She comes in the night, as she always does, a spectre bearing gifts. She carries a silver tray – one that has been in her family since Garibaldi landed at Marsala. It needs a good polish, dust clings to its raised edges, to the tarnished handles in the shape of little wolves, but there is no denying its beauty and provenance. A single glass of grappa sits in the middle of the tray. Or is it water? She taps the bedroom door and enters before he can answer. The glass is still. Her withered hands do not tremble. Her stature is regal. She is dressed for dinner even at this hour, a dress of purple silk, a deep neckline, pearls at the throat. He cannot see her clearly in the shifting light and gnarled shadows of the bedroom, but he knows she is made up, face perfect, lipstick flawless. Silver moonlight in her hair. He has always been in awe of the Contessa.
     She puts the tray on a bedside table, next to bowls of uneaten olives, grapes, and figs from the vast gardens of the estate. She takes a fig, as if lovingly plucking it from a tree. A sacred object in the palm of her hand.
     His back is to the Contessa, but he hears her slurp and suck the fig like it is her last. It is a beautiful sound; it arouses something in him. He stands at the open window watching the fires burn the midnight horizon. Smoke blacker than the night. He hears terror in the birdsong, the screams of the sheep on the hills, the faint buzzing of distant and unseen helicopters. On the grounds of the villa, dogs howl. The ghosts of the estate are restless. It is time to face the Contessa. She is his second mother, she has turned down the four-postered bed he slept in as a boy. He was a little prince then, free of night terrors behind the thick curtains of the bed.
     The Contessa extends her hand. Her limbs are long and languid. He takes her hand and kisses it. His lips are dry, her skin radiates warmth. He knows the fires will not reach the estate. He knows the villa will stand for another hundred years. He knows he is safe with her. He sits on the edge of the bed, the Contessa next to him, the fires a slow, receding memory. He leans into her, breathes deeply. Her shoulder is hard, all bone. Her hair blooms with the scent of ripening figs, drips with the scent of old wine. She squeezes his hand, her strength undimmed by time. He knows she is about to speak, and he knows what she is about to say.
     ‘Luca, you’ve been here a week…’ He loves the sound of her throaty voice. Her words have always carried weight. ‘…you should really see your mother.’

                                                                                          *

In the beginning, in New York, there was no Contessa. He had his mother, his grandparents and the apartment overlooking Calvary cemetery, that endless ocean of gravestones. He would spend hours there, among the dead, with his grandfather who liked to show him the graves, the names etched in mossy stone. By the time he was ten, Luca knew the resting places of the old-time crooks, from Lupo the Wolf to Joe ‘The Boss’ Masseria. He knew the politicians, the paupers, the policemen -- the great Joseph Petrosino, first Italian-American cop of the NYPD, scourge of the Black Hand and confidant to Teddy Roosevelt. Luca knew what his grandfather knew, and it made him feel like the most special boy in the city. He walked everywhere with his grandfather -- they journeyed from river to river and back again, down littered streets, down the avenues and boulevards, across the bridges.
     Then his grandparents died, and his mother cut her hair. She sold the apartment in Queens, and they moved to the West Village and lived above a bakery. The beautiful smell of fresh bread every morning didn’t ease his loneliness. His mother worked the graveyard shift in an all-night diner and took classes during the day. A ghostly presence in his latch-key life. Most nights, his mother would rouse him from the sofa, and tell him about her classes. She loved taking Italian, the forgotten language of her childhood. She loved film studies, the history, the poetry. Her words were always hushed, excited, rising above the white noise of the black and white television set with tin foil antennae that lulled him to sleep every night on the sofa.
     Her happiness was everything to Luca back then. He treasured and nurtured it more than his own. He pruned its dead leaves and gave it space to grow. If she was happy, he was happy. But happiness is a fleeting thing – even a young boy knows that.
     The Contessa came in the night. His mother’s Italian teacher bearing a gift. A mint copy of Amazing Fantasy No 15 sealed in a mylar bag. She kissed Luca on both cheeks and told him never to doubt his mother’s love. ‘You are all she talks about. Everything she does, she does for you.’ It was the first time he heard the Contessa’s voice. The next day, his mother said they were moving to Sicily.

