Spring in
Trinacria
Chapter One
"Sicilian shores are touched
by three seas," read
Lucia Mountjoy, cramped in the seat of her plane, heading to Catania, Sicily.
The man in the seat beside her smelled as if he hadn't washed for a day or two,
and rereading the guidebook gave her an excuse to bend away from him, hunched
over the book. "This is reflected in Sicily's ancient name, "Trinacria",
meaning island with three points." Lucy wished that she had the window
seat, so she could gaze out the window, and ascertain the number of points
below. No matter, there would be other opportunities to study the geography of
Sicily once she landed.
Lucy was headed for the town of
Taormina, some ways north of Catania. It was said to be one of the most scenic
places in Sicily, built into the side of a mountain, with houses climbing the
sides all the way up, until the town turned into Castelmola, on the summit.
Both towns had famous views, overlooking the sea from one side, and Mt. Etna on
the other. As a photographer, the view meant something to Lucy, aside from
passing beauty. She was thinking of compiling a book of pictures from her year
in Sicily, and looked forward to the adventure of living abroad.
Lucy, an American, who had lived
outside Boston for her early years, before becoming a "sophisticated artiste"
in her younger sister Susannah's words, and moving to New York. For a change of
place, pace, and climate, Lucy's parents has given her a year abroad, to spend
it where she liked. A friend had recommended Taormina, and she had engaged the
lease of a small house in that scenic area, to share with her half-brother
Peter, who would be joining her.
Peter was something of an artist
himself. He did something or other with art history, she thought, as well as
dabbling in oil paints. She had a vague idea that he was something of an art
expert, making sure that paintings were in good condition, but he never talked
much about his work. In fact, she rarely saw him, since he lived in England
throughout the year, usually with his mother, instead of with his father and
half-siblings in America. He traveled a great deal, and was apt to be called
away at the most inconvenient times. In fact, he hadn't shown up for this
flight, which vexed Lucy, since it meant that the smelly man had gotten the
seat beside her. Had he heard of deodorant, she wondered idly, flipping through
the pages of her guidebook. Glancing through pictures of temples, she ticked
off particularly beautiful ones with a highlighter, to visit later. The smelly
man rose, and slid past her into the aisle, and back to the WC in the back of
the plane. Lucy leaned over the vacant sear, and gazed out the window in
delight. They were almost near descent, and she could see the seashore below.
It was a beautiful color, and the alluring green of the island pleased her. It
had been right to come to this remote, beautiful place. Squinting out the
window, she caught sight of Mt. Etna, and smiled at the sliver of steam that
rose from its mouths. She should love to hire a small plane and take aerial
pictures of this lovely island.
The man was back, and to replace
the body odor, he had sprayed himself with cologne. Of all the wretched things
to do... Lucy slid her nose into the collar of her expensive turtleneck, hoping
that no one would notice. Finally, the descent was announced, and she put her
guidebook away into her handbag.
In the Catania airport, she
reclaimed her bag, and showed her passport to the appropriate people, though
her flight had been from Rome. Fortunately missing becoming the person whose
bag was being randomly checked, she wheeled her two bags out into the hall of
the airport, to find her ride.
A scruffy man in a sweater
approached with a cardboard sign labelled "Mountjoy". Lucy smiled, and shook
his hand.
"Miss Lucia Mountjoy?" he asked.
"Buon giorno. The taxi is outside. And I have a message for you, from
your hotel."
"A message?" asked Lucy in
surprise. "Very well, let's go out." The driver skillfully picked up one case,
and wheeled the other before him, leaving Lucy to carry her handbag, and a
larger camera bag. The driver stowed her bags carefully, and placed the camera
case carefully beside the cases, before opening the door for Lucy. She was
delighted to see that it was a Mercedes taxi, something she thought so out of
place from America. Sitting down, she was handed a slip of paper from the
competent driver, which she read while he steered carefully out of the lot, and
onto the highway.
