The Obsession and the Fury Read online

  The Obsession

  and the Fury

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Publishers Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  SolsticePublishing 2010

  CHAPTER ONE

  Island of Panarea, Sicily, 1951.

  The sway of her hips was enough to make any man lose his head.

  Every day at noon she would cross the sun-bleached piazza. Like clockwork, all the men on the island of Panarea would be there to witness the apparition. To them she was a God-sent, Satan-driven beauty.

  Whenever she stopped to toss her black glossy mane down her back, her thin dress outlined her exquisite curves, no man was safe from the sinful thoughts she triggered. Not the old men sitting in the piazza playing with their dog-eared cards, nor the young parish priest hiding away and praying for his tempted soul in the cool depths of his church. The church that was more and more deserted each day.

  No one could resist the wild, feral look in her eyes. On the small Sicilian island sin was afoot, and at the age of eighteen, Rea was the embodiment of temptation. She had no origin, no family, no surname, but it didn’t matter. She was named after the island of Panarea because that was where she was found one misty morning six years earlier. At siesta time the men would lie back onto their makeshift beds and dream of her beauty.

  The women hated her and shunned her, lest her lewd savagery rub off on their own virtuous daughters. Or worse, lest the gypsy, as she was also called, rub herself up against their innocent husbands. Either way, Rea was an outcast in a close-knit society that believed in work, honoring their Lord Jesus Christ, and respect towards their fellow townsmen. But most of all, they believed that ‘skin’ equaled ‘sin.’

  To them, Rea was the dirt on the last rung, at the very bottom of society, if you didn’t consider bandits, but those only arrived occasionally by sea and left in a flurry as Panarea was too small to offer a permanent hiding place.

  Her man had been a middle-aged outlaw who had briefly wooed her. He had publicly claimed her by dragging her into his shack up in the hills and later, as was custom on the first night of proper marriages, emerged proudly exposing for all to see the bloody sheets that vouched for her innocence.

  The return of a rival bandit from Agrigento sent him into hiding soon after, and he hadn’t returned since.

  That had been three years ago, and still she feared his return to their shack on her own. Rumor had it she survived by selling her body, but strangely no woman’s husband nor, God forbid, son was ever indicated as one of her patrons.

  Rea was also infamous for another gift. During the hot afternoons she would sit in her home with her Tarot cards splayed before her on her makeshift table and read out the future to those men that had mustered the courage to climb up the steep path to her abode.

  If only they had known that the fortune-telling didn’t come from the cards, but from her dreams.

  Her nights were filled with images of the future, and while the happy events such as births and christenings comforted her, she was terrified of dreaming someone’s death, for, as sure as the sun always rises, that person would be dead within the week.

  To the people she was a witch, a whore and everything in between. Every death on the island was ascribed to her. She had foreseen them all, in her sleep, and she would watch from afar every accident, every death, every funeral parade.

  But the dream that had left Rea distraught was of the death of a handsome foreigner. He was kind and passionate, genuinely in love with her and together they were happy- until a kind woman showed up with a wedding dress. In that moment he would fall to his death down the cliff, into the sea, lost forever.

  Rea always woke up screaming, praying she would never meet him.

  This morning she entered the cool deserted shop during siesta time when no one was around. The shopkeeper, Don Antonio, was waiting for her with a bag of groceries and a filthy toothless smile. When she offered him her money, he grabbed her by the hips.

  “Bella…sei bellissima,” he rasped, burying his sweaty face into her cleavage. She eyed him briefly, and then pushed him away, nonplussed, and held out her money. He shook his head and reached for her again, but Rea stamped her foot. Don Antonio grunted and pushed the groceries in her direction, waving away the money. Rea glared at him and slapped the bills onto the counter and headed for the door, but he pulled her back, covering her mouth with his hand.

  When she got home she peeled off her dress and washed every inch of her body.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As the boat rounded the glistening bay, Alex Ford stood in awe. With less than two hundred inhabitants, Panarea was a tiny speck in the Aeolian Islands off the Northeastern coast of Sicily, lost in the Mediterranean Sea.

  His Sicilian-American friend from back home wasn’t joking when he said it was a cluster of old houses on the side of a dormant volcano with more sheep than people. But Alex wasn’t interested in people. Ahead of him stretched a long summer, a war to forget, and a book to write. Nothing else mattered.

  Everywhere he looked the landscape was breathtakingly wild and primitive. At the top, oddly askew, was the crater of the volcano. It was dormant, he had read, but it bore the promise of awakening one day. He hoped he, or anybody else for that matter, wouldn’t be around when it did.

  The few houses seemed to drift apart further and further as they sloped down to the sea where tiny colorful wooden dinghies bobbed. He planned to spend time fishing with the islanders and sailing up the coast with his camera. He grinned. No telephones, no radios. Just him, the sea, and his typewriter. It was going to be a sensational book.

