The Great Sicilian Cat Rescue Read online

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I said.

  She gave me her lovely smile. ‘Pazienza.’

  ELEVEN

  I Glimpse the Dark Side of Sicily

  Those small things restored me and I felt ready to face Taormina. In the evening I went in search of some Sicilian music, climbing the steps off the Corso that led to the Grotta di Ulisse. Someone grabbed my hand and I was whizzed right across the restaurant and unceremoniously plonked down at the table of an American couple who didn’t seem to mind this intruder at all.

  So we relaxed and talked. And my companions of this evening told me they had been all over Sicily to visit once again the Greek temples at Agrigento, the mosaics at Piazza Armerina. They had been to the island’s ‘navel’ Enna, marvelling they had forgotten how splendid are those billowing hills of golden durum wheat, spent a day on the beach at Acireale, gazing at the rock, which in Greek mythology was hurled by the one-eyed giant into the sea.

  ‘But the very best day,’ commented Anna-Maria, ‘was when we went back to “our” village. We drove into the country and watched my uncle’s shepherd make the ricotta cheese and drank wine from his vineyard. For me, that is the real Sicily.’

  ‘Does it make you want to come back here?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe, one day, when we are old.’

  In the meantime, there was America the wonderful, the bounteous to seduce them. They owned a hardware store, they told me, had loads of friends. The problem with coming back to Sicily, they added, was an ongoing family squabble over a piece of land.

  ‘We need our space.’

  Gaetano reached for his wallet and handed me his card. ‘If ever you find yourself in Brooklyn, look us up.’

  We joined in the general clapping to the music and I felt a wave of joy on hearing it again. The musicians might be playing for the tourists. They might, as one of the group told me, travel into Taormina from the surrounding villages because they needed to earn money to feed their families. One of them butted in to add that he had five children, think of how many mouths to feed. But there is something about the Sicilian when he plays and sings that is true to his nature. Reaping the corn, fishing by the light of sun or moon, riding a mule along the mountain path, his songs express emotions tinged with nostalgia and history. They come from the soul. There is ‘La Terra Amara’ (The Bitter Earth), the earth that has sent him all over the world to escape the tyranny of earning his crust in agriculture; the resentful earth of Sicily demanding back-breaking work under a scorching sun, unyielding of water as a revenge for its deforestation. It is hard to believe that the rivers, especially the Simeto, Salso and Belice, were once navigable. Now they are silted up, or dry riverbeds, which are often used as rubbish dumps.

  There came the mournful tremble of the mandolin, but not all these songs are melancholic. One of the best loved has the singer imitating the braying of a donkey. It might be corny, it might be calculated, but I’m an easy target. ‘La Terra Amara’, which nevertheless draws back so many Sicilians to their land, to this bitter earth.

  The boom of the terracotta jar, the quartara, as the player twirled it in his hands and blew into it and the fischietto, a simple, three-stopped cane pipe, which in the right hands can produce a virtuoso of sound.

  When I first heard this music, years ago, I found it all ‘so romantic’. There were candles on the tables and painted jugs full of scarlet wine. Romantic! I could imagine that couple at the opposite table saying it in German, Dutch, Swedish: ‘So romantic’. And that is what my wise Sicilian friends trade on. They have a commodity: La Sicilia! Blue seas and skies, wine and an excellent cuisine, why not sell it for the best price you can get?

  Tonight it amused me to watch the German tourists pay an inflated price for local wine, clapping their hands and shouting ‘Wunderbar!’

  ‘Jenny?’

  I glanced up and saw the owner, Filippo, had come to our table.

  ‘There is something I have to tell you…’

  His expression was grave. ‘The cat, the one in Castelmola you took to the vet…’

  His voice was almost drowned out by a loud burst of applause and I tried to concentrate.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘She and many others were poisoned.’

  I had a vision of the last time I had seen Lizzie, lying so contently, blinking in the sunlight. I brought my hands to my face. ‘No!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Stricken, I was gazing at Filippo, trying to take in his words.

