The Great Sicilian Cat Rescue Page 5

  Turri charged me with this: ‘Romantics are always sad. You should forget about romanticism, get on with life!’ And then: ‘Are you going to have something to eat?’

  I ordered arrabbiata, angry pasta – it went with my mood.

  While I waited, I thought about what he’d said. I mused that, whatever foreign women believe, the Italians are practical, earthy people, aware that life is fleeting. I remembered my first Sicilian love Amadeo’s favourite saying: take life as it comes. And if you retort that life is difficult, always ready to rise up and smack you on the nose, they refuse to know about remorse or recriminations.

  If it’s OK, it’s OK, why think about tomorrow? No problem! And if you mention surely actions may have repercussions and responsibilities, how can one live in this fatalistic way, ‘Muh!’ they shrug.

  Turri came back, set the plate in front of me and refilled my glass. A group of people had appeared and they were sitting round a large table consuming large quantities of wine. Turri’s attention wandered; like mothers, restaurateurs, it seems, have a super sensibility to desires even before they are expressed.

  ‘So you’re here for good now?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Don’t you miss the cruise ships?’

  ‘I had a good life,’ he grinned. ‘Girl in every port, but home is home.’

  I thought of that song, ‘La Terra Amara’ (The Bitter Earth). Many Sicilian villages are abandoned because the young don’t want to work on the land anymore. They’ve left for the cities. And yet, as Turri confirmed, there is this pull to return.

  ‘What about your wife?’

  He shrugged.

  I remembered the dissatisfied woman who disliked anything that was not Irish. Marriage has made a cynic of Turri. Though they are often criticised, it is not always the fault of these men. There are foreign women who arrive in the town with only one idea in mind: to have a good time, to be wined and dined and to pay for it with their bodies. Many a young Taorminese in search of his inamorata has been met with: ‘Who are you? What are you doing here? It was just a holiday romance!’

  Turri’s marriage was over; he accepted it philosophically, almost passively. Meanwhile, the day was to be enjoyed. Follow your instincts, feelings may develop or not…

  There was something in me that still didn’t want to hear this. I, with my romantic temperament bred out of misty castles and ghostly visitations, could not accept this very present view. On the other hand, they were probably right. That way you cannot be disenchanted because you never had any romantic illusions in the first place. Perhaps it is in their genes, a part of their past; their passive waiting for yet another culture to dominate them, an innate self-preservation.

  Take life as it comes… I wish I could.

  NINE

  Goodbye Lizzie

  I finally called Giulio and asked him to come and give Lizzie a check-up. Her leg was now well in place and we agreed it was time for her to return to her colony in Castelmola. The problem was how to get her into a carrying basket; she had no notion that we were trying to help her and retreated to her usual hiding place under the bed. We were forced to poke her out with a stick. At this she went wild, dashing from cover to cover and finally throwing herself against the open window, almost breaking the mosquito netting. At any moment she would be through and there was nothing to stop her falling many feet onto the garden below. Fortunately, Giulio clad in those strong gauntlets managed to grab her and unceremoniously stuff her into the basket.

  As the car wound up the now familiar steep roads to the little village, I gazed out of the car window with a sense of nostalgia. I looked back to that day Andrew and I had discovered Lizzie and the weeks that followed, sharing her recovery. I’d become attached to my little waif and now I had to let go. My stay in Taormina was almost at an end; once I had deposited this small cat, only a few days remained before I returned to England. I felt altered by the experience, already beginning to view Sicily with a different eye.

  We found her street without difficulty this time and, setting the basket on the place where Andrew and I first saw her, opened the door and stepped back. Lizzie shot out, hesitated for a moment and then dashed away.

  ‘Not even a thank you,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t need one,’ Giulio remarked. ‘Look what you’ve done for her. Shall we go?’

  But I felt I couldn’t leave it at that: I told him I would stay there in Castelmola for a while and return by bus. We shook hands.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He gave me his amused smile. ‘It was a pleasure, Jenny. Call me the next time you are in Taormina.’

