The Pirandello Connection

 

by F. Anthony D’Alessandro

 

Con gas. Senza gas. The Italian words relating to mineral water echoed in Tony Romano’s mind as he entered Palermo’s Punta Raisi Airport. Tony vowed to soak his head in his sink, splash it with cheap tap water, gargle, then guzzle after his return to New York. He spent more money on bottled water the past two weeks than he’d spent on beer his entire first semester in college.

Tony dragged his entire body and tattered luggage through the airport. Romano looked down at his boat shoes. The soles ap­peared open mouthed, leather tongues flapping with each halting step. They’d climbed too many storied acropoli, walked through too many crumbling temples, and made thousands of pilgrimatic imprints on seasoned soil. Romano’s faithful shoes bore the brunt of Tony’s cultural search. He considered gluing the loafers’ mouths shut. He dismissed the thought. Romano chalked it up as still another Sicilian souvenir. Besides, those shoes were slated for an honored retirement under his trophy shelf.

Punta Raisi Airport reminded him of the New York Stock Ex­change floor except for the tantalizing food aromas, giggles of children, gurgles of affection, and icy automatic weapons. Tony reflected on the Sicilian people. Some seemed arrogant and rude, others humble and polite. Some flaunted ebony eyes, others tur­quoise. Some stood tall, others tiny. Some looked gorgeous, while others appeared grotesque. Romano’s mother sported silky raven hair, while a strawberry blonde cover topped his dad’s head. It was an airport of contrasts, no different from the island of con­trasts it served.

On that sweltering mid-summer Saturday, the departure building with its cacophonous, sing song sounds and shouts re­sembled Palermo’s noisy, open air market, the Vucciria. Quivering with a frenzied activity, suitcases rumbled on tiny, railroad type wheels, racing in all directions like the flares from holiday fire­works. Once Tony passed through passport control, the mood changed. Somber. People sat quietly. Grim faced carabineri leadenly marched, machine guns draped over their shoulders.

Tony Romano and his wife Katherine ticketed for New York, after a scheduled stopover in Rome. Sicily hosted their silver wedding anniversary celebration. Katherine sat across the waiting room with American friends. She spoke with punctuated gestures. Tony thought it a recently adopted Sicilian characteristic. The past twenty-five years treated Katherine kindly. She sported a few more freckles, added a smattering of character lines, and put on an additional ten pounds since their wedding day. Despite the years, despite the five children, despite the endless erosion of age, Tony still found this Celtic scion as attractive and as vivacious as the first day they met at college.

Tony sat alone. Tired. He slumped, reflecting on his Sicilian odyssey. His rendezvous with antiquity ended. Immersed in the Land of the Cyclops, Romano traced the footsteps of giants. Prep school books, with their vicarious gifts of unsophisticated infor­mation, never breathed life into history like this.

He’d touched roots. He’d mingled with people who shared a similar blood line. Romano’s preliminary genealogical research took him back several centuries. In many instances, he felt more “pure” blooded Sicilian than natives. Still, he knew that term “pure-blooded” could not be used to describe that diverse popu­lace. Ironically, Tony knew Sicilian insularity and clannishness would always stamp him a foreigner. That was fine with him too.

The beauty of many of the native women in Taormina sur­prised him. His frame of reference was his hideous Sicilian-American cousins from New York. To his pleasure, the native women surrounding him this past week didn’t resemble his American kin.

Tony visited the Isle to celebrate. He celebrated his visit to his parents’ baptismal church. He celebrated sunset on Pirandello’s seaside home turf. He celebrated his anniversary shouting his song in Dionysus’ Ear. He recalled his talk with the fleshy, sweat-stained taxi driver on the way to the airport. The wide bodied man proudly said, “So what do you think of our beautiful land?” An­noyed at Romano’s delay, he glared. Unintimidated, the New York City native said, “Hot! Historic! Primeval! An exhausted land.”

