Puskás Panni

Maria wants to see all the things. Every day she finds something new to look at. One day we’re going snorkeling to see colorful fish against the clear blue. The next day we’re using a massive industrial lamp and magnifying glass to study the texture of things of various sizes and shapes. She holds the magnifying glass up to all sorts of materials, organic and inorganic: tablecloth, Murano glass necklace, olive tree leaf, biscotti. The next day she says we should visit Caravaggio’s famous painting in Syracuse, the Burial of Santa Lucia. We head to the Palazzo Bellomo, where a travel blog said we’d find the painting. We walk through all the rooms, but we don’t find it. We ask the gallery attendants, they’ve never seen this painting here.

We make our way to the Santa Lucia al Sepolcro, where Wikipedia says the painting is. Maria was deeply moved by the story of Santa Lucia, who willingly cut out her own eyes and sent them to her betrothed, thereby signaling her intent to remain unwed and forever chaste. The suitor, left high and dry and seeking revenge, denounced poor, blind Lucia as a Christian, and she was stabbed through the throat by an executioner. It is this woman who is the patron saint of the city. A dagger protrudes from her throat, the plate in her hands holds her eyes. Italians don’t seem to have any problem with this. It’s a dignified thing, suffering. Hell, the measure of dignity grows proportionally with the measure of suffering. And Lucia’s suffering was tremendously dignified. Not like that of the refugees waiting on the ship. After all, anybody can wait. One must be patient.

In the Basilica Santa Lucia al Sepolcro on the outskirts of the city we only find a reproduction of the painting. A low-quality replica on a large canvas. An article says the original painting was moved to the downtown church of Santa Lucia alla Badia in 2009, so off we go. We don’t find it there either. The security guard says the original is in the Santa Lucia al Sepolcro. We say that’s where we’ve just come from, and his slightly irritable, slightly condescending response is that well then, we’ve seen the original. I glance at Maria, she’s on the verge of tears. We leave the church, I hug her. She weeps bitterly. As if she expected a fairytale cure from this painting. After all, Santa Lucia’s gouged out eyes grew back, and according to legend shimmered more brilliantly than ever before. But she won’t get better. It’s finally clear to me, and the realization hits me like a ton of bricks. My stomach twinges.

There’s a summer performance in the Greek theater that night, Euripides’ The Bacchae. We buy front-row tickets so Maria can have a good view. That’s what we say, but we know it’s so she can have any view at all. The Bacchae are played by extras. Beautiful women wailing on stage. Or trying to wail. They’re doing a feeble job of it. Technicians try to amplify their lackluster cries with microphones. Tiresias takes the stage. A human-sized male face, rolled in on wheels. Two great holes for eyes, the performer’s hands visibly peeking out. The rolling head bumps into everything. Hilarious. Why do we constantly have to look at the blind?

Santa Lucia walks the streets of Syracuse. No. Two Santa Lucias walk the streets of Syracuse. One of them says: I will certainly not take a husband. To which the other responds: then let us gouge out each other’s eyes.

Two Santa Lucias gouge out each other’s eyes on the streets of Syracuse. Tiresias goes over and asks: what are you doing? To which the two Santa Lucias reply: gouging out each other’s eyes. To which Tiresias: ah, forgive me, I didn’t see.

Two blind Santa Lucias walk the streets of Syracuse. Blood and pus seep from the pits of their eyes. Tiresias goes over and asks: you haven’t happened to see my rolling mask, have you? To which the two Santa Lucias reply: no.

Two blind Santa Lucias walk the streets of Syracuse. One of them says: forgive me. To which the other replies: why do you ask forgiveness? To which the first: because I bumped into you. To which the second: you did not bump into me. To which Tiresias: no problem.

Two blind Santa Lucias walk the streets of Syracuse. One of them says: why, my eyes have grown back. To which the other: mine have not.

Pentheus flails around like a prima donna, Dionysus hams it up. It’s clear by now this will not be a tragedy. My stomach starts to hurt again. It usually begins as a dull pain. Sometimes it abates. If not, it begins to sharpen. Now it’s sharpening. The Bacchae ululate, but so pathetically that it’s unbearable. Pull yourselves together already, I hiss. Maria hears me, she laughs, but the half-hearted mewling persists unchanged. I start shouting from the pain. Or from annoyance. I’d like to tear them limb from limb, Pentheus, Dionysus, Tiresias, Cadmus, the entirety of Hellenic drama. But mostly the extras they’re calling the Bacchae. My pained screaming causes a moment of confusion on stage, everyone turns toward me. The pain in my stomach lessens slightly, so I rush up on stage, tear my flowing evening gown to shreds, and rage on. The ushers and crew suddenly can’t decide whether this is part of the show or not. Perplexed, they begin to stir. The pain passes. By the time they leap into action to remove me from the stage, I’m absolutely fine. I cease my wailing, wait for them to take me away. One must be patient. But they freeze again, for something unexpected is happening: I’m getting a mid-scene standing ovation. I bow deeply, stride confidently to the front row, take Maria’s hand, and we exit the theater. Outside we collapse in the grass. For a good thirty minutes we’re laughing too hard to speak. Our clothes, our skin, our tear-stained faces are soiled in the black of the volcano’s ash.