                                                                                          *

He awakens to the eyes of a wolf. Another morning. Another week gone and still Luca has not seen his mother. Smoky dawn light pours over the bedside tray, the eyes of the wolf handle gleam. A fly rubs its hands on the rim of an empty glass. He watches the fly teeter on the rim of the glass as if in a drunken stupor before it buzzes out of the open window into the blazing, fire-black dawn. Luca tastes the remnants of the glass in his sandpaper mouth then follows the fly to the window. The Contessa stands in the courtyard of the villa, laughing into the fire-fanned wind. She is still dressed for dinner, or high tea, but she wears black boots to her knees. A rifle slung over her shoulder. Smoke curls around the barrel of the rifle and Lucca is amazed he didn’t hear the shot. The Contessa wears a faded blue New York Yankees cap – the one Luca brought with him to Sicily all those years ago. He wore the cap all the time during those first months at the villa, the last link to a fading life. He smiles at the sight of it even though he knows she is wearing it for his benefit. The Contessa stiffens, cracks her neck, and raises the rifle. Luca does the same and steadies himself against the window frame. The Contessa knows she is being watched -- she pauses before she squeezes the trigger. She shoots into the heart of the sun, her laughter louder than the exploding bullet. She cocks the rifle and raises it again. In the distance, something moves. A rustling, a grunting in the thicket of tomato vines and wild fennel.
     The beast emerges, sooty furred and snarling. Its snout as black as its eyes. Its snout twitching and dirt covered. Luca reckons the boar is as high as his knees, which for some reason, buckle. The boar has no doubt fled the fires that now circle the far edges of the Contessa’s estate but thankfully burn towards the sea. A sudden shift of the wind could put them in peril, but Luca does not think of this as he regards the wild boar who regards the Contessa. The boar scratches the earth with wicked hooves and charges towards her, and she shoots the beast before Luca has a chance to cry out. The Contessa stands over the boar and pulls a hunting knife from the inside of her right boot. The blade catches a glint of sunlight before she finishes off the boar with a clean swipe to the neck. The Contessa dips a finger into the pool of blood gathering at her feet and smears it across her cheeks. A fitting end to an ancient ritual.
     Luca leaves the bedroom for the first time in a week. He stares at the Contessa, her face flushed with boar blood. He bends down and places his hand on the carcass of the great boar as if to make sure it is truly dead. He wonders how the Contessa’s blade would feel against his throat, the muzzle of the shotgun pressed to his temple. The Contessa banishes such dark thoughts as she strokes Luca’s head like she did when he was a boy. ‘Dinner is at seven. Wild boar ragu with red wine and juniper berries.’ She bends down and kisses him. He tastes the blood of the beast. ‘You should really see your mother.’
     Luca really should see his mother – that is why he has returned to the villa. That is why he stands in the blood-stained courtyard where he once played as a boy. He stands alone. The Contessa has dragged away the boar, leaving behind a trail of blood and viscera.

                                                                                          *

The meat is tender, melts in the mouth. The casarecce is firm. The Contessa rolled the pasta herself after she butchered the boar. They drink wine from the nether vineyards of the estate. The servants are long gone, the guests a memory of a time when Luca’s mother wasn’t wasting away in the unmentionable sick room.
     The villa was a world of wonder then, especially during the high season when guests came from all over the world. The tables heaved with food, trays of baked ziti, lasagne, spinach and ricotta pies the size of wagon wheels, deep bowls of olives and caponata. Guests drank from an endless river of wine. The great stone fireplace burned in the dining room no matter the weather. The Contessa and his mother recited poetry to the guests, the Contessa sang Billie Holiday when the wine kicked in, and his mother read tarot cards for the guests, divining their futures while she could not see her own.
     Now the fireplace is dead, an empty maw of cold stone. The Contessa and Luca sit at the corner of the long dining room table. Candlelight flickers between them. The great electric chandeliers hold dying light. The Contessa’s face is still fresh from the afternoon’s killing. Luca’s face is as hard as the cold stone of the dead fireplace. He forces a smile when the Contessa fills his glass. She wants him to stay at the villa and help bring it back to life. She doesn’t mention his mother during dinner, but she doesn’t have to. Luca feels his mother’s presence, in every slow bite of boar, every sip of wine. He feels the caress of her eyes from the great oil painting that once hung over the fireplace. The wedding portrait of the Contessa and his mother. They wore matching gowns of purple silk with Victorian lace, dripping with beads and silver. The Contessa’s hair flowed with the folds of the gown only to stop at her waist. The Contessa stood. His mother sat in a chair carved from oak, a tree felled by the Contessa’s grandfather, cushioned in black velvet. Legs crossed. Her hair was short, a bleached pixie cut, exposing elfin ears, her long white neck.
     ‘I moved it.’ The Contessa looks up from her ragu-stained plate. ‘It’s in the catacombs now.’
     ‘The catacombs?’ Luca can barely bring himself to say that very word, an imaginary shard of boar bone caught in this throat. His hand is cold as it clutches the stem of the wine goblet.
     ‘Are you a ghost?’ Luca does not look at the Contessa; his eyes are locked on the wall where the painting should be.
     ‘Of course, I’m a ghost… but I’m not dead yet.’

