The Great Sicilian Cat Rescue

I
am standing in a Sicilian bus park, waiting for a man I have never met before. We are to drive along narrow twisting roads to a small town in the mountains in search of a badly injured cat. It is a balmy evening in June 2002, the air laden with the sensuous fragrance of jasmine, which steals into my mind and conjures up images of my past in this little town of Taormina. A shawl of magenta bougainvillea is slung over the wall to my left, while swallows dart through the dusky sky.

There is a voluptuousness of the senses about Sicily; you forget you are no more than a twenty-minute ferry ride from the toe of Italy. Perhaps its history of invaders – Arab, Norman and Phoenician to name but a few, each leaving their stamp on the landscape – gives this island its sense of otherness.

From the
trattoria
a few yards down the road come the tantalising scents of garlicky tomato and basil. I imagine the tables packed with holidaymakers enjoying their meal. Drunk on sunshine, a day spent basking like lizards on the beach at Isola Bella or Mazzaro, they throw off their northern reticence, speak in loud voices, call for another carafe of the local wine. Gales of laughter, they haven’t a care in the world. How my stomach growls! I would love to be among them, forking up chunks of aubergine, savouring the rich sauce of
Pasta alla Norma
with its sprinkling of smoked ricotta. Or maybe I would choose
Pasta con le Sarde
, the dish that derives from Arabic cuisine, with its combination of sultanas, pine nuts and saffron. Yet the ingredients themselves have been native to Sicily since the time when the Greeks first landed on Naxos beach and settled there. Wild fennel comes into it and anchovy fillets, as well as the ubiquitous sardines.

Buses roar in and out of this park while I wait, musing on food. The airport coach disgorges new arrivals; a young woman with red hair tears herself from the arms of a young man and boards, waving desperately as the vehicle bears her away. It reminds me that my stay in Taormina, unlike those other times, is limited.

I ask myself: What am I doing here, bound on this mission with only a faint hope of finding the poor creature? Who knows, by now it may have run off to hide and die. Why can’t I simply enjoy this beautiful evening? But that is my nature: always divided by a sense of duty and a rage to live. I am poised between staying and going. If this man doesn’t arrive soon…

A car swings into the bus park; the man at the wheel calls out my name. It is Giulio.

W
hat I didn’t know at that time was where this rescue of a small cat, white with smudges of black, would lead me. Perhaps it was just as well for I was about to embark on a journey that has already stretched over twelve years with no end in sight. It has been one of hard work and many obstacles but also success, and on the way I have changed from that person with her overly romantic view of Sicily. She, that other Jenny, with her very different vision of this island, now seems remote. My eyes have been opened to another, shadowy side of the place I believed I knew so well.

That morning, as we sat with our coffee, my friend and travelling companion Andrew and I, gazing down from the apartment’s picture window onto Isola Bella, I could never have imagined how the day would turn out. From our eyrie, 250 metres above the coast, people looked like ants crawling over
the isthmus, a narrow path of sand connecting the rocky island to the mainland, constantly shaped and reshaped by currents and tides. Taormina is perched on the side of the rocky Monte Tauro and so we had a wonderful view of the bay nestled between two high cliffs. The northern one, Capo Sant’Andrea, with its famed Blue Grotto, shelters the bay from northeast and east winds; the southern one, Capo Taormina, screens west winds. The jewel they encircle is a painter’s paradise of ever-changing light. This morning it was magnificent, with the sun spread like molten silver over the sea so that one side of the island was in deep shadow, the other luminous.

Yesterday evening, as we made the steep walk back, pausing every now and again to regain our breath before we took another flight of steps, the light was limpid, pearl grey and pink; you could see quite clearly the outline of Calabria, the lights twinkling at the ferry port of San Giovanni. The island seemed afloat in translucent mist while a strange-looking sun hovered and then set, and the sea towards Messina had a glassy surface.

I revelled in the thought that this view would be mine for six weeks. If I had had any misgivings about my prolonged stay in Taormina, they vanished the first time I stepped into this apartment. It was gorgeous: its great bed dressed with flowery coverlets and cushions, the bathroom stacked with fluffy towels, and there was plenty of hot water. The kitchen was efficiently equipped with microwave, cooker, refrigerator and a cupboard full of every possible cleaning material I might need. My German landlady, Elke, had thought of everything. But the most delightful thing was this huge, wonderful window giving onto Isola Bella.

I could have sat there all day, reading or writing, sometimes
raising my head to see the way the water crept across the peninsula. I would watch time pass from morning when the sun rises scarlet over the little island to night and the moon silvering the sea, where one or two fishing boats might be seen.

Andrew interrupted my thoughts. ‘What shall we do today?’

