LUNA RISING (Volume 1: The Circle of Conversation)

Chapter Three: The Circle of Conversation

I had wasted no time to get to Syracuse. The small pensione I had picked was strategically located in Ortigia, the old part of town, not too far from the Luna palace. As soon as I had dropped my suitcase in my room, I rushed out, not feeling at all tired from my trip. Jet lag is for sissies, I had better things to do than rest in my room...It was midday, the museum was open, I wanted to see it.  I double-checked its location on my smart phone’s Google map and discovered I had to cross town on foot, probably a ten minute walk. I rushed through a labyrinth of narrow streets bordered with ancient palaces, not taking the time to stop at the Duomo, even though Google seemed to think I should, that this was an exceptionally well preserved Greek temple that had been turned into a church. Inhabited since the most remote antiquity, first by the Phoenicians, then by the ancient Greeks, Ortigia is surely a place where you can feel history flowing around you, but I had no time for it. I wanted to see the Luna palace first, that's what I had come for.

When I finally got to it, a feeling of pride overwhelmed me. A huge stone building, dark and austere like a military fortress, it stood tall at the corner of two streets, a few hundred feet from the sea. Once upon a time it must have commanded both fear and respect. Staring up at the forbidding façade, I thought of my father and how everything he had told me about the family had to be true.

When I bought my ticket for the visit, I felt like telling the man that this place had once belonged to my family.

Thank God I didn’t say anything.

Once inside, the feeling of pride evaporated. Sure, this was a big place with large rooms and high ceilings, like a church. But it didn’t look lived in. Old paintings hung on the walls but not a single portrait of a Luna ancestor.  Glass cases showed statuettes and knick knacks – nothing like what a family would use in its daily life. This was an impersonal museum like any other, full of beautiful, precious things, no doubt, but they didn’t speak to me.

I dragged myself out. It was hot – typical weather, I assumed, for the month of June in Sicily. I glanced at my watch, nearly two o’clock, well past lunch time. But I was too disappointed to be hungry. I walked around aimlessly. I started to sweat, hating myself, my father, my decision to come to this God-forsaken place.

What was I doing here?

I stopped to try and figure out where I was in relation to my pensione. While waiting for the GPS link on my smart phone to click on, I glanced around and saw an attractive one-story building, painted a surprising baby blue and decorated with white columns. A couple of roughly-hewn stone lions sat on the roof with an eagle spreading its wings between them. The lions had silly round eyes and held in their paws a curious inscription in red letters: Circolo di Conversazione, literally, the Circle of Conversation; colloquially, the Chat Club.

What was this place? I was intrigued. In America, clubs were meant for golf, tennis, riding, whatever – but definitely not conversation, not idle chat. This had to be an Old World notion.

I checked the guidebook on my smartphone, but there was no mention of it. A quick search on Internet turned up more information. It seemed that in the 19th century every major Sicilian town had one such conversation circle, similar to gentlemen’s clubs in Britain. But now, the only active circolo di conversazione left in Sicily was in Ragusa, a town about one hour away. There was none here in Ortigia.

Why not? Not every bit of information is on Internet. Maybe I had just made a discovery. And I meant to check it out. I tried looking through a window but couldn’t see anything. Thick velvet curtains hid whatever might be inside. It seemed unusually quiet, like a place for the dead.

I shuddered. This was ridiculous. It had to be a club like any other.

Walking back to the door, I looked for a bell. The door was freshly varnished. There was a bright copper handle. It moved down easily. I pushed it open and took a peek. In the shaft of light coming in from the open door, I saw a portion of black and white marble pavement. I stepped in, but blinded by the outside light, I couldn’t make out anything. I heard people talking somewhere inside; like a cocktail party.