Dozing off, Romano tenaciously fought to keep one eye open, fixed on the computer board citing departure gates. It changed as often as the odds board at the Kentucky Derby. On Tony’s previ­ous Italian flight, the gates were unexpectedly changed at the last moment, and only a good Roman Samaritan’s warning got him to the proper gate on time. He wiped his brow with a moist cloth.

Then, she sauntered into the waiting room. Light. Breezy. Con­fident. No girl next door . . . this one. Her clothing seemed almost apologetic, ashamed to assume the responsibility of covering her contour. The garments momentarily stuck to her supple body ex­posing a near perfect silhouette . . . long legged, short blonde lay­ered hair neatly pyramided atop her head, delicately wrapped in a form fitting pale blue skirt that ran short of material six inches above the knee, simultaneously accenting her azure Mediterra­nean eyes. He gaped. The Sicilian goddess slithered his way. Again, he wiped his brow.

Thoughts drained from his mind . . . history, roots, the brief connecting flight to Rome. Her presence seduced his mind. He stared. Looking down at his stomach, he repented the piles of pasta con sarde he’d devoured the past two weeks.

Disney thrived in France and Florida, not Sicily. This was the material of movies, of make believe, of dreams. Gliding toward Tony, she smiled demurely and sat. In a raspy whisper she asked in fluent Italian, “Is this the gate for Rome?”

“So far,” he answered in staccato Italian. He unlocked her un­rehearsed smile. Her teeth were white and straight. Her smile warm. Beaming, it subtly stretched over her entire face releasing an inviting dimple in her left cheek. Impulsive, just two decades ago, Tony would have pecked at it. Without realizing it, he grinned broadly. Romano felt the old fool.

Tony sat. Smitten. Why was this happening to me? He won­dered. He stroked his steel-woolly beard. Just a few hours earlier Romano cursed the new, unwelcome white hairs squatting on his chin. More tolerant now, he gently brushed his speckled facial fi­bers with his hand.

From across the room one of Romano’s traveling mates shat­tered his spell. He shouted, “Get your big lee etto ready.” Tony reached inside his sport coat for his guide book, pulled it out, and yanked the ticket nestled inside it.

Fanning the pages of the book, Tony paused on the Taormina page. The woman peeked over his left shoulder. He liked that. Slowly, he eased the book to his right forcing her to lean toward him. He inhaled her bewitching perfume. Reality struck. What was he doing, he thought? Romano ended his game immediately.

Tony reminded himself of the reason for this vacation with Katherine. This holiday commemorated their silver wedding an­niversary. The young woman interrupted his reverie.

“You speak English?” she said.

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“You were reading the English language page of the guide book.”

She added, “I’m Claudia.”

Romano’s book dropped. Tomato faced, he immediately picked it up, neglecting to introduce himself. After a pause, he extended his hand and said, “Pleasure.”

The prospect of a conversation with an English speaking Euro­pean excited Romano. Now, he didn’t have to tax his mind, to think before speaking. He was free to be himself. For two weeks he’d assumed the role of official interpreter for his American friends. He complained about the work it entailed. In fact, one of the Italians on tour with his group suggested to the other Ameri­cans, “You ought to pay Tony for his work as an interpreter.”

Claudia stroked, then briskly brushed her hair. Admiring her golden locks, he noticed her every strand in place. She spoke. Her flawless diction brought back memories of Miss Swift, his favorite collegiate drama professor. Certainly Claudia must have acted on the London stage too. He was sure. Magical sounds oozed from her throat. . . .

“So you’re not a native,” he teased. “Gee, I thought you looked a lot better than my cousins.” Playfully, she joked, “We don’t marry our cousins in my country.” He wondered if her quip re­ferred to Appalachia in the States, or to Sicily.