  ‘Don’t be sad,’ he told me.

  Don’t be sad! When I felt the earth had shifted beneath me and I was falling into a black hole.

  The music continued, people shouted and sang; they clapped their hands to its rhythms. I stayed on, there was nowhere else to go and I didn’t want to be alone in the apartment. Then I remembered what Antonella had told me about the people in Castelmola who disliked cats. It must have been one of those who rolled poison into balls of meat and threw them down for the unsuspecting creatures to eat. I felt such a rage against them and the terrible act they had committed. Anger like this is fertile ground for notions of revenge but, as the night wore on and my fury turned to grief, I made up my mind I wouldn’t leave it there. Somehow I would help these cats.

  TWELVE

  Elke, Cat ‘Mother’ to a Myriad Felines

  I had never realised that my landlady Elke was a gattara supreme until the day she invited me to visit her house. It was a few days after I’d received the devastating news of Lizzie, and I welcomed this diversion from my thoughts. She called me when, as usual, I was sitting with my coffee at the picture window.

  ‘Come up and see my home.’

  I knew that the property gazed out over the Ionian Sea, perched on the top of Capo Sant’Andrea, but I had never been able to discern exactly where or how you reached it.

  ‘There’s a little road that leads up on the left side of Isola Bella beach,’ she told me. ‘If you wait there, I’ll come and fetch you.’

  The tall gate swung open as if onto a magical domain where few people were admitted. Then came the slow drive along a rough road winding upward and flanked by rocky outcrops and the towering prickly pear. As we turned into the final stretch, Elke slowed the car to a crawl and I saw the reason why: several cats, which had been sunning themselves, scurried away. She led the way up a leafy-lined path into the garden: the lush beauty of a Mediterranean garden where pots spilled brilliant flowers and there was a straggle of ferns, roses, bougainvillea and that strange bird-like plant, the strelitzia. But most beautiful of all were the cats, so many of them: lurking in the shadows, skulking among plants, having a playful fight in a pool of sunlight. The garden was a cats’ paradise. Tiny kittens regarded me with huge eyes, other cats pressed themselves against Elke’s legs and she bent to talk to them, calling each by name. Found, saved or abandoned by uncaring people, these were the lucky cats who had found Elke. They had their own little shelters set among the plants and she fed them twice daily from her huge store of food kept in an old abandoned church in the grounds.

  We moved into the house, awash with light as if it were an extension of Isola Bella, its terraces seeming to hang over the sea. Then I noticed all the same lovely touches that made my apartment so homely: the pretty cushions and throws over the rattan chairs, a fat tassel hanging from a basket. There were more cats, too: Freddi, fluffy pale-grey Nuovola and a huge ginger tom. They did not mix with the outdoor cats but carried on a luxurious existence in this cool interior.

  This was a revelation for me. While I had been secretly caring for Lizzie, I had had no idea that Elke continually rescued all these felines.

  Idyllic as this setting appeared, it was also one of violence and death. As we sat outside with a cold drink, Elke told me about the tomcats that grab hold of the females and bite holes in their necks to keep them still while they mate.

  ‘So many of the kittens die. There are some nasty viruses in Sicily and their immune system isn’t very strong. It’s heartbr
eaking. You have to be strong if you do this kind of work.’

  Later on I was to remember those words when I too encountered cruelty and fought death. And so I related a part of the story of Lizzie and how upset I was over the poisoning. I made no mention of the fact I had nursed her in the apartment.

  Elke nodded. ‘A lot of people here hate cats; they bring their children up to view them as a health risk. You should have brought her here.’

  I felt terrible, guilty and terrible, but then how was I to know that Elke was also a gattara?

  THIRTEEN

  I Learn the Sad Fate of Lizzie

  On the subject of the gattare, the sometimes mocked women who care for a number of cats, it certainly seems true there is a strong bond between the two. We go back a long way and have a lot in common, but perhaps the biggest thing we share is our history of being persecuted by the Church. After all we’ve been through, we have every reason to stick by each other.