  “Signore,” the weather-beaten fisherman beckoned as he pulled the boat onto the sand, taking the large suitcase. Normally Alex was a light traveler, but he had brought as many books as he could find on Sicily. His next travel novel was long overdue and his agent was getting panicky.

  Alex offered to carry his own load but the fisherman insisted. “Casa Fiorilla is up there,” he explained, jerking his head up the hill, as if intimating Alex wasn’t in good enough shape for the trek. But at thirty-two Alex was more than fit. He had served in the War as a pilot. He remembered the first time he flew over these islands, and vowed to land on them one day.

  Like a nimble mountain goat, the older man picked his way up the steep path. Alex looked up after him and winced. What a time to stop smoking!

  The sun was high and the stones on the narrow goat path came loose at every step. Alex made a mental note to come down only when strictly necessary if he wanted to live a long life. As he was thinking about it, he lost his footing and clutched at a dark green bush, surprised by the pleasant fragrance it released under his grip. Juniper. Must be a wild variety. Mental note for book.

  As they passed a derelict hut on their way up, the fisherman slowed down and craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse through the screen of wooden slats. Alex stopped politely, waiting for him to resume his climb, when the man turned around as if to catch him off guard.

  “What’s in there?” Alex asked.

  “Nothing but trouble,” the fisherman grunted and quickened his step.

  Alex followed him, now gasping for air and casting another glance at the hut. Many people had huts like these where they stored their agricultural
equipment. Was he planning to help himself to the goods inside on the way down?

  After a few minutes they stopped and the man plunked his suitcase onto the dusty earth of a small clearing. Alex looked up and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  This house wasn’t much bigger than the hut. He took out the large iron key and twisted it into the front door. Clouds of dust emerged from the interior that seemed to swallow the very daylight.

  “Luxury hotel, huh?” he said, grinning at the fisherman.

  “Eh?”

  “Niente,” nothing, Alex said hastily in Italian. He doubted very much that the little man had understood him half the time as he only spoke Sicilian. Italian was the language of the well-read; doctors, lawyers and pharmacists, and he doubted whether this man with sea- weathered skin could even read. Alex handed him a few Lira and watched him disappear down the steep hill among the luscious bushes and turned back to the house.

  He sighed. The place was like a bomb-site. He took off his clothes and changed into a pair of over-alls.

  The first thing he looked for was a writing table. The only available surface was the dining table which he dragged into the front room by the window for some light. The bed surprisingly had drop sheets, but also droppings of every other kind. It would take him ages to make this house a home.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Alex spent the next few hours sweeping with a straw broom and cleaning with some old rags he found. It was useless. Whatever he did the dirt would not come out. He needed detergent of some kind and a mop. Wiping the sweat from his neck, he picked up two large buckets and trudged down the goat path towards the well Mark had told him about. On his way he passed the hut where the fisherman had lingered and he turned, curious. It was quiet and the door behind the screen was now closed.

  He dragged the water back uphill, careful not to spill it. Alex washed the floors as thoroughly as he could. Then he changed into clean clothes and clambered down into the center of the town.

  There, he stopped, somewhat overwhelmed by the size of the square. It sloped seaward as did the hill, and was surrounded by palm trees on every side. It looked like a village from A Thousand and One Nights. A small church stood off to the side, dwarfed by the enormous piazza and slightly askew. It was magnificent in its simple, rugged beauty. The opposite side of the piazza was lined with low, closely built houses. From up here he could see the shoreline, and noticed the waves were starting to get choppy. Of course. The tide.

  He stepped into what seemed to be the only shop around and was instantly engulfed by its cool, deep interior.

  A large counter stood across from the entrance, and as his eyes adjusted to what seemed like pitch black darkness, he realized the place was a café, a bazaar, a grocery shop and a haberdasher’s. All the goods that made it to the island were sold here and here only, and the old man behind the counter was running the place like a despot, ordering the helper boys to and fro, waving his arms in a constant dance and yelling as if the place was on fire. In the corner sat an elderly woman, presumably his wife, knitting. She seemed to be satisfied with his behavior, her eyes bright but also fierce, as if ready to catch any fault in his behavior. He instantly knew who wore the pants in the family. As Alex walked in they all looked up and silence fell immediately.

  “Buongiorno,” he greeted politely.

  All eyes swung to the owner who scrutinized Alex at length before nodding slowly, and soft murmurs of greeting were uttered. Not one smile. Just a diffident look of scrutiny. He moved to the side, patiently waiting for his turn.

  Without warning, a tall attractive brunette floated in and it was as if the sea had flooded the shop. People gasped and turned away, their eyes darting to her nervously. She greeted no one and no one spoke to her as she selected a few items and stepped up to the counter and stopped.

  “After you, Miss,” Alex beckoned.

  That’s when she turned to look at him, and Alex felt a shiver down his spine, and he knew his life would never be the same. But in her deep, dark eyes there was an animosity that made him flinch and he instinctively stepped back.