For Lucy Mountjoy the hotel clerk had copied down. Peter
is unable to make it to the hotel tonight, but please enjoy yourself. He'll try
his best to come by Saturday, and will meet you at the house. Best of luck and
take care of yourself, apologies, Peter.
How nice it was that Peter had
talked to her hotel instead of trying to get in touch with her in Rome. She had
been worrying over the flight about his absence. Well, he hadn't missed his
connection from London, it must be work things instead. How tiresome. In any
case, Lucy decided to enjoy herself nonetheless, and settled into her seat to
watch the scenery.
The drive from Catania to
Taormina took time, since Taormina was on a mountain. For the last bit of the
drive, Lucy was amazed at how the road wound up the mountain. Her taxi had
started at sea level, and was crisscrossing up the mountainside on two-way
roads with so many turns that this seemed folly. For some time they were stuck
behind a bus filled with tourists, who merrily waved out the window at the
procession of cars stuck behind their vehicle. Lucy waved back, eventually, but
was pleased when her driver cut around the bus, and sped up the mountain to
Castelmola, where she would spend the night at a hotel, before claiming the
house tomorrow.
Looking out behind her, Lucy saw
that most of the traffic had turned off at Taormina. A motorcycle cut around
her, and Lucy checked her annoyance at the way Italians stared at people. It
was odd to her, but normal to them. She's learn not to mind. As practice, she
stared hard back at the man on the motorcycle, a young, attractive Italian man,
surprisingly not sleazy. He was dressed well, and a pleasure to watch, only he
turned off onto a side road. She continued up the Via Leonardo da Vinci,
astonished at the curves in the road. Miles off because of the bends, but
actually only several hundred feet down the mountain she saw a bus patterned in
yellow and orange, and recognized it as having belonged to a group of American
classics students she had shared her plane with. It was curious how they were
following her, but she put it out of her mind when she turned another bend, and
caught sight of the view of Mt. Etna. It was surprising that the whole world
hadn't followed her, for the land below her was breathtakingly beautiful, with
snow-capped Mt. Etna in the distance, and wrinkles of green land covered with
snaky golden roads all between.
She arrived at her hotel about
noon, in Castelmola. Climbing up into the town, she found lunch at a
comfortable small restaurant, and settled into the multiple course meals with a
sigh of contentment. A little over an hour later, she returned to the hotel to
take a siesta. If she was going to be living in Italy, she might as well behave
as the Italians did, and the concept of a siesta is too tempting to ignore. She
sank to sleep beneath the covers, carefully setting her alarm so she shouldn't
sleep too late, though thankfully she was adjusted to the time zone after a
week in Rome.
Waking two hours later, Lucy
brushed her long hair and changed her shirt. Changing her heeled boots for
hiking boots, she opened her camera case, and removed one of the two cameras
from within, and packed it carefully into a knapsack, along with her tripod,
film, and a spare lens. She opened up her balcony, and was delighted to find
that she had an amazing view down the side of the mountain, about ninety
degrees off from the view of Mt. Etna, but still a lovely view, overlooking a
terrace and the hotel gardens, full of bright spring blooms.
"I've got a Room with a View,"
said Lucy to no one in particular. "I suppose that I'm glad that Peter isn't
here to tease me about it, though. Just the fact that my name is Lucia and that
I'm visiting Italy with an older chaperone doesn't mean that I'm like the girl
in Forster's book. But what a lovely movie..." sighing to herself, and shutting
the balcony doors firmly, Lucy took her knapsack, and set off to find a place
to take her first pictures.
Dinner, at eight, was at the
hotel restaurant. Dining alone, Lucy felt distinctly abandoned, and wondered at
Peter's engagement. Maybe he'd arrive early, which would be wonderful. It was
awkward knowing no one in this town. At least tomorrow she'd have the house,
and could go about meeting her neighbors. Currently, the restaurant was empty,
except for an elderly German couple, and the group of Classics students from
her plane. They were a nice group, she supposed, but they were a bit young for
her, and anyway, they didn't know the town at all, either. Because of the
students there were so few other patrons, and Lucy decided to go out in the
evening, to save herself from solitary boredom.