  In evolutionary terms the cat family is fairly modern, being only 3–5 million years old. They were domesticated, if you can ever say a cat is truly domesticated, by the Egyptians and considered, among other wild animals, to be the representatives on earth of gods and goddesses. One city in the Nile Delta had as its chief deity a woman with the head of a lioness called Bastet. She was attributed to sexual energy, fertility and child nurturing and her cult spread to other parts of Egypt. A wild and raunchy Bastet festival was held in April and May, attended by as many as 700,000 people and who knows how many cats. Ferals came to possess a special protected status in Egypt and it was a capital offence to kill one, even by accident.

  But the fortunes of felines had changed radically by the late Middle Ages. From being lauded as symbols of motherhood, they were dubbed agents of the Devil and the companions of witches. Feline phobia reigned. This was largely because the established Church wanted to stamp out all traces of pagan religions and cults. From the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries, both women and cats were persecuted for their so-called involvement in witchcraft. A solitary female who believed in natural remedies and had as her sole companion an amiable puss cat would be denounced by suspicious neighbours and hauled before a court. There are stories of animals being put on trial, too.

  Along with this hatred of cats came an element of hatred of women, in particular the link between female sexuality and the sexual habits of female cats. The very quality of fertility admired by the ancient Egyptians was to be condemned and stamped out by the early Christian Church.

  In these so-called enlightened times it is awful to imagine a single and perhaps lonely woman with her cat companion judged and horribly put to death. But then perhaps things have not changed to such a large degree when I think of Maria, whose neighbours spited her in every way they could and gossiped about her strangeness just because of her love of cats.

  I longed to talk to someone about the death of Lizzie and the rest of her colony. There were so many questions I needed to ask. The person who could best answer them was Antonella and yet I kept putting off that bus journey to Castelmola. A few days before I was due to return to England, I couldn’t procrastinate any longer. When the bus drew into the park, I hesitated again, feeling anxious, afraid of what I was going to hear. In Castelmola, I set off down the streets and for a moment lost my way until I saw the now familiar slope downwards to Via Canone. It was strangely deserted with not a sign of a cat but for Lizzie’s mother and another small feline. Several times I rang on Antonella’s bell but there was no reply. I was beginning to think I would have to leave a note when I heard footsteps and saw her approaching. She was delighted to see me.

  ‘How did it happen?’ I asked the question I’d asked myself so many times.

  ‘I received your postcards,’ Antonella said. ‘When the first arrived she was always on the street and doing well with a hint of a limp. I had planned to send you a photograph but then she disappeared.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘It must have been in July.’

  July! All those weeks I had felt happy that Lizzie was living a good life when, in fact, she was dead.

  ‘The first cat was found lying in the street near that old house and afterwards in various parts of Castelmola. They had a curious appearance as if they were made of stone. When I heard what had happened, I ran around looking for your cat but I couldn’t find her. I have never been able to find her.’

  So the mystery remained of what happened to Lizzie. Had she escaped the poisoning? Or had she run off to hide and die a miserable death?

  ‘I kept on expecting her to turn up,’ Antonella continued, ‘but she never has.’

  She took me to a piece of wasteland, where two of the cats she fed were playing. ‘It is so easy to wrap the poison in a bit of meat and throw it down here, no one would know who it was who had done it. The world is a horrible place and sensitive people like us have to suffer so much – we have to take on the sins of the world.’

  I remembered the crucifix in her house. ‘It is hard to be sensitive,’ I noted.

  Then Antonella confided: ‘I have some idea who has done this but I cannot report them because I don’t have proof. However, there was this woman who complained about the mess the cats made round her house and then two days later they were dead.’

  I could see she didn’t want me to leave, enjoying the company of another human being who felt as she did. We kissed and hugged, and I said I would come again. As the bus drew away, I stared out of the window, shocked and upset. I had believed Lizzie was in good hands but, as Antonella said, no one would have guessed that is what these people could do.

