The Great Sicilian Cat Rescue (19 page)

Fresh anchovies sautéed with garlic, and hot peppers in olive oil, deglazed with white wine, then tossed with spaghetti, diced cherry tomatoes and lots of chopped parsley, and topped with toasted bread crumbs was another of her almost ready meals – the
Spaghetti alla Siracusana
. There was more than a glass of Mascali’s most popular wine, Nerello, to wash down these delights. Sicilian cuisine makes good use of the island’s wonderfully fresh vegetables, which made it easier to cater for Helen, who was vegan.

As if she didn’t have enough to do with all these hungry guests, during that time Valeria had also brought home several litters of motherless kittens, which Big and Little Giovanna had found, and she was hand-rearing them with kitten milk and a pipette. A truly admirable
gattara
!

I snatched an hour or so to wander round Mascali. The cathedral church is dedicated to the town’s patron saint, San Leonardo, and was consecrated in 1935. It has three naves and preserves a marble statue dating from the eighteenth century, depicting the saint. The town, and its surrounding area, is littered with many ruined churches, the scars of successive earthquakes and lava flows. As I stood in the little square reading my guidebook, I could feel curious stares. One elderly man approached me and asked what I was doing there. Unlike Taormina, where almost every second person is a tourist, I felt very much the foreigner in Mascali.

Helen had no time for any such sightseeing. She appeared constantly poised to dart off on another cat-catching operation, impatient when we dared to stop for the sandwich lunch brought over by Valeria’s husband, Antonio. When, in her view, we were not working hard enough, she borrowed Davide’s van and went off alone on a reconnoitre of Taormina.

‘Let’s go back there this afternoon,’ she urged me. ‘I’ve seen at least two cats we simply must rescue.’

‘OK,’ I said, a little reluctantly.

It is not actually far away from Mascali, although those upward-winding roads taxed the temperamental van. What worried me was that the
permesso
Valeria had obtained for her area did not extend to Taormina. We would have to be very careful not to risk a
denuncia
.

We took the road that curves upwards, out of Taormina towards Castelmola, and stopped in Via Von Gloeden. Helen led the way towards a row of bins overflowing with garbage. She set down a dish with a little tuna on it and called softly. After a while, a small tortoiseshell cat appeared. She was scrawny and walked slowly; it was obvious she was quite old.

‘Someone told me her name is Macchia. What does that mean in English?’

‘It’s pretty obvious!’ I laughed. ‘Look at the big smudge of black over half her face. In fact, she’s a patchwork of them. And think about the milky coffee they serve here, it’s called
Latte Macchiato
, milk with a smidgeon of coffee – it’s a good name.’

Helen lifted the cat, which didn’t protest.
Maybe she had
once been someone’s pet
, I mused. She held her in her arms and stroked her: ‘Well, Smudge, you’re coming with us.’

The second cat Helen had seen in the same area was in a bad state. His fur was dull and matted, his nostrils caked with mucus and his breathing was noisy. Although obviously a large male, he looked wasted and on the point of death.

‘The person who I spoke to told me that, although the local people try to feed him, he can’t eat with this awful cold. I’ve called him “Big Boy”, by the way.’

Big Boy might have been ill but he had no intention of going anywhere near the trap we set down. After a fruitless half-hour, Helen grew impatient. She went back to the car and returned with a large net. I had read about these nets, that they were used for animal catching, but had never seen them in action before. Helen was triumphant. After only two failed attempts, she managed to net the cat and gently carry it to a cage. He didn’t put up much of a struggle – he must have been very weak.

‘Shall we have a scout round, now we’re here?’ Helen suggested. ‘I’ve a couple of traps in the van.’

‘I think we’d better go straight back to Mascali,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to stress these two anymore.’

As Guy was busy operating, Davide took in the cats and examined them. Macchia, he pronounced as being in not too bad health, just old and in need of feeding up. But Big Boy was another matter and required antibiotics and hydration. Thank heaven, he finally rallied but I think we had captured him just in time. When they were settled in two comfy holding cages, I glanced round for Helen but she had already disappeared, off on another cat-catching expedition.

Some days, I helped Valeria with her supermarket shopping, to restock for all the meals we ate. In this way, I got to know something about Giarre.

Its one-time claim to fame was as a collection point for the wine produced on the hills above, which was rolled down its main street in barrels to the port below. Today, its peculiarity is far more suspect. Little Giarre has come to be seen as the epicentre of the phenomenon of waste – a kind of architectural white elephant capital.