  I watched him go, swinging the basket. There was no sign of Lizzie. Giulio was right: I’d completed my mission and she was back where she belonged. Maybe I’d go back to Taormina and have a few hours on the beach. Behind me, a door opened and a slender woman wearing a flowery pinafore stood there. She spoke to me in Italian.

  ‘So it was you who took that poor cat to the vet? She is part of the colony I feed. I looked for her and wondered where she had gone.’ She held out her hand. ‘I am Antonella. Please come in, I would like to offer you coffee.’

  Another cat lady! I followed her up a flight of stairs and into the salotta. The room was not large but was full of dark and heavy antique furniture. There was a big sideboard crowded with photographs, some of the family and many more of Jesus and Mary. A red velour cloth covered the long table, surrounded by a lot of chairs.

  The room had a sense of an old-fashioned parlour, rarely used. Antonella brought small cups of black coffee and a plate of almond biscuits. I sensed a melancholy about her and her smile did not quite reach her eyes.

  ‘I don’t often sit in here, only when the family visits.’

  As I wondered how seldom that might be, I made a pretence of sipping the coffee, wickedly black and strong. Yuck! Sicilians have a lethal relationship with caffeine. Not just a beverage, it is more like a constant companion. They find a way to enjoy a coffee on many occasions throughout the day. It might be meeting a friend for coffee, having a coffee for breakfast, one during a break at work, after lunch or after dinner. ‘Vuole un caffe?’ – it is seen as rude not to accept the offer. There is a short story about a man who did the rounds of his Sicilian relatives and politely accepted their offer of coffee. He ended up drinking ten dark espressos and nearly had a caffeine-induced heart attack!

  After a while we moved into the kitchen, hung with bunches of oregano picked from the country. It is fashionable in Britain to forage, though we used to just call it ‘picking’, but the Sicilians have been doing it for a long, long time. Nature offers a bounty free for the taking. In summer and autumn they pick thyme and mint, stock up on fennel seeds. From November to April, it’s the season of foraging for wild greens: borage, bitter chicory, mustard tops, feathery fennel, wild asparagus and prickly nettles. Most of these greens are eaten simply steamed and dressed with olive oil. They’re also used in salads and the pasta dish bucatini with wild greens and ricotta cheese.

  Antonella wanted to show me how she prepared peppers, aubergines and pepperoncini in oil. Often served as part of an antipasto, they are not one of my favourites. But I sampled what she put on a plate and told her it was very good. I suspected that Antonella was one of those housewives who make their own pasta sauce using fresh local tomatoes. It would simmer for hours and probably be served at midday. Lunch is traditionally the most important meal in Sicily. Most shops close for the pausa pranzo, the lunch break between 13.00 and 16.00 hours. Typically, it consists of a first course (pasta, rice or similar), a second course (meat, fish or vegetables) and fruit.

  Suddenly, all this talk of food took a different turn. Antonella’s longing to confide was almost tangible.

  ‘I have suffered a lot and sometimes I feel my only reason for being alive is the cats. They rely on me, you see. My husband was an alcoholic but he was told he shouldn’t touch another drop.’ She shrugged. ‘I think when he goes out
he does drink. And he smokes. How I hate the smell of smoke! I make him stand on the balcony.’

  I gazed round the immaculate kitchen with everything in its place. But there was no soul about it and this woman seemed very lonely.

  ‘We all used to live in this house,’ she continued, ‘the children, my mother. When Mamma died and I was out, my husband threw away all the photographs of her. He destroyed some of her furniture, too.’

  I sat in silence and listened as all this came pouring out. It was as if she had never had anyone to tell before. Her eyes shone, as she stared around the kitchen. She seemed like a caged animal yearning to be free and to live. At last she was silent.

  ‘Tell me about the cats,’ I prompted.

  ‘Ah, the cats!’ she smiled. ‘They are my babies. When I go out into the street with food they all come running. The grey cat is your cat’s mother and the other black and white one, her sister. I have fed them since they were kittens. Poor beasts, so many people here dislike them and wish them harm. But what have they done? All they want is a bit of affection and enough food to eat.’

