Chapter Two
The garden was a mess of weeds and chest high wildflowers. Mrs Falcon ploughed through them towards the front door while Maria stood at the turquoise gates, suitcase in hand, and gazed at the most beautiful little cottage she had ever seen. Everything was turquoise green and white. The windows, door, doorframe, garden bench and fishpond. The walls of the house were white. Well, old white.
There were four or five trees in the paved courtyard in front of the house that formed a shady canopy and provided a cool arbour at any time of day. There was a white trellis with a grapevine growing over it and a huge white birdcage without a door hanging from it. Underneath were some old white wicker chairs.
The overgrown pathway, with flowers beds on either side, was bordered by little low walls of ceramic tiles with pictures of green leaves entwined with blue feathers and streaks of yellow sunshine showing through. These tiles also lined the fishpond, but were so covered in green algae that it was hard to see what they were.
Mrs Falcon finally defeated the front door and disappeared into the cool darkness beyond.
Maria, stunned with happiness, turned and looked out over the bay. Her heart leaped at the sight of such beauty and light and she had to gulp in deep breaths of air to slow down the thump thump in her breast. She already had her capsules in her hand, but she didn't have to use them. What a terrible irony if she were to die from being too happy.
She loved the warm on her skin. She loved the ‘no hurry', ‘nowhere to go' feel of Naples . You actually had time to stop and look at things…people. Taxi drivers drove fast because it was a sport, not because they were in a hurry. Mopeds with entire families holding on whizzed by on the crowded cobbled streets. Naples was full of people, and full of life.
*
Marco understood there was a great spirit at work here. He watched the boy from his precarious perch on a wooden post on the other side of the road. An old wizened sunburnt man in short sleeves with a walking stick. If ever, on those rare occasions when a car should happen by, he would hold up his stick to them and then point at the boy lying in the road with his ear to the old tram line. There were no trams anymore, and this three mile stretch of track that ran past the front of their house had just never been removed. The car would accordingly sidle carefully by, hoot, and shoot off down the road again. He was there every day. Marco. If the boy didn't come out that day or escaped into the town, Marco would merely sit and look out over the bay like an old sailor.
Maria hadn't really noticed the old man before. He'd sort of been part of the landscape. But now that he'd become the child's padrone in a way, she would often take him a cup of tea and some cake.
He would sit and watch the boy listening intently to the sounds coming through the rails. There were the various odd clunks and thumps and rumbles from the city, but eventually, if he listened carefully enough, he began to hear other things beneath the superficial noises. Deep sounds. Strange sounds. Sounds of great distant bells. Strange rings and hums, surging sounds, subtle and scary. He would listen hour upon hour, building up a picture of the world beneath him.
Once in a while Marco would get up and walk slowly over to the boy. He'd stand there long enough to satisfy himself that the boy was still alive and that all was well, and then go back to his seat.
He knew there was a great spirit at work here. Italy was a land that had spawned many geniuses, so he knew one when he saw one. Marco had no thought of any personal gain or fame. His task was given by god and he simply did it. Geniuses are renowned for being eccentric and absentminded. Therefore they were likely to need someone to watch over them while they worked. Marco didn't know what kind of a genius the boy was, but judging by the length of time he lay without moving, he reckoned him to be a very profound one.
One day the young boy, perhaps growing weary of being on the outside of all the fascinating sounds he heard and wishing to participate, or in reply to some sound he heard, picked up a stone as he lay there and tapped three time sharply upon the steel tram line. Old Marco noted the incident and understood the enormity of what was happening. The boy was communicating with the other world. He was letting them know he was there. The young genius was ready. He was taking his first steps towards immortality.
* * *
“Oops. Sorry,” he said after scattering her books all across the courtyard. He hurried to collect them up.
“What is wrong with you?” This was to be the first of the three great riddles that the Ice Queen would ask him.
“I'm sorry. I was miles away.” He picked up the last of the books. “My name is Paulo. Paulo Bellagamba,” he said, holding out her books out to her.
Without bothering to acknowledge him or take her books back, she simply turned her back and walked away. He watched her bum bounce along the path like a pair of pistons. He flipped open the flyleaf of the top book. Virginia White. Psych 1.