Six Day Week

Tuesday, Aurora

Although Italy's young womanhood in its scraps of bikini was provocative enough, Troy found his eyes drawn to a table in deep shade on the far side of the patio. The hard-backed chair beside it was occupied by a girl who was probably in her mid-twenties. She sat alone resting her elbow gently on the table top so that it supported her chin.

In striking contrast to the youngsters she was wearing an ebony black one-piece costume which fitted her form like a sheath and demonstrated that there was not an unnecessary ounce on her body. Her long legs, folded casually, were free of the black down which is an unpleasant feature of many Italian donne. Her breasts were proud and defiant and her skin was burned to the brown of Africa, a shade that set Troy's blood tingling.

Other men were aware of her, even those with pretty puppy-fat companions who were hating her for it. Frequently, believing themselves to be unobserved, the hungry eyes of these male bathers would risk a quick, lascivious glance, as if trying to calculate what she would be like in bed. She would stare past them haughtily, tossing her thick black hair which was drawn together through a gold ring at the nape of her long neck before it splayed out to caress her brown shoulders. Her eyes were the colour of midnight and now they were fixed on Troy.

He looked away for a moment towards the Mediterranean and then allowed his gaze to drift back. She was strangely familiar, like someone he had known, and yet he knew that was impossible.

She was still examining him through long, pale lashes. Slowly she came to her feet, and walked towards him. There was a tinkle at her feet as she moved, cat-like, and immediately he noticed that a small bell was attached to her left ankle by a slender golden skein.

He stood as she approached the cabina. Although she was tall for a Latin, he was relieved to discover that he was a good six inches taller.

She said something in Italian.

"Scusi," he replied. "I'm English."

"English? Ah," the exclamation was meant to convey a wealth of understanding, and so it did.

"Signor, I wished to tell you that this is my cabin." The voice was low and unhurried and entirely self-confident. It

heightened his belief that somewhere, somehow they had met before.

Then, as they stood face to face, it came to him in a rare flash of understanding.

She was a grown version of the child he had met an hour before in the apartment near Termini station. Yes ... the contour of the face, the hair, the length of the neck, the poise... it was just the same.

His instinct was to say 'You are Mancini's sister' but he must not do so, for that would mean betraying his promise to the child.

Instead he replied "I am looking for Carlo Mancini."

She brushed a fly from her cheek. Her finger nails were fascinating. Complete ovals of silver, and each as sharp as a butcher's knife. "Then you have found the right cabina," she conceded. "I am his sister."

"Where can I find him?"

"He has taken out one of the boats. He will be back here in a few minutes. Are you American?"

"I said I was English."

"You speak with a slight American accent. It made me wonder."

"Although I am English I normally live in America."

"I see."

The strap of her costume was untied, presumably so that her shoulders would take a uniform brownness from the sun, but now with her sister's modesty she tied it behind her neck. The action, Troy couldn't help noticing, caused her breasts to judder provocatively.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

"No. I'm told your brother was friendly with one of my colleagues, and I'm hoping that he will be able to put me in touch with him."

"How did you know where to find him?"

"They told me at the hotel," he lied.

"They knew?" She sounded surprised.

"Yes." He'd have to brave it out.

She thought for a moment and then laboured the point.

"Who told you at the hotel?"

"I don't know his name," parried Troy. "One of his friends. A kitchen man, I believe."

"What did he look like?"

"I can't remember. Does it matter?"

"It is just that he takes great care not to be disturbed when he has a free day, and yet it would seem that even a stranger can find him."

As she spoke Troy noted white, even teeth and a darting pink tongue. She was a looker, this girl, one of nature's own.

And, of course, she knew it. The men were watching him enviously from the patio.

"What is your name?"

"Davis Troy. .. and I'll say it for you, because everyone seems to... it doesn't sound English. I was to be christened 'David' but they made a mistake on my birth certificate and it stuck."

"Stuck? Oh, yes. I understand. David, of course, is an English name."

"As British as they come. And you?"

"I am called Aurora."

"Aurora Mancini. That's an attractive name. Aurora, in English, means a tremendous burst of fire and colour."

"The same in Italian. But my name is not Mancini. My mother married for a second time. I am Aurora Necchi."

"Even prettier."

"Pouf," she scoffed. "You pay compliments like a hungry Italian. It is not pretty, it is ugly. I did not think that Englishmen chattered in this way."

Troy had the appropriate retort on his tongue but he decided not to bait the lady. Instead he asked "Would you like a drink? I could do with one, and we might just as well wait for your brother in the bar."

"You are thirsty? Wait. I have beer in the cabin."

She withdrew a heavy iron key from the moulded cup of her costume brassiere and fitted it into the lock. They were sipping Peroni from paper cups when she suddenly pointed towards the sea.

"There he is ... Carlo ... CARLO ..."