A Letter To The Sufferer

Below is the story of Katarina: an elderly woman I encountered twice in Sicily. With no way to contact her, this letter is my way of making sense of what I cannot change, un-see, and un-learn. More than any beautiful beach or tourist town, this story is etched into my brain.

***

Contrary to what it says online, the castle in Marineo is closed. It should be open but it is not because that is simply how things work in Sicily. You know this; nothing here makes sense. So I stand beneath the barricaded castle door while thunder crashes above me and rain begins to coat my battered sneakers. I am visiting my grandfather’s hometown of Marineo: a village on the outskirts of Palermo that boasts a population of 7,000 and the kind of community where I, an outsider, get noticed.

As I circle around the castle, you open your apartment door across the street. You are an elderly woman half my size with a shopping bag that rolls behind you like a suitcase. Your eyes seem to fold into their sockets, the rings around your pupils a bright red like a permanent state of pink eye or unwavering exhaustion. You mumble something in Italian and motion for me to come closer.

“È chiuso,” you say. It’s closed.

“Do you need help?” I say, as you step off the sidewalk and into the uneven streets.

“Would you like to accompany me?” you ask.

I nod, unable to look away from the bag that trails behind you, seemingly four times your weight. I am afraid you are going to fall and crack, and because this is my grandfather’s home, I feel obligated to help.

So we walk toward the bus stop. The Sicilians have a saying “piano, piano” which means “slowly, slowly” and I have never seen it in practice like I have now. You pay no attention to the cars that pass and instead teeter on the edge of the street.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Katarina,” you say. “I am going to Palermo to visit my brother. I go there every day.”

“I’m living in Palermo,” I say.

“Then why are you in Marineo?” you ask. “This place is dead.”

You remind my of my grandmother when you say this and I can’t help but think how some old women are aware of their boredom; you do everything you can to spite your bodies and appease your wandering minds.

We walk in silence the rest of the way, my head spinning from my attempts to understand your Italian. When we get to the bus stop, you kiss me on my cheeks the way all you Sicilians do. Then, before you take the hand of the bus driver who tries to help you into a seat, you tell me loudly and clearly, the easiest phrase I’ve translated all day: “Il signore mi ha mandato un angelo oggi.”

God sent me an angel today.

***

The next time I see you is in Palermo. You are heading toward Porta Nuova: the gate the separates Palazzo Reale from the grittier, less centralized part of Palermo. I have been wandering the park in front of the palace and I immediately recognize you on my way out. I watch through the bushes as you stumble down the sidewalk, taking a step and then stopping, dragging that same shopping cart, your back curled over as though you’re already bracing for a fall. When you stop to rest, a woman drops a coin into your palm. You let it fall into your pocket.

As you continue to walk, I find my body pulling me toward you. I cannot leave without saying something.

“Katarina?” I say.

It takes a moment before the familiarity registers, before you realize that we have met before. When you see me, your face droops and you begin walking again, the red beneath your eyes all the more pronounced. You tell me that you have hurt your leg and need to get to the bus stop through the gate. I offer to push your shopping bag toward the station. I offer to call a taxi. You refuse both times.

So I tell you we will walk together and when we get to the edge of the palace right before the gate, you sit beside an elderly man on a bench. You need to rest, you tell me, and you hold out your palm as we wait. Nobody gives you anything, but your hand never wavers. You seem to balance an invisible candle stick, your small, frail fingers shrinking and shriveling as the weight of your outstretched palm grows heavier and heavier until it collapses.

We don’t speak. The man beside you asks if I am your daughter. You moan. “No, non ho una figlia. È un’americana.” No, I don’t have a daughter. She is an American.

As we sit there, another man approaches us. He smiles at you, greeting you like you are friends, and you converse rapidly. I can’t tell if you know one another or are simply Sicilians. He drops a 2 euro coin in your hand.

When the man leaves, I ask you about your brother.

“What?” you say. “I don’t have any family. Only God. I am suffering.” You cling to this last line, repeating it again and again in Italian, looking at me with those eyes that should be big but they are red, so, so red, that they seem narrow and shrinking, lost in the wrinkles of your skin.

Finally, we walk beneath the gate toward the bus stop that I can see from where we are. It is only a minute’s walk but because we stop every few seconds, twenty, thirty minutes pass before we are at the halfway point. You stop by the granita stand I remember from my walk to the Catacombs. It is closed for the evening, the now dark sky creating shadows where the customers normally stand. You tell me something and I struggle to translate but then you pull down your pants. By the time I realize what is happening, it is too late to look away. I do, of course, but I can still hear the trickle of pee that moves faster than you do, coating the sidewalk over the stains of sticky granita, watermelon extract, sugar water that falls from the mouths of Sicilian children who laugh as they eat. You don’t have the luxury of privacy.

I don’t say anything when you button your pants, and when you stumble, I automatically reach for your hand. You clutch mine as though it is a coin buried in your pocket. Together, we make our way to the bus stop, slowly, slowly, piano, piano, and it feels like we are St. Rosalie on her pilgrimage when we finally reach the bus. Before you validate your ticket, I hand you three euro from my bag. It is all I have with me. Of course, you shake her head and tell me no, no, grazie, but no. But I don’t move my hand away and you hesitate. Your eyes flicker toward mine and then you let the change grow heavy in your pocket, even though it adds weight and you cannot afford to slump even further.