He turns on the bedside light and lies staring at the ceiling, waiting for what he does not know. His room is hot and stuffy, and his body creaks and rebels every time he tries to find a comfortable position. Eventually, he tires of his restlessness, gets to his feet, pads downstairs and puts his shoes on. He feels nauseous, but reconciles that his feeling is understandable given the awkward situation he finds himself in.
He opens the front door, peers out into the alleyway and pauses to listen. The vico is even warmer than his room, and the air is dry and dusty. He waits for a full minute before closing the door silently behind him.
Tonight, there are no cats prowling in search of overfilled dustbins, they are safely tucked up away from the coming rain, and the wireless of the old lady opposite is, for once, hushed.
When he is certain he can hear no sound beyond the thumping of his heart, he steps down. The high cloud he observed while sitting and talking with Old Nino has thickened and now blankets the sky, locking the stars out and the heat in.
There is no longer any doubt in his mind that it is Marcello who has taken the gun from the Mara. But, what bothers him most is the timing of events. Why would someone throw the Beretta into the water at Portinente, other than because Ric just happened to have been abandoned out in the water nearby?
Now that Sandro will not speak directly to him and Marcello is given only to deliver lectures on the value of integrity, he has no one else to talk to but Valeria. She is the only person who might have an idea of what is going on.
He weighs up which is the best route for him to take out towards the Punta San Giuseppe: the Maddalena is narrow and he knows that once he is in it, there is no escape from it. He decides that up around the back of the town through San Nicola is the safer route and so turns right.
He walks slowly and carefully, minding the dustbins and flowerpots, and is a couple of paces from the corner, when he hears a shuffling of feet.
“Buonasera signore,” says a figure in the darkness.
In the gloom of the vico, Ric can just about make out a man’s profile. He is tall, very tall and very broad, and he wears a peaked cap.
“Signor Ross, resti dov’è,” the figure orders. “Ritorni alla casa, per favore.”
Ric cannot make out the man’s face, but knows he has little alternative other than to do exactly as the officer says.
That he is under house arrest is all too obvious. Now there is nothing he can do until he meets the little detective in the morning.
Back in his room, he cannot settle. The tap drips. He washes his face and lies down on the small sofa. He feels dirty. His shirt is stuck to his back and though he knows he would be better off upstairs in bed, he is too weary to take a shower, let alone climb the narrow stairs. Soon, his fatigue overwhelms him and he succumbs to an uneasy sleep.
During the night, Aeolus stills the winds of the Levante in the east and conjures the warm Scirocco from the deserts of Africa.
Ric lies half awake, listening to the God of Winds howl his encouragement as he unleashes his storm against the island. It is as though the small fry of Lipari have born Aeolus some great offence and he designs to wash them clean of their misdemeanour. The shutters rattle and the gutters overflow, the rainwater gushing and slapping down against the flagstones in the passage outside.
He feels vaguely sorry for the tall poliziotto standing sentry outside and briefly considers asking him in.
But his dreams consume him. They are, like Aeolus’ thunder and lightning, violent and vivid, and ceramic masks, like those he has seen in the shop window in the Corso, dance in the shadows. The beautiful Minerva fears for a future she has foreseen; Bacchus carouses, he has no cares; the elderly Neptune warns him of dangers to come; the two-faced Janus watches to see which choice he will make; and last in line Vulcan, who busies himself lighting the flame in which Ric is to burn. They file on and off the stage of his nightmare, delivering their oratory like actors in a tragedy. And, at the close of their performance, the players gather before him and remove their masks to reveal their true identity: first Valeria, then Sandro, Nino and Marcello, and finally Maso Talaia.
When, eventually, the grey light of dawn creeps along the alley, the rain is still falling hard and Ric comes to the conclusion that he is even more confused and weary than when he lay down. He gets up and makes his way down to the Corso Vittorio; the sentinel outside his door has been washed away by the rain.