I considered. It was a long time since I’d sat in the Bar Turrisi and sipped a glass of
Vino di Mandorla
, beginning with the first sweetness but developing into the bitter and characteristic taste of almond.

‘I know, let’s take the bus up to Castelmola,’ I suggested. ‘You’ve never seen it, have you? And there’s a very odd place I want to show you.’

I have said that the views from Taormina are beautiful, but those from Castelmola, a natural balcony above it, are even more spectacular. You gaze down over the hills and valleys, traced with snaking pathways, and the faint tinkle of goats’ bells floats through the still air. On a clear day you can see not only Etna but as far as Syracuse and Augusta along the Ionian coast, even the coastline of mainland Calabria.

The town is a place of lava stone-paved piazzas, a maze of small winding streets, where often there seems no sign of life apart from the cats scurrying away at your approach. You’ll maybe catch a whiff of lunch being prepared, frying fish perhaps, and always the scents of basil and garlic. Along the main street, Via de Gasperi, there remains the sense of stepping back in time; there are no cars in central Castelmola. Here you can buy lace and embroideries made by the local women, who sit outside their shops and call out to friends as they pass. Then there are the armoured and
glaring marionettes for sale, the
pupi
belonging to an oral tradition handed down from father to son. I once went to a puppet theatre in Catania. The performance was all clashing swords and declamations. My companion told me that the theme was based on a Frankish romantic poem, the ‘Song of Roland’ perhaps or ‘Orlando Furioso’, but I have to admit I didn’t understand a word of it.

We had arrived in Piazza San Antonio where, years ago, I sat in the Bar Giorgio on a chilly winter’s day, feeling I had somehow strayed into an alpine village. I almost expected to hear yodelling. About me there was a murmur of voices, the Sicilian dialect, which I never succeeded in mastering, except for the odd few words and phrases. ‘
Muh
’ is one of them, that ever-present expression accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders, which can mean so many things: ‘I don’t know’, ‘What can one do?’, even ‘I’m not telling you anything’. Then there is
pazienza
, which sums up the resignation to fate of these islanders, whether the passing of a husband or the dreaded hot and humid wind that blows in from the Sahara, the Sirocco.

There seemed to be no other foreign visitors at that time of year and Castelmola was almost deserted; only about a thousand people live there permanently. My table was an oasis amid all that impassioned conversation where, as always, I was busily writing.

But today the goal was Bar Turrisi. I wanted to surprise Andrew with its bizarre collection. Phallus images of every size, shape and colour crowd the place – on counter tops, carved into stair railings and chairs, hung on the walls and drawn on the menu. Visit the bathroom and you will find yourself washing your hands under a tap shaped like a male
member. The obvious symbol is fertility and the bar owner’s boast of procreating three sons in five years lays claim to that.

The sun burned in the vivid blue sky, reflected off the paving, and I could think of nothing I should like more than to sit in the dim, cool depths of Bar Turrisi with a glass of that ice-cold wine.

But Andrew hesitated. ‘Later,’ he said.

And he was off, darting down some steps that led to a lower level, while I in my heeled sandals followed more cautiously, through the narrow, uneven streets of this labyrinthine village. Here, one street looks very much like another, the front doors of the houses giving directly onto them, and we seemed to be going round in a circle. I paused to admire a window box stuffed with gaudy geraniums and lost sight of Andrew. When I did catch up, I found he had halted and was staring in silence.

‘What? What is it?’

And then I saw. Lying on the ground was a small black and white cat with a ghastly wound – a back leg so shattered we could see the bone protruding through its skin. We couldn’t understand why the fur surrounding the wound was stained with what looked like a pink dye. She did not move, in the way of cats enduring without a sound what must have been considerable pain.

‘We’ve got to do something,’ I said.

I glanced upward. At that moment a group of local people passed along the street above us, speaking in loud voices.

They halted and peered down. ‘Poor creature,’ I heard one of them say but then they moved on.

‘What can you do?’ asked Andrew.

‘Something,’ I replied firmly. ‘We can’t just leave her like this.’

I went up the steps again and scanned the road for any sign of a human being. It was now deserted. Then as I turned into another small street I saw a young man in the forecourt of a house, working on his motorbike. I hurried across.

‘Can you help? I need to find a vet, there is a badly injured cat over there.’

He was a big, beefy young man, wearing a black leather jacket. I expected him to laugh or just turn away, but he listened to me.

‘I know a vet,’ he said. ‘But he isn’t from here. If you like, we can call him on my phone.’

That was the moment I first spoke to Giulio. No, he couldn’t come at the moment – he was working with farm animals in the centre of Sicily but he would be in the vicinity later on. If I liked, we could return to Castelmola around eight, that night, and see what he could do.

