At the station of Villa San Giovanni, the rusty platform roof stands out against a wall covered in graffiti.
ALCAMO AUTONOMOUS BRIGADES.
NORTH PALERMO CURVE shits.
(Lower case). Beyond the platforms, there’s a big shopping center with a very large green sign worthy of Salgari: THE PEARL OF THE STRAIT
It’s connected to the station by a raised pedestrian passage. Lots of people go up and down its iron steps. There’s a brand-new escalator right next to it, but it’s still and, I suspect, never activated; but it’s a cheerful, brilliant primary red, exactly the color of Marlene.
The Messina family gets off here. I imagine they’re visiting Calabrian relatives and will spend Easter Monday with them before going back home. We say goodbye warmly, the lady gathers her many bags, the husband shakes my hand with the vigor of an ex-policeman, the daughter gives me a nice smile, and I’m left alone. In the compartment, in the carriage, perhaps even on the entire train.
Beyond the purple waters of the Strait, Sicily looks as if it’s leaning against the setting sun, a dark mass over which long clouds hover. The train starts again toward its final stop and, at that very moment, the sun disappears behind the island beyond the sea, which has now turned a wan grey.
A blue glow emanates from the opening in the handbag on the seat next to mine: there’s an SMS. I pull out my cellphone and look at it. It’s Carlo, he writes:
HOW ARE YOU? HAVE YOU ARRIVED? I LOVE YOU.
I look at it for a long time then, I don’t even know why, I press the key under the screen which asks: DELETE?
I look out of the window. The outline of Sicily is growing darker and more blurred, now only defined by the lights of Messina. Then we cross the outskirts of Reggio Calabria. There are mass apartment buildings identical to those in the rest of Italy, illuminated by the yellow light of lamp posts. The night has fallen with almost tropical speed.
As the train pulls into Vito’s city, I press: YES.
The station is almost deserted. I get out of the carriage with very few other passengers, unsteady on my legs as if after a long intercontinental journey. I’ve booked a hotel near the station, my suitcase trolley isn’t heavy, so I should be able to get there on foot. I walk to the top of the platform, and that’s when I see him.
He’s exactly as I remember him. Not very tall, with a Phoenician nose, a soft, slightly crooked mouth. Vito, too, recognizes me at first glance and walks toward me. He’s as young as he was then. He hasn’t aged a bit.