Finishing her Pasta alla Norma,
and accepting a plate of veal, Lucy stared into her wine glass. It was
troublesome, Peter's absence. She wondered idly if he had called their father,
and Lucy decided to call her sister, Su, before finding a bar and some company.
After an almond parfait, with a
mind full of plans, Lucy went up to her room, and whipped out a calling card
she had purchased in Rome. Calling home, and hoping that Su would be home by
then, she waited for someone to pick up the phone.
"Su?" asked Lucy, delighted to
hear her sister's greeting.
"Lucy! How are you? How's
Sicily?"
"I've only been here this
afternoon, but I'm sure I'll like it. Even the grass is scenic."
"Lucky girl. How's Peter?"
"He hasn't called you?" asked
Lucy. "I thought he might have. He left a message that he might not come until
Saturday."
"You poor thing, all alone.
Well, don't lock yourself up until he arrives, so see the sights."
"I was going to visit a small
pub not far from the hotel, to meet the locals."
"Of course. Do that. You'll get
bored all one your lonesome."
"Thanks, kid. How's America?"
"Decently well, thanks. I found
some more source material for my paper."
"More ‘New England Trade: The
Switch from Cod to Textiles'?"
"Cod and Rum," corrected Su.
"Just because I'm academic doesn't mean that you need to make fun of me. I'd be
artistic if I could, but I can't. I suppose that I'd better start looking into
the history of Sicily if I want an excuse for Mum and Dad to send me over,
too."
"Right. Well, if you haven't
heard anything from Peter, I guess I'll go out, and see what is happening in
this town. I'm in the little town on top the mountain, and most of the
nightlife is further down, so who knows. Maybe I'll meet people. That could be
fun. Italians dress so well."
"I know," sighed Su, enviously.
"I'll see you, then. Call when you've done something interesting."
"I will. Arrivederci."
"You too." Lucy hung up the
phone, and looked through her clothes. Changing back into the heeled boots and
her turtleneck, and pinning up the loose strands of brown hair into a twist on
the back of her neck, Lucy grabbed up her wallet and set off out the door to
find the pub she had spotted earlier.
It didn't take long for Lucy to
locate and enter the building. As it was the day before St. Patrick's Day, and
the pub claimed to be Irish, it was tolerably full despite the fact that it was
a Sunday. Lucy was pleasantly entertained to see some of the classics students
drinking in a corner, engaged in what seemed to be some sort of recitation
contest. It sounded rather like Greek to her, certainly poetry.
Going up to the bar, she ordered
cognac, glad for her years of Italian, and found a small table in the corner.
Whipping out a book, to protect her should she be bothered by anyone
unpleasant, she waited for her drink. Before long, the bartender approach her,
carrying the glass, which he set down before her elegantly.
"You're American?" the portly
man asked.
"Half," said Lucy. "My father is
British, but I live in America."
"Where in Britain?" asked the
man, who was clearly Welsh.
Raising an eyebrow at the Welsh
accent in the Irish Pub in Italy, Lucy replied, "Sussex. I've spent a fair
amount of time all over the country there, though. I'm a photographer. I was in
Scotland last summer, taking pictures of the Highlands. Now I'm here."
"Sounds like a great job," the
man replied. "Scotland... there's an archeology chap here who went to school in
Scotland, University of St. Andrews."
"Oh!" said Lucy. "My friend Anna
went there. Lovely place, I stopped to photograph the Cathedral and St.
Salvator's quad while I was in Scotland."
"I'll introduce you to him then.
Someone to talk to. You don't want to sit alone all evening."
