Page 13 of Someone in the Water
I jerk my legs underwater, keeping myself afloat, but also kicking out in frustration. I have no idea if Dom uses this annoying practical-joker act with everyone, or if he’s got something specifically against me. ‘Well, I need to get changed,’ I shout up. ‘Which puts you on boatandkit duty, so it looks like your little joke backfired.’
I throw Dom a dirty look and feel a wave of satisfaction as his face slips towards remorse. Then I flip onto my belly and start swimming on a diagonal towards the shore, the sound of his laughter-laced apologies fading into the distance. When I get to the beach, I peel off my shorts and T-shirt, revealing my third item of uniform, a royal blue swimming costume with the hotel insignia – a spiky white flower – printed on the chest. It’s past seven o’clock, so the beach is quiet, but as I wring out the sopping clothes, I sense someone behind me. I whip around, half expecting it to be Dom with another apology, but it’s Salvo.
‘Oh hi.’ When Salvo offered me this job, I assumed that he’d be involved in managing me to some extent, but I’ve barely seen him since I arrived, and he now feels like a stranger. He goes out in his fishing boat most evenings, so I often get a fleeting view of him walking through the sea at dusk, but we haven’t had a proper conversation. And the longer it goes on, the more awkward it feels. ‘Sorry for looking like a drowned rat,’ I continue, remembering a bit late that he is still – officially – my boss. ‘Dom thought it would be hilarious to throw me off the boat.’
Salvo clicks his tongue. ‘Young men. Always stupid. Especially young British men,’ he adds with feeling.
I think about Izzy’s description of Salvo as a gnarly old Corsican who hates everyone. ‘Are you going to tell me I should find myself a good Corsican boy instead?’ I ask, my tone light. I expect Salvo to smile, but his face grows serious.
‘No, I wouldn’t advise that either.’
‘Oh, be careful,’ I warn, making sure to keep the tease in my voice. ‘Remember that’s exactly what my mum did.’
‘Pascal was different. He was a good man.’
‘Different from who?’
Salvo looks out to sea, his expression hard to read. ‘Corsica is a small, unforgiving island,’ he starts. ‘Always has been. For many generations, no one wanted to come here. Then people did, but only to invade us, to claim the island for themselves, just like the French are doing now. Corsicans learned to survive together, and then to fight together.’
There’s an evening breeze, and my body shivers as it passes over my damp skin. ‘Those sound like strong characteristics to me,’ I murmur, wondering where this melancholy is heading.
‘Oh yes, we’re a strong nation,’ Salvo says, nodding. ‘But Corsicans can also be ruthless. In how we think as well as how we act. Sometimes we do things we know are wrong but that feel beyond our control in the moment. As though vengeance, violence are part of our destiny, as Corsicans.’ He turns to look at me, and finally smiles, as though he’s been brought back from the past to the present. ‘Sorry, I’m scaring you. We can be nice too, I promise.’
I try to smile back, but it’s hard. All this talk of vengeance and violence doesn’t match my experience of Corsica so far with its sandy beaches, glistening blue sea and cocktail-glugging tourists. But I do know that Corsica has a dark side. ‘Dad told me some stories about the Corsican mafia,’ I say. ‘How powerful they are. Is that what you mean?’
‘Mafia?’ Salvo’s tone has changed again. Now he sounds guarded. ‘Thankfully, your dad’s memories are out of date. The mafia used to run the island, for sure, but they’re part of our past now.’
‘Oh, sorry, my mistake.’ I pretend to look grateful for the correction, but in truth, I’m confused. From what my mum told me about Corsica before I left, I’m pretty sure the mafia still operate here, and I wonder why Salvo, the man who is happy to condemn his fellow countrymen, feels the need to gloss over the truth.
Frankie
13th June
I walk inside the accommodation block still thinking about my conversation with Salvo. His talk of vengeance and violence has unsettled me, and it doesn’t help that I’m still only wearing my damp swimming costume.
But those thoughts melt away when I push open my bedroom door because Izzy is dancing around the small space between our beds, with a fifty-euro note between her teeth.
‘What the hell?’
Izzy whips the note out and thrusts it at me. ‘Where have you been?’ she demands. ‘I’ve been waiting ages.’
‘For what? And what’s with the cash?’
‘I’m going to take you out for dinner, and I’m starving, so come on.’ Then she pauses, narrows her eyes. ‘Why are you carrying wet clothes?’
‘One of Dom’s practical jokes,’ I explain grimly. ‘But more importantly, why are you taking me to dinner?’
Izzy flicks the note. ‘Got a nice tip, and before you ask, no, I didn’t sleep with the kid’s dad. But if you’re not ready to go in ten minutes, I might have to find someone else to impress with pizza and house rosé.’
‘Okay, okay!’ Izzy’s energy proves to be infectious as I race down to the shower block, wash the salt out of my hair in record time – silently thanking my grieving self for the dramatic hair chop – and throw on a white cotton dress that contrasts nicely with my deepening tan.
Exactly nine and a half minutes after Izzy laid down her challenge, I’m ready. But we pause when we bump into Jack and Archie in the doorway of the accommodation block on our way out.
‘Oooh, you look nice,’ Archie says. ‘Going anywhere special?’
‘An intimate dinner for two,’ Izzy offers, looking at Archie first, then Jack. ‘On me.’
‘Izzy had a bit of a windfall.’
