Sicilian Carousel (3 page)

The islands of the mid-channel are the earthquake ones, and they tend to be somewhat boisterous. Never accuse a Sicilian of being a Roman, nor a Cretan of
being from anywhere else. It was true; but somehow this kind of argument never led far enough. Deeds went on, as we started to swoop down on to the airstrip : “My troops were convinced for some weird reason that one's toenails grow faster in Sicily than anywhere else on earth. It was a strange thing to believe, but they did. They didn't believe in circumcision or the Ten Commandments. All their faith went into toe-nails and their rate of growth in Sicily. I had a toenail inspection once in my battalion just to test the matter out. There were a lot of misshapen toes and ingrowing nails and bunions, but nothing really definitive emerged except that I got ticked off by the general for not occupying myself more with the enemy.”

“Perhaps it was German propaganda?”

We were prevented from pursuing this congenial theme by the fastening of safety belts and the smooth run in. The small and chaotic airport of Catania was rather reassuring after the ruins of the Roman one. It was homely and provincial and it was clear that when any Sicilian arrived or departed from the island the entire family, down to the sixth degree of consanguinity, felt obliged to come and see him off or meet him coming in. It was just like Corfu where people would walk right across the island as a pure courtesy to shed a farewell tear with one. And here they all were eating ice cream and shrieking at each other in the strange Italian they affect which is somehow heavy and almost guttural. The airy-fairy lilt of the Roman line had
given place to something which reminded one faintly of the dialect of Trieste or the Ticino. But the air was fine; everything had a candid and fresh smell and feel. Landscape addicts can in the space of this first sniff—not at the actual odor but at the spiritual whiff—detect the fruitful and blessed spot instantly. Unfruitful places, however superficially beautiful, smell either dead or simply odorless and without character. Sicily smelled fine, though a purist might have said it was only the smell of floor polish which the cleaners were rubbing into the lounge floors.

But the struggle to claim our bags and disentangle ourselves from the airport authorities took a bit of time. I could see why; it was the arrival and departure complex of the Sicilian soul. Everyone had brought along six relations for the ride and each insisted on holding his suitcase. Consequently a tremendous snatch and grab scene ensued at every exit—people trying to out vie each other in family warmth. Even greybeards treated the whole thing as a rugger scrum, plunging in with arms flailing. The result was that we were expelled in and out of swing doors, hemmed in by the press, with the speed of toothpaste out of a tube. But it was good-natured shoving. And pretty soon we discovered our bags and slung them into a taxi as instructed by a man with a hat reading
Guide
.

The French Microscopes showed some reluctance joining us, clearly hating our general appearance. But here Deeds's compassion proved fruitful. He did what
I should have done. He addressed them in correct but rather wooden Britannic French. The result was astonishing; their faces bloomed like watered flowers. Their relaxation transformed them into rather a decent-looking couple with a nervous child who would make his way one day as a chartered accountant. It is funny how one can sometimes read situations like one reads a newspaper. We now saw written on their faces the fact that this was the first time they had ever left France for a foreign trip and that they were terrified because they knew no other language and could not communicate with the barbarous tribes through whose countries they would have to pass. The result was a panic almost equivalent to a stricture. Even their faces became constipated by mere fear. Now, in the knowledge that Deeds knew a few French nouns and verbs they were transformed and inundated him with friendly chat. I was delighted with my friend—as I dared to consider him—for he had neutralized their horror and transformed them into ordinary middle class people like ourselves. It was a step forward.

But Catania was hot and sultry that evening and it was the moment when the offices were emptying and everyone was rushing home to dinner. The suburbs looked cavernous and dirty and overgrown and our taxi made hardly better time than a rickshaw with a drunken driver. However, progress we did, and I spent my time gazing out at the strange box-like squares. Here and there we passed a pleasant airy square and breathed
a little bit of space. The one which contains the insignia of the town, in the form of a charming operatic elephant and a lava obelisk, had great charm; and we promised ourselves a longer prowl about it in the evening after dinner when we had met our fellow travelers.

Catania

O
UR FELLOW TRAVELERS!
Oh God, what was in store for us? But the hotel to which we repaired was all right in its gloomy way, and at least there was plenty of hot water. So we repaired the damage to our beauty and then held up the bar for a calamitously expensive Scotch, feeling that it might help us to overcome the horrors in store for us. But as time wore on, and the pangs of hunger began to twinge at us, we moved into the ghastly white light of the long dining room and took up an emplacement at one of the tables (the group held a strategic corner of the place to itself) marked
Carousellos Siciliano
. Indeed, wherever we went our reserved seats were thus marked. It was engaging enough, but on this first evening while we waited with impatience for our
fellow travelers to arrive (would it be rude to start?) it sounded ghoulish.

However, the Scotch was so expensive we simply couldn't keep on ordering it. We decided therefore to begin, and to hell with the rest of the Carousel. But in that glaring white light, with its bevy of indolent waiters, everything was indecision. We had taken up positions at the first reserved table and to steady our nerves Deeds tried to be facetious in a reassuring way, telling me that these marked tables had a tang of opera about them, and that he felt he would like to burst into song like a gondolier. But it was heavy stuff and he knew it. Well, boldly we started in on the dinner at last, a disappointing little offering of spaghetti or rice with gravy. It was honest enough fare I suppose, but it had clearly been blessed by British Railways. Moreover, the waiter who served us was suffering either from a terrible bereavement or a deep Sicilian Slight. He could hardly contain his sobs; his head hung low and waved about; his eye rolled. He mastered himself for serving, yes, but only just and when it came to wavering the cheese over the plate his repressed fury almost got the better of him and Deeds mildly took his wrist to help him scatter his Parmesan.

