The ethereal power pursues souls to the sea, the sea spits them up onto the threshold of the earth, the earth into the light of the bright sun and the sun hurls them into the whirling ether.

– Empedocles of Akragas (5th Century BCE)



The first thing that you noticed about Claudia was that she was beautiful. Hers was a refined, sophisticated beauty and at its heart lay, an innate earthiness and a rugged independence that surely came from her Sicilian ancestry. Her dark brown eyes and long, flowing black hair shone in the clear morning light. A smile played upon her full lips, lips that were tinted deep red, almost verging on black; like a sweet, ripe mulberry. She turned as the short, balding man before her wiped his forehead with a handkerchief then looked back at the wonderful summer scene before her. It was a bountiful, verdant scene as only the Mediterranean could paint it.

“It’s just so beautiful here, and all this is mine? I can’t believe it.”

“Yes, seniorina, as I said before, your grandmother left this house and all its land to you. You were her only living relative I believe.”

Claudia looked deeply into the man’s eyes. She was not mistrustful by nature but recent events had made her doubt that one person could have so much luck so quickly and so unexpectedly without some catch.

“I will bring the paperwork here tomorrow. You just have to sign a few documents. The deeds to the house will be amongst your nona’s papers but now I will leave you to get settled in. You have my mobile number. Please call my office if you need anything. My secretary Angelina is always there.”

He smiled officiously and wiped his glistening forehead again; replacing a battered panama hat and bowing before her reverentially; as though she was visiting royalty.

“Thank you Signor Agostinelli, grazi mille.”

She waved as Agostinelli got into his old green Fiat and drove slowly back up the gravel driveway to disappear between the tall stone pillars of the gate. When he was gone she turned to look behind her at the house; the house that was now hers.

It was an elegant; white, two storey, stone building dating, so Agostinelli had informed her, to the 1880s. In its architecture could be seen subtle Moorish, Venetian, Medieval and Classical influences which blended to create a visually pleasing and exotic whole. The house was perched upon a rocky cliff before a small bay that enclosed water of a jewel-like clarity. The cliff was not precipitously high but lofty enough to afford a magnificent view and allow a stone stairway to be cut leading down to a tiny pebbled beach. As Claudia stood before the very edge of the cliff later that day; she felt as though she could hold the entire bay in the palm of her hand like a precious keepsake; as indeed it was. If the bay had a name, it was unknown to her but a mere five kilometers north-; west along the coast lay the city of Agrigento or Girgenti; as it was still pronounced in the local Sicilian dialect, despite official efforts since the time of Mussolini to Italianize the name. Agrigento; the ancient Greek Akragas, was far older than Il Duce, far older indeed than Rome. She had heard of its decadent charm, its nightlife and its wealth of archaeological wonders. But all these would have to wait; the house of Claudia’s grandmother Eleanora was of itself, an entire world awaiting discovery.

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It is true of all new dwellings that they seem cold and strange until eventually; one becomes accustomed to them and to the particular personality that they exude. Thus it was that for several days, Claudia felt like an intruder in her new home. The house was still full of her grandmother’s possessions. These were few admittedly but each seemed an integral part of the person who had been Eleanora Incarnata. Apart from the furniture and several paintings there was an extensive collection of African tribal masks and figures. Some of these Claudia found striking and beautiful and they appealed to her love of the exotic and the strange; others she found a little too alien and disturbing. These she carefully packed away, intending to store them in the cellar.
Most of her grandmother’s private papers were in Italian and seemed of little consequence, but upon finding the deeds to the house she discovered that it had a name; Tintamare

“Ah, Sea Colours…”

She pronounced it aloud several times then in a flourish of spontaneous theatricality declared,

“Io sono la padrona di Tintamare!” – I am the mistress of Tintamare.

She laughed; her pronunciation was still woeful and had quickly elicited stares when she had gone shopping in Agrigento. She tried several phrases aloud;

“Io sono la padrona di casa.”

“Io sono una donna del tempo libero. – I am a lady of leisure.

“Goodness that sounds so smug.”

“Io sono un brunette.”

“Io sono una gentildonna.”

Then, as though it was an amplified echo of her own voice, in her mind she heard the phrase;

“Vi sono una bella donna.” – You are a beautiful woman.

Startled, she spun around instinctively but of course, she was alone, without even the sea breeze for company. The house was silent and even the raucous cicadas seemed to be dosing for once in the languorous heat of noon. She reproached herself for being jumpy.

“Time for lunch.”


In the weeks that followed she thoroughly explored the house; attempting to experience it’s every mood and nuance, sometimes staying up till dawn to catch the play of light as the sun rose over the bay and entered through the tall upper storey windows. The sun’s rays lit the rooms well and filled them with an exultant joy that she had seldom felt in other houses. At night she listened to the house’s nocturnal sounds and drank in its deep brooding shadows. Several features of the house particularly delighted her; it had beautiful mosaic floors throughout, made of intricately inlaid marble in many hues. To Claudia’s way of thinking these reflected the vibrant colours of the Mediterranean and each room was an island in that timeless sea. There were several bedrooms and a spacious, well equipped rustic kitchen. Dotted around the entire house, along with the African art, were pieces of Eleanora’s collection of Bitossi ceramics. Stylish designs, hand made with intense colours, these artifacts from the 1970s instantly won for themselves a place in Claudia’s esteem.

At the top of the spiral stair, a long corridor led to the master bedroom then to a semi-circular space which Claudia estimated took up half of the top storey. Here was her grandmother’s conservatory; her music room. She imagined her grandmother entertaining a few select friends here in former days but she also felt that maybe her music might have been a form of private relaxation.

On one, otherwise blank, wall hung a square canvas in a heavy ornate frame. It was a beautiful painting of her grandmother by an unknown hand. Her own likeness to Eleanora was remarkable and had always been commented upon by her family but here there seemed to be a deep sadness in the eyes of the paining that Claudia could not fathom. The strangest thing about the painting though was that it was not signed. How odd, she thought, that after having taken such care to produce a perfect likeness of Eleanora as she had been in her youth, the artist should then omit to sign his work. It was as though the portrait was a trifle, a token of affection and of no real or lasting consequence. On the first night in the house she had taken the painting down with considerable difficulty and looked on the back of it for any sign of a signature, monogram or device, but there was nothing. On the frame, a panel of gilt wood had been inserted and upon it where inscribed the enigmatic lines;

This is her picture as she was:
It seems a thing to wonder on,
As though mine image in the glass
Should tarry when myself am gone.

Below the lines was the name Rossetti. Dante Gabriel Rossetti; a well known painter and poet of the English Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, but what was their significance to this picture? This was yet another of the questions for which she felt a growing need to find an answer.

In an alcove along one wall at the other side of the room were shelves crammed with sheet music. This was mostly printed and bound but some of it was in manuscript and seemingly of considerable age. When Agostinelli had first taken her on a tour of the house, Claudia had made a mental note to sort the music and bring order to it. One of the few things she knew about Eleanora was that music was important to her, and while Claudia was not at all musically skilled herself, she did love music and admired those who could perform it.