Lawrence Durrell - Sicilian Carousel - Adventures on an Italian Island

Half an hour was soon spent and once more we sailed out from the crags of Cefalu and up on to the snaky coastal road which would carry us from headland to headland, past Himera with its Doric temple, towards Messina which would be our penultimate port of call. Tomorrow Mario would distribute us all over Taormina to continue our Sicilian adventure alone. Alone!

It was dusk when we arrived at Messina — sunset is an ideal time to take in the marvelous views of the harbor, subject of so many Victorian watercolors. But the earthquake which devastated Messina still rumbles on historically — it is a black date which has permanently marked the historical calendar of modern Sicily, grim and cruel, as if in contrast to the sweet Theocritan landscapes of this part of the island. The words have a kind of density, an echo, like the date of the Fall of Constantinople. We did several of the standard views of the town — the whole island seems to be one extraordinary belvedere — and then disembarked at the hotel in rather a sober mood. The only cultural fixture was a glimpse of the cathedral on the morrow. Tonight we were free to visit the town with Roberto or dine and go to bed. No one was in the mood to go out, it seemed. So in a shuffling unpremeditated fashion we congregated in the bar to exchange visiting cards and addresses against the parting tomorrow. Someone offered a drink all round in honor of the German engagement and this was loyally drunk.

It was a little sad.

I went for a trot round the town to do a little bit of shopping, and to gather what impressions I could of its relative newness, its rawness — for it had been laboriously put together again after the cataclysm. I found it atmospherically most appealing, perhaps the town in Sicily where life would be the most delightful. In trying to analyze why I discovered that it was once more the question of scale. Since the earthquake the houses had been limited to two or three stories, so that it had all the spacious charm of somewhere like the Athens Plaka under the Acropolis, or like Santa Barbara in California. The minute your architecture dwarfs people, shows disrespect for the purely human scale, you start to stunt their minds and chill their spirits. Messina was a fine proof of this notion of human relevance to architecture — a model in fact. And on the morrow these views were underlined in the most overwhelming way by the qualities of the cathedral.

VIEW OF MESSINA BEFORE THE EARTHQUAKE.

At the hotel our identities were looked into by a couple of suspicious looking carabinieri to the intense annoyance of Roberto who felt it was a slur on the good name of the Company. Did they think he was ferrying carloads of criminals all over Sicily? But I missed this visitation.

Italy of course was in the grip of an inflation far worse than anything we had seen back in France; but one singular aspect of it was the sudden disappearance of small change. It had just happened in Messina. Nothing under a thousand-lira note seemed to exist and in order that business should continue as usual one was forced to accept change in kind so to speak. For example, in order to buy some toothpaste, aspirin, and tissues, which I did need, I was forced to accept as “change” a pair of silk stockings, a surgical bandage for sprains, and a pair of nail scissors. This sort of thing was going on in all the shops with the result that people were being loaded down like Christmas trees with things they didn’t want. I even got a telephone tally of nickel as part of my change in a tobacconist’s shop. It represented the price of a local phone call. Of course we were obliged to carry over this strange kind of primitive barter into our own lives — I tipped the hall porter with the telephone tally and an unwanted Tampax which had strayed into my chemist’s bundle. It was quite childish and chaotic. But the staff of the hotel seemed used to accepting these strange collections of objects instead of money tips. And finally one got quite used to going out to buy one orange and coming back with a bunch of grapes and a pound of figs as well. In a couple of days we had accumulated dozens of unwanted objects like this.

The evening was a trifle saddening; we all hung about a little, rather feeling that perhaps the situation called for a little speech from Roberto, or a more formal farewell to each other. But timidity and lack of organization held us imprisoned in the mood until it was too late.

Messina was a calm and tranquil place to spend a night, but we slept badly, afflicted by a woebegone sense of anti-climax. Even breakfast was an unusually subdued affair. We packed and loaded our gear automatically like the experienced tourists we had by now become. Then we swung off in the bright sunshine to have one glance at the cathedral before taking the long coastal road to Taormina. Here again was a fascinating aesthetic experience for me, and one which I had not expected. I knew that, like the rest of the town, the cathedral had been shattered to bits by the famous earthquake, and had been more or less shoved together. I had little hopes that this forced restoration of the great building would be a success. It is a quite fantastic success; it has been done so simply and without pretensions, executed with a bright spontaneity of a Zen watercolor. Whatever they found left was run into the new structure which itself was graced with an anti-earthquake armature. The result is simply marvelous; the huge building is among the most satisfying and gorgeous to be enjoyed in the island; and one is moved by the almost accidental simplicity with which it has all been brought off. Deeds was touched by my enthusiasm, and was glad, he said, that he had not over-praised the thing.

And so off along the coast road in the fine sunlight towards the last port of call. On the last headland Roberto called a halt and we made a few color photographs of the Carousel which I knew I would never see. Somewhere, in discarded photograph albums, they would lie, melting away year by year.

And soon we ran in on Taormina and the melancholy distribution began; the French ladies and the Count with his wife were put down on the road to Naxos, the Japs disappeared, Beddoes was dropped at a pension which looked like the headquarters of the Black Hand. It was indeed like the casualty list of a battalion, men dropping away one by one. “So long!” “Bye-bye!” “See you again I hope.” “Ring me in London!” “Come to Geneva, but let me know.” Mario had become sulky with sadness and Roberto was a little bit on edge too it seemed. We sorted out baggage and shook hands. Deeds disappeared into an orange grove with his bags, promising that we should meet again for a drink somewhere in the island. He had a few more visits to make as yet. The pre-Adamic couple walked away into the sunlight with an air of speechless ecstasy. I was the last one — the higher we went the fewer we became; my little pension was in the heart of Taormina — which is built up in layers like a wedding cake. But at last my turn came. I embraced Mario and Roberto and thanked them for their kindness and good humor. I meant it. They had done nobly by us.

Taormina

We three men sit all evening

In the rose garden drinking and waiting

For the moon to turn our roses black,

Crawling across the sky. We mention

Our absent friend from time to time.

Some chessmen have tumbled over,

They also die who only sit and wait,

For the new moon before this open gate.

What further travel can we wish on friends

To coax their absence with our memory—

One who followed the flying fish beyond the

Remote Americas, one to die in battle, one