‘That hospital took thirty years to build and it was out of date before it was even ready to open,’ Valeria grimly observed.

Nearby was a partially built graffiti-covered theatre, where work had started and halted at least twelve times.

‘We’re not a big city, there are only 27,000 inhabitants, but in Giarre there is the largest number of incomplete public projects in Sicily. This waste is so amazing that some people have suggested promoting it as a tourist attraction!’

I wasn’t sure whether she was joking, or not.

Later, I researched the most notorious of Giarre’s eyesores. Here, you will find twenty-five incomplete structures built between the mid-1950s and the 2000s, many of considerable size, such as a vast Athletics and Polo Stadium, an unfinished near-Olympic-size Regional Swimming Pool, and a tumbling concrete palace known as the Multifunctional Hall. They are nothing but concrete shells, inexorably encroached by wild grass and cacti. Nevertheless, they remain a blot on the landscape.

Such buildings are a bleak reminder of the local politicians’ habit of making impressive but ill-advised claims about
what public works they could see to completion in order to secure funds from the regional government. Starting large-scale construction work has been a vote-winner and a way of creating jobs. It was also claimed to combat the recruiting power of the Mafia.

The week in Mascali had proved to be the most exhausting of all my trap/neuter/return trips. Looking back, I saw how the extent of what we had done, the areas we had covered and the stress of dealing with many of the cats, which were ill, had taken its toll. Our meals with the Cundaris had been the only time we could relax before another early and unrelenting day. As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t only that. I’d had another attack of doubt about whether it was right to interfere with the feral cat’s existence.

‘That’s nonsense!’ Helen replied firmly when I voiced this. How I wished I could have her single-mindedness. My problem, I decided, was that I was identifying too much with the cats and their fear of being captured. I still hadn’t learned the lesson of distancing myself, which is essential if you do this work. While I knew that, logically, Helen was right, it conflicted with my emotions. I recognised I was becoming over-sensitised.

The following Sunday morning, I came down to breakfast and felt as if I hadn’t enough strength to lift a cup. I went to sit in the garden under the palms and lay in a deck chair, feeling I couldn’t move my arms or legs. Utterly exhausted, I had the sensation of my muscles having turned to water. The others were flying back to England that day but I had planned to stay on a little longer. Now I was frightened of being left alone. Later, I was to discover I was suffering
from volunteer fatigue, a very real thing and something experienced by many well-intentioned volunteers. Time to exchange burnout for balance. Vittorina came to my rescue. She told me to stay exactly where I was and, at lunchtime, prepared a light and delicious rice dish. That day she fussed over me like a mother hen. By the afternoon, I had begun to feel a little better and by evening, when Davide arrived, I told him I’d be fine for a little excursion to Taormina the next day: we were going to take Macchia to her new home.

It couldn’t have been a better outcome for this elderly but feisty cat. Inga was a middle-aged artist who had lived in Taormina for many years and was a lover of cats. Her somewhat ramshackle house would never have featured in a beautiful home magazine but it was a haven for these felines. Old sofas were covered with colourful throws, where ginger and black, white and tortoiseshell cats slept undisturbed. Beyond was the wild garden where they could roam.

Macchia soon saw off a few of the younger cats with a growl and a smack of a paw. She settled herself on a wall where she could oversee the territory. I could tell she would become a matriarch in the safe haven we had found for her.

Helen would be very happy.

T
here was always a sense of anti-climax about the end of these catch/neuter/return weeks. After the hectic rushing about, the anxiety and general adrenaline buzz, you realised just how much everyone had contributed, even if, at times, tempers were frayed. It seemed strange to sit down to a solitary meal, that evening before I packed my case. Vittorina had invited me to stay for a few quiet days at her apartment in the area of Taormina that gazes towards Etna.

That ever-active volcano is a brooding presence in the lives of many Sicilians. The sight of its glowing summit against the night sky is awe-inspiring. No wonder
Mongibello
, as the locals affectionately call Etna, has been the subject of many myths. The ancient Greeks believed the mountain housed the workshop of Vulcan, the god of fire and metalwork. Far below, in the depths of the earth, he forged metals in his fiery
cave and from time to time expelled the hot, molten liquid into the atmosphere.

Another myth spoke of a 100-dragon-headed monster, son of the earth goddess, Gaia, who rebelled and was trapped by Zeus for thousands of years under Mount Etna. Every now and again, he lost his temper and spewed out impressive flames.

