The silence is broken only by the cry of a herring gull. To Valeria, it must sound as though the soul of her mother is lamenting the island she deserted in her youth.
Valeria shifts uneasily in her seat and replies a shade angrily, “This is far too much information for an old woman to contemplate in one evening, Ric.”
“I can imagine.”
“But what are you saying by this?” she responds, with more than a hint of incredulity. “Are you saying that your great-grandfather ran away with my mother? That perhaps you and I are in some way related? Because, if you are, I would say you have spent too much time with Nino and that the idle fascinations of an old blind man are, like some ridiculous hallucinogenic drug, stimulating your imagination. We don’t even know for sure if this Antonio Sciacchitano is related to you. Perhaps Camille has sold you the first half of a story, only for Nino to supply you with the second?”
Ric is not sure how to answer. On the one hand he knows full well the information Camille has given him is, at best, tenuous and as for Nino, he has no idea whether he can rely on the visions of a man who sees only through his mind’s eye. “I can’t argue with that.”
Valeria is clearly considering the implications of what he has just told her. “If this is true, then this would mean Marcello is my cousin. And,” she adds with a curious, almost condescending dose of disdain, “this means that this Antonio would have been more than a simple travelling companion for my mother; it means he would have been her lover.”
“I take your point,” he replies, a little wounded by her arrogance. “But what if your mother was pregnant? Wouldn’t that have been sufficient motivation for her to run away?”
“Ric, there is no way a man of Vincenzo’s standing would allow his daughter to consort with a man who was little more than a manual labourer. The Maggiore family were respected; they had standing. A daughter who would bear a child out of marriage would have brought disgrace to their house.” She pauses to think. “Of course, she would run away. At that time, it was not unheard of for a father to disown his daughter if she was pregnant outside of marriage. I told you, hypocrisy knew no bounds back then.”
“Which means?”
Valeria lights a cigarette. Ric is certain she is buying time to think.
She smokes in silence for a full minute before carrying on, “All of which means that either there is a possibility that I am Marcello’s cousin, in which case there are two graves in the cemetery which lie empty, or Katarina Maggiore died of perfectly natural causes in the same month Sciacchitano fled from the island and therefore my mother is no relation of hers. It is as complicated or as simple as that.”
“Which option would you prefer?” Ric asks, trying to lighten the mood.
He doesn’t so much see Valeria straighten up in her seat, as feel her do it.
She grinds the stub of her cigarette into the ashtray. “Ric, you think this is some kind of humorous discovery you have made, eh?”
But before he can extend any kind of olive branch for what she perceives to be his inappropriate levity, she carries on, “Well, it is not. Because even though this happened more than eighty years ago, it does not lose its significance. It is the kind of scandal that can ruin a family and bring down a house, particularly one as reputable and influential as the house of Maggiore.”
Ric’s embarrassment warms the air between them, “I apologise, Valeria, I didn’t mean to be flippant. I thought you would be pleased to know this woman might have been your mother. You said the other day you never knew your father; I thought this might help you track him down.”
“You think he would be still alive? He would have to be older than Nino,” she scoffs.
In the face of her indignation and out of respect for her years, Ric feels there is little else he can do but retreat. “I apologise, Valeria. I didn’t understand the affect this information would have. Please don’t think I knew where this conversation was going; I had no idea Baarìa was the same place as Bagheria. I suppose Nino uses the old name out of habit.”
She is silent again, smouldering at him across the table. And if the stars aren’t enough, Ric is sure her wrath contains sufficient energy to illuminate the darkest of shadows.
“Please, tell me, what can I do to atone for such a misjudgement?” He waits and watches her hide behind the redoubt of her silence.
Valeria’s eyes glow in the light of the lantern and slowly the searing heat of her displeasure dissipates, allowing the cool of evening to disperse the cloud which has blown up between them.
“Ric,” she leans forward, resting her chin on her hands and gazes at him, “you are a young and very attractive man. If I was but thirty years younger, I would take you to my bed and make you the gift of my body. Sadly, this is no longer a gift any man would welcome, and with good reason. However, women have other ways of persuading men to do their bidding. So, let me appeal to you as the mother I would like to have been. This information you have uncovered; let us keep it between ourselves. Please, let it be our secret. If it is true that Antonio Sciacchitano was your great-grandfather, then you have found another piece to the jigsaw of your heritage. After all, this knowledge affects no one other than you. But as far as the idea that I am related to Il Velaccino goes, this knowledge will affect many others, not least an old lady who would rather remember her life as she has known it, not how others will interpret it. Please, Ric, swear to me that you will not speak to anyone of this?
“Swear this to me as though I was your own mother.”