Smiling her thanks, the
bartender picked up her drink for her, and led Lucy over to a small table in
another corner, where a man was eating the pasta course of his supper, an
interesting combination of Irish and Italian foods.
"Marco," said the bartender,
getting the man's attention. "I want you to meet my new friend, who visited
your other country last summer."
"Scotland?" asked Marco, looking
up. Lucy was delighted to see that he was the same attractive man she had seen
on the motor scooter earlier that day. "What part?"
"Mostly the Highlands," admitted
Lucy, "But a friend attended St. Andrews, and I had to visit it for my father,
a golf fan. I'm Lucy Mountjoy."
"Pleased to meet you," said
Marco, rising. "Marco de Luca. I was educated in Scotland, for reasons I've never
understood. Nice place, beautiful, a trifle damp and cold. Biggest problem was
that the Roman sites are so well excavated, and I'm not terribly interested in
military encampments. I'm an archeologist. We've got a new dig here in
Taormina."
"How interesting," said Lucy.
"what sort?"
"A villa," said Marco, with both
pride, and a sigh. "Or at least the ruins of it. Unfortunately I wasn't born
when they dug up the villa at Piazza Armerina, but there seems to be some sort
of lesser dwelling here, which I am determined to uncover. Please sit down, you
don't want to sit all alone in a strange country, do you?"
"No, not really," admitted Lucy.
"But am I disrupting your dinner?"
"No problem. It's nice to hear
English spoken with a proper accent for a change."
Lucy slid into a chair across
from Marco, and accepted her drink from the bartender, who left them with a
smile.
"So," Marco said, before turning
back to his dinner, "What brings you to Sicily, if I may ask?"
"The view. I'm a photographer.
It's so pretty here, and warm."
"You're right about that. Apart
from seven years of boarding school and eight years of various university work,
I've lived in Italy all my life. And that makes everywhere else so much less
appealing."
"But you liked Scotland?"
"Loved it. Home away from home.
If I had had a mind towards medieval history, I should be quite happy to stay
there. As it happens, I became infatuated with the Romans, and being a Syracuse
boy, came back to the old island."
"When did the dig start?" asked
Lucy, not remembering any mention of it in the travel guide.
"Just this last year. We haven't
done very much, and have only just started up again. Last year we managed to
uncover a room and part of the epistyle. Now we've been uncovering what may be
the triclinium, the dining room, that is, and one or two funny little rooms off
to the side."
"Sounds fascinating," said Lucy,
wishing that she remembered more of her ancient history. Peter would know about
these things. If only Peter were here, instead of slogging away at work
somewhere.
"Are you taking pictures for a
magazine, or a book, or are you here for fun?" asked Marco, pushing the plate
away into the center of the table, and looking up with startling blue eyes.
"I was thinking of putting out a
book of my work," said Lucy. "But I'm not settled yet. First I get to have a
bit of a vacation with my brother."
"That's nice for you," said
Marco. The bartender, who was playing waiter on a Sunday evening, brought Marco
another plate, with some sort of hashed meat on it, and cleared the empty pasta
dish.
"Have you been to see the
sights?" asked Marco, when he had demolished part of the food on his plate.
"No. I only arrived this morning
from Rome. I was there for a while, sightseeing and shopping. What would you recommend
that I see here?"
"Oh, the theater is well worth a
visit. Originally Greek. It's remarkably well preserved, and the view from the
back wall is astounding. View from the seats isn't bad, either. Mt. Etna."
"I'm surprised that anyone
watched the spectacles. Sounds delightful."
"It is," said Marco. "But full
of tourists." He sighed again, and speared a forkful of meat. "Tourists are the
bane of my existence. This town is swamped with them. Half of them really care
about the things they see, but the other half don't. That's what I can't
understand, and what I don't understand I find difficult to tolerate.
Ignorance."
"I'm afraid that I'm rather
ignorant when it comes to ruins. My brother, Peter, would appreciate them,
though. I do know that Greek theaters were built into hills, though. I can well
imagine that here, with this mountain."