  She paused and eyed me curiously. ‘You paid the vet to treat that cat?’

  I nodded.

  ‘It must have cost a lot of money.’

  I named the sum.

  She shook her head. ‘That was very good of you.’

  ‘I can’t bear to see anything suffering,’ I replied. ‘Someone had to help her.’

  Antonella’s gaze went to the crucifix hanging on the wall. ‘I too cannot bear suffering,’ she said.

  A few days before I left for England I went back to Castelmola. I took the path that I now knew so well and there was Lizzie coming towards me. I opened a tin of Whiskas and she began to eat it. Then her mother, the pretty grey cat, arrived and tucked in. As I stroked Lizzie and took some photographs, I felt so happy. My little one could now lie and enjoy the sunshine. Her leg might never be the same again, but she was home with her mother and sister. I felt so glad I had restored her. Giulio had been right: she was returned to her world but there was a part of her that I liked to think remembered me, affectionate in her own way. All I could do now was pray she would be safe.

  A woman approached with a rather strange-looking dog on a lead. The tips of its ears were missing and its coat was bald in places. She caught my gaze and shrugged. ‘This dog could have been a signor,’ she said, ‘but he was badly treated when he was younger and so he is what he is.’

  I told her about Lizzie and she said she believed that people who do not like animals like nothing in this world. She moved on. Then I caught sight of the young man who had helped me to find Giulio that afternoon.

  He smiled broadly. ‘I thought I heard you return that night to look for her, I saw the light of your torch. I am happy she is well.’

  The sun shone down onto that little road and I stayed with Lizzie another half-hour. Those weeks in the apartment had somewhat tamed her and, now she was returned to her small domain, she allowed me to stroke her. I made to leave but came back again – I didn’t want to go. In the end it was she who got up and strolled away down those steps, oblivious to the pain of my parting from her.

  ‘Goodbye, Lizzie,’ I said. ‘Take care of yourself.’

  There were tears in my eyes as I walked away.

  TEN

  We Love Them; But Do Cats Love Us?

  A few months later I was back in Taormina. During the summer, I had sent several postcards to Antonella asking after Lizzie but had received no reply. I took it to mean that there was nothing to report. My little cat had resumed her feral existence.

  Sicily had got into my blood again and, though I had a series of commissioned articles to work on throughout those months of 2002, I was restless. It was a fair English summer but I longed for the intensity of that Sicilian sun, the vivid blue sky. I contacted my landlady, Elke, and towards the end of September 2002, I returned to her apartment. It was as welcoming as ever, but as I walked up the slope towards Taormina centre, I began to wonder if it was a mistake to have come back so soon.

  The sky was overcast, the atmosphere oppressive; not a leaf stirred: Sirocco, the bane of Sicily’s climate; that dry dust-laden wind, which blows from the Sahara. Although this was a dull day of cloud and mist, Sirocco can arise out of a clear sky and at any time of the year. It brings excessive humidity and an intolerable pressure of air that frays the nerves, sharpens the temper and, as many people claim, it affects their health. For some, and I am among them, it brings on a crushing sense of depression, making life seem hopeless, work meaningless, past and present a hideous mistake and the future ridiculous.

  ‘There is no need to call a friend to make an appointment,’ the Taorminese say, ‘you just have to take a stroll along Corso Umberto and, at some point or other, you are bound to bump into them.’

  Today that was precisely what I didn’t want to do – I needed a little time alone to ease myself back into the exuberant Sicilian life. So I turned away and took the downward winding road that led to the Public Gardens. I wandered along the paths, identifying some of the flowers: there were French marigolds, amaryllis, those fountains of little red bellflowers that must have continued throughout the summer. There were still some roses and also Michaelmas daisies, a glorious cluster of them. Huge banana plants reared against the clear sky of a still-baking hot summer. They reminded me that this is a semi-tropical climate.