They laughed. Tony mentioned Lampedusa’s comment on cousins marrying in the classic novel, The Leopard. She surprised him by paraphrasing the lines, “in recent years the consequences of frequent marriages between cousins have filled drawing rooms with a mob of girls incredibly short and unbearably giggly.” She humbly lectured him on Lampedusa’s initially strained relation­ship with his countrymen. Romano turned, draped his left leg over the chair arm and faced her. She stood her ground, searched his hazel eyes, and spoke, “I’m from Switzerland. I’ve taught Eng­lish for ten years. I spend a month each summer in Sicily because I love the place . . . especially its writers. Pirandello and Lampedusa are my favorites.” She paused, “And you?”

Still rosy faced, he said, “You probably won’t believe this . . . besides tracking my family tree, I’ve come in search of Pirandello. I teach English too . . . twenty years now.” They discussed litera­ture. He detailed his hunt for roots. After exploring his parents’ home town, Tony realized his greatest find remained tracing his literary soul, through his discovery of Pirandello’s home. He mentioned the stream of gifted writers born in Sicily and said, “This place reminds me of the American South. The writers are cathartic. They write from poverty, pain, and oppression.” Then, he added, “You don’t even have to be a creative genius to write here . . . all you have to do is describe what you see and hear all ’round.”

She laughed heartily and described her devotion to Luigi Pi­randello. “I’ve read all his published plays, poems, and short sto­ries.” She chronicled his life. Tony sat, smirk faced. He eagerly awaited her ever utterance. Sheepishly, she said, “But I’ve spoken so much . . . we don’t have much time before takeoff. I’ll write my name and address on your newspaper. I’d love to hear from you. Now then, tell me of your search for Pirandello.”

Silent, eyes fixed to the floor, he awaited more of her lyrical wisdom. Claudia grabbed his hand. Enveloped and absorbed by her warmth, his body tingled. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. Please go on,” he pleaded.

She politely refused. “Write me. Tell me of your trip to Agri­gento.” He studied her intently, the soft contour of her nose, the untouched blonde eyelashes, her unique commentary. His reac­tions stalled. His moment resembled a slow motion movie. Tony gave in to her determined, seductive stare. He described his visit to Pirandello’s house. “The place was closed. The taxi driver knew the caretaker and took me to the rear garage. There, he found her and said, ‘This is my American friend. Will you open the house for him?’”

The caretaker explained that since the government took over, it was impossible. She pointed to a surveillance camera. So I settled for photographs, a look at the monuments, a roll in Pirandello’s grass, and a deep breath of Sirocco sired air.” He confided this bittersweet saga to Claudia. A hurried tear slid down her straw­berry shaded cheek. He wiped it with his index finger. This mo­ment froze into his memory.

The speaker blared. “Flight 146 to Rome is now boarding.” A caterpillar shaped bus pulled up to take the passengers to the air­craft. Tony hastily said, “Here, please take my guide book. I won’t need it any more.” Her left hand failing to mask a growing smile, Claudia said, “Thank you.” She brushed his cheek with a moist kiss and ran off.

A few minutes later, Tony, Katherine, and his American trav­eling mates squeezed into the bus. Tony searched. Claudia was somewhere in that crowd. Then, about three meters away, behind a group of young African-Americans donning soccer shirts, and reciting rap songs, Claudia bobbed her head.

She squinted, then winked at Tony.

Tony smiled. That was the last he saw of Claudia. She entered the front of the Italian aircraft, he the rear. In Rome, they headed for different gates, hers for Geneva, his for New York. Throughout the flight to New York, her words, her wink, her kiss, and her face pleasantly haunted him. Mentally, he debated the pros and cons of writing her. With one giant gulp, Tony swallowed his third Bloody Mary in a ten minute span. He scoured his attaché for his copy of the Giornale de Sicilia. Romano wanted to look at her ad­dress. He pulled his small travel bag apart, clawing through it in search of that newspaper. He asked Katherine, “Hon, where’s that Sicilian newspaper?”

“You were so busy with that woman, you left it on the airport bench.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you’d already read it. Something important in it?”

He swallowed hard, “Yeah, but . . . I guess I can live without it.”

Tony Romano peered out at the rain clouds below and closed his book on Claudia.