I went back to tell Andrew. The cat in the fastidious way of felines had been trying to clean herself. I wondered again about the pink dye staining her fur. There was no question now of going to Turrisi to enjoy that almond wine. We hung around, eyeing the wretched creature, feeling helpless. Time passed.

Andrew glanced at his watch. ‘The bus is due in ten minutes,’ he said, ‘we’d better get going.’

By now I was crying.

‘I’m not leaving her,’ I told him.

‘If we don’t catch this one, it will have to be the next because it’s the last and there’s no other way of getting back to Taormina. What can you do until the vet can come?’

He was right, of course. With one last look at the poor creature, I tore myself away and we hurried through the
streets to the bus stop. The sunlit, carefree sense of Castelmola seemed replaced by gloom: it had become a hostile place where people could leave a small cat to suffer.

Back at the apartment, we sat at the window with a glass of wine, waiting for the time to pass until I could go back to the bus park, where Giulio had arranged to meet me.

If he thought I was a mad Englishwoman, he made no comment; perhaps in this tourist town he was used to it. He had come prepared with a torch, thick gauntlets and a humane cat trap. We took the winding road again, back to Castelmola.

Night falls suddenly in Sicily. Pools of light lay over the streets from the cafes and restaurants where people laughed and talked, darting a curious glance at the man and woman hurrying past, carrying a trap and a torch. I felt disorientated as we prowled the little streets, trying to find the one where I’d last seen her. Was it these steps or those? It was hard to tell in the gloom. Beginning to lose hope, I was afraid that Giulio would grow impatient and suggest we abandon our search but he seemed to be equally determined to find her.

At last he snapped off his torch. ‘She is probably hiding,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to that restaurant and ask for some food to put in the trap.’

‘
Muh
!’ said the proprietor but nevertheless he handed over a small tin of meat. We set it in the trap and moved away to hide round a corner, to watch and wait. It must have been almost half an hour later when we heard the release of the trap door. We rushed over and there was a small black and white cat, scrabbling at the wire bars, frantic to escape. Then we drove down to Giulio’s surgery in Giardini.

Giardini… the name has such resonance for me. It was here
at the station that I arrived for the first time in Sicily, thirty years ago. Candelabra hang from its marvellous booking-hall ceiling, an exquisite piece of art deco.

Cunningly disguised as Bagheria on the western side of Sicily, the station featured in the film
Godfather III
. Here, Michael Corleone awaited his wife and children, who were visiting for his son Anthony’s debut in
Cavalleria Rusticana
.

Giardini station is the gateway to the north; from here you can travel directly to Milan or Venice, but when I arrived it was from Rome. When I step inside, I see again the young girl climbing down from the train with her suitcase, bemused after so many hours’ travel, who finds the station cafe and drinks her first cup of Sicilian coffee with the scent of harsh cigarette smoke in her nostrils.

Tonight, however, we stood in Giulio’s surgery under the brilliant neon light while the cat, released from the trap, flew demented round the room, even up the walls, searching for escape.

Giulio burst out laughing and I joined in. ‘What are we doing?’ he asked.

Somehow he managed to grab hold of the cat and give her a sedative, then I went to sit in the little waiting room while he set and plastered the break. I stared at the clock on the wall: it was eight hours since we had taken that fateful turning in Castelmola.
Why hadn’t we stuck to my plan?
I asked myself. We might be standing in Taormina’s Piazza IX Aprile by now, gazing over to the red glow of Etna, that moody volcano, as every Sicilian feels drawn to do, at least once a day. But I knew my answer: it seemed fate had taken us down that narrow street perhaps hours after a vehicle had struck
the little cat. Had it been anyone else I doubt they would have bothered, if the attitude of those passing Sicilians was anything to go by. But I had made up my mind: whatever it cost, I was prepared to do all I could to restore her.

‘What was that pink stuff?’ I asked Giulio when he finally emerged, carrying the cat now safely secured in a basket.

‘Bleach,’ he replied. ‘Some mistaken idiot thinking it would disinfect the wound.’

‘They don’t seem to understand anything about animals here,’ I observed.

Giulio gave the ‘
muh
’ shrug.

The question was: what now? The cat couldn’t stay here, that was obvious, so where? Scarcely thinking what I was saying, I told Giulio I would nurse her in the apartment.

He gave me a wry smile. ‘For at least two weeks! Are you sure?’

I sighed. ‘What else can I do?’

It was almost midnight when we arrived back at the apartment and I rang the outside doorbell. Andrew came hurrying down the steps.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

Giulio shook my hand. ‘I must go, but I’ll call by in a few days’ time to see how she is getting on,’ he told me before disappearing down the little street.

‘I’m going to call her Lizzie,’ I said, as Andrew carried the cat basket up to the apartment door. ‘Because she is my queen of Castelmola.’

‘You’re mad,’ he told me.