Soon she fell under the spell of this beautiful house and the near-perfect climate, like her uncle before her. ‘Don Roberto’, as he was called by the locals, chose this location to create his vision. He left the original olive and almond trees, planting orange, lemon and grapefruit with flowering shrubs and creepers. Making use of the local craftsmen’s skills and local materials, he erected massive outside walls, over half a metre thick. The spectacular view of Etna was seen between columns carved out of golden stone from Syracuse.
Daphne, taken by the warmth of the people and Taormina’s beauty, was persuaded to stay.
‘I had always been a maverick, enjoying the unexpected. I knew Sicily was sure to provide that,’ she wrote. ‘I would have its history, archaeology, folklore and botany and, above all, the superb climate and this magical house.’
She soon discovered there were certain principles that would guide her through this ‘uncharted adventure’. The first was never to get into debt, the second never to raise a mortgage on the property, or to lend to anyone.
Facing the heavy upkeep of the villa with few financial resources, she took, as paying guests, friends and friends of friends. Artists and writers like Tennessee Williams, Roald Dahl and Bertrand Russell climbed those steps in search of peace, relaxation and fun.
‘Bertie was delightful, charming and undemanding. But his wife sulked. I guessed that in their little room he was being hen-pecked. I asked him if he would like a separate room. “It would be an unmitigated relief,” he said in his precise voice. “She declaims and I am the public meeting.”’
Over the years, Daphne had discovered the key to the sometime enigma of Sicilian society. She was anonymously denounced to the authorities for running a pensione without the necessary papers. The head of police visited and conceded she should become a locandieri, the lowest form of hotelkeeper, which would keep the taxes modest.
Daphne was not the only person to fall in love with Casa Cuseni. There was a trail of suitors but she was always aware of the risks in such relationships.
As she told an English friend: ‘So many men want to marry my house. One or two of them wouldn’t mind if I came along with it.’
‘It is a most marriageable house,’ he noted.
To deal with these suitors, she devised strategies that would spare them the sense of rejection. She would tell them she was too independent and thus would make a useless Sicilian wife, or she danced with several different men in one evening, showing she was nothing but a flirt.
Then there was her meeting with Don Ciccio, who told her: ‘Signorina, if there is any individual displeasing you, you have but to let me know.’
She described him as ‘quick moving, sunburnt, shabbily dressed. A scar over one eyebrow and drooped eyelid made him hold his head back and up and added to the general impression of ferocious arrogance’.
A nod from him meant she was protected. But she explained this was nothing to do with the Mafia in all its ruthless drug-ridden manifestation.
‘Don Ciccio was different. If the state wasn’t providing justice, others stepped in.’
Daphne’s book is dedicated to Concetta Genio, her beloved housekeeper and friend of many years. ‘I would never have been able to save Casa Cuseni without her.’
THIRTY-FOUR
The Compassionate Tourist
I have begun to dread the beginning of the summer season as I know it will generate a flood of emails from anguished tourists who have gone online and found Catsnip. They speak of holidays in various parts of the island that have been disrupted by an encounter with a small cat. What started out as blue skies and sunshine becomes overshadowed by distress and anxiety. It takes me back to my fateful trip in 2002 when Andrew and I stumbled upon Lizzie, setting in motion the chain of events that led to my forming Catsnip. I understand only too well their concern and longing to help in some way. I’d been lucky in finding a friendly vet but then I spoke Italian; apart from the larger towns and cities, it is often difficult to communicate otherwise in Sicily. For those who don’t speak Italian, I can imagine their frustration, scanning their phrase books in an attempt to contrive a few sentences. I can picture them in their hotel rooms searching the Internet for animal welfare contacts. I’m in England, they are in Sicily, but at least I can offer advice and put them in touch with someone on the island who may be able to help.