  Without a word of thanks, she turned away and plunked her items onto the counter, looking defiantly at the old man who in turn watched her at length, his own eyes glistening with what could only be satisfaction. Then he shook his head.

  “No!” he uttered.

  The young woman slipped a slender hand in between her breasts and produced a wad of bills.

  “I said no! We don’t want your money here! Now go, you slut!”

  She stared him down, her shotgun eyes now loaded with hatred, ready to fire. The old man momentarily faltered, his eyes darting to his wife’s furrowed face.

  The young woman stared at the man, then at his wife and with a swift movement, spun on her heels and stalked out of the shop. On the threshold she stopped and picked up a large jar of sun dried tomatoes and flung it across the shop. Alex started and turned to see Don Antonio duck just in time as the mirror behind him cracked right in the center as if hit by a single bullet.

  “Puttana! Puttana!” slut, his wife yelled, her bony hand shooing her out. Her husband slowly resurfaced from under the counter, his few white hairs standing stark against his tanned scalp, his dark eyes huge.

  “You saw that! E’ pazza!” the elderly woman screamed at the others who watched open-mouthed, crossing themselves.

  The last thing Alex saw was the swirl of her flowered dress disappear out the door.

  * * * *

  That evening Alex changed into his good clothes and joined the men strolling in the piazza. He wanted to know who the girl was.

  There, he bumped into the parish priest who welcomed him and introduced himself as Don Raffaele.

  “I heard what happened in Don Antonio’s shop this morning,” the pious man said quietly.

  Alex searched his face, wondering why he would bring it up with him of all people.

  “The people here are good, charitable people, but some things they don’t tolerate.”

  “Like what?”

  “Rea, mostly. She’s an outcast. Since her shepherd left to go back to Girgenti she has been penniless and now Antonio refuses to give her business because of what she’s done and also because he knows the man’s not coming back. Rea doesn’t have anyone to support her, and rumor has it she now sells her body to survive, poor girl.”

  “You said the people were charitable here, though.”

  The priest regarded him as if he was an idiot. “The men she sleeps with are married to those women, Signor Ford.”

  “Ah.”

  “Don Antonio and Donna Vincenzina had taken her in when she was twelve. She had been abandoned on the island at night. Antonio found her sleeping in the sand, barefooted and afraid. No one knows where she came from.”

  Alex found himself intrigued. It’s like one of those nineteenth-century novels by Giovanni Verga, he thought to himself.

  “You said they won’t accept her money- what did she do exactly?”

  The priest sighed benevolently. “They took her in to do the cleaning. For two years everything went well. They adored her and she adored them.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Womanhood.”

  “What?”

  “Ah, my foreign friend, you laugh because you don’t live here. In a town where beauty is an unforgivable sin, Rea is the Anti-Christ.”

  “Just because she’s beautiful?”

  “No, not just because she’s beautiful. Because she has the fire of Satan inside her. Men that have had her say that she…she…” the priest blushed. Alex couldn’t believe an educated man could actually behave like that.

  Don Raffaele cleared his throat. “It is the usual story. Rea seduced their son Paolo. The boy was so obsessed he wanted to marry her. He even threatened to go to the mainland and marry her there if they didn’t accept their union.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Don Raffaele shrugged. “Then came Calogero, a shepherd fro
m Girgenti. He built the shack she lives in and took her there. The townspeople were glad she was out of the way.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “Who knows? He had come in hiding, he left in hiding. Calogero was always a bandito. And Rea was perfect for him. At night he would beat her and she would scream her head off. Once she even tried to kill him. ”

  Jesus Christ! It seemed Rea was the devil in person in those parts. “Doesn’t it cross anyone’s mind that she may not be the devil she seems?”

  “We do not judge her, Mr. Ford. God does.”

  “Well, while God judges her, maybe someone should help her. She seems pretty ostracized to me. How’s the girl supposed to survive?”

  “She goes fishing every morning. She eats what she catches.”

  “What about everything else?”

  “She has nothing else.”

  “Can’t the Church do anything for her?”

  “And alienate its people? No, Mr. Ford. Rea is a lost cause. Lost for good. And I strongly advise you to keep away from her. She is like the Sirens tempting Ulysses. She’ll trap you with her wiles, and you won’t know what hit you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next day Alex went back to Antonio’s shop. He regretted that it was the only one on the island. It gave the man power. A power Alex resented. He didn’t think much of the old hypocrite. His son might have wanted to marry Rea, but Alex had seen the look on the old man’s face when she had walked in. He had seen the lusty glint as his eyes undressed her at his leisure, like one would undress a prostitute, and not a woman he loved. He had been cruel and resolute.

  Antonio greeted Alex this morning with exaggerated politeness, as if expecting him to endorse his version of the story the day before which had apparently become the event of the year. Women who had missed it were gasping and shaking their heads as he showed them the cracked mirror as one would a trophy.