Sicilian Odyssey

by Francine Prose

  And yet the relative simplicity of the mosaics at Cefalù is partly what gives them their authority. At Monreale’s cathedral, at the Palatine Chapel, and even at the smaller and more intimate church of La Martorana in Palermo, the multitude of scenes from the Old and New Testaments, from the lives of the saints, and from an idealized, spiritualized version of recent history (one panel at La Martorana shows Roger II accepting the crown proffered by Christ) makes it hard to focus. You simply don’t know where to look first.

  But at Cefalù’s cathedral, there’s no question. Only later do you notice the presence of the Virgin and the Apostles because your gaze tracks directly and almost involuntarily up to the image of Christ Pantocrator covering the vault above the altar. You’re drawn to the face of the Pantocrator much the way iron filings are pulled toward a magnet. The face of Jesus is so commanding, so fascinating and psychologically complex, that it would probably be the thing you noticed first even if you were surrounded by the busy, cinematic distractions of the Bible stories bannered over the walls of Monreale’s cathedral and the Palatine Chapel.

  Anyway, there’s no way to know. Because the fact is: There is nothing quite like Cefalù’s Pantocrator. The Cathedral of Monreale and the Palatine Chapel are, of course, magnificent. But the difference between them and the Cathedral of Cefalù is almost like the difference between seeing some splashy Cecil B. DeMille epic when you’re a child and contemplating an art masterpiece as an adult. Fittingly, the face of the Cefalù Christ includes features—a Norman pallor, an Arabic-looking beard, expressive eyebrows evocative of the Byzantine Greeks—suggestive of the diverse races that composed Roger’s kingdom, and perhaps that’s partly what makes the Redeemer seem so human. But it’s the quality of his humanity—and his divinity—that finally seems so unique: The depth of understanding, the sensitivity, the grief and the ability to transcend grief, and, above all, the power of that image (made, after all, from bits of broken tile and chips of gold) to make each viewer feel that he or she is in direct, unmediated communication with those eyes, that gaze.

  “I am the light of the world,” says the inscription on the book that Christ is holding in his left hand while he blesses us with the right. “He who follows me he shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.” And at first, it’s almost possible to believe that light is shining from the image itself. But gradually, you realize how much depends on sunlight—on the light of the natural world. Especially in winter, it’s best to visit the cathedral in the early morning and afternoon, when sunlight is streaming in the small window behind the mosaic. By late afternoon, it’s almost too dark to see. And the effect of the light is such that the mosaics seem to be constantly changing.

  After a while, the church custodian begins to recognize us, and nods when he sees us, because we keep coming back to look—every few hours, every hour, it’s almost as if the image of the Pantocrator is something that’s been left in our care, something we need to check on.

  In accordance with his wish to be buried at Cefalù, Roger II had two marble sarcophagi installed in the Duomo. But after his death, his heirs—assisted by the ecclesiastical authorities, who no longer recognized the bishopric at Cefalù—countermanded his desire and interred him in the massive, gloomy Cathedral of Palermo, in a plain sarcophagus, and not in the marble coffins that he had made and in which he wanted to be laid to rest. Roger’s grandson Frederick II stole the marble sarcophagi back from Cefalù, in the middle of the night, right from under the knowing, sorrowful eyes of the Christ Pantocrator—and brought them to Palermo to serve as the final resting place, not for the king who had had them made, but for his father and himself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Two Towns

  For all my worries about not understanding enough, about being deceived by surface reality, about not seeing through to the truth of whatever I happen to be observing, still there are moments—whole days—of constant surprise, of enjoyment and happiness so pure that I’m content to exist in the moment and on the surface. I hardly care, I don’t want to know, if something ugly underlies all that beauty.