  As I reached the end of the gardens I came across something I hadn’t noticed before: it was Florence Trevelyan’s dog cemetery. Two poignant inscriptions summed up the often incomprehensible, for Sicilians, British love of dogs.

  Dear Fanny. Faithful Friend and Companion. Poisoned June 27 1899 aged 15 years.

  Jumbo Perceval (Terrier) True Honourable Loving Little Friend and Helper.

  September 3 1887 – Murdered July 24th 1904. Never Forgotten.

  I turned back towards the entrance and saw an amazing sight: a cat had jumped up into the fountain and was sitting there, her tiny mouth wide open, catching the falling water. Tourists were gathered round and some took photographs. She continued drinking and drinking but when she had finished I think she felt a bit odd – perhaps she had taken in too much air.

  ‘Sera,’ a voice called and I turned to see that Maria had arrived.

  She was weighed down with laden bags and I could see her legs were still troubling her. The cats had been waiting for her and milled around, their tails held upright, the ends slightly curved over. It is a signal of friendliness, I’ve learned. Kittens use this to greet their mother and adult cats continue to treat their favourite humans like a trustworthy mum, their tails held high. Cats who sense no hostility will greet each other with upright tails. A relaxed cat’s tail curves down and back up in a gentle ‘U’. The more interest she feels, the higher the tail. No doubt the interest here was Maria’s supply of food.

  It was clear that she loved cats in the way one loves little children.

  ‘Micio, micio,’ she murmured, as she filled their bowls.

  But do cats love us? Or is this kind of show of affection cupboard love? True, they don’t respond with the tail-thumping greeting of a dog when his owner returns. Research has shown canines experience positive emotions, like love and attachment, meaning that dogs have a level of sentience comparable to that of a human child. Cats are less demonstrative and some people dub them aloof. But surely it follows that, if a cat behaves in the same way towards certain human beings as she does towards other cats, then undoubtedly she is showing she is fond of her owner. Domesticated cats take this much further; they use kneading behaviour, the front paws treading on soft surfaces, a hark back to kittenhood. Kitten paws knead against the mother cat’s breasts to induce milk to be released. Adult cats continue this behaviour when they’re feeling most relaxed and content.

  My cat, Sheba, has a habit of arriving on my pillow and kneading into my bare shoulder, purring loudly in my ear. When a cat throws herself on the ground at your feet and rolls around
, she is asking for attention. Presenting her stomach in this way puts a cat in a vulnerable position so cats generally reserve the rolling around for people they trust and maybe love. The thing I love best about Sheba is her sometimes slow ‘eye blink’ from across the room; I have been honoured with a cat kiss.

  The feral cats surrounding Maria while I mused on this were simply intent on having as much as they could of the pasta and fish mixture she was dispensing. They were silent. In contrast, domestic cats can be very talkative. Over time, Sheba has developed a number of meows to suit different occasions. They range from the little chirrup that greets me if I wake her when coming into a room to a plaintive high-pitched meow on her arrival in the house and not seeing anyone about. Then there is the quite desperate meow when she sees a packet of her food being opened. And of course there are the purrs. While these are sometimes a signal of comfort and contentment, research has shown that purring is an attempt to get something done. I remember my other cat Fluffy’s loud and disconcerting purr, which I initially failed to recognise as a cry for help. New to the world of felines, I was unaware that they will purr when stressed or in distress or pain and are simply trying to attract attention.

  The cats that Maria fed had no need of these niceties except perhaps for Lily, who had now settled herself on the elderly woman’s lap while the others, having washed themselves, disappeared back into the garden.

  I went to sit by her.

  ‘How are things?’ I asked.

  She made the ‘muh!’ shrug. ‘Always the same, my neighbours are up to their usual tricks. As for these cats, they have done well enough during the summer. So many tourists feed them, but winter is coming. There will be rain and maybe those little ones won’t survive.’

  As I gazed at her large, work-worn hands passing over Lily’s fur I sensed again the essential goodness in Maria and her love of these trovatelle, abandoned creatures; a devotion that marginalised her from the society she lived in.