The Great Sicilian Cat Rescue

by Jennifer Pulling

  And I was right – a cannoli is not something you eat in public. I wiped my fingers, took a sip of tea.

  ‘And that’s without mentioning their penchant for destruction and self-destruction, their gratuitous slander,’ Mario commented.

  It was all too much. We could not stay here, he said. We must move on somewhere else. I stood at the counter waiting while he paid, conscious of the eyes boring into my back, following us as we left the cafe. Outside, I zipped up my jacket. A chilly wind blew through the deserted Piazza Durante. The leaves of the palm trees rustled mournfully. We crossed swiftly and pushed open the door to the Pegasus bar (sadly no more). It was the haunt of the intelligentsia or what passes for intelligentsia in Letojanni. I’d had some heated discussions on the meaning of life in here, sitting round a table and eating their special bruschetta, which are nothing like the ubiquitous toast with a bit of chopped tomato and onion on top. The Pegasus bruschetta were chunky laden affairs and the red wine to wash them down not the often watery variety, which I suspected came from the cartons you can buy in the supermarket for seventy pence.

  Tonight Fabrizio was here, just arrived from Florence, where he now lived. ‘It’s good to come back to Sicily,’ he told me, ‘but only for two or three weeks.’ You got the impression that, if, by mistake, he stayed longer, his re-entry into Florence would somehow be mysteriously refused. Now and again, Mario disappeared outside to stand in the cold night air and smoke. He was an inveterate smoker, although some days he told me he had given up. I understood. There was a time when I couldn’t write a word without a cup of coffee and a cigarette. What I found extraordinary was that somehow the smoking ban was observed. Since the beginning of that year it had become forbidden to smoke in restaurants, bars and cafes, forbidden with draconian force – alien to the usual laissez-faire attitude of this country.

  Mario returned to take up where he had left off.

  ‘So I am a British secret agent, huh! The only thing you can do with people like these is to have a good laugh. That’s if you don’t shudder at how it’s linked with serious psychological problems mixed with ignorance, lack of common sense and petty provincial imaginings…’

  Peppe behind the counter caught my eye and shrugged.

  ‘…The deadly boredom of a subculture, of suspicion, frustration and mortal apathy.’

  He was right, of course, I thought, remembering the time when I lived briefly with Amadeo. By the end of the day ‘someone’ would have told him my precise movements: that I’d taken a stroll in the Public Gardens, where I’d been spotted talking to an old man. In the market I had again spoken to an elderly stallholder for what seemed like a suspiciously long time and then I’d sat in the Oranges Bar with a glass of wine in the middle of the day!

  Every Sicilian is an island within the family or group of those who directly surround him. He can be courageous, generous and fearless. On the dark side he is also capable of dealing death in a real or metaphorical way if he thinks it is necessary. His intelligence is often interpreted as furbizia or cunning. ‘Fatti furbo,’ you will hear a father call after his son as he leaves the house. (‘Don’t let anyone get one over you.’) It is no insult to call someone ‘furbo’. It means that, whereas most people accomplish a simple project with a chat over a drink, or a letter, to a Sicilian it becomes an undertaking of Promethean proportions. Each side will be involved in cooking up a wicked scheme to get the better of the other while trying to foresee the schemes the other might invent; in fact, being even more furbo. The result is very often stalemate, the paralysis of two equally talented chess players, the ‘feeling of death’ described by Lampedusa.

  It was that kind of stalemate I was facing now: every move I made was checked by the authorities as ‘not legal’, coupled by the vice of ‘domani, domani’ – always tomorrow.

  As I remarked to Mario: ‘I think they make up laws to suit the occasion.’

  ‘Muh!’ he said.

  By the time he was eighteen he had turned his back on Sicily as any Sicilian who ‘makes it’ has to do. He cited Pirandello and Verga: ‘People are surprised when you tell them these artists were Sicilian.’

  ‘Any news?’ we asked each other on yet another of these wintry afternoons at Il Gabbiano.