Helen wrote to me from a small tourist town on the western side of the island:
Hello, I found the details of your Catsnip online while searching for an animal charity. I’m currently in Sicily, holidaying in San Vito Lo Capo, and have today found a stray kitten, probably about nine–ten weeks.
I first saw her in the morning and then again later in the afternoon much further into the main town, trying to get into a local supermarket. Everyone ignored her and she seemed so tiny and helpless.
I’ve brought her back to the apartment we’re staying in and have fed and watered her (she was starving), but I was hoping there’d be somewhere that might take her in and rehome her.
I can’t find anywhere online so fear the answer is no, but wanted to contact you in case you know of anywhere/body that might help. We’re in SVLC until Monday then travelling to Palermo.
I must add here that Helen was on honeymoon when the small feline came into her life but, as she said to me later: ‘My husband knew what he was taking on.’
I had never heard of San Vito as I’ve usually worked on the eastern side of Sicily. That was my first question for Helen.
‘San Vito is on the very North West tip of Sicily, west of Palermo. That’s the only way I can describe it really. Nearest big town (other than Palermo) is Trapani. Hope that gives some clue! It’s basically a tiny Italian holiday resort,’ she emailed.
The moment I saw the word ‘Trapani’ I knew I had a lead. Remember the story of Dina, the elderly Dalmatian, of Susie and Esther’s long car journey from Cefalù to find her? Raimonda, the OIPA volunteer, had filled in the rest of the story. I sent an SOS email asking for her help once more. Meanwhile, I could sense Helen’s growing desperation as the hours ticked away. She continued frantically to search the Internet and contacted every lead she found, but with no positive results.
She wrote: ‘I have been through my other options which are to appeal to a Canadian-Sicilian lady we met in a cafe yesterday when we first noticed the kitten but she didn’t seem that concerned with her at the time. Or to cycle to a vet just outside SVLC to see if they would care for her until she’s big enough to fend for herself. Both are long shots. Added complication is that we’re staying in a hotel where they aren’t very keen on animals, which means we’re having to keep her out of view. I’m just dreading a situation where we have to abandon her again come Monday. I’ve even investigated taking her to Palermo and leaving her with someone there but (a) I can’t find anybody/place in Palermo and (b) I imagine Palermo is a much tougher place for a kitten than SVLC. You’re right… I feel helpless. And so sad for her.’
By now the kitten had been given a name: Gavroche, after the waif of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. Oh dear, I thought, once you’ve done that it becomes ‘your’ kitten rather than just a stray. Throughout that Thursday, I waited for Raimonda’s response, while more emails arrived from Helen.
I’m getting more and more nervous by the hour, as we really only have Friday, Saturday and Sunday to find someone and of course the longer she’s with me, the more attached I’m getting. There have been a lot of tears today! And she really is tiny and not very old at all. I don’t think she’d fare very well on her own.
I’m going to explore car hire this evening, which will make transporting her a lot easier (slight hitch is that my photo on my licence has expired though, so not sure they’ll let me). I have never said a prayer in my life but I will tonight!
By now I was beginning to get as anxious as Helen about the fate of this little scrap. I dreaded how distressed she would be if she had to leave the kitten behind.
Meanwhile,
it seemed that there were no romantic dinners à deux on this honeymoon.
I walked into town this evening and spoke again with the lady that owns the cafe where we first saw Gavroche but she wasn’t interested in helping though she does have a cat of her own.
I have completely lost hope that anyone in San Vito can help but am now resolute that I will not leave her here. I’d like to get her back to the UK so need to find someone who can look after her for at least a month and who has access to a vet.
I’m going to cycle her up to the local vet in the next town along from us tomorrow morning to see if they can do anything. But if you could also call Raimonda tomorrow I’d be very grateful. Getting very desperate now.
So was I. I sent another message to Raimonda. Suddenly, an image of Dina appeared on the screen. Quickly, I sent Helen an email.
