversation. The mood in the Corso is sleepy; people have finished lunch and are sipping espresso and limoncello in the shade.
“You’ve been shopping, I see.”
“Yes,” she grins, “a little retail therapy can be very restorative. What have you been up to that makes you look so…”
“That bad, huh?”
“Well, perhaps a little earthy. You look like a becchino.”
“Becchino?”
“Yes, a man who digs graves.”
Ric balks at her reference. He has not realised he looks so shabby. “Thank you for telling me, Valeria.” He glances at her as they walk and realises how good she looks for her age. He wonders what treatments – as Old Nino put it – she is having that they can lend her such radiance.
As the Corso narrows at the top of the slope, he wishes her a good afternoon and thanks her again for putting him up that first night and for attending to his washing.
“Oh, Ric,” she says as they are about to part, “if you have no other plans, do me the kindness of coming for dinner this evening: about eight?”
“Plans?” His shoulder and his ribs remind him it might be in his better interest to give the café in the Marina Corta a miss. “No, I have no other plans. Thank you for the offer, I’d be happy to: about eight, then. Ciao.”