  On one such sunny, warm, midwinter day, we leave Cefalù and head up into the Madonie Mountains. On both sides of the road are flowering almonds, their white blossoms glowing against the background of green and yellow garden plots and fields just beginning to return to life after the brief but severe winter that can bring ice and snow to these slopes. As the road climbs, we drive through groves of olives and eucalyptus, past waterfalls and streams, old stone barns and farmhouses that—like the baroque palazzi in Syracuse—are invitations to dream of exchanging your old life for a new one in a Sicilian hill town.

  After half an hour we reach the Sanctuary of Gibilmanna, a popular pilgrimage spot that draws crowds of the faithful for the feast of the Madonna on September 8. Established by the Benedictines in the sixth century, the monastery is now home to an order of Capuchin friars, one of whom—bearded, in a rough brown cloak—is talking to some workmen doing renovations on the property. Otherwise, the place is deserted, and we wander, undisturbed, into the church and through the stone courtyards surrounded by refectories and dormitories each named after a monk or priest important in the history of the order.

  Every quarter hour, the church bells toll, echoing over the valley. In a former monk’s cell, a museum displays the artifacts and objects that illuminate the history and the ethos of the Capuchins, who believe in the spiritual benefits of physical labor and self-sufficiency. The perfect simplicity and functionality of the handmade farm tools and kitchen equipment remind me of the New England Shakers, whose prayers may have differed from those of the monks, but whose daily existence and essential values inspired a similar aesthetic.

  The road snakes higher into the Madonies. Goats and sheep graze the olive groves and grassy hills. We keep stopping to let herds cross in front of our car; at one point we round a sharp curve to find two rams at play, bashing horns in the middle of the road. Not long after, we watch two shepherds in long, old-fashioned black woolen cloaks—like revenants from another century—ordering their dogs to control their unruly flock.

  At last, we reach the hill town of Castelbuono. By now, it’s late Saturday morning, almost time for lunch. When we stop and park in the piazza, the air is so full of sound that only gradually do we realize what we are hearing is the human voice, the melodic Italian of the townspeople who have gathered in the square to talk and gossip. There are no revving engines, no honking horns, no buzzing motorini—none of the noises that compose the street life we know.

  We stop a moment, listening. People take note of our arrival, but continue their conversations, as if anything else would be an invasion of their privacy, and ours. As we look for a place to have a quick cup of coffee, the owner of the pasticceria, who has been chatting with friends in the square, cuts us slices of the marvelous panettone—have a taste, he says—that he has been handing out to his neighbors.

  We slip into the civic museum, where the curator proudly shows us through its two rooms full of embroidered vestments once worn by local priests, wall hangings beaded with coral, and costumes bequeathed to the town by the Ventimiglia family, the influential dynasty that, in the fourteenth century, supported the Spaniards in their conflicts with the Angevins. And he tells us that we cannot leave town without seeing its eponymous castle, as well as the Chiesa Matrice Vecchia, just across the piazza.

  It’s an experience we’ll have, with slight variations, all over the island. Especially in the smaller towns, the less frequently visited spots, you need only ask a simple question about a building, a painting, an archaeological site, a historical incident, and the person you asked will smile, light up, and launch into a long, animated explanation. People seem delighted to tell you the history of a place, a history to which they feel intimately connected. It must be one of the more positive aspects of living in a town where everyone knows you, and you know everyone, where your family has known every other family for generations. The co
mpensations for the claustrophobic lack of privacy, freedom, and economic mobility are community and history—the pride and reassurance of feeling that you are part of a continuum, that your life is part of something larger, something that began hundreds of years before you were born and that will continue, long after you are gone.

  In the church, a friendly young woman shows us the magnificent seventeenth-century polyptych depicting the Coronation of the Virgin, the frescoes of the saints decorating the pillars, holy figures made of wax set in niches in the walls. When she asks us if we want to see the crypt, we agree a little reluctantly, more out of politeness than enthusiasm, expecting what one sees under so many churches: dismal rows of sarcophagi containing the remains of the local nobility, or chilly, dripping, labyrinthine corridors lined with pillaged burial chambers.