  ‘This enforced stay will push me to write a book sooner or later. But no one can live in this place when they feel so alienated and disenchanted. These people believe they know me, but the truth is they have absolutely no idea! By the autumn I have to make my choice – but it isn’t much of a choice, somehow I’ve got to get out of here.’

  I looked at him and remembered something he had said to me last year when I was upset about having to leave.

  ‘Remember, cara Jenny, life is beautiful because it is varied.’

  But his was stoicism akin to despair.

  A scarlet sun glared down at the grey sea. It was cold tonight, I had to agree, and everyone on the bus appeared dressed for the Arctic. My apartment looked like a Turkish bath, so much humidity, the windows were all steamed up. I settled with my supper and a glass of red wine, feeling nostalgic for the past, for the life that other Jenny used to live. I thought of Art and the long letter he wrote, saying he would never forget the day we spent together. Neither would I: a chance meeting at a beach trattoria, a snorkelling expedition when the current swept me out to sea and this charming American rescued me. It was a day that went on and on and extended into evening.

  It was mystical the way we met and the conversation and the beach, and you were lost and found again. And that marvellous place you took me to eat: Neptune’s Grotto, wow! The linguine… love the name, and those candles. It was love and death and all those big things. I think of you often. Where are you? In your beloved Sicily still?

  Sergio’s rapping on the door broke in on this dream. His face was half-hidden by a huge scarf. He was just off to take his dog, Duke, for a walk. ‘I’ve been trying to contact you all afternoon,’ he said a trifle reproachfully. ‘We’ve had a call from Messina, there’s an appointment on Friday.’

  I should have been pleased. Of course I was. But there was a part of me that had become used to this time of waiting without hope, almost Sicilian really with its sense of fatalism. I’d come to enjoy my complicit afternoons with Mario.

  TWENTY-ONE

  A Time in Rome

  In Paradise Lost John Milton compares Satan to a will o’ the wisp tempting Eve to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. To me that seemed to sum up my situation pretty well as I pursued a goal that led me ever onwards but was difficult or impossible to reach. Over the past three years I had had tantalising glimpses of what might be achieved until Sicilian bureaucracy crushed me into helplessness. There were times when I honestly wished I could return to that naive vision I’d once had of Sicily. Had Andrew not turned into those backstreets of Castelmola, had we kept to our planned route to Bar Turrisi for a glass of almond wine… if… if… At the same time I knew it was too late; my eyes had been opened, there was no going back.

  On the morning Sergio of the NCDL and I arrived in Messina for that long-awaited meeting, I remembered when I had first heard its name. Years ago, during the brief time I spent with Amadeo, there was a charming, elderly man who occupied the apartment below ours. I gave him English lessons and during one of these he spoke of Messina.

  ‘I grew up there and I love my city, but I would never go back to live. There is always the fear of another earthquake.’

  He must have been just a child when the terrible ’quake of 1908 struck, destroying the city and killing so many of its inhabitants. But he was one of the lucky survivors. Messina holds no such horrors for me. I have always liked this place, with its view across the Straits to Calabria’s San Giovanni. Perhaps because of its proximity to mainland Italy, the inhabitants seem to me more open and certainly they have their fair share of notable ‘sons’ – saints and artists, architects and composers. Only those who have experienced the destructive power of an earthquake have a different view of Mess
ina.

  On 28 December 1908, a huge tremor occurred, centred on the city. Reggio, on the Italian mainland, also suffered heavy damage. The ground shook for about 40 seconds and the destruction was felt within a 300-kilometre (186-mile) radius. Moments after the earthquake, a 12-metre (39-foot) tsunami struck nearby coasts, causing even more devastation; 91 per cent of structures in Messina were destroyed and some 70,000 residents were killed. For weeks rescuers searched through the rubble and whole families were still being pulled out alive, days later, but thousands remained buried there. Buildings in the area had not been constructed for earthquake resistance, having heavy roofs and vulnerable foundations. And as the inhabitants know only too well, it could happen again.