Raimonda has answered tonight and here is what she says:
‘To help this kitten you should contact the vigili urbani (the municipal police) and tell them that Oipa has been informed of this situation. San Vito has an agreement with a local vet and therefore the kitten should be helped.’
Think this is your best bet. Even if you plan to take this kitten back you need to find somewhere to leave her for the necessary quarantine.
But Helen’s reply worried me. She didn’t seem to have read my email properly.
I’m taking her to the local vets in Macari this morning in hope they’ll care for her in line with their agreement with OIPA. I just hope to God they are true to their word… and that they’re open! I’m sure I read somewhere on Wednesday that they open 9.15–1.00 on weekdays, but I now can’t find the website I was looking at. To be honest, I’d decided that come Monday I would leave her in a box with a note and some money outside the vets anyway. The thought of just leaving her was making me feel sick.
Later, when we met, she told me: ‘I couldn’t leave her. I wouldn’t have got on the plane; I would have emailed my boss to say I’d be back in the UK later than planned. I even thought of smuggling her onto the flight, but guessed that wouldn’t have worked.’
From San Vito, Helen wrote: ‘I’ve asked my hotel to order a taxi for 10am so I’ll let you know. Just need to find a box to carry her in now.’
‘True to Sicilian hospitality,’ Helen told me when we met, ‘the owner of the hotel dismissed the idea of a taxi and said his son would drive us wherever we wanted to go.
‘At first he didn’t understand we wanted to go to the vet, until he saw Gavroche in the box. He looked pretty surprised.’
But the vet wasn’t there: Helen was told she would be back on Saturday.
‘This is really worrying for me because if the vet is not there tomorrow, or will not take her, then I have very little time left to help her. We go to Palermo on Monday and fly to England on Tuesday and do not have a car.
‘To add to the complication, now that the hotel knows we have Gavroche they have forbidden me from letting her in the room,’ she emailed.
I sent her a very concise email: ‘Take Raimonda’s advice and go to the municipal police. They are in touch with OIPA and will know where you should take the kitten. You can call Raimonda if necessary because she does speak a bit of English. You have the number, don’t you?’
It was by now Saturday and I was out during the day but always at the back of my mind was how Helen was getting on. The moment I arrived home I switched on my computer, once again dreading that Helen had been disappointed. What I read surpassed anything I had hoped for.
‘Hello. So some good news, I think. We took her to the police station in San Vito. When we arrived they said, “No cats, no cats!” I’m a woman with a career but I know how to become a helpless female when the occasion arises,’ she told me. ‘I sat on the floor of the police station and burst into tears. This did the trick and they fetched an officer who could speak a little English. I showed him Raimonda’s email and we telephoned her.’
Because of the language problem what happened next was surreal. Helen and her husband found themselves in a police car, presumably to go to a vet.
‘Instead they stopped just down the road outside a private house. A woman came out, holding back a barking dog, and Gavroche was whisked away.’
As Helen related: ‘I felt bewildered. We went on the beach for a couple of hours and I tried to read but just couldn’t concentrate. “We’ve just handed her over without knowing anything about what will happen to her,” I cried to my husband. Eventually, he agreed we should go and knock on the woman’s door. She greeted us warmly and invited us in to see the kitten. Gavroche was sitting in an armchair in the living room like the Queen of Sheba.
‘The lady’s name is Antonella Siino and with broken English/Italiano and un poco de Español we worked out that this nice lady is a volunteer with OIPA and that her dog is also a rescue. She often fosters animals but she had decided to adopt Gavroche, whom she has renamed Londres, in our honour. I simply couldn’t be happier that she is safe and well and being cared for by someone who is so obviously an animal lover.
‘None of this could have happened without you and Raimonda – thank you from the bottom of my heart! At times I felt like I was mad for caring so much, but you confirmed others care too. And now I’m going to go outside and enjoy the Sicilian sunshine with my husband, who I’ve barely spoken to over the past forty-eight hours.’
A week or so later, another email arrived from Sicily.
