If I say he had the look of a Roman Emperor, I would be referring to the period when it was possible for a restless adventurer with no scruples to rise from the ranks.
It was a remarkable face. There was ruthlessness there, and arrogance, but also pride and a blazing intel-ligence. And he was as elegant as ever. Many of the old time capo mafias chose to look as slovenly and as un-kempt as possible in society as if to emphasise their power and importance, but not Vito Barbaccia. The share-cropper’s son had left his rags behind him long ago.
He wore a cream lightweight suit that had London stamped all over it, a pink shirt and dark blue silk tie. The cigar was as large as ever and the ebony walking stick I remembered well, because if it was the same one, it housed a couple of feet of razor-sharp steel.
He didn’t speak as I went slowly up the steps to meet him. I paused a little below his level and he gazed down at me, still without a word and then his arms opened.
The strength was still there. He held me close for a long moment, then gave me the ritual kiss on each cheek and pushed me to arm’s length.
‘You’ve grown, Stacey-you’ve grown, boy.’
I motioned to Burke who came up the steps and I introduced them. My voice seemed to belong to a stranger, to come from far away under water and my eyes were hot. He sensed my distress, squeezed my arm and tucked it into his own.
‘Come, we’ll go in and Marco will give you a drink, colonel, while I have a word or two with this grandson of mine.’
My throat was dry as we moved through the great door. Strange how you can never stop loving those who are really important to you, in spite of what they may have done.
It was like stepping back into the past when I went into the study. It was as impressive as ever, the walls lined with books, most of which he had read. A log fire crackled cheerfully, loud in the silence, and my mother gazed down at me from the oil painting above that he’d commissioned from some English artist one year, I think when I was fourteen. And I was there, too, in framed photos that documented every stage of growth.
The piano was in the same place by the window, the Bechstein concert grand he’d imported especially from Germany. Only the best. I stood looking down at the keyboard and picked out a note or two.
The door clicked open behind and closed again. When I turned he was watching me. We stood there looking at each other across the room and I couldn’t for the life of me think of a single thing to say.
And again, with that enormous perception of his, he knew and smiled. ‘Play something, Stacey, it’s in tune. I have a man out from Palermo regularly.’
‘A long time,’ I said. ‘The places I’ve been didn’t have pianos like this.’
He stayed where he was, waiting, and I sat down, paused for a moment and started to play. Ravel- Pavane on the death of an Infanta. I only realised what it was half-way through, by some trick of memory or association, the last piece I had played in this house on the night before my mother’s funeral-her special favourite.
I faltered and his voice broke in harshly, ‘Go on-go on!’
The music took possession of me then as real music always did, flowing like water over stones, never-end-ing. I forgot where I was, forgot everything but the music, and carried straight on into a Schubert im-promptu.
I finished, the last note died and when I looked up, he was standing looking up at the portrait. He turned and nodded gravely. ‘It’s still there, Stacey, after all this time. She would have been pleased.’
‘I’d never have made the concert platform, you know that,’ I said. ‘I think you always knew, but she didn’t.’
‘Is it so bad for a mother to have hopes for her son?’ He smiled up at the portrait again. ‘She used to say everybody had a talent for something.’