  As we arrived at the State vets clinic to meet Dottore Donia, I was feeling optimistic. On the surface, at least, he seemed charming and eager to help. At lunch we outlined our hopes for a permanent clinic for feral animals in Taormina. Yes, he knew of a place and he would make some enquiries.

  A few days later Sergio knocked on the door of my dank apartment, where I sat nursing my evening glass of red wine, watching television. He was beaming.

  ‘Donia just called. He’s coming to Taormina the day after tomorrow to show us a possible location for the clinic.’

  On that sparkling February day, as we walked briskly along the Corso I truly believed I had got somewhere at last. Donia met us with a set of keys and we toured some spacious rooms in the now disused Taormina hospital. Perfect! There would be room for a surgery, a reception area, even a space where meetings could be held with invited foreign vets.

  My journalist friend seized on the story with glee and once again an article appeared in La Sicilia.

  During the following days, when I strolled in the Corso, people stopped to congratulate me on my endeavour.

  Will o’ the wisp! At one point I even received a contract and confirmed that yes, indeed, I would be responsible for setting up the clinic. But then there was a mysterious silence from Messina. By mid-February I was back in England, feeling defeated.

  ‘No progress,’ I told AISPA’s Susan Dale. ‘After all that time they kept us hanging around, nothing. I honestly don’t know what to do next.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to Rome and see what they are doing at the Torre Argentina Cat Sanctuary?’ she suggested. ‘That began on a shoestring in the nineties but it’s grown and grown. You might find some inspiration. By the way, they’re holding a Gala Benefit evening in June and Dorothea will be there.’

  A trip to the Eternal City in June! It sounded very tempting and, when the invitation arrived, Andrew and I decided to accept. Where would we stay? We wanted to spend ten days there and Rome can be an expensive place. Susan came to the rescue, putting me in touch with Deborah D’Alessandro, one of the principal people involved with the sanctuary.

  ‘Hello, Jennifer,’ came the cheery American voice over the telephone. ‘We’ve heard so much about what you’ve been doing in Sicily. We’re dying to meet you.’

  The apartment she found for us was set in the heart of Rome’s historical centre, with the Forum close by and the Colosseum a short walk away. We only had to cross a neighbouring square, dominated by the Papale Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, to reach a supermarket, where we stocked up on supplies. On our first evening we sat by the open window drinking wine and gazing out over the vibrant streets. The sound of Rome enjoying the evening passeggiata floated upwards. We couldn’t believe our luck.

  The following day, Deborah called and we arranged to meet her at Largo di Torre Argentina, a Roman square that hosts four Republican Roman temples and the remains of Pompey’s Theatre. In 1503, the Papal Master of Ceremonies Johann Ludwig Burckhardt (who came from Strasbourg and was known as ‘Argentinus’) built a palace in nearby Via dei Sudano, to which the tower is annexed.

  In the 1920s, Mussolini’s town planners had ordered a large department store to be built here. Old houses were pulled down and then, during the demolition works, the colossal head and arms of a marble statue was discovered, bringing to light the presence of a holy area. Work had to be halted and, as it turned out, this was very fortunate for feral cats.

  Here, in the Area Sacra, live hundreds of them – big and small, ginger, tabby, tortoiseshell and black. Kittens play around fallen columns, cats doze on the temple steps or stroll around gracefully. Try to count them and there will always be more – a fluffy grey cat stretching from her sleep, a black feline under a pillar, having a good wash. These ruins, sunk below road level and with protective railings, are a safe haven for the cats.

  I first discovered the Largo di Torre Argentina while I was on a working trip in Rome, around 1995. A friend had rented me an apartment at a ridiculously low price in nearby Campo de Fiore, which seemed to me very much the ‘real’ Rome. I’d shop for fruit and vegetables in the market that took place every day and in the evening sit at a pavement cafe with a glass of wine, people watching. I didn’t know then but it seems this square once witnessed public executions. In February 1600, the philosopher Giordano Bruno was burnt alive for heresy, and all of his works placed on the Index of Forbidden Books by the Holy Office.

