Man on Fire (19 page)

"You know what he's like," Paul had commented to Creasy.

They had used part of the money to convert the old storerooms, so that Guido would have a comfortable place and some privacy when he came to stay each year.

There were two big rooms and a small bathroom, all arched and vaulted in the usual manner. The thick stones had been oiled, rather than painted, and they retained a soft ocher color. The rooms were furnished simply. A big old bed and chest of drawers in the bedroom, with wooden pegs on the wall on which to hang clothes. In the other room, a grouping of low, comfortable chairs and a coffee table, and a well-stocked liquor cabinet. It would be home for at least two months and already, on his first night, Creasy felt comfortable and settled.

He thought about the Schembris. They were, to all appearances, simple farmers, but in Gozo the level of education is high, and while the people are conservative and close-knit, they take an interest in the outside world and are often well-read. Because of overpopulation, many Gozitans have settled overseas, particularly in North America and Australia, and some of them, coming home to retire, buy houses in their original villages. So there is a rejuvenation of ideas, and a movement of people within the community.

Paul Schembri was a typical farmer, his values rooted in a life of hard work and the productive cycle. He kept his counsel and didn't parade his views for all to see. He had money in the bank and could look any man in the eye. He was a bit like the stone walls that surrounded his fields-dry and a bit dusty, but well made, each stone fitting against the other without cement or plaster and able to stand up to the Gregale winds that, in winter, come across the sea from Europe and scour the low hills.

Laura was more outgoing. A casual observer might have thought she dominated the marriage, but that was a surface impression. She was a big woman and confident of her intellect, and even if Paul had allowed it, she was wise enough not to take advantage of his seeming mildness. But her character had more facets than Paul's, she sparkled brighter, and her interests and curiosity ranged wider.

Joey mostly took after his mother, his inquiring guileless mind allied to overt goodwill. He would be attractive to women, Creasy decided. They would be drawn to his dark good looks, which would undoubtedly arouse maternal instincts.

He wondered about the girl, Nadia. She was working as a receptionist in a hotel on Malta but would be returning at the weekend, and staying to help her family on the farm.

Guido had told him that she had married an English naval officer and gone to England, but the marriage had failed a year before. Creasy remembered her vaguely at Guido's wedding. A teenager, with the same quiet good looks as Julia. He hoped she wouldn't present any complications. So far, the situation was good.

In the morning he would start training. He didn't want complications.

He turned over the tape, and Dr. Hook sang of an old drunk in Brooklyn and a plea to be carried a little farther. Just a little farther.

He reached the long ridge overlooking the bay at Marsalforn and stopped for a breather. Sweat had darkened his track suit. The sun was still low-only an hour old, and the bay, sheltered by the surrounding hills, was shaded. He sat on a low stone wall and drew in air deeply. His body ached-all of it, muscles protesting in hurt astonishment at the sudden activity. He reminded himself not to overdo it. A pulled muscle now would set his program back days or weeks.

He had risen just before dawn and worked through a set of exercises, following the old Legion routine, but he had curtailed them, starting gently.

Then he had taken a cold shower and gone downstairs. He had been surprised to find Laura already in the kitchen, and said so.

"I go to early Mass at five o'clock," she had answered, smiling. "Someone has to pray for all the sinners in this family."

Creasy had smiled. "Pray for me too, Laura," he said lightly. "I've done my share of sinning."

She had nodded, suddenly serious, and looking at the small gold crucifix hanging from his neck.

"You are a Catholic?" she had asked, and Creasy had shrugged.

"I'm nothing very much."

She made him a big mug of black coffee and, as he sipped, Paul and Joey had come in, dressed for the fields.

"I'm going for a run," Creasy had said, "and then for a swim. Can I help you on the terracing later?"

The farmer had smiled and nodded and led the way outside, pointing down the hill to the sea.

"When you want to swim, follow that path. There's a small cove there and you can swim off the rocks. The water is deep, and it's private. It can only be reached through my land or by boat."

Laura had told him to come in for breakfast after his swim, and the thought of both the cool water and the food brought him back to his feet, and he retraced his steps at a slow trot.

The small cove was secluded and the water deep and clear. The limestone of the shore had been eroded from beneath, and a flat ledge jutted out over the sea. Creasy stripped off and plunged in. He swam about a hundred meters out into the north Comino channel. The small island looked beckoningly close, but he knew that it was almost a mile to its nearest point. Later, when he became fitter, he would swim over there; and later still, and fitter still, he would swim there and back.

At the farmhouse Laura cooked him a huge breakfast of ham and eggs, and fresh warm bread spread with the island's clear honey. She sat and drank coffee and watched with satisfaction as he silently cleared his plate.

She remembered him eight years before, when he had come with Guido-just as silent then. He looked older now and infinitely weary. Guido had told them on the phone how close he had been to death.

She had grown to love her son-in-law as a natural son, and when Julia had been killed, she had grieved for her daughter, and for Guido.

She remembered the night before the wedding.

Guido had come alone to talk to her and Paul. He told them a little of his past and how the future would be different. How he loved their daughter and of their plans for the pensione in Naples. Finally he had told them that if anything happened to him, and if Julia needed any help, Creasy would provide it.

The next day she had watched the big, silent American as he tried to enter into the spirit and gaiety of a typical Gozitan wedding. She could sense his pleasure at his friend's happiness and had known instinctively that what Guido had told them the night before was true. Guido had given her Creasy's forwarding address in Brussels, and it had been Laura who sent the cable there when Julia had been killed, the cable that had brought Creasy from Africa to Naples to be with his friend. Now she was quietly determined to help this man build up his strength again. Exercise and hard work would play a big part, and she would fill him with plenty of fresh, good food.

