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.