  I was standing on the kerbside trying to cross a busy street when I saw a small white kitten launch itself out into the traffic. I was pretty sure where it had come from, the ruins of nearby Torre Argentina. Several times in the past week I’d stopped to gaze down on the cats who took refuge there. Circling the zone I found some metal stairs that led downwards in the corner closest to where Via Arenula leads to the Tiber. With the kitten in my arms I clambered down them and stood gazing around at the fallen columns of temples, the hollowed-out slabs of stone. There were cats everywhere.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A dark-haired young woman in dungarees stood there with a can of food and a tin opener in her hands.

  ‘I’ve found this little kitten.’

  The girl came closer. She wore rubber boots and I saw that the ground was uneven and muddy in parts. Carefully she took the kitten.

  ‘She will be fine here.’

  Paola was one of the volunteers and came here most days. She gave me a tour of this primitive cat sanctuary: a dim, smelly grotto with a rough concrete floor, minimal lighting and a tiny office space. The cat cages were a mixture of sizes and shapes, some new, some old, sitting up on plastic tables. Paola told me about the two extraordinary Roman women, Lia Duquel and Silvia Viviani, educated and multi-lingual gattare. They’d begun as so many of us do, by feeding stray cats, those who roam the Roman streets and populate its many historic sights. After a while, they managed to persuade the authorities to allow them to use the ancient site of Torre Argentina as a shelter.

  ‘There’s no running water or electricity,’ Paola explained cheerfully. ‘We have to carry buckets to and from the nearest Roman fountain. We’ve tried to solve the lighting problem with this big gas lantern on that table but the place is very damp and difficult to keep clean, however dedicated we are.’

  Later, she wrote to me in England to tell me that my little white kitten had died. Many of the cats had chronic colds caused by the dampness of the area and the unhygienic conditions spread the deadly disease of gastroenteritis. At least I had saved her from the Roman traffic.

  All these years later I had returned to Rome, this time it was for the Gala Benefit evening, but also to meet Deborah D’Alessandro.

  Dark-haired and vivacious, she was the image of Roman chic and I wasn’t surprised to hear she had worked in the fashion industry until she was forty. It was then that things changed.

  ‘I can’t say I was really unhappy but my life was somehow in black and white. That was seventeen years ago. I turned my back on the States and took a house-sitting job in Milan. Gradually, I found my feet and worked in my field of marketing for seven years. Then I made another decision: I moved to Rome. I knew I wanted a change but had no real sense of direction. It was a hot, hot summer. I was walking by the Torre Argentina and someone invited me down to see the cats. I rem
ember that a lot of them were sick and there was this small cave, where people were working. I met Lia and, after just a few moments, she said: “Do you live here? Why don’t you become a volunteer?” I just froze. OK, I loved animals and I had always had cats of my own, but this was a totally new idea. I believe there are times in life when the light bulb goes on and you know where you are meant to be going.

  ‘I worked with Lia, cleaning out cages and litter boxes, feeding and giving the cats their medication. There was nothing like the organisation we have today. At that time we didn’t have the shop, which is a great help in raising funds, just this small cave, and we desperately needed money. We knew we had one very important asset: this ancient site where Brutus murdered Julius Caesar.

  ‘The area was always thronging with tourists. They would stop to gaze at the ruins and then you saw them do a double take as they realised there was a huge number of cats roaming among them. We encouraged them to come down and visit and then plucked up courage and began to ask for donations. It was incredible, the money we needed started to come in. Even today, we have no financial help from the local authorities: we survive on people’s generosity. Now I work here full time and earn some pocket money to “feed my animal habit” by teaching on Tuesdays and Thursdays. My life took a dramatic turn the day I met Lia. It had certainly never occurred to me before to work in the field like this.’

  Inspired by the arrival of one feline, Deborah wrote a book, Nelson: The One-Eyed King. ‘A big white cat was brought to us, its eye dislodged, shot by a kid with a “toy” BB gun,’ she explained. His imposing size and gentleness earned him a name derived from Lord Nelson, the famous English admiral. Soon, as he perched on the Roman wall, his furry mane fluffed over his large body, he attracted the locals. Tourists, too, paused to pay homage.