Hal nods. As a child he had not properly understood his mother’s distress as she watched the metamorphosis of her homeland into a dictator state. Now he does. A nonconformist to her core, and one who wore her national identity about her like one of her brightly coloured scarves, she must have felt it as a personal affront. And she must have felt powerless, too, watching from afar – feeling, perhaps, like a deserter. She tells Hal often that she had been brave, once upon a time. She had been helping her own father, a surgeon, when Mr Jacobs had come in as a wounded soldier, and left with her as his betrothed.
There is sudden noise and movement in the harbour: the fishermen are returning with the first catch of the day, unloading their cargo and their catch onto the quay. Some are shirtless, some wear full waterproofed overalls. There are men of every age but all have a common, sinewy strength about them, their skin tanned dark by wind and sun. They look done-in, Hal thinks, seeing the purple shadows beneath eyes, the set jaws. Bone-weary. He wonders: have they chosen this life, or has it been handed down to them, with no possibility of escape? But then one of the younger men, for a joke, hits his fellow across the face with a sardine and all descends into chaos and laughter. More fish are brandished, water is thrown. And suddenly the group is transformed, becoming vital, joyful.
He finishes his breakfast, wanting to explore the rest of the place while he still has it to himself. He starts with the steps that lead from the waterfront up towards the castle. The place is less eerie – and less enthralling – in the stark light of morning. There is no enchantment here, he realizes, only so many lifeless stones. Weeds thrust their way among them, reclaiming the land that was theirs before man built here. Seagulls wheel and caw and land to stalk along the ramparts – untroubled by his nearness as he passes, black eyes watchful, beaks violent-looking.
Led by an aimless curiosity, he makes for the great church below the fort. Inside it is dark and several degrees cooler than without. The air has a musty quality: faint notes of mould and incense. He feels a clumsy intruder, his feet echoing loudly upon the stones. Any second, someone will find him here, discover him to be a fraud. He will be asked to leave. Yet no one comes – in fact, he seems to be alone. He steps more confidently, giving greater rein to his curiosity. He has made it halfway up the aisle when he stops. There is someone else after all. At the front, head bowed so low between the pews that they had been almost invisible.
The figure turns, and he sees that it is Signor Gaspari. He blinks at Hal like a sleeper wakened. There are tears in his eyes.
He stops, begins to retreat. ‘I’m sorry – I’d thought there was no one here. I’ve disturbed you …’
‘No,’ Gaspari says. ‘Please, don’t apologize.’ He grimaces. ‘I’m not a man of religion. Someone I knew was. So, I suppose it has now become something of a habit of mine.’ He points to a small, framed picture on the wall. ‘And I wanted to see her, too.’ From afar it appears unimpressive, but as Hal moves closer to make it out he sees that it is a small, exquisitely rendered image of the Virgin and Child, the faces flat Byzantine ovals, the details embossed in gold.
‘The White Madonna,’ Gaspari says, softly. ‘Isn’t she something? She was carried here on the waves, in a plank of wood. There are a number of theories, I believe. Perhaps a merchant ship, attacked by pirates. Or a band of Crusaders, knowing they were doomed to die on a Moslem battlefield, and feeling it important that their treasure should be salvaged.’
‘It’s a good story.’ But it is only as credible, Hal thinks, as all such myths are. He remembers studying such things in history lessons; tales of medieval relics. The teeth or bones of a saint that, when examined properly, turned out to be those of some animal.
He catches Gaspari watching him. ‘You don’t believe me,’ the man says, ‘do you?’
Hal looks at him in surprise. ‘I assumed it was a myth.’
Gaspari raises an eyebrow, and beckons. ‘Come.’ He leads Hal towards the entrance of the church and points to a long beam of wood, dark-hued, ancient-looking, a hollow carved into its belly.
‘There,’ Gaspari says. ‘This was her ship, if you like. Of course you can claim that this too is a fraud. But I prefer to believe in it. Not so much for any religious reason, but for the fact that such things speak of a certain magic at work in the world. That I can have faith in. It is the thing upon which I base my work.’
Afterwards they step, blinking, into the sunshine. Gaspari walks away, and Hal sees that he has gone to collect his dog, tethered outside. Sleeping in a patch of shade, she had been invisible to him on his way in. Now she wakes as the director nears her, sitting up on her haunches and yipping in delight.
‘Have you seen the other church?’ Gaspari asks, when he returns.
‘No.’