"You'll be fine. You're an
artist, and you see things."
"Thank you." The bartender had
returned, and collected Lucy's cognac glass. "Another, please," she requested.
"Would you like anything?" she asked Marco.
"I'm fine," he assured her.
"Besides, I'm not finished this meal. I missed Italian meals in the UK."
"I can imagine," said Lucy. "I
had an astoundingly large meal at the hotel, but it was hardly filling. You Italians
manage your food marvelously."
"It's all the waiting. Time to
digest."
"Of course."
The second cognac arrived, and
Lucy sipped it pleasurably. Marco finished his plate, and leaned back against
his chair, stretching his legs.
"Where," he asked, "In this
backward and tourist-ridden town, are you going to find a dark room?"
"Actually," said Lucy, "I'll
have to built one. I'm renting a house, and my parents are shipping in my
enlarger from Boston. The rest won't be difficult to manage."
"That was industrious of you.
Boston? I've known people there. No one any more, but my friend was studying
for his doctorate at Harvard."
Lucy acknowledged the
institution with a nod. Marco looked at his watch, with a sigh. "Eleven-ten,"
he murmured.
"Do you have an appointment? I'm
not keeping you, am I?" Lucy was concerned.
"No. Nothing like that. I'm just
always anxious about the night watch over my dig."
"Of course. You don't get
thieves, do you?"
"It's not really a stable site.
Vandals, more."
"Vandals? Do people trouble your
work?"
"We've had a scrape or two.
Damaged floors, mostly. A broken fence or two. Nothing much, but just enough to
be tiresome."
"I'm sorry. It sounds wretched."
"We've got a night watchman, but
one always wonders whether the fellow will do anything more than sit in the hut
and play solitaire card games."
"I'm sure he must take his job
more seriously than that!"
"I'm sure that he must too. I
enjoy worrying."
"It sounds like it." Lucy
finished the second cognac, and smiled at Marco. "Absolutely tiresome. I'd
better run along, I've got to move house tomorrow."
"Yes. Good luck and all. It was
nice meeting you."
"Yes, thanks for the company.
I'll be sure to see the theater."
"Arrivederci."
"Arrivederci. Good-night."
Lucy rose, and paid her bill at
the counter. With a merry wave she left the pub, and walked down the cool
street towards her hotel. The street was empty, save for a few cars, and a man
with a bicycle, who hurriedly wheeled his conveyance on the opposite sidewalk.
Trotting down a set of stairs, Lucy paused and gained her bearings, before
crossing the road, and entering the dimly lit lobby of the hotel. She collected
the key, heavily weighted with a brass lump with her room number engraved upon
it, and found the stairs. Walking up two flights, and down a short hall, she
inserted the key and entered her room.
Fiddling with the light, she
cast off her turtleneck, and pulled on a flannel pajama top to combat the
mountain night air. Idly wondering if Peter would be at his apartment in
London, she dialed the number, and got the answering machine. Sighing, and
leaving no message, she assumed that he was either with his mother in Sussex,
or out of the United Kingdom. It was tiresome that Peter was away, and
lonesome. Slightly cheerless, save for an entertaining conversation with an
attractive Italian native, Lucy slid into fleece pajama bottoms, and curled
into the soft bed.
Chapter Three
Lucy woke to a bright beam of
sunlight reaching through the shutters and onto her face. Noting that breakfast
had already begun in the dining room, she quickly got out of bed, and brushed
her long, curly brown hair, and brushed her teeth. Selecting a pair of brown
linen pants and a tan sweater, she emerged from her room dressed comfortably, and
ready for a long day.
The dining room, which doubled
as a breakfast room, was half-full of chattering students, who appeared to be
finishing their meal. Lucy located a buffet at one end of the room, and helped
herself to croissants and coffee, warily staying away from the Italian version
of Corn flakes which she considered duly inferior to the American variety.
