Ric is inclined to take the policeman’s advice. He’s tried needling Marcello, but that hasn’t worked. And he can see no alternative other than to sit and wait until Talaia has the reports he’s waiting on, by which time it will probably be too late to avoid arrest. As far as he can see, he might as well fix the bloody tap; that way, at least he will have gained some small sense of achievement for his labours.
Fortunately, there is a turn valve under the sink to stop the water supply to the tap, but unfortunately the headgear nut is seized solid and he skins his knuckles when the wrench slips off it.
“That’s why everyone else has given up on trying to fix it,” he mutters as he wraps a cloth around his bleeding hand.
The rest of the afternoon threatens to pass as slowly as the tap drips, so rather than suffer the torture of it, Ric decides to walk down to the Corso Vittorio.
Just as he is closing the door, he is distracted by a noise behind him. He whirls round expecting to be set upon.
An old lady steps out of the monolocale opposite and they bump into each other.
“Scusi,” he offers.
The old woman is garbed in trademark black. Her ankles are thick; her grey hair tied back in a bun.
“Permesso,” she says, trying to squeeze past him in the narrow alley.
Ric breathes in and flattens himself against the wall.
Once she is past, the old woman turns and eyes him suspiciously. “Ora mi scusi ma…” she says.
“Sure, grandma. Excuse me too?”
With no particular place to go and to avoid having to wait behind the old lady until she gets to the end of the alley, Ric takes the opposite direction up towards the Garibaldi.
At each corner he pauses and looks back to see if he is being followed. It would make sense for the little inspector to have him watched in case he decided to get off the island. But then, Talaia has his passport and the Mara is going nowhere, so what would be the point? Unless of course he is the hired gun Talaia suspects him to be, in which case common sense dictates he would have run by now.
The African women greet him politely as he emerges from the shade of the vico and the patron of the trattoria on the corner of the Maurolico seems intent on monitoring his every step as he pauses at the breach in the fortress walls. Ric starts up the broad steps of the Concordato which lead to the citadel.
Walking with purpose, he is warm and short of breath by the time he reaches the top. Ric halts before the cathedral and pretends to take an interest in the archaeological excavations below the apron. He glances back down the way he has come and sees a man making his way up towards him. The man wears sunglasses, blue chinos and a white short-sleeved shirt. He might be a tourist – he is consulting a map and talking on his cellphone – but he might not be. When he realises Ric is watching him, he stops and turns away.
Whilst the man is turned, Ric jogs up the last of the steep steps and strides over to the tall grey doors which lead into the Cattedrale San Bartolomeo.
The Baroque façade is almost South American in style, with a tall bell-tower at one corner and a statue of San Bartolo presiding over the entrance. The air inside is almost cold. Two lines of dark-wood pews grace the chequered-tile floor of the nave and tall marble and granite arches support a rib-vaulted ceiling, decorated with frescoes of San Bartolo, Saint Francis and The Immaculate Conception. Tourists stand and point and refer to their guides, and widows sit alone to censure the past and contemplate the future.
Ric slips to his right and waits.
The man he has seen outside steps into the cathedral. He crosses himself, nods towards the apse and looks round. He is middle-aged and olive-skinned, and when he notices Ric lingering, he looks away again and wanders off down the far aisle towards the silver effigy of San Bartolo.
In front of Ric is a portal, in the centre of which stands an alabaster baptismal font filled with small fragments of obsidian; a note beside it asks for one euro to contribute towards the cathedral’s upkeep. Behind the font stands an arched, heavy wooden door.
He lifts the latch and pulls the door open. When he steps through, he finds himself in an L-shaped Norman Cloister, the vaulted ceiling of which is bland and much lower than that of the cathedral.
Too late, he realises there is no way out of the cloister other than the way he had come in. He turns to walk out, but as he does so the door opens towards him.
Ric squares up ready to confront the man who is following him–
But it is Marcello who appears. He glances behind him and closes the door.