  So it comes as a surprise when she turns on the light and reveals that the walls are completely covered with brightly colored and well-preserved fifteenth-century frescoes picturing scenes from the Old and New Testaments. Deeply heartfelt and honest, the paintings plainly express the profound religious feelings of a group of local artists, and the fervor of their desire to lay spiritual claim to the underground space, to convert it from the pagan temple whose altar still exists, to make it into a Christian sanctuary.

  It does seem like an enormous wealth of art treasures to find just in one small church in one small town. And, as we leave, the young woman reminds us not to miss the castle, where there is an amazing chapel decorated by Giacomo Serpotta.

  In fact the castle’s chapel is more amazing than we could have imagined. It’s more intimate, more playful, and, in a way, more extreme—even more thickly encrusted with statuary—than the Serpotta masterpieces in Palermo: the oratories of San Lorenzo and San Domenico. A guard tells us that this is where the Ventimiglia family used to come for their prayers…and after a moment he reminds us not to miss the town’s other great church, the Matrice Nuova, the tomb of the Ventimiglias. There is, he says, another museum near the Matrice Nuova: the Museo Francesco Minà-Palumbo, a natural history museum filled with specimens assembled and botanical drawings done by a local doctor with a passion for the flora and fauna of the Madonie Mountains.

  Sadly, by the time we get to the church and the museum, the town has done the vanishing act that all villages and cities do in the early afternoon, especially on Saturdays. Everything’s closed. And so we promise ourselves to return, to see the treasures that remain to be seen in this art-rich mountain town, miles from anywhere, in the midst of the Madonie range.

  Such mornings inevitably change the way you look at the island, the way you see a map of Sicily. Each red and black dot, each name, each stop along a winding road begins to seem like a promise, a potential trove of riches. All you have to do is stop in the piazza, park, get out of you car, and wander into the civic museum.

  Yet Sicily keeps reminding you: Never assume that you know what will happen, never attempt to predict what sort of experience you will to have. There are parts of the island—the gritty suburbs of Palermo and Catania, the polluted petrochemical centers of Gela and Porto Empedocle—that make you want to close your eyes as you pass through them, though by then it’s already too late, you’ve already inhaled enough toxic fumes and seen enough grim housing blocks.

  Our literary pilgrimage to the inland town of Racalmuto to visit the birthplace of the great writer Leonardo Sciascia turns out to be the very opposite of our idyllic morning in Castelbuono. It’s almost comical, really, but the problem starts when, after a brief drive up from Agrigento, we can’t find a parking place. It’s not an uncommon situation. Typically, the Sicilian approach to parking reflects the gap between the superficial and the essential. On the surface are the daunting blue-and-red signs with cars tipped backward and chained to tow trucks. The reality is that Sicilians leave their cars wherever they feel like it: Everybody knows your car, the cops know, the neighbors know, if someone needs to use the garage your car happens to be blocking, they know where to find you.

  But Racalmuto makes you feel the way we did in Noto, the way strangers are made to feel in certain towns, mostly in the island’s interior: Everyone knows everyone else—and no one knows you. No one wants to know you. And the same goes for your car.

  We drive around for twenty minutes through the dusty town with nothing special to recommend it, but which nonetheless begins to seem more and more attractive as it repeatedly rejects our efforts to find a few feet of space in which to leave our vehicle. We keep glimpsing intriguing spots—a ruined castle, a handsome piazza—but there’s no way to get there. And so we keep cruising the maze of one-way streets, past the same people: the men playing cards in front of the café, the women outside the vegetable stall. Perhaps it’s just frustration and paranoia, but after a while it seems that they’re looking at us, watching us go by, and it’s not exactly friendly….

  Actually, it seems like the perfectly appropriate thing to be happening in the town Sciascia wrote about so eloquently and so often, giving the place so many different names but always the same social climate and moral geography: Scratch the surface, just lightly, and what you uncover is the human equivalent of an ant colony, with its own occult laws, its limits, its prescribed patterns of behavior, and all of it ruled—ultimately, and beneath layers of subterfuge and obfuscation—by the Mafia.