We were well embarked on this introduction to the joys of the island cuisine when there came the noise of a bus and voices of foreign tang—and we knew that our fellows of the Carousel had arrived. They stacked their baggage in the hall and then like ravenous wolves
made a beeline for the dining room where we sat, gazing bravely through our tears at them. “God! They do look ghastly,” admitted Deeds, and so they did. And so, I suppose, did we, for when they saw us sitting at a Carousel table their beseeching looks turned heavenward and their lips moved, no doubt in prayer, at the thought of being locked up in a bus with us for two weeks.… It was mutual, this first appraising glance. They straggled in in twos and threes until about fifteen to seventeen hungry people were seated around us being served by the sobster waiter and his colleagues. The white light poured down on us turning us all to the color of tallow. But Deeds had found a very pleasant dry white wine and this helped. In gingerly fashion we started passing the salt and pepper, picking up dropped napkins, and generally showing a leg.

Later of course our companions developed distinct identities but on that first evening in the dismal light it was impossible to distinguish accurately between the Anglican Bishop who had developed Doubts, the timid young archaeologist, the American dentist who had eloped with his most glamorous patient, the French couple of a vaguely diplomatic persuasion and all those others who hung about on the outskirts of our table like unrealized wraiths. Later their characters printed themselves more clearly. Tonight we gathered a few random impressions, that was all. The Bishop was testy and opinionated and had been airsick. He kept sticking his forefinger in his ears and shaking vigorously
to clear the canals, as he put it. His wife was both tired and somewhat cowed. We knew nothing then about his nervous breakdown in the pulpit. His name was Arthur. The dentist was shy and hung his head when spoken to in a strong British accent while his partner looked pleasantly saucy. I sympathized with him. The Bishop spoke English as if he had a hot potato in his mouth. The rest of the table was made up by the rather distinguished French couple who could not, I decided, be diplomatic for they spoke no English and were glad to lean on us as translators.

And then Roberto made his relaxed appearance, shaking hands all round and moving smilingly from table to table, slipping from one language to another with smooth skill and checking off our names on the tourist list. He combined charm and kindness; later we discovered that he was efficient as well. He knew Deeds quite well from a previous trip and their greeting was most cordial. My friend explained when he had left us that Don Roberto came of a noble but penniless family and had been a university lecturer in history; but the boredom of academic life with its endless intrigues had sent him in search of something more suitable to a lively nature. He had found it in becoming guide, philosopher, and friend to the travelers on the Carousel. His calm friendliness had an immediately reassuring effect; it acted as a catalyst.

We dug deeper into our charmless food and poured out more stoups of wine. It would have been a pity,
after spending so much money on the trip, not to enjoy it a little. The French diplomat had a head which came straight off a Roman coin—the benign features of one of the better emperors. His wife was fearfully pale and looked very ill; she was clearly convalescent after some obscure illness and looked all the time as if she were on the point of fainting. The concern of her husband was very evident. The dentist ate his food with a sort of soundtrack; he was clearly a great masticator, and probably a health food addict. The French Microscopes were far off; they had found another microscope to talk to.

“When I was young,” said Deeds, to nobody in particular, “there was a great Victorian moustache cup among the family heirlooms, out of which my father drank his Christmas punch. On this object the family had had engraved the motto DEEDS NOT WORDS which is perhaps why I am so dashed taciturn.”

Though it was relatively late when our dinner was concluded with a pungent
grappa
we were disinclined to turn in straight away. A few of our fellow travelers took refuge in the lounge where coffee was available and where there was light enough to write postcards, sort papers, count up currency. Roberto was talking to the pretty German girl about archaeology. There were two striking but severe-looking French ladies sending views of the town to their relations. They were very finely turned out and would obviously be destined to match up with the proconsular gentleman and his
distinguished but pale wife. We were to be a group speaking three languages—which offered no problems for Roberto. He smiled and waved to us as we passed through the swing doors into the warm and fragrant darkness outside. It was pleasant to stretch one's legs once more, and the hot night was full of flower scents. Quite soon, however, Deeds steered us into the little Bellini garden I had hoped to see before we left—for it was here that Martine in high summer had sat to write me a letter and mend the broken thong of a sandal.

It was a good letter, and I had brought it with me to Sicily in order to try and re-experience it here. It had come after a silence of nearly two years and after several long journeys. “We have been brought up to believe that facts are not dreams—and of course they are.” It was strange to think of her penning the words as she sat here among all this greenery. And there were other little touches of observation too, which proved that the writer in her had gone on maturing long after the ambition to write had become dispersed by her domestic concerns. A note about the curious volcanic stone which gave a feeling of weightlessness and insubstantiality, and altered the sound of heels upon it. Then, too, of the marvelous vulgarity of Bellini's “Puritani” as played in Sicily—its appropriateness to the place and mood. Smoking a cigarette, I pondered these matters beside a silent Deeds. The air was rich with the smell of invisible flowers. I wondered where people went when they died. Right back into the painting I suppose.

“Bedtime,” said Deeds, looking at his watch and I rose to follow him through the dark streets to the hotel. Here we elected to turn in right away for the call on the morrow was to be a relatively early one and I had to rearrange my affairs against a week of hard traveling. The words “hard traveling” were a joke when one thought of the luxury of the Carousel. Nevertheless.