“Hey, Ric, you are taking in a little culture, eh?” Out of respect for his surroundings, Marcello has dispensed with his cigar and in consequence appears almost naked.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Ric replies.
The bullish Liparotan has lost the harassed look of earlier and smiles and, also unusually, offers his hand for Ric to shake. There is no doubting Marcello’s strength; his grip is unyielding.
When they turn to begin walking along the cloister, Ric says, “Popped up for confession or did your man tell you I was here?”
Marcello pouts and raises an eyebrow in conciliation, “Oh, he told me.”
Ric is oddly reassured that Marcello does not feel the need to lie.
“You like our cathedral?”
“Sure,” Ric replies, “though I’m not much of a one for architecture. It seems a bit of a jumble.”
“Yes, for sure it is. You know, of course, that San Bartolo was one of the twelve apostles? In the book of John, Jesus recognised him as being a man in whom he saw no deceit.”
“Integerrimo?” Ric interrupts.
Marcello considers, “Yes, perhaps; a man of great integrity. Jesus told Bartolo he would see the heavens open before him, and he would see the angels of God ascending with the Son of Man; this is what you see painted on the ceiling of the cathedral. Unfortunately for him, Bartolo went to the Caucasus to spread the word of the Bible and the people there were not ready for what he was trying to teach them. They flayed him until he had no flesh left on his body. This is why he is the patron saint of conciatori; tanners, I think you call them. It was a cruel business. But then, the Caucasus is a barbaric place even now.”
Ric thinks of the Armenian he met in Corsica.
As they stroll between the fluted, bare-stone columns lining the courtyard, Ric is taken with the feeling that the Liparotan is about to deliver him a lecture on the virtues of the saints.
“But…” Marcello continues, clearly pondering on what he has just said, “while I think of this, I think it is important to remember that Sant’Agata of Sicily had her breasts cut off because she preferred God to sex. So maybe we should not think the Caucasians so barbaric, in case we risk condemning ourselves.”
“Sounds fair to me, Marcello.”
“What I am getting at, Ric, is that a man lives and dies by what he believes. Some people believe what they believe so deeply it costs them their lives. I am sure you must have met people like this. You believe one thing, they believe the opposite, and it finishes with you having no alternative other than to take their life before they take yours.”
Ric winces, as much for Marcello’s benefit as his. “Fair, but you make it sound rather formulaic.”
Marcello halts and steps in front of him, “But it is, Ric. It is a kind of formula. San Bartolo surrendered his life for what he believed. He refused to renounce his beliefs and paid the ultimate price. He invented the formula for integrity.”
“I think he might have got the formula from his Lord and Master, don’t you?”
Marcello shrugs, “Possibly, I suppose so. But San Bartolo taught us all a great lesson in how important it is to be this way.”
“Okay, so Saint Bartholomew and my great grandfather, Antonio Sciacchitano, were men of integrity. I’m grateful to you for pointing that out.”
“No,” Marcello replies, turning back and walking on, “this is not what I am saying; although it is, of course, true.” He quiets for a couple of strides as he loads himself up for whatever it is that he has come to ask Ric.
“Today you came to the ferramenta in Canneto and ask to speak with my brother, why was this?”
Ric is quick to reply, “I told you, Marcello, like I told you this morning: I was sitting in the café and remembered I wanted to fix the tap. Valeria said your brother had a hardware store in Canneto, so I thought I’d drop by and pick up the kit to mend it, which, by the way, I haven’t been able to because the head nut’s rusted on.” He holds up his skinned knuckles in evidence.
“But you ask personally for my brother.”
“Sure, why wouldn’t I? Doesn’t everyone tell you it’s important to say who sent you? Even the escurzionista tells me that every time I go near a café or a restaurant I should say who recommended me to them. I’m not sure what you’re getting at here, Marcello. Is there a problem with my meeting your brother?”