  It was a sad journey down to Taormina.

  FOURTEEN

  Giovanni, the Man Who Loves Flowers

  The first Saturday morning of October, early: the Public Gardens. It is all so lovely and fresh; I feel full of hope, in the moment. I have an appointment to meet the botanist Giovanni Bonier. He arrives with his bulldog, Bimbo, who is very interested in the cats. They arch their backs and spit at him, run up trees and glare – in particular, a large black one. In contrast, Bimbo seems an amiable bulldog who only wants to play.

  It is the perfect morning to be strolling along these well-remembered paths striped with the now lengthening shadows. The sun has begun to relax its grip on the earth, the light is softer; there is a subtle change of colour on the mountains and on the sea. I love every season in Sicily, but perhaps autumn best.

  I am to have a guided tour of the flowers. As Giovanni explains, they come from all over the world, the names as sumptuous as the plants themselves.

  There is Capparis spinosa, part of the caper family, whose small buds are picked as a relish. Then Cuphea from the Greek ‘kyphos’, which means ‘curved’, alluding to the curved fruit capsule; it has sprays of orange-red tubular flowers.

  Every plant has its history. Here is the Bird of Paradise, the strelitzia, named after Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, wife of George III. Its name is apt, the three-sepalled, two-petalled blooms curiously resembling an exotic bird’s head. There is the Jacaranda, its name originating from the Brazilian/Indians. This variety, Mimosifolia, has numerous leaflets and small purple blue flowers with a white throat.

  The nuts of the mandorla (or almond) tree are used widely in Sicily for all kinds of confectionery. This variety is the Prunus dulcis (Asia minor), easy to spot with its very dark bark and pink flowers.

  Brugmansia sanguinea lives up to its name, with its bright-red ‘Angel’s Trumpets’. Originally, these flowers were used by the American Indians as a hallucinogen; it takes its title from another ‘name’ in natural history: Justine Brugmans, who lived from 1763 to 1819.

  Salvia leucantha is a white version of the more familiar fiery red Sage. The stamens of its flowers work on a rocket mechanism: the visiting bee has pollen pressed onto its head as it pushes against a sterile projection from the anther. The word ‘salvia’ means to heal or save. Used herbally, it is medically approved in Germany. Extracts taken int
ernally have been recommended for anxiety, insomnia and digestive problems. It is sometimes used externally for insect bites and infections of the throat, mouth and skin.

  London apothecary John Parkinson (1567–1650) gave his name to Parkinsonia. The more popular name is the Jerusalem Thorn – a spiny shrub with little sprays of yellow, pea-like flowers, dotted with orange. It comes from Central America.

  We pause by a huge cedar tree, magnificent with its blue-green, needle-like leaves, but, as Giovanni explains, it is overshadowing other plants and drawing all the strength from the soil. Lofty though it is, he feels it ought to come down.

  I ask him what it is like to be young and educated and living in Sicily. As a botanist he gives me an analogy in plant life: the roots of a kind of fatalistic thinking are planted so deep that it is impossible, in his opinion, to change it: ‘They cannot see the big picture, cannot get together. Each has his own point of view and won’t compromise.’

  The garden is a mishmash of different periods. There are trees that Florence Trevelyan almost certainly brought from the East and many rare plants and flowers, which should stay exactly where they are. But there are others planted without any forethought and these should be severely pruned or taken out. He points out plants in the wrong places, such as the sun-loving hibiscus positioned among those plants that enjoy the shade.

  The pavilions, designed by Florence Trevelyan, were christened ‘the beehives’. They were made of a variety of materials, from stonework facing in varying cuts and dimensions at the base to alternating brickwork and the lava-stone detail of the turrets to rustic logs on the little balconies and jetties. Now they are being allowed to fall into ruins. There is also the ‘Alice in Wonderland’ behaviour of those who tend the parterre, which is a mixture of stones and bricks. Giovanni explains wryly that the gardeners spend hours sweeping it with old-fashioned bristle brooms. A machine exists, but it is not used.