Geological evidence has shown that Etna has been active for more than 2.5 million years. There have been 140 recorded eruptions throughout history, which wins Etna the prize for being the most active volcano in Europe. Like the Hindu god Shiva, the mountain has not only destructive but transforming powers too.

The lava that has engulfed cities and towns and driven people from their homes also produces a rich soil, nurturing a verdant landscape. An excursion to Etna, to experience the amazing views of the island from 3,353 metres (11,000 feet), is probably the first trip on any tourist's itinerary.

The landscape and the climate change dramatically during the ascent. At first, it is a terrain of fruit trees; in springtime the air is filled with the sensuous fragrance of orange and lemon blossom. Temperatures drop as you go higher. Etna's vineyards, where the popular
vino d'Etna
is produced, are vibrant in autumn as the leaves change colour. The area is punctuated by apple orchards, the hazelnut and pistachio, and here you will find the pretty houses of those who live on the slopes of Etna and have learned to understand the ‘wicked witch', as D.H. Lawrence once described the volcano.

The climb continues into yet another landscape dominated by pine and chestnut trees, until you arrive in what seems to
be the surface of the moon, of dormant vents, cooled lava and layers of volcanic ash.

Wrapped up warmly – at the summit of the volcano it becomes chilly on even the hottest summer's day – you gaze in wonderment at the stunning view spread out before you: a patchwork of villages and beaches far below, as far as Calabria on the toe of Italy.

One of the nicest ways to visit Etna is by taking the Circumetnea, a railway line that covers a 110-kilometre (68-mile) route round the volcano. The railway is an historic line, which has functioned since 1898 and was once used by farmers to reach the fields. Today, that request stop is still available on board. The usual route is to leave from Catania Borgo station and end up at Riposto. The year Andrew and I took the Circumetnea, we decided to do it in reverse. It was a Sunday morning and we were dismayed to discover there were engineering works in progress. A bus journey was involved and added yet more time to the usual three-hour ten-minute journey. However, it was certainly worth it. We felt as if we had stepped back in time, trundling along the one-rail line, as we gazed out on the majestic volcano and admired the lovely surrounding landscape, the typical olive and fig trees.

But it appeared we had been fortunate in managing to get the railway schedules to work. More recently, when we thought we'd like to do the trip again, we were confounded by the eccentric timetable and finally gave it up. We had planned to get on and off at the various stations and do a bit of walking but the leaflet I had picked up from the tourist office contained photographs but no information.

It seemed yet another example of Sicily shooting itself in the foot.

E
tna rising on the horizon, often snow-capped, always majestic, was the constant view of Daphne Phelps for over fifty years. The English woman who inherited a Sicilian house, Casa Cuseni, was another animal lover. I used to visit her quite often and now remembered the last time I had seen Daphne.

I telephoned her. The voice was sharp, belying her great age. ‘What’s your name? Do I know you? I don’t remember you. But yes, come… come when you like. I’m always here. Come today, tomorrow.’

It was a still, hot afternoon; the sun blazing from a perfectly blue sky. Climbing up the Salita Leonardo da Vinci, I felt the sweat begin to trickle between my shoulder blades, my hair sticking to my forehead. The house was guarded by high, blue-painted gates straight from a fairy tale, but there was a confident air about it all – they were not locked. I pushed them open and stepped inside. There were several flights of steps that led past an old Roman cistern towards enchanted
and enchanting Casa Cuseni. I paused to gaze at it, climbed the last few steps to the terrace and Zitto the dog ambled towards me, barking. He was very old now, his black coat and muzzle streaked with grey. Zitto laughed at me as dogs do, with his tongue lolling, barking and wagging his tail at the same time. No sign of life; the house seemed to be asleep. Zitto decided I was not a threat and lay down with a sigh. I circled the building, wondering how I was going to make myself heard. Then I saw, at the side of the house, a small lodge and the next moment Concetta, Daphne’s faithful housekeeper, came to the door and called across to me.

‘The
Signora
is in, but maybe sleeping. Try again,’ she advised. ‘If you still can’t rouse her, I’ll telephone.’

So I returned to the terrace and stood for a moment to gaze at the golden stone of the villa, out at that splendid view towards Etna. I remembered the first time I was there when some American lodgers invited me for an aperitif before a party. It was an odd experience: separately and in different ways, they each fell in love with me.

There was movement behind me and a very old lady dressed in what looked like a nightdress with a cardigan buttoned over it poked her head out of the French doors.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said in a brisk, no-nonsense voice.