  A number of his novels begin in more or less the same way: A crime has been committed. Someone—a thoughtful, intelligent soul, a person of sensitivity and conscience, most often an outsider, a policeman from up north, or a sheltered linguistics professor—is assigned, or decides, to investigate. He spends most of the book tracking down the incriminating evidence that anyone who knew the town well could have supplied in the first few pages. Always, the killing is Mafia-related, and always there is some effort to dismiss it as a crime of passion arranged by some jealous husband or wife, or even some disgruntled former employee. To read Sciascia is to understand that towns like Racalmuto are closed societies, and that they have reasons, voluntary or unwilled, for remaining that way.

  After a half hour that seems like an eternity, we decide we’ve had it. Basta, fine, I know what Racalmuto looks like. I’ve had enough. We drive out of town and feel joyous—like kids let out of school early—when we get back on the open road. Maybe it’s a matter of longitude and latitude, of history, geography, or socioeconomics, but certain places do seem to have a particular character, a personality obvious even to the outsider.

  In Peter Robb’s excellent book, Midnight in Sicily, he describes his trip, by bus, to Racalmuto: Unable to find a place to eat or stay, unable to get anyone to help him or even speak to him, cold, filled with a weird dread, spooked by the sense that he was repeatedly running into the same funeral procession, he literally fled the town. Powered by the urgency of his desire to escape, he sprinted straight uphill to the nearest railroad station, where he was thrilled to find a train that would take him back to Palermo that same night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Wonders of the World

  When I was very young my great-aunt gave me a set of the Book of Knowledge that had been published, I think, in the late 1920s. I used to read the encyclopedia—one volume for each letter, bound in embossed dark red with blue lettering—from cover to cover, like a novel. It was a deeply strange reading experience, since by the time I got the books a good deal of the information they contained (certainly much of the science and history) was outdated, and besides, I was too young to understand much of what I was reading. The result was that I never much knew or cared what was supposed to be factual, and what wasn’t. Were the constellations really formed when Greek mythological figures were pasted up in the heavens? As far as I was concerned, they were.

  One of my favorite pages was an illustration for a long article on Charles Kingsley’s Water Babies, the Victorian children’s classic. The other was a series of illustrations—I remember them as black-and-white photographs, but of course that was impossible—of the Seven
Wonders of the Ancient World. The Statue of Zeus at Olympia, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Colossus of Rhodes. Nothing in the text informed me (or perhaps I didn’t want to know) that some of these places no longer existed, if they ever had. In any case, that was information I didn’t want, since it would have interfered with my ambition to someday visit them, one by one.

  Frequently, traveling in Sicily, I find myself remembering that page in the encyclopedia, because it seems to me that what I am seeing, that what I am lucky enough to be seeing, is as close as I will ever come to the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that so many astonishing places are so close together. Within a single day you could, if you wished—given enough stamina and a really hot car—visit Segesta, probably the most majestically sited Greek temple and theater in Sicily; then you could head west to Mozia, the ghostly island that was once the home of an important Phoenician settlement; and, finally, drive north, slightly east, and then straight up to Erice, a town so exquisite that it became the raw material for legends and was, for centuries, the center of the cult of the goddess Aphrodite. You could see all three places in one day, but each of them makes you want to stay (only in Erice is it possible to spend the night) or to keep returning to watch the effects of the changing weather and the mercurial Sicilian light.

  What Segesta, Mozia, and Erice share in common is that they are not only lovely, but mysterious. No one knows why the temple at Segesta was left unfinished (there is no roof, and the thick columns were never fluted) or exactly when it was built, though most scholars agree that it was constructed in the fifth century B.C., by the citizens of Egesta, a settlement of Hellenized Elymians, members of one of the earliest indigenous groups—the same tribe that founded Eryx, as Erice was originally known.