The Third Shadow

Twenty-seven

She seemed not to have heard however. "I hope that you didn't get the wrong impression..." Her tone  had grown suddenly serious. "I mean, there was that one moment were it seemed we were about to... You know..."

"Kiss," I said. It was hardly a swear word.

"Snog each others' faces off."

The wine had made me bold. Reckless.

"Like that Christmas Eve all those years ago..."

Several seconds of silence passed. She was a little surprised, undoubtedly, shocked into wordlessness. It was the first time the incident had ever been mentioned.

"So you remember then."

I slugged down the rest of my glass, sloshed out another. Bolder. Ever less restrained.

"How could I possibly forget?"

Again, she needed a moment to digest the candour of my response.

"But that's the point Jim. That's what I phoned to say. Just as we were pissed then so we were last week. That wine of yours."

"Just the wine," I echoed. "That's all."

"Exactly."

"Yes."

Neither of us believing it. Not for one second.

The two lizards were now scuttling happily off into the vines; it had just been a playfight, I decided. Meanwhile, another silence had ensued; for Diane and I, an uncharacteristically tense one.

"Grey and murky here," she said finally, steering us back onto neutral territory. "The weatherman says we're in for a wet weekend."

"Thanks," I responded.

"For what?"

"Cheering me up."

"Let me guess - thirty degrees, cloudless?"

"Bang on."

"Lucky sod."

I gulped down a little more wine, came straight out with it.

"Why don't you come and join me Diane?"

"As a matter-of-fact I've  got a bit of holiday time due next month. Boys'll be with their dads. I even had a look on the Ryan Air web-"

"No," I interrupted, a little annoyed that she hadn't understood. "I don't mean just for a few days. Not just a holiday." I paused long enough to thrust down a good lungful of air. "I mean, why don't you come out and live with me?"

Partly, it was the wine talking. Partly, I'd never been more serious in my whole life.

The magnitude and unexpectedness of the proposal heralded another long period of silence, one in which I took soothing sips of wine, felt my skipping heartbeat reverberate against chest.

"Ask me again in a few years," she responded eventually. "Once the boys don't need me any more." There was a hint of playfulness to her voice. "Might just take you up on the offer."

*

The next morning, Saturday, I got hard to it amongst the vines - a tank of fungicide strapped to my back, spray pipe in hand. Larger wine producers employ specially designed vehicles for spraying tasks - a sort of mini tractor trailing a horizontal large-capacity tank,  one thin, low and narrow enough to tunnel through the arched branches of neighbouring vines. Neither having inherited such a vehicle from Mr De Ruvo nor having the spare cash to buy even the rustiest of second hand specimens, I had to settle for a more labour intensive method. My paltry eight hectares hardly constituted major landownership however: even working alone, two or three days was enough if I put my back into it.

As I worked my way along the vines, I spotted other bunches uglied by patches of grey, sticky slime - an excess of sugars, in actual fact. Not quite as many as I'd feared however. Whilst it was vital to stop any further spread, the bunches already affected were still usable. As a general rule of thumb, five per cent was acceptable, would render that year's vintage even a touch sweeter than the last.

The main problem with manual spraying is that once your back tank runs out - as it will every half an hour or so - you have to trapse back to the main tank for a refill. The date was June 21st: officially summer now. Hot work under that blazing Mediterranean sun. A man soon built up a thirst...

I'd promised myself that today I wouldn't touch a single drop of alcohol however, not even a cold beer at down-tools. If I didn't start, my reasoning went, then I wouldn't continue.

Though not the whole reason, my ever increasing alcohol consumption had certainly been a contributing factor in the previous evening's general regretfulness. Even though Diane's answer had been sweet, even enticing, it heavied my morning-sober all the same.

Where had it come from, I wondered? Such an outrageous and unrealistic proposal. As she'd been quick to point out, she had her two boys, both still teenagers. Not only that but a career too, and a damn promising one at that - over our Chinese takeaway the week before she'd mentioned that she was thinking of taking the inspectors' exam.

And what did I have to offer her? More or less guaranteed sunshine from May to October; this, yes. But beyond that? A failing, ill-conceived business. A fifty-square-metre bungalow still to be fully updated from the 1930s. A partner thirteen years older than her who was still emotionally churned up in the wake of a failed twenty-eight-year marriage.

Not much, in short. And in so asking if she would care to spend the rest of her life with me - in so demanding something which she couldn't possibly give and which I anyway didn't deserve - I wondered if I might have just lost the one true friend I had.

There were many things going through my head, therefore, as I trudged back up the slope to the bungalow around one o'clock. So many that as I opened up the fridge door in search of panino fillings, my eyes couldn't help but alight on the row of beers on the second to bottom door shelf...

Oh, what the hell.

It was as I was swilling down the first mouthful of panino that I noticed them - the two missed calls on the display of my phone there on the table. An Italian mobile number I didn't recognise.

Intrigued, I called straight back.

"Appuntato Ciavarella here. Hello?"

Ciavarella? My sense of intrugue grew further...

"It's Jim Jacks here. You tried to call me."

"Signor Jacks! How are you?"

In the background I could hear a general clamour of voices, what sounded like the faint rustle of waves.

"Fine, fine," I replied. "It's been a long time. And you. How are---"

But before I had chance to finish the question, the young officer's excited, air-grasping voice cut me off.

"Well, signor Jacks. I am well. But this is of little importance." His tone was ever more urgent, agitated. "The comandante, he thought you should know. We have found a body."