Taking up a small bowl of tinned peaches, and a boiled egg, she carried her
meal over to her table, which faced mountains Northwest of Mt. Etna. She ate
quickly in silence, and on finishing the meal thanked the woman who presided
over the coffee pot, and went upstairs to pack and leave the hotel.
The house she was to rent was on
the upper reaches of the Via di Leonardo da Vinci, within the boundaries of
Taormina, but still near the top of the mountain, and Castelmola. Deciding that
a brisk morning walk would do her good, Lucy took her two suitcases and the
bags, and arrived at an arrangement that allowed her some flexibility. Wheeling
the suitcases before her, Lucy set off down the road towards the house.
After walking twenty minutes
with the cases, Lucy arrived at the number of the house that she was to lease
for the year, set against one of the bends in the road. It was a little before
ten at this point, when she was due to meet the realtor. Opening the gate to
the small house, she stepped up onto the neat little porch, and set her cases
against the wall. It was an attractive dwelling, coated with yellow stucco,
with a small arrangement of potted birds of paradise in front, and an enormous
aloe. One side of the house was snug against the road, and rose sheer up to the
second story, where there was a small window. A narrow walkway led around the
other side of the house, where Lucy discovered there was a small garden with a
lemon tree, and a clothesline. The yard was fenced, and it bordered another
yard, where a matronly woman was pegging up laundry on a line.
"Buon giorno"
the woman called. "sei lei signorina Mountjoy?"
"Si. io sono Lucia
Mountjoy." Lucy replied.
"Bless you," said the
woman. "I was having nightmares that you would be one of these silly
tourists who refuse to learn the language. Welcome. I'm Signora Crispini. We'll
be neighbors."
"Pleased to meet you,"
said Lucy, smiling over the fence as Signora Crispini hung a large sheet across
her line. "Peter and I will try to be as peaceful as possible so we don't
bother you."
"Peter is your brother? Oh
yes, of course. I'm so glad that you've taken the house at all, it's been empty
for nearly a year. A lovely couple owned it, but the signora had an operation,
and the height was not good for her. So the company the sold it to has been
trying to let it. We've had summer visitors, but all along Signore Crispini and
I have been longing for a long lease. And then we heard that you were coming to
stay. You must come to dinner some time."
"Grazie. You are
very kind."
"Signorina Mountjoy?"
A call came around the corner of the house, and a balding man appeared. "Buon
giorno. I'm the realtor, Signore Novelli."
"Lucia Mountjoy. We talked
on the phone. My brother hasn't arrived yet, I'm afraid, but I will handle any
documents we still need to sign."
"Molto bene. Come
this way." Lucy followed him and carried out the necessary paperwork,
before receiving a key and saying good-bye. She unlocked the door, and bundled
her suitcases inside.
Inside the house was small, but
comfortable. There was a kitchen with a stove and refrigerator and a large sink
with a rack for dishes. The table was in the living room area, and there was a
fireplace. Between the two rooms there was a small room, which Lucy bagged for
her darkroom, with a scullery attached. The sink in the scullery would work
well for developing negatives and prints, although it would have to double as a
laundry place.
Upstairs Lucy found two bedrooms
and a bathroom. Claiming the room that looked South towards Mt. Etna, Lucy
stowed her cases and explored the bathroom, where she discovered a good supply
of hot water and a large bathtub. In the downstairs hallway there was a
mountain of boxes which the Mountjoys had sent along earlier, in which Lucy
found towels, linen, dishes and her enlarger. Running out into the back yard,
Lucy cut a bunch of irises and put them into a vase she had found in a cabinet,
to brighten the living room. Drawing all of the curtains in the house, she
marveled at the quaintness of the dwelling.
The door bell rang, and Lucy
found Signora Crispini at her doorstep, with an invitation to be introduced to
the other Crispinis, and a large dish of pasta alla Norma, covered in plastic
wrap as a neighborly gift. Lucy stepped out of the house and followed Signora
Crispini into the house next door.
