I don’t think there was one of us who could have given a coherent account of the next hour’s voyaging — we all fell into a leaden sleep, only very vaguely conscious of the wheels of our little bus rubbing along the tarmac. There was sea, and a fresh wind, and there were scattered villages here and there when the horn did its warning work. But the transition in time to a vast and cavernous warehouse in Marsala happened like a piece of avant-garde film cutting. The jolt of stopping in the middle of a sort of impromptu cocktail party shocked us awake; for Mario had edged the whole bus into the echoing dark cave where, disposed along two vast trestle tables, was a constellation of beautiful bottles of every size and color. We were to take part in a promotional dégustation for the famous product of the island. Moreover, our hosts, the packers and shippers, were a large and beaming crowd of big-mustached elderly men who were obviously half-mad with impatience to get at the bottles and were only held back by the laws of etiquette from anticipating our arrival. A united huzza went up as we swung into the cool of the great barn. “My goodness the whole darn Mafia,” said Beddoes with approval; and out we all got to shake their hands and pat them on the back. A great show of amity followed and it was not long before we were beautifully implicated in studying the varying merits of the wines — one went up and down as if on a keyboard, testing and criticizing the wine. For each of us was to be offered a sample bottle as a present. Beddoes spared no effort to get to the bottom of the matter and played the half-filled sample tumblers as if they were a xylophone.
One of the directors of this partly promotional yet wholly life-enhancing operation, a whiskered gentleman who looked like the giant panda off duty, made a short emotionally charged speech to give us a brief historical glimpse of the Marsala trade. A speech which, said Beddoes, “was calculated to make the patriotic Briton’s blood course in his veins.” British shippers had played a great part in the production and development of Marsala. “Indeed,” said Beddoes, warming to his theme under the influence of his third sample, “it was not a case of trade following the flag but simply a question of the flag following the drink. In this matter we lead, I think.” He became knowledgeable now about Canary and Sack and Sherry, while Deeds waxed primly tedious about China tea and Indian. Altogether we were in a lather of British self-congratulation when a little patch of acrimony developed in another corner of the barn owing to some unfortunate reference to the Mafia by one of the Microscopes. It was rapidly smoothed over by politeness and Roberto explained somewhat plaintively. “It’s all adverse propaganda. The Mafia doesn’t exist. Long ago it was certainly a fact. But it was not unlike England. We sent one son to the Navy, one to the Army, one to the Church and one … to the Mafia.” If it was a joke — I think it was — it did not help to heal the breach. “Our Mafia today is called The Trade Unions,” said Beddoes forcefully. And so forth.
I said under my breath in demotic Greek: “I abjure the foul fiend!” an incantation which keeps one safe from all harm, and then turned my back on them all to watch the deep vibrant light sifting through a rainbow of sunbeams and striking their faces with marvelously liquid shadow, dense with oil and varnish. It was so very much an oil painting that I could almost smell it. But if the tragic truth must be told the wine tasting was not a great event for me, for my palate had long since been utterly corrupted by French wine; and even among the heavy artillery these Italian syrups did not measure up against, say, the muscat of Frontignan, to mention but one sweet wine which grew near me. I had had the same belly wearying experience in Cyprus with Commanderia, which has at least the literary merit of being brewed from the original Malvoisie grape. No. I artfully contrived to give my little case of complimentary samples to Miss Lobb, who being a Londoner had probably been brought up on port flip.
So gradually the party drew to an end and our hosts, bedewed with warm feeling and alcohol, found it hard to part from people so marvelously charming as we — if that is good English; profound expressions of brotherly love flew about, followed by an exchange of visiting cards and expressions of regard and esteem. Mario ground his teeth with impatience and mistrust at all this facile amiability. He was dying to hit the road again. One had forgotten that he sternly refused all drinks while on duty. Roberto had begun by being pious and ended up a tiny bit soaked.
At last we were away. As we swung about in the dusty streets, seeking out the coast road, Miss Lobb, borne upon a wave of sympathy and gratitude for the little gift I had made her, found her way to the back of the coach and engaged us in conversation on the subject (unexpectedly) of astrology. “I believe in the stars,” she said firmly. “If you believe in them they are usually right and never let you down.” Well, this was really arguable, but somehow whatever Miss Lobb did was all right with us. She had been following with the closest attention our vague arguments about landscapes and climates and atmospheres, and had wondered why the stars never figured in these deliberations. The reason was simple. Neither Deeds nor I were at all astrology prone; but we were open minded about it. I was sure that one could use the astrological map to “skry” just as one used a crystal ball. The quality of the vision … that was another matter. But what Miss Lobb now produced was a sort of little handbook of horoscopes devoted not to people but to places.
I was at a loss to know how one established the sign of a country or a town, but some of the findings which she now read out to us, working slowly round the heavens, were interesting and suggestive, though obviously highly empirical. Among the places which figured in our discussions about Greece and Greater Greece we found that Greece was Taurus while Sicily was in the sign of the Lion. Would this explain their likenesses and differences? There was not enough detail to judge. But there was many a surprise — such as finding that Germany, England, Japan, Israel, and Poland were all in the same sign, Aries. I was naturally more interested in the places which had played a part in my own life and it was interesting to see that Cyprus was in Taurus — so incidentally were Dublin, Palermo, Parma, Leipzig, Persia, Georgia and Asia Minor for good measure. Meanwhile Marseilles, Florence, Naples, Padua, and Birmingham were all clustered together in Aries. “Well I’m dashed if I know what to think,” said Deeds, which was a polite way of voicing his innate skepticism. But Miss Lobb was serious and her face had become round and school girlish. But “If you think it too silly I won’t go on,” she said; no, we assured her of our devoted attention and agnosticism and she plunged deeper into her little volume.
London, Melbourne, and San Francisco were all in the Twins; so were America, Belgium, Wales, and Lower Egypt.
The sign of Cancer harbored Holland, New Zealand, Rhodesia, Paraguay, and among the towns Amsterdam, Algiers, Venice, Berne, Constantinople, Genoa and New York.
In the Lion together with Sicily were France, all Italy, Northern Roumania, also Rome, Prague, Ravenna, Damascus, Chicago, Bombay, Bristol, Cremona.
We were so engrossed in this witchcraft that we got quite a start when Mario drew rein on the coast road in a clump of trees and Roberto sang out for Deeds. It was another little war cemetery.
Deeds obediently but reluctantly got down to do his little tour of inspection and he was instantly replaced by Beddoes and the German girl whose boy friend was also mad about astrology. Alas, we failed to find any trace of Dungeness in the manual, to the great disappointment of Beddoes who said that it must be an evilly aspected place with a swingeing Saturn in the ascendant. But there was plenty of other material at hand, and almost everyone was keen to know the ruling sign of his or her country or hometown. Switzerland, Brazil, and Turkey were Virgin, as were Virginia and Croatia. Of the capitals under the influence of Virgo were Jerusalem, Paris, Lyon, Heidelberg, Boston, Los Angeles, Babylon, and Baghdad!