After breakfast Creasy went out into the fields and located Paul and took off his shirt and worked alongside him. There is a skill to building a dry loose wall. The rocks have to be carefully selected and placed just right, one against the other. The old man was surprised at how quickly Creasy picked up the knack, but Creasy had a natural eye for that kind of construction.

Even so, after an hour, his back ached from the constant bending and his hands, long softened, were scratched and blistered from the stones. At noon Paul called a halt, and Creasy went down to the cove to bathe his hands in the seawater.

Lunch was a simple meal of cold meats and salad, and afterward everyone took a siesta during the hottest part of the day. The thick, stone walls and the high, arched ceilings kept the rooms very cool, and Creasy slept well even though his body ached. He rose at three o'clock, stiff and with his bruised hands painful. It would have been good to laze about and he was half-tempted, but he switched his mind back to his purpose and went down to the terraces again with Paul. As his skill improved, the two men made good progress working silently side by side. After a couple of hours Laura came down with cold beers in a bucket of ice.

She scolded Creasy about his sunburned back and she looked with frank curiosity at the scars-old and new.

"You really got chopped up, Creasy," she commented. "You should take up farming full time."

Then she saw the state of his hands and turned to Paul, genuinely angry.

"How can you let him work with hands like that? Look at them!"

Paul shrugged. "You try telling him."

She took Creasy's hands in hers and examined them.

"It's alright," he told her. "I'll go for a swim later-the salt water is good treatment. In a few days, they'll harden." She turned the hands over and looked at the mottled scars and shook her head.

"Farming," she said firmly. "It's much safer."

The next three days were the hardest. Each night Creasy would fall into bed totally exhausted.

But he had established a routine and a pattern: an early morning run, followed by a swim, longer each day, then working in the fields, shirtless in the hot sun. Another swim in the evening, and early to bed after dinner. He exercised when he first got up and just before bed at night. Those first days were an agony, especially in the mornings, when he loosened stiff and unresponsive muscles. It would take about two weeks, he guessed, before he could get into full stride. But the pain acted as a stimulus. It reminded him constantly of his purpose, and it reminded him of the girl and what they had done to her, and his hatred more than matched the pain.

Paul and Joey saw it one evening as they sat on the outside patio after dinner, drinking coffee and brandy and looking out over the dark sea to the bulk of Comino and the lights of Malta beyond.

The lights reminded Creasy of his arrival in Naples, so many months before, and of the changes that had affected him. The growing friendship with Pinta, and those few last weeks, when he had been truly happy. His mind went to the last day and then to Guido telling him in the hospital about her death. Paul turned to say something, but when he saw Creasy's face, the words dried in his throat. He saw hatred rising from the man like mist from a cold sea. Abruptly Creasy stood up and bade them good night and went to bed. Joey looked at his father, his normally cheerful face troubled and somber.

"He's burning up inside. There's a fire in there. I've never seen anyone look so sad and so angry at the same time."

Paul nodded in agreement. "He's got it under control, but it's there. Someone will be burned by it."

Joey shook off the mood and grinned and stood up.

"I've got a fire in me too, but for something else. I'm going to Barbarella's. Friday night, and the tourist girls will be lonely and grateful."

His father shook his head good-naturedly.

"Don't be too late or you'll be useless tomorrow, and there's still three fields of onions to pick."

The boy walked through the inner courtyard, avoiding his mother, who would lecture him about the morals of foreign girls. From the open window of Creasy's bedroom he could hear soft music and he stopped and listened.

He recognized the song, it had been popular a couple of years before-"Blue Bayou." He was a little surprised. It added another dimension to the strange American. He climbed onto his Suzuki and kicked the starter and the music was drowned briefly as he gunned the motorbike up the track towards Xaghra.

On Saturday Nadia came home. She was sitting at the kitchen table when the three men came in for lunch.

"Creasy, you remember Nadia," Laura said, with a gesture at the girl.

"Only just," he replied, and to the girl, "You were in pigtails then." She smiled, softening the severe lines of her attractive face, and then she got up and kissed him on the cheek.

She was tall and slim and she moved with a curious walk. Long legs, almost stiff-not unattractive, but different-her hips turning more than normal.

Over lunch he studied her covertly. She brought more conversation to the group, teasing Joey about his hangover and then supporting him when his mother scolded him for coming home at two a.m. and having to be dragged out of bed to go to work at dawn.

She had an intelligent face. Too severe for great beauty, but high cheekbones and a full mouth gave it interest. She had also a distinct eroticism-an aura. She looked up at Creasy and caught his eyes on her.

"How's Guido?" she asked. Her voice was deep, matching her looks. It had a resonance-a vibration.

"He's fine, and sends his love."

"Did he say when he's coming?"

Creasy shook his head and wondered if there was anything between Guido and this girl. She was very like Julia, a bit taller and slimmer, but the same grave eyes contradicted by a quick smile. It would have been natural for Guido to be attracted and it was five years since Julia's death. But then he remembered-she had been back in Malta less than a year, and anyway Guido would have told him. It was that kind of a situation.

After lunch, when the men had all gone to their rooms for a siesta, she stayed in the kitchen helping her mother wash the dishes.

They worked silently for a while and then she said suddenly. "I'd forgotten...I mean the way he is-sort of intimidating."

Laura said, "Yes. He's a hard case. Doesn't say much, but he's settled in and he's a big help to your father."