I very carefully smashed my crystal goblet into the fire, and started for the door. His voice, when he called my name, had all the iron of hell in it. I turned, a twelve-year-old schoolboy again caught in the orange grove before harvest. ‘That was seventeenth century Florentine. Does it make you feel any better?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry.’
There was nothing more I could say. Unexpectedly he smiled. ‘This Serafino Lentini-you are kin on your grandmother’s side. Third cousins.’
‘You know him then?’
‘I haven’t seen him for many years. A wild boy-he shot a policeman when he was eighteen and took to the maquis. When they caught him, they gave him a hard time. You’ve heard of the cassetta?’
In the good old days under Mussolini it had been frequently employed by the police when extorting con-fessions from the more difficult prisoners. A kind of wooden box, a frame to which a man could be strapped and worked on at leisure. It was supposed to be for-bidden now, but whether it was or not was anyone’s guess.
‘What did they do to him?’
‘The usual things-the hot iron, which left him blind in one eye and they crushed his testicles-took away his manhood.’
Burke should be listening to this. ‘Does nothing change?’ I said.
‘Nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘And watch Hoffer. He is a hard man.’
‘Millionaires usually are. That’s how they get there.’ I buttoned my jacket. ‘It’s time I was going. A long day tomorrow.’
‘You are going to the Cammarata?’
I nodded. ‘With Burke. Just for a drive. Tourists having a look round. I want to see the lie of the land. I thought we’d try Bellona.’
‘The man who owns the wineshop is the mayor. His name is Cerda-Danielo Cerda.’ He took his blue silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out. ‘Show him this and tell him you are from me. He will help you in any way he can. He is one of my people.’
I folded the handkerchief and put it in my pocket. ‘I thought Serafino didn’t like Mafia?’
‘He doesn’t,’ he said tranquilly, reached for my hand and pulled himself up. ‘Now we shall join the others. I must talk with this Colonel Burke of yours. He in-terests me.’
Burke and Marco were sitting together in the salon, an exquisite room which my grandfather had kept to the original Moorish design. The floor was of black and white ceramic tiles and the ceiling was blue, vivid against stark white walls. Beyond a wonderful carved screen, another relic of Saracen days, was the terrace and the gardens.
I could hear water gurgling in the old conduits, splashing from the numerous fountains. In other days it had been said that whoever held the meagre water sup-plies of the island held Sicily and Mafia had done just that.
They were talking behind me and I heard Burke say in his terrible Italian, ‘You must be very proud of your garden, Signor Barbaccia.’
‘The best in Sicily,’ my grandfather told him. ‘Come, I will show you.’
Marco stayed to finish his drink and I followed them out on to the terrace. The sky was clear again, each star a jewel and the lush, semi-tropical vegetation pressed in on the house.
I could smell the orange grove although I couldn’t see it, the almond trees. Palms swayed gently in the slight breeze, their branches dark feathers against the stars. And everywhere the gurgle of water. My grandfather pointed out the papyrus by the pool, another Arab in-novation, and suggested a short walk before we left.
He moved towards the steps leading down to the garden, Burke paused to light a cigarette and then everything happened at once.
Some instinct, product perhaps of the years of hard living, sent a wave of coldness through me and I froze, ready to jump like some jungle animal sensing an un-seen presence.
Below the steps five yards on the other side of the gravel path, the leaves trembled and a gun barrel poked through. My grandfather was already on his way down. I sent him sprawling with a stiff left arm, drew and fired three times. A machine pistol jumped into the air, there was a kind of choking cough and a man fell out of the bushes and rolled on to his back.