He turns again and studies Ric for a few seconds. He is trying to make up his mind as to whether Ric is holding back on him. Eventually he decides, “No, there is no problem. My brother went to Palermo last week. He goes often; I think he has a lady friend there. He is not due back until next week.”
“Well, when he does come back, perhaps he can send someone over to fix that tap. I’m damned if I can.”
“Sure, I will see to it.”
They reach the end of the cloister and turn back.
“Ric,” Marcello begins again, “I must ask you if you have been talking with this Commissario of police who is making himself very busy?”
There is little point in lying. If Marcello has had him followed to the cathedral, he will know Talaia has been to the monolocale: “Late this morning. I found him sitting at the kitchen table when I got back from Canneto. No please, no thank you; he simply used the key I’d left under the flowerpot outside.”
Marcello shrugs, “It is what everyone does. What did the little cockerel ask you about?”
“Everything and nothing,” Ric replies and then stares at a carving of birds feeding from a vessel. “Or better make that everyone and no one; much of the same stuff he asked about the first time he questioned me. He said you’d vouched for my whereabouts the evening of Candela’s murder. He asked me how I’d come to meet you and Valeria, and asked about the passports. He asked me very directly if they were mine. Eventually he got round to asking me if – no, make that he implied – the pistol they fished out of the shallows at Portinente is mine too. Just before he left…” And Ric is about to tell Marcello that he is to report to the police station in the morning, but he holds back.
But the barrel-chested Liparotan is intrigued and again is watching him carefully. “Yes? Before he left he said… what?”
“He asked me if I thought I could trust you.” Now the tables are turned and he has Marcello on the back foot. Now it is Ric’s turn to watch for any sign that he might be lying.
“How did you answer, Ric? What did you say?”
“I told him you’ve been very helpful with repairing the Mara and very generous in allowing me to stay in your monolocale. I told him I saw no reason why I should not trust you. He also suggested your business interests were very extensive for the average velaccino.”
“And you replied how?”
“I told him you liked making sails.”
Marcello shrugs and shakes his head, “The world is a strange and sad place, eh? Why is it that people cannot appreciate the art in something as beautiful as a sail?”
Ric squares up in front of Marcello and looks him straight in the eye, “But can I trust you?”
At first he looks vaguely offended, but after a moment he softens, “Yes, of course, Ric. It is as I have said; San Bartolo has taught us that if you do not possess integrity, you possess nothing.
“You know, you have a hospital in London named after our Saint; St Bartholomew’s, or Bart’s I think is the name you would recognise. A buffone to the court of King Henry…”
“A court jester?”
“Si, a buffone called Rahere; he went to Rome on a pilgrimage. Unfortunately, he became unwell and rested here on Lipari. While he was here, San Bartolo came to him in a vision and instructed him to build a hospital in London. When he was recovered, he returned to London and built not only a hospital, but also a monastery. I believe he is buried there. It’s a nice story, eh?”
Ric steps back, unconvinced. “Are you saying it’s time for me to leave?”
“Perhaps.”
“Commissario Talaia thought it would be a bad idea if I did.”
Marcello is surprised, “He said this?”
“He did.”
“This is interesting.”
They arrive back at the heavy wooden door which leads into the cathedral.
Marcello is thinking. He pushes back the door, but then closes it again. “There is something here I do not understand, Ric. Once they check this pistol they have found, and if it proves to be the pistol that was used to shoot Candela, they will know who murdered him.” He glances at Ric. “But I think this little cockerel already knows who has done this, so why has he not acted? That is the more important question.” He pauses by the door. “I think our little Commissario is after something more. What, I don’t know; but I will give it much thought.
“Now I must go,” he says, holding out his hand for Ric to shake. “But before you leave the cathedral, be sure to have a look at the silver statue of San Bartolo. It would not be right to have walked all the way up here and leave without seeing it.” He opens the door, “Ciao, Ric, and be careful. They will be watching you, eh?”
Ric grins back, “You and them both, Marcello!”