It was a house that looked well
lived in. Everywhere there were clothes, foods, religious knickknacks and
books. She was introduced to Signore Crispini, an elderly, fatherly man, and to
his niece, Caterina, a solid girl of about eighteen, and to their grandson,
Paulo, who was fifteen, lively, and eager to show off his English to the pretty
American signorina. Enjoying the domestic feeling of the family, Lucy was
astonished when she discovered that it was nearly one o'clock, and hastily bid
the happy family adieu, so that she might have time to go into Taormina for
lunch and supplies for breakfast. Promising to come to dinner soon, she left
them to return to her own little yellow house.
Collecting her bag and one of
her cameras, Lucy shut up the house and headed down towards Taormina. Signora
Crispini had told her about the staircases that criss crossed the winding
roads, and cut the length of the journey to town. Glad for all of her work on
the stair machines back in New York, Lucy set off on her journey to the pretty
town further down the mountain.
The day was lovely, and the air
crisp and fresh. Birds sang in the trees, and Lucy encountered a surprising
number of cats and dogs on her way. People were appearing on the roads, heading
to rest for siesta before continuing their days. Lucy stepped back onto the
road, and halted as a train of cars and motor bikes sped by her. Unused to the
confidence and speed of Italian drivers, she was momentarily stunned. Someone
called her voice, and she looked around her to see who had called.
"Signorina Mountjoy,"
called the voice again. A motor bike had stopped some way up the road from her,
and the driver was wheeling his vehicle towards her. After a moment she
identified it as being Marco de Luca, the man she had talked to last night.
"Signore de Luca," she
replied, with pleasure.
"It is good to see you
again. Are you on your way to town?"
"I am," Lucy replied.
"Will everything be closed for siesta? I had wanted to get lunch in
town."
"I will show you to best
places to eat," said Marco, "if you will allow me to give you a ride.
You've a ways to go, you know."
"Grazie. But you
hardly know me."
"What's to know? You want
to see the town, and I am going there. It'll be much faster. I promise that I
won't abduct you." He mounted the bike again. "Come up behind me, and
hold on tight." Dumbly, Lucy followed, and grasped Marco around the chest.
He started the engine of his bike again, and they flew down the mountain. Marco
drove well, but quickly, with the joking aggressiveness of the Italian
motorist. More than once he good-naturedly swerved near pedestrians, and cutting
back into the road. Tourists were startled, but natives laughed, and shouted
happily.
He arrived outside a stone gate,
where he stopped his bike. "This is the main street," he said.
"The Corso Umberto I. I'll take you to my favorite pizzeria."
"That's very kind of you.
Is there also a shop for me to buy some basic groceries for my house?"
"Indeed. Not too far
away."
"Grazie. Is this the
pizzeria?"
"Yes. Come along. The
father of my friend Luis owns this pizzeria. In fact, I'll be meeting him for
lunch. Care to join us?"
"No, but thank you. I
wouldn't like to intrude."
"If that is your only
objection, you had better join us. Our friend Aldo will also be there, and his
girlfriend, Gianna. She'll welcome another female face, and her English is
excellent. You'd might as well make some more friends if you plan to be here a
while. The mountain can get lonely."
Lucia gave in, and Marco led her
into the attractive pizzeria, which was off an alley which reminded her
strongly of the closes of Edinburgh. The shop was decidedly not Scottish,
however, decorated with bright Mediterranean themes, with a picture of a woman
holding out a pizza painted on the wall, her dark eyes smiling, and the pizza
steaming. Underneath the picture was a table, where two Italian men and a very
pretty young woman were sitting, merrily arguing over the wine list. Marco
approached them, with a smile.
"Luis! Aldo! Buon
Giorno, Signorina Gianna. This is my new friend, Signorina Mountjoy, an
American who is staying in Taormina to take photographs."