This was Daphne Phelps, grande dame of Taormina for over fifty years, who nevertheless remained the epitome of Middle England. She didn’t remember me but she admired my ‘frock’. I’d sacrificed half a day on the beach to make myself respectable – you did so when you visited Miss Phelps. Zitto was like a shadow at her side.

‘What shall we drink?’ she asked. ‘Wine?’

I followed her through the shadowy dining room with its beautiful Arts and Crafts frescoes of figures in blue; there were garlands of fruit and flowers. In the vast kitchen she took up a bottle and corkscrew and in the meantime Zitto had cocked his leg against the table. Of course this had to be wiped up before we went outside again to sit at a table on the terrace.

We talked about her book,
A House in Sicily
, and its unexpected success.

‘I’ve not been well-off all my life and now here I am, at ninety, with money. What do I do with it?’ said Daphne.

I gazed again at the view, the tumble of terracotta roofs, the azure Ionian Sea; slopes of Etna, a sleeping giant. Purple bougainvillea spilt from a giant terracotta vase. I felt the glorious summer sun.

‘More of the same?’ I suggested.

Daphne Phelps’ love story with Casa Cuseni began in 1947 when a cable arrived at the clinic where she worked as a child psychologist, announcing her uncle had died and she was to inherit the house.

‘I warn you, Daphne,’ said a colleague. ‘People who settle in these out-of-the-way places become very eccentric.’

‘My Italian was almost non-existent,’ she wrote in her book, ‘I had never dealt with property or had experience coping with Sicilians. I wanted to sell the house and return to England.’

On arrival, she was dazzled by Sicilian sun and colour.

‘Nowadays it’s difficult for people who’ve always been free to travel to realise the sense of liberation I felt after years boxed up in England with: is your journey really necessary?’ she explained.

Soon she fell under the spell of this beautiful house and the near-perfect climate, like her uncle before her. ‘Don
Roberto’, as he was called by the locals, chose this location to create his vision. He left the original olive and almond trees, planting orange, lemon and grapefruit with flowering shrubs and creepers. Making use of the local craftsmen’s skills and local materials, he erected massive outside walls, over half a metre thick. The spectacular view of Etna was seen between columns carved out of golden stone from Syracuse.

Daphne, taken by the warmth of the people and Taormina’s beauty, was persuaded to stay.

‘I had always been a maverick, enjoying the unexpected. I knew Sicily was sure to provide that,’ she wrote. ‘I would have its history, archaeology, folklore and botany and, above all, the superb climate and this magical house.’

She soon discovered there were certain principles that would guide her through this ‘uncharted adventure’. The first was never to get into debt, the second never to raise a mortgage on the property, or to lend to anyone.

Facing the heavy upkeep of the villa with few financial resources, she took, as paying guests, friends and friends of friends. Artists and writers like Tennessee Williams, Roald Dahl and Bertrand Russell climbed those steps in search of peace, relaxation and fun.

‘Bertie was delightful, charming and undemanding. But his wife sulked. I guessed that in their little room he was being hen-pecked. I asked him if he would like a separate room. “It would be an unmitigated relief,” he said in his precise voice. “She declaims and I am the public meeting.”’

Over the years, Daphne had discovered the key to the sometime enigma of Sicilian society. She was anonymously denounced to the authorities for running a
pensione
without
the necessary papers. The head of police visited and conceded she should become a
locandieri
, the lowest form of hotelkeeper, which would keep the taxes modest.

Daphne was not the only person to fall in love with Casa Cuseni. There was a trail of suitors but she was always aware of the risks in such relationships.

As she told an English friend: ‘So many men want to marry my house. One or two of them wouldn’t mind if I came along with it.’

‘It is a most marriageable house,’ he noted.

To deal with these suitors, she devised strategies that would spare them the sense of rejection. She would tell them she was too independent and thus would make a useless Sicilian wife, or she danced with several different men in one evening, showing she was nothing but a flirt.

Then there was her meeting with Don Ciccio, who told her: ‘
Signorina
, if there is any individual displeasing you, you have but to let me know.’

She described him as ‘quick moving, sunburnt, shabbily dressed. A scar over one eyebrow and drooped eyelid made him hold his head back and up and added to the general impression of ferocious arrogance’.

A nod from him meant she was protected. But she explained this was nothing to do with the Mafia in all its ruthless drug-ridden manifestation.

‘Don Ciccio was different. If the state wasn’t providing justice, others stepped in.’

Daphne’s book is dedicated to Concetta Genio, her beloved housekeeper and friend of many years. ‘I would never have been able to save Casa Cuseni without her.’