50

Salve, Nino!”

The old man sits, leaning on his stick, and cocks his head a little to the left. To most, he looks as though he is politely acknowledging the greeting of one who knows him. But he is not; rather Old Nino is turning his head so that he can hear better the direction from which the greeting has come. He frowns momentarily, his face gaunt, his mottled skin stretched lean over his cheeks and jaw. Gradually, his expression changes to one of appreciation, “Buonasera, Ric. Come. Sit beside an old man and tell him of the adventures of your day.”

The evening air in the Marina Corta is cooler than of late and clouds, like the wisps of grey hair on Old Nino’s head, dull the sky. San Bartolo stands high on his pedestal, waiting to address an audience deaf to his teaching.

Ric takes a perch on the low wall.

“Can’t say I’ve had much of a day, Nino. I’ve just been hanging around waiting for Il Velaccino to fix the Mara.”

In truth, he thinks, his day has proved less than exciting. After his talk with Marcello, Ric sat for a while before the silver effigy of San Bartolo in the cathedral. He found the statue curiously pagan in style; a silver-gilt, bearded figure wearing a gold crown, a palm leaf in one hand and dagger in the other; the bunched muscles of a flayed torso in stark relief to the opulence of the jewelled sash draped around his shoulders.

San Bartolo’s expression stayed with Ric as he walked the broad steps of the Concordato back down to the town; an old town made new by the vagaries of the internet, but an old town still dressed in the clothes of yesteryear.

What both Talaia and Marcello have said bothers him. The Commissario is obviously convinced that the Beretta will turn out to wear his prints. And Marcello is right; the policeman is after something more significant than merely bringing Candela’s murderer to book. If not, then there is no reason why he would have left Ric free to walk the vicolos of the città bassa. He could simply lock Ric up and wait for the results rather than risk the possibility that he will find a way off the island. And then there is Marcello’s less than subtle reference to the court jester, Rahere, leaving the island and returning to London; an encouragement which Talaia seemed to know was coming.

Ric scratches his head. “I feel like one of those deportees you told me about, Nino: a hostage to Devil’s Island. I guess they must have felt the same, cooped up on a lump of lava with no chance of reprieve. No wonder some of them died trying to escape.”

Nino sits impassive behind his dark glasses. Slowly, he turns down the corners of his mouth and tips his head forward, as though what the younger man says is true, but there is nothing to be done about it now.

“No, this was a time of great perversity. A man could be imprisoned simply for speaking to the same people he had been speaking to all his life.”

They sit in easy silence; Ric watching, Nino listening. Boys who are nearly men skitter to and fro on their bicycles, showing off to girls who studiously ignore them; plump women slap their thighs and explode into fits of giggles at some reported indiscretion; and the thin metallic chimes from the campanile of the San Giuseppe strike eight times.

“I have been committing much thought to our talk of yesterday,” Nino croaks, then clears his throat. “There is some more detail I have remembered.”

“I’m all ears, Nino, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

Nino sniggers. “You will have to be young man. But this is more about eyes than ears; a subject, as you can imagine, which is close to my heart. Do you know the story of Santa Lucia of Syracuse?”

“No, I don’t. Marcello told me about Sant’Agata having her breasts cut off: it all sounded pretty heathen.”

“It was,” Nino replies. “And it is true, eh? Jesus Christ has a good deal to answer for. But a few years after Sant’Agata was tortured to death, there comes a girl, Lucia. She was born to a wealthy family in Syracuse, though, sadly, her father passed on when she was young. Her mother became unwell, so the mother and daughter made the pilgrimage to the tomb of Sant’Agata in Catania in the hope that the mother would be cured. While they were there, the daughter was visited by Sant’Agata, who told her that her mother would be cured if Lucia gave her soul to God. Lucia, of course, agreed. The mother was cured of her illness and Lucia was so grateful to the Saint that she gave all her wealth to the poor. This enraged her mother, who in the meantime had found a husband for her.” Nino silences, his throat too dry for him to carry on.

Young Ariana is watching them from down the way. She strolls over to them and hands the old man a bottle of water. “Grazie, Ariana. Grazie.” He sips.

“Now this is where the story has many different endings. One story tells how with no money, the fiancé refused to marry her and reported her vision to the Romans, who then put out her eyes because she would not turn them from God.

“But, another story tells how Lucia’s fiancé was so handsome she refused to look at him in case he turned her eyes from God. In order to preserve her faith, Lucia put out her own eyes and cast them into the sea. This is where the legend of the eye of Santa Lucia comes from, although many people have their own opinions as to what actually happened to Santa Lucia of Syracuse.”

“Forgive me, Nino, but what has Santa Lucia got to do with Antonio Sciacchitano?”

Nino taps Ric gently on the knee. “In good time,” he chides. “Do you know the sea shell they call L’Oeil de Sainte Lucie?”

“I’ve seen it in Corsica,” Ric replies, trying to remember the significance of it. “They call it the Eye of the Virgin or Venus. It’s a small curved shell with a spiral in it, mostly white, but sometimes red. They believe it brings good luck. Although, rather like the different versions of Santa Lucia’s story, there are those who believe it is the evil eye.”

“Yes, you are right. The eye of envy,” Nino states, pleased with his pupil. “They say that people who have this blood mark are occupied by a bad spirit who brings only confusion to their lives. The bird of prey has this eye too; the bird that is the evil spirit returned.”

Ric feels the hair on the back of his neck rise and a sharp chill creeps up his spine.

Even though he knows the old man is blind, Old Nino turns his head as if to look directly at him. “My young friend, what I have remembered is that on his forehead, above his right eye, Antonio Sciacchitano wore the blood mark of Santa Lucia.”