The shadow of
time
by Jilliana
Ranicar-Breese
Years ago in
the 70’s I found myself in the Arab and
Norman architectural city of Palermo, Sicily. I
was meeting friends of people I had briefly met
in Palermo, at the main railway station. I didn’t
know who they were, what they looked like or
where I was going to stay but knew I would be
with ‘them’. I was no more than a
sleepy vagabond in those days.
The train arrived on time but two hours late. I
assumed that the people would not wait in the
heat of the day for me, a complete stranger. I
found out later they did!
Where to go? What to do? I was alone in a
dangerous city. I crossed the road and saw the
word ‘locanda’ meaning ‘inn’
but on the second floor at a thousand Lire a
night.
I was starving as I missed lunch and everything
was shut. The owner’s wife greeted me in
Italian and registered me. She was wearing a
black nylon housecoat over her ample body. Well
it was siesta time and I had probably woken her
up. At the same time she introduced me to a
disheveled resident saying he would help me find
food as it was mid afternoon and even the shops
were closed.
Leaving my bags, I followed the man who had only
a few teeth and refused to talk to me or
acknowledge I was with him. I later discovered
that he was a peasant from out of the city but he
had a bookshop or rather a magazine shop near the
locanda.
He told me to wait for him. While I killed time,
I browsed through his magazines. They were full
of black and white photo stories of naked women
in compromising positions but had their private
parts covered with black squares so nothing was
revealed!
Disappointed, when the man returned with a bottle
of strong local alcohol and an inedible hard pear,
he saw that I had moved the magazines and got
excited when I complained one could not see
anything! He came behind the desk where I had
been sitting and slapped my bottom. I shrieked in
Italian that I was not a putana which made him
back off. I fled from his shop just as the
neighbouring shops were opening. It was now about
five and the restaurants were slowly opening for
the early evening trade.
After a quick dinner of Pasta, I went back to the
locanda but didn’t think of locking my
bedroom door.
About an hour later there was a knock on the door.
Thinking it was the signora, I was amazed to see
the predator with a fan of Italian notes in one
hand and a film star sepia magazine in the other
featuring the busty Jayne Mansfield. He was
giving me a choice. The money or the magazine.
Guess which I
choose?
Written
in Nightingale on 27/10/24.
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