They laugh at his fishy tale and Shôn, catching his eye, teases, ‘And just how bad does a boy have to be to be charmed away by the fishboys?’

‘Bad enough that… lui è desiderabile,’ he says with an inscrutable smile and carries the plates away.

‘He’s quite a story teller,’ Geraint says as the curtain of beads clacks. ‘Bad enough that you’re desirable indeed!’

‘He is pretty desirable,’ Shôn quips.

‘Yes… and did you see how he hid the ring on his index finger in his hand when you asked about the carving?’

‘I wonder,’ Shôn muses. ‘When he leaned over to pick up the plates his hair fell forward. He’s got a strange mark behind his ear, all feathery and reddish-purple… just like a fish’s gill.’

They eat ice-creams on the piazza that fronts the harbour and then cross into the purple shade and take a narrow street made even narrower by stranded fishing boats, hauled from the sea for repair or a coat of paint. Geraint gawps at the large, ugly fish being laid on the marble slabs outside the pescheria by the fishmonger, fresh from his siesta. Shôn gawps at the fishmonger’s apprentice, a tall, awkward youth with a cheeky smile. As the boy stands before the open refrigerated display counter arranging rose-coloured fish with golden streaks around a hand-written sign that reads Triglia, Shôn thinks that in a year or two, when he’s filled out a bit, he won’t be unattractive. The boy’s hands are bloodstained and scaly and a silver ring glints on the middle phalanx of his right index finger… and when he turns, Shôn makes out the curious purple mark behind his ear. So the boy’s potential has already been realised. Further up the street the cobbles are drenched in an arc of sunlight. Enjoying the warmth of the sun they peer into the grotta del Diavolo. Shôn wonders if the fishmonger’s apprentice and the waiter put up much resistance when the fishboys of Vernazza lured them into the devil’s cavern.

After a long shower, Shôn sneaks into bed beside Geraint, rousing him from his nap. They cuddle for a while and watch the sun set in a haemorrhaging sky and then they make love, their crazed delight inspired by their holiday mood, the gorgeous waiter and his fable. As their sex gives way to slumber, Shôn supposes that life with Geraint might be worth a try. Watching the last smears of blood fade into the gunmetal sky, Geraint decides it’s time to get off the emotional roller coaster of the half-life he half shares with Shôn.

Later, at the Bar Gioia, Giacomo pours three stout goblets of sciacchetrà. The silver ring on the middle phalanx of his right index finger catches the light as he tilts the bottle. They raise their glasses, and swirling the richly amber, slightly viscous wine, they toast: ‘Salute!’ Geraint’s senses fill with curiosity and cocoa, apricot and Mediterranean herbs. Shôn is aroused by his lusty thoughts for Giaco.