Hi, on holiday in Castiglione di Sicilia and my wife has found a helpless tiny kitten (feral, obviously and without its mother). Can you help with locating a home or a vet for it please?
Had they checked the mother wasn’t in the neighbourhood? I queried. My sister had just returned from Spain, where two kittens had turned up at their apartment. She fed them for two days and lay awake at night, wondering what would happen to them when the family left.
‘I prayed the mother would turn up the following day,’ she told me. ‘Then, I was looking out across the fields behind the apartment and I’m sure I saw her. The kittens didn’t return again.’
But Michael replied swiftly that they didn’t think there was a mother around. He seemed to be a lost soul, crying all last night and trying everyone’s affections that afternoon.
Doubt he has an owner – more like, as with other cats, he owns several humans!
OK, could they give me some idea as to where Castiglione di Sicilia was in relation to, say, Giardini Naxos/Taormina? ‘I think you are nearer to the eastern side of the island?’
‘We are about forty-five minutes from Taormina, and certain the mother is not around, it was crying all last night. We leave this Sunday (my wife would take her home if she could!)’ came the reply.
That evening I called them on their mobile. Michael sounded calm but Susan was very emotional. I told them about Qua La Zampa, the pet shop where, last year, Angela and Marco had cared for Lucky Star until a home could be found for her.
Later, Michael emailed: ‘Piccolino has been smuggled back into our room tonight, and we will take him to Taormina in the morning. Hopefully we can leave him there. The vet gave him a clean bill of health (I tried to explain to my wife that he was a street cat and therefore a little scrawny). Anyhow, he has just had the best part of half a tin of Royal Canin and is now exploring.’
The following morning, I called the pet shop. Angela wasn’t there but I spoke to Marco. He sounded very gloomy: Taormina was a chaos where cats were concerned. They were left outside the shop every day; he had six already. They could board Piccolino for a few days but couldn’t commit to homing him.
I related the news to Michael. In the background I could hear Susan saying that perhaps the best thing to do would be to take the kitten back to the vet and have him put to sleep.
I reacted strongly: ‘These feral cats are tough. As you say, they do look scrawny but they survive. There will be some elderly woman in the area who feed them. Why put a healthy little cat to sleep?’
I was reminded of E.M. Forst
er’s novel Where Angels Fear to Tread, of well-meaning visitors unversed in another culture, who create mayhem and tragedy. Though I could understand their distress, I asked myself yet again, Was it really wise to take in a small feline when you knew that, in a few days, you had to leave? What did you think would happen to it? This wasn’t Britain with shelters and animal welfare associations; it was a country that for the most part did not care for cats. What was worse was the notion of having a healthy animal put to sleep because you thought it was ‘best’ for it.
Meanwhile, Michael came back to me. They had contacted my lovely vet, Oscar La Manna, and taken Piccolino to his surgery, where it was found he was ‘suffering from every parasite know to cat kind: roundworms, fleas etc.’. Oscar believed there was someone who wanted a small cat and would collect it the next day. Later came news that Luigi had not turned up.
‘Don’t know what we will do if he is not collected,’ Michael wrote. ‘Hopefully Oscar will be true to his word and find a caring home – he cannot go onto the streets as he is too small to fend for himself.’
I felt defeated but was delighted when, a day or so later, Oscar contacted me.
‘We’ve had some difficulties with the little Piccolino because, as you well know, here in Sicily there isn’t a good culture where animals are concerned. There are no shelters or reception centres for ferals. The authorities speak constantly of helping animals but they don’t spend one coin to look after them. This is a very beautiful place but its inhabitants are too egoistical and stupid. Luckily, there are we vets who are freelance and give a hand at our expense to these poor little feral animals that need treatment. The state doesn’t help, only profits from our sensibility. Thus I have decided to keep this little cat and look after it until I can find someone to give it a home.’
The Great Sicilian Cat Rescue Page 19