"Buon Giorno!"
the young woman cried out. "I'm Gianna. However did you meet Marco? Never
mind, it is charming to meet you. Are you here long?"
"Yes, a year."
"Not a tourist then, I'm so
glad. Tourists are so skittish. You are a photographer?"
"Yes. I'm hoping to put
together a book."
"You will find no prettier
island than this one. I should know, I have traveled all over the Mediterranean
to study pottery."
"She makes Sicilian
pots," explained one of the Italian men. "I'm Aldo."
"Pleased to meet you."
"And this is Luis,"
said Marco, pointing to the other Italian. "He's originally from Rome, and
we've never let him forget it."
"They abuse me terribly,
Signorina, don't mind them. Welcome to my father's pizzeria, where I honestly
believe that we serve the best pizza on the East coast of the island. There is
a wretched place in Palermo that is better, I must admit.""
"I'm looking forward to
trying the food."
"Yes," said Marco, "Food.
Have you ordered?"
"Oh, no. We have managed to
decide on a wine, though, I shall fetch it." Luis jumped up from his seat,
and went behind a screen into the back of the restaurant.
"The best part of eating at
this pizzeria is that he can get special treatment." Lucia smiled at Aldo.
"You have a first name, signorina Mountjoy?"
"Lucia. My family calls me
Lucy."
"Signorina Lucy. Lucia is
an Italian name, you should be well pleased. Ah! You must try this. It is a red
wine, from Sicily, and rather delicious. Allow me to pour you a glass."
Luis had arrived back again, and poured Lucy a liberal glass of wine. Marco
scowled a little, but happily joined in the group banter as they decided on
what to order for their lunch.
Staring at the menu, Lucy was
glad for all of the Italian she had taken in high school. She quickly decided
on a margherita for herself, and placed the order with the waiter who appeared
on catlike feet by the table.
"Just a margherita?"
Marco asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "Nothing more exciting? No fish,
no vegetables?"
"I like my pizza plain,"
replied Lucy, smiling. "But thank you for your interest in the
matter."
Gianna leaned over to Lucy
again, and smiled brightly at her.
"It is such a pleasure to
have another woman here, you must know. All these silly men! You must tell me
about yourself. Have you brothers? I have none, just three sisters, but
sometimes I feel as if I had several, with Aldo's friends."
"I have one brother,
actually a half brother from my father's first marriage. He's a bit older than
me, and wonderfully nice. Actually, he's due to join me anytime. I also have a
younger sister, who is nineteen."
"What an exciting age,"
laughed Gianna. "I suppose that she is at university?"
"Not yet. She's taking a
year off before going to school."
"Is she traveling?"
"Oh, no, researching. She's
interested in history. I'm not. I'm artistic, instead."
"Yes, the photography. I'm
glad that you are artistic, you'll have to tell me what you think of my
pottery. Silly stuff, most of it, good for sales to tourists, but rather
trivial all the same."
"I've seen Sicilian
pottery, it's so colorful."
"Yes," agreed Gianna,
smiling. "Now, how on earth did you meet Marco? He's been almost a recluse
lately, with his dig and everything."
"I met him at the Irish pub
in Castelmola, I was introduced by the bartender, since he knew Senor de Luca
had been to school in Scotland."
"Senore de Luca!"
exclaimed Gianna, merrily. "You make him sound so old. No, Marco is Marco,
and he is young and pleasant and very smart. Isn't that right, Marco?"
"Absolutely," said
Marco, automatically, watching the waiter return with his hands full of pizzas.
"Lucy, this is yours, I think?"
"Thank you," said
Lucy, flashing the Italian a brilliant smile, accepting the warm tray and its
fragrant burden happily. She was terribly glad that she had come and met these
friendly people, Gianna was so pleasant and merry, Luis's father's food so
excellent, Marco so friendly and charming. The only person needed to make the
party perfect was Peter.
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author.