The Pillars of Hercules

I had stopped inside a bookstore on the long walk from the station to the old city, which was across a bridge, on a small island, Ortygia. The bookstore owner told me about Vittorini and recommended his writing.

“This was a great city once—capital of Sicily,” he said.

He named for me the famous Siracusans—Theocritus, the Greek playwright Epicarmo, Saint Lucy, Vittorini.

“So many people have come and gone. We’ve been Phoenician, Greek of course, from long ago. But also more recently Arab, Spanish, French. You can hear it in the names. Vasqueza is a Siracusa name—Spanish. We have French ones too. Take my name, Giarratana—what do you think it is?”

“Can’t imagine.” But the truth was that I did not want to guess wrong and risk offending him.

“Pure Arab,” said Mr. Giarratana. “That Giarrat is an Arab word.”

“What does it mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m not an Arab!”

Later I checked with my Arabic-speaking brother Peter and discovered that Giarrat was probably a cognate of Djarad, meaning locust.

“Our dialect is amazing,” Mr. Giarratana said. “It would be hard for someone like you to understand. Even other Sicilians have trouble with it.”

He had a growly Sicilian voice, deepened with dust and smoke. I asked him for some examples of the incomprehensible dialect.

“Wango,” he said. “Asegia. Stradon. What do those words mean?”

“No idea.”

“Bank. Chair. Street,” he said, smiling because he had stumped me. “We don’t say orange [arancia], we call them portuale.”

That was also from an Arab word for orange, which was burtugal, probably from one of the countries which grew them, Portugal.

The most Sicilian of Sicilian words, known and used throughout the world, is mafia. It is identical to the obsolete Arabic word mafyá, meaning “place of shade,” shade in this sense indicating refuge, and is almost certainly derived from it. Norman Lewis describes in his 1964 book about the Mafia, The Honored Society, how, after the orderliness of Saracen rule in Sicily was obliterated by the Normans in the eleventh century, Sicily became feudalistic. “Most of the Arab small-holders became serfs on the reconstituted estates. Some escaped to ‘the Mafia.’ ” It became an alternative—and secret—system of justice, society and protection; a refuge.

I bought the Vittorini novel he had spoken about and also a copy of Frankenstein, which I had been meaning to reread. Then I continued down the street and across the bridge to find a hotel. It was not much of a decision. Nearly all the hotels in Siracusa were closed, or being renovated, but not the nameless one run by Dr. Calogero Pulvino, poet and philosopher. One star, twenty-three dollars with breakfast and the occasional impromptu seminar by Dr. Pulvino.

He sat, surrounded by books, looking harassed, as though inspiration had just deserted him, or he had momentarily mislaid his lyric gift. He kept his hat on, as though it was his badge of authorship if not part of his uniform, and he amazed me with his pedantry.

I said, “So many books, doctor.”

“This is not many,” he said, dismissing my question. “I own lots more than these.”

“What sort of books are they?”

“They are not books.” He smiled at my ignorance.

“What are they?”

“They are my friends.”

To him this sort of excruciating exchange was sheer poetry.

“Are you writing one yourself?”

“Yes.” He showed me some closely typed pages. He wanted me to admire them, but when he had an inkling that I was reading them he snatched them away, saying, “These are unfinished chapters.”

“A novel?”

He laughed a big hollow theatrical laugh. He then said, “I am not interested in fantasy, my friend!”

“Are novels fantasy?”

“Completely.”

“A waste of time?”

“You have no idea.”

“What are these chapters, then?”

“Philosophy,” he said, in a reverential way, savoring the word.

“What books have you published?”

His arm snaked to the shelf and he withdrew a hardcover book, which he handed to me.

I read the title, Il Riparo delle Rosse Colline D’Argilla (The Shelter of the Red Hills of Clay).

“A volume of my poems,” said Dr. Pulvino.

“About Sicily?”

He sniggered slightly at my ignorance of geography. He said, “Tunisia. I went there for inspiration. You want to buy a copy?”

I had just bought two books that morning. Books are heavy, especially hardcovers. My method was to buy paperbacks, and read and discard them. I only bought new ones when I had nothing more to read. It was pointless to explain this to Dr. Pulvino.

“Not now.”

“The price is twenty thousand.” That was thirteen dollars. No way.

“I’ll pick it up in a bookstore.”

“Impossible.”

“I’ll bet Mr. Giarratana has it in his store.”

“Mr. Giarratana does not have it. You see, my friend, this book is out of print. This is one of very few copies left.”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to find it.”

“Only I can supply you with one.”

After that, whenever I saw him, he said, “Have you decided about the book?”