My Days with the Antimafia

Photograph by Bob and Jan Truus of Holland

She sat reading in the garden of Monreale Cathedral, dwarfed by an ancient, leathery ficus. Except for the book, she fit the popular image of the young Siciliana: black hair, black dress, black shoes. She looked as if she'd come from Mass. I took a seat at the other end of the bench, from where I could make out the title of her book: The Portrait of a Lady. "That's a good book," I said.

"Scusi?" she asked, startled by my intrusion.

"Henry James is a wonderful writer."

She smiled without looking at me. "I'm trying to improve my English," she explained.

Her name was Rosalina. She had recently returned from Milan to look after her ailing mother in Palermo. "A lot of young people leave Sicily," she said. Her brother lived in Milan. "We are not good citizens," she said bluntly. "Do you know what I mean?"

I mentioned the litter, which, after only two days, had made an impression.

"Yes. We live in a kind of paradise. We have the sun and the sea. We think everything will take care of itself."

I told her I had come to write about the antimafia organization Addiopizzo.

"I think a lot of people don't understand the importance of this organization," she said.

"Perhaps the new generation will."

She looked unconvinced. "People were more active in the '80s," she said.

My bed and breakfast sat at the end of a quiet street not far from the port. I had arrived on a cruise ship Friday evening and stayed on board for the weekend excursions, the last of which was to Monreale. There was no sign outside the building, just the name "SoleLuna" among the names of tenants on the list by the door. I took the elevator to the third floor and rang the bell on the right. The door opened to reveal a woman in big round glasses with a tousle of salt-and-pepper hair. "I am Patrizia," she said, pretty much exhausting her English, if not her warm welcome. Then she showed me to my room, where two single beds sat a little forlornly under a high ceiling.

Going out to explore, I found Palermo in a deep sleep. It was midafternoon on a Sunday in mid-August. Streets narrowed and darkened, at one point opening up to a sunlit intersection of stupendous decay. Abandoned buildings, sick with graffiti and boarded-up windows, seemed in competition to see which one could hold up the longest. I had read that some bombed-out neighborhoods in the city had never been restored after World War II, that Sicily was perennially ignored by Rome. But stumbling upon a decades-old dereliction—after two days of churches and palaces—was deeply alarming. This looked like Havana, not a major city of the European Union.

I crossed Via Vittorio Emanuele and plunged into another maze. A clutter of balconies blackened the airspace until I emerged into a small square filled with café umbrellas. An aproned waiter stepped from a door above which were the words "Antica Focacceria S. Francesco." I knew the place from photographs, though they had always shown armed guards near the entrance, placed there because the owner had not only refused to pay protection money; he had gone to court and identified his extortionist. I imagined their absence was due to the drowsiness of August.

Via Merlo led to Piazza Marina, where the shuttered windows of old palazzos overlooked the dusty Giardino Garibaldi, its fence a rusting riot of nautical themes. It struck me as possibly the psychological heart of the city, the place where people would gather—if there were people. As I was admiring one of the ficuses in the garden, I came upon a plaque:

IN QUESTO LUOGO IL 12 MARZO 1909 ALLE ORE 20:45
PER PRODITORIA MANO MAFIOSA TACQUE LA VITA DI
Joe Petrosino
Lieutenant della Polizia di New York
LA CITTÁ RICORDA ED ONORA IL SACRIFICIO DELL'
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