Over a barber’s shop hung a sign with the words “Tonsorial Artist;” this evidently was the establishment of Ludovico.
Below lay the Golden Shell. As he sat at his door, the tailor could see Palermo with its domes and turrets, Monte Pellegrino, a vast blue mountain rising from the bay on one side, Monte Catalfano on the other. Behind him rose an amphitheatre of aerial blue mountains; close at hand towered the grand cathedral of Monreale, that pilgrims cross the world to visit.
“It depends,” Patsy for once spoke with hesitation, all his cocksureness gone. “Chicago is a fine city, great opportunities there, but the climate’s not just what you’re used to here; there are no mountains, no sea.”
“The matter of climate is important,” said the tailor; he waxed his thread, doubled it and began to sew a button on the coat he was making.
“As to mountains, what matters it? One cannot eat them! I have ten children—not an easy thing to fill so many mouths; they eat and they eat. I do not wish to die in the albergo dei poveri! Ludovico is rich! He has two stores in Kicago. When he was a boy his father could only earn ten soldi a day; his poor mother could not always give her children polenta; they must often dine on dandelions and herbs of that sort! Now, when his parents are old, Ludovico takes good care of them. His father wrote that he was dying; Ludovico came back to Monreale; that was two years ago—the old man is still alive. The brother of Ludovico has a fruit store in Kicago; he takes care of the business, sends him the rent of the shops,—two hundred scudi a month. I have seen the money!”
I hurried Patsy away at this point; he was becoming too much interested in the tailor’s affairs; in another minute he would be writing letters of introduction to Chicago magnates.
In the sunny space outside the barber’s door sat a silver haired patriarch wrapped in a shawl—Ludovico’s father.
“The old gaffers wear shawls here,” said Patsy, “as they do in Patras. These folk seem more like Greeks than Italians; a trifle grouty, but with a certain fibre, something bold yet reserved, that makes you want to know them better.”
“Spend the day gossiping with tailors and barbers if you like; I’m for the cathedral.” I flung off towards the church; Patsy followed slowly. It is the only way to take him when he’s in that little-friend-of-all-the-world mood.
The cathedral of Monreale, and the adjacent cloister of the old Benedictine monastery are the crowning glory of that city of wonders, Palermo.