To Ric, it is as though a cold breeze is rippling through the Marina Corta, freezing the frame of activity; boys dismount their bicycles and look up, girls stop fussing over their charges and the old women cease their gabbling and stare to watch the sky.
Old Nino sniffs the air, “Mm, the clouds are driving the humidity before them. It will be warm this night, but there will be a storm at dawn. In the deserts of the south, the relatives of the Arab women in the Garibaldi are restless. The Scirocco is stirring.”
Of course, Ric knows that birthmarks are not hereditary and that they are nothing more than a simple irregularity, like a mole. Yet the significance of the strawberry mark above his right eye is profound. Manou had convinced him of as much in Corsica and she had tried and failed to rid him of it with her magic.
“Nino,” Ric says, but then his voice leaves him and he is unsure how best to proceed. The old man will doubtless think him nuts, if he mentions it, but the coincidence of his sharing such a mark with Antonio Sciacchitano is too extraordinary not to.
“Yes, my young friend? You are troubled by something, what is it?”
“Nino, I have a similar mark above my right eye.”
What remains of Nino’s eyebrows arch in surprise, “This is the truth you speak? If you are making fun of me, remember it is wicked to play such tricks on a man without sight.”
“It’s not a joke; my sense of humour doesn’t run that far. I have a strawberry mark just above my right eye. I’ve had it as long as I can remember.” Ric hesitates, “But these things are not handed down from one generation to the next; neither my father, nor my grandfather had such birthmarks.” Ric pulls the photograph of his great-grandfather out of his pocket and examines it, just as he has done a hundred times before. But the light lent him by the street lantern is soft and insects dance around it, reducing its glow still further. The photograph is faded and grainy and creased, and he cannot make out the facial features of the man wearing the uniform of the Foreign Legion because he too stands in shadow.
Nino grows agitated; he grips his walking stick so tight his knuckles take on the pallor of San Bartolo’s pedestal. “But Ric, to deny the possibility of this is to deny the legend of Santa Lucia in the same way that the unbelievers denied her belief and for that reason put her to death. You cannot do this,” he says loudly. Others sitting around them stop their talking and look round at the man who has upset Old Nino. The twins in their pork-pie hats and striped shirts are standing close by, they stare menacingly at Ric.
He musters a diluted smile for them and they resume their chatter.
“Sorry, Nino, I didn’t appreciate the offense my scepticism would cause.”
His knuckles relax and a half-smile assumes his lips. “That is okay, Ric. We sometimes forget the world has moved on while we have been sitting still. But be careful to whom you say such things; there are many who would put your eyes out for not believing in our blessed saint.”
“Thanks, Nino. Once more, I have to apologise for being so casual with my observations.”
He taps Ric on the knee again. “That is okay, okay,” he insists. “In many ways I am honoured to meet the relative of Antonio Sciacchitano, un uomo integerrimo. It is important to remember that like the eye of Santa Lucia, integrity runs in the blood.”
At the mention of integrity, Ric sits up a fraction straighter. It is the second time today he has heard the word integrity and the recurrence of it spooks him.
“Now,” Nino says, “if you will excuse me, I must sit in judgement of the twins. No doubt there is some matter they have been squabbling over which requires my resolution.”
Ric is embarrassed at taking up so much of the old man’s time and feels as though all the eyes of passeggio are upon him. He stands and rests his hand softly on the bony shoulder of the magistrato di Marina Corta. “Thank you, Nino. Again, I am heavily indebted to your memory.”
“Ciao, my young friend.” He pats Ric’s hand and smiles beneath his thick, black glasses. “Again, it is I who should thank you for shepherding me down so many overgrown paths.”
As soon as Ric moves away, the curious twins rush to sit down and bombard the old man with the details of their latest dispute.
The Corta is beginning to empty. Mothers gather their offspring, like fishermen drawing in their nets. Giuliana flashes him a smile as bright as any from the cameras of the tourists, who busy themselves arranging and rearranging the vivid cocktails on their tables with which they pose for a record of their holiday.
Sandro is lurking on the fringes of the café at the foot of the Garibaldi. As Ric walks past, the escurzionista hisses to attract his attention.
When Ric looks over at him, Sandro points to his right and touches the corner of his eye as if to warn him of a threat.
It is the same man Ric noticed following him up the Concordato earlier in the afternoon. The man wouldn’t look so conspicuous but for the fact that the gazzetta he is reading is upside down.
Ric chuckles to himself and gives Sandro the thumbs up. But the escurzionista shies away, clearly not wanting to risk being seen to fraternise with him.