                                                                                          *

The catacombs, strange and wonderful, but a forbidden place to a young boy on his own. A necropolis in the bowels of the villa. It has taken them a month, maybe two, to settle into the villa. Luca has never seen his mother so happy and he doesn’t mind the creaking doors and unexplained bumps in the night that come with the villa. In New York, he was not allowed to stray, but on the Contessa’s family estate, he is given free rein.
     He wanders the vineyards and olive groves, gets lost in upland forest of cork and yew, an exhilarating experience. He tramps along old shepherd paths and climbs trees to get a better view of the shifting sea. He plays hide and seek with imaginary friends in the shadows and corners of the villa. He counts the stars and falls asleep to the nocturnal cries of unknown beasts. New York recedes until it exists as an old-fashioned newsreel in his mind, full of static and flickering monochrome images.
     Luca awakens to a home full of love. His mother is there every morning to pull back the curtains of the four-poster bed, dress the bedroom with sunlight. The Contessa brings him freshly squeezed orange juice on a silver tray. She takes him on woodland walks and tells him the name of flora and fauna. He shows her how to throw a baseball. One night after dinner, Luca gives the Contessa his beloved Yankees cap and tells her how much he loves her. His mother weeps with joy.
     The villa is now home, but the catacombs were off limits. Of course, his mother has been to the catacombs already, but the Contessa doesn’t think the time was right for Luca to visit the family crypt. But he so longs to go, to turn the illicit skeleton key and pass through the cavernous door at the back of the basement scullery, to take careful step after careful step down the damp stone stairs and enter a dark labyrinth full of forbidden mysteries. A child’s curiosity is a powerful thing, far mightier than fear, and the night comes when he could wait no more.
     It is a winter’s night; there are no guests at the villa. He leaves his mother and the Contessa in the main drawing room, aglow in front of the fire. Outside, snow blankets the hushed estate. Inside, a moment’s hesitation and he turns the skeleton key. Timid feet pad down the mossy stone steps as the closing door snuffs the light of the scullery. Luca grips the flashlight, its weak light cannot penetrate the blackout. He gropes the wall, finds a switch and the corridor is awash in gentle light. Great crystal pendants hang from a dark-beamed ceiling. He expected thick veils of spiderweb to block his way; he expected burning torches fastened to wet stone, but the deep corridor is white-washed and warm to the touch. He passes alcoves full of gleaming skull and bleached bone. There is the clean smell of sanitised death. He is not afraid, hours with his grandfather in Calvary taught him not to fear the dead, but he is wary, on guard against the unknown.
     At the end of the corridor, Luca steps through a stone archway. His heart beats like the wings of a thousand birds. Four giant braziers burn and throw monstrous shadows on the walls of black stone, on the dozens of alcoves carved into the stone, on the mummified corpses of the Contessa’s ancestors hanging in the alcoves behind glass. The room is circular, its walls tiered with alcoves and honeycombed with the dead. The mummies on the top tier of alcoves are little more than skeletons in tattered finery, clumps of preserved rotten flesh. The mummies on the bottom level come alive in the glow of the braziers. Eyelids flutter in perfectly embalmed faces. Luca feels their hollow eyes crawling over him like maggots and worms in a freshly dug grave. They wear clothes of ruffle and silk, suits, and gowns. Luca hears voices, the whispers of the dead. The whoosh of the blue flames of the braziers. He wants to scream but he knows no one will hear him. The birds in his chest are dying, his heart is still. He grips the flashlight like a sword before it falls to the cracked stone floor. He runs to the centre of the room and stands before a glass coffin, tears on his cheeks. The girl in the coffin stares at him through half-open eyes. He wipes his eyes; he doesn’t want this sleeping angel to see him weep. She is younger than he is, beyond beautiful. He sees the Contessa in the girl’s waxy face and backs away. A fire dies a sudden death in one of the braziers. Then another. Only his mother’s sweet embrace can save him now.
     Luca is eye level with one of the cracks of the floor. He does not remember curling up like a wounded puppy, but he whimpers like one. A single brazier burns. He closes his eyes before the light goes out. A frightened boy who will one day become a frightened man.

                                                                                          *

It is good to finally see his mother. Luca sits on a dusty velvet sofa. He wants to lie down and sleep forever. The Contessa is next to him, her arm draped over his shoulder. An unopened bottle of wine waits for them on a small table near a burning brazier. He feels the old flutter in his chest, perhaps the stirring of a new life.
     ‘I’m sorry I didn’t make it in time.’ At last, he speaks.
     ‘You’re here now. That’s what matters. We’ve missed you. You’ve been gone too long.’
     ‘I haven’t been well.’
     ‘You will be. You’re home.’
     ‘I never got to say goodbye.’
     ‘That’s why we’re here, my darling Luca.’
     His mother wears the same purple gown as the Contessa. She sits in the chair of carved oak in a vertical coffin of hermetically sealed glass. Behind her, the old portrait hangs on the other side of the great round crypt. It holds her youth but cannot compare to the real mother in the glass coffin. The little angel still sleeps in her own coffin next to Luca’s mother.
     ‘Do you know how much she loved you?’ The Contessa’s words echo like the long-ago whispers of the dead.
     ‘Yes, but I think she loved you more.’ Luca moves for the bottle of wine, but it is stubbornly out of reach.
     ‘Perhaps… but she had enough love for both of us.’
     Luca cradles the Contessa’s face and kisses her. He does not know how long she has left. The Contessa’s ancestors are silent, happily dead in their musty alcoves. He presses a hand against the coffin, expecting his mother to do the same on the other side of the glass. He does not say goodbye. The Contessa speaks but Luca does not hear her. He is lost in his mother’s unblinking emerald eyes, the pink flush of her embalmed skin.
     Mother is truly quite beautiful. And quite dead.