That evening
They sat in a cafe facing the piazza that was the center of Taormina. Since no motorized vehicles were allowed in this part of the town, the only sound came from the square's baroque fountain, which, along with the fortresslike cathedral of San Nicola, was radiating with the Chianti red glow of sunset. A few blocks away, faint shouts came from a street soccer match between several boys, each of whom wore the jersey of a different team. Jason drained the last of a beer; he felt dehydrated from an hour's tour that had included everything from Palazzo Corvaja, the Norman building that had housed the first Sicilian parliament in the fifteenth century, to the ancient Greek amphitheater.
Tourism, he decided, was thirsty work, particularly when every third building sold adult refreshment.
Maria nursed a glass of Sicilian white wine, a product Jason had determined would have better use in removing paint. Her streaked hair was down, giving a softness to her face. Her simple black dress was adorned only by a brightly colored scarf around her neck, an embellishment Jason instantly recognized as Hermes.
The signature blue and red of the silk had given him a shock he was not sure he had been able to conceal. Hermes-one of Laurin's few extravagances. She had adored the colors and patterns unique to the French designer, keeping each in its signature orange box. At thirtyfive and a half by thirty-five and a half inches, the square was large enough to serve as scarf, shawl, skirt, or even a top. Utilitarian as well as decorative, Laurin had described them.
Maria glanced down, checking the neckline of her dress. 'I hope it is my scarf you're admiring.'
'Uh, yeah,' Jason managed. 'Hermes, isn't it?'
She smiled. 'Something men do not usually recognize unless they've bought several.'
'At three hundred per, they're hard to forget.'
Would he ever find a place where Laurin was absent, somewhere a phrase, a landscape, a scarf wouldn't remind him of her loss? He hoped not.
He forced his attention back to Maria. The dress she wore displayed her figure to more advantage than did her work clothes. Jason was deciding she was more than simply attractive. She was receiving admiring glances from almost every man who passed.
'Well,' she said, 'you have now pretty much seen everything except the Wunderbar.'
Jason stopped watching men watch Maria and faced her. 'Wunderbar?'
'Favorite haunt of your Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, movie stars.'
'Thirty years ago, wasn't it?'
'People here still talk about it.'
Jason drained his glass, noting the surrounding buildings, some of which dated back to the Hellenistic period. 'I don't doubt it. Probably still talk about Ulysses passing thorough on his way home from Troy, too.'
She looked up from making concentric circles on the tabletop with the bottom of her glass. 'I thought Americans loved their celebrities.'
'Want to try getting a waiter's attention when Tom Hanks is at the next table?'
She laughed. 'Point taken. But I doubt Liz and Richard are at the Wunderbar tonight.'
Jason signaled to the waiter. 'Hungry? Where's a good place for authentic Sicilian cuisine?'
He paid the tab and she slipped an arm through his as they walked down the cobbled streets. Greek, Norman, Ottoman, all had left their imprint. They had gone only a few blocks when she veered into an alley, stopping in front of some tables in the street. From inside came recorded accordion music.
'Best spada alia ghiotta on the island,' she announced.
Jason started to ask for an interpretation, thought better of it, and pulled a chair out for her. 'I'll take your word for it.'
Over more white Sicilian wine and beer, he asked, 'The samples, could you determine where they came from?'
She spoke to the hovering waiter in the harsh Italian dialect of Sicily and then nodded, digging in her purse. 'The percentage of sulfates, the presence of certain igneous similarities such as the radiation level… they differ with each volcano.'
Jason shook his head. 'Whoa! I appreciate your work, but I don't need a tutorial.'
'No doubt about it, the Campania.'
He waited a moment for the sole waiter to set down the prima platte, a steaming plate of pasta con le Sarde. 'Campania? You mean around the Naples area?'
She was spooning half of the macaroni, sardines, and wild fennel onto her plate. 'Yep.'
He reached for what was left, noting it was considerably less than half. 'What volcanoes are around Naples? I mean, Vesuvius hasn't erupted since, what, 1944?'
She took a tentative taste, sighed with satisfaction, and said, 'The sample was from a volcanic area, not necessarily an active volcano. Besides, the whole Bay of Naples has seen volcanic activity. The ancient Greeks and Romans regarded the thermo-mineral water that bubbled up in the Phlegraean Fields to be curative of a number of-'
Jason's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. 'The what?'
'Phlegraean Fields, in Baia.' She saw his puzzled expression. 'At the northern end of the Bay of Naples. Mount Nuovo erupted there in 1538. Then there's Lake Averno, a perfectly round lake that surely was a volcanic crater.'
'The whole Bay of Naples area is pretty large.'
He took a bite of the appetizer. Now he understood why the local wine had an astringent, puckering effect: the native food had a salty quality, sort of like anchovies out of a tin.
'Couldn't you be a little more specific?'
She had nearly cleaned her plate and was eyeing his. 'Just why would a Baltimore businessman want to know, Mr. Harold Young?'
He finished the last of his appetizer before meeting her gaze. 'Does it matter?'
She sat back in her chair, fished around in her purse again, and produced a pack of cigarettes. 'Do you object?'
'They're your lungs.'
A lighter appeared and she puffed greedily. Blue smoke disappeared into the surrounding darkness.
'Does it matter?' she mused. 'I suppose not, not if we say good-bye tonight.'
Jason was surprised to realize he very much did not want to say good-bye at all.
'On the other hand, as you Americans say, if we remain, er, friends, it matters very much. You see, Harold, or whoever you are, I was married to the ultimate liar. I think I mentioned him.'
'Casanova.'
'Yes, him. Just like some people have a violent reaction to, say, penicillin, I am allergic to liars. I know damn good and well some businessman from Baltimore didn't come all the way to Sicily to see me just because he had a personal curiosity as to the geographic origin of some soil and rocks. I also listen to my colleague Dr. Kamito at various professional gatherings. I cannot say I know, but I sure suspect that he does work for some people who are not in it for the pure science.'
Jason started to interrupt but she went on. 'No, let me finish. What Ito does and for whom is none of my affair. But I view with suspicion anyone he refers. I don't really care what your 'business' is.' She made quote marks in the air with her fingers. 'But I do insist on knowing who the hell you really are. Short of that, we will enjoy the meal, part on good terms, and I hope you enjoy your stay in Sicily.'
Jason was silent while the dishes were removed and the swordfish served.
'Answer enough,' she said, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it in the small dish of olive oil. 'I hope you like the entree.'
They ate in silence, the only sound music piped from inside. He would never know if he had eaten the best swordfish cooked in vegetables on the island, but he was certain that the meal would not be easily bested. He was even beginning to tolerate, if not enjoy, the local wine.
Leaning back on his chair's rear legs, he looked up and down the narrow alley, where unevenly spaced streetlights created archipelagos of illumination in a sea of darkness. An old woman, dressed in the traditional black, leaned from an upper window to shake a tablecloth free of the evening's crumbs. Another reached to tend to a window box of listless flowers. Men gathered around a pair of cardplayers inside gave grappa-induced
