Alla ricerca di un confino per omosessuali

After two hours of crossing the sea, the ship is about to moor in the port of Ustica. The rocky edges of the island look now sharper: bare walls of smooth rocks disappearing into the sea, century-old walls of a submerged volcano stretching out over the sky. I glance over to the Island and try to look for any signs which may remind me of the time when Ustica was a penalty island.

As the ferry is getting nearer to the land I look at the old houses and I ask to myself if once they were homes of the prisoners confined in the island. Only blurry outlines, glares of history, far and elusive mirages remain. History is only an illusionary attempt of reconstructing a life that no longer belongs to present. It is only the human attempt to constrain the cycle of life into a meaning which exists only as one of the many human lies.

The ship is bursting of passengers. Voices merge into one sound. Southern Ustica borders the sea – Western Ustica borders the sea – Eastern Ustica borders the sea – Ustica borders the sea! You’re a camp! I’m not a camp! I just wanted to see your reaction! Why don’t you swear at me? Because you’re a lady! I’d swear at you if you were Ricotta! But I’m not a camp!

Is any story a spoof of history? Is it just a mockery of those who search among the dead for a truth that does not exist if not as an extrapolation of one of the meanings emerging in the never-ending series of possible interpretations of the facts? History is man’s presumption of becoming more real whilst playing in the role of creator of the past and voluntarily ignoring that the past is mere casualty transformed into history because of our own vainglorious attempt of making sense out of life. The ship has arrived.

In via del Confino, I ask a lady about Camillo. He lives over there just opposite. Camillo! Two ladies are looking for you. The wood door opens and a sturdy man appears helping himself with a stick. How can I help you? Could you tell us about the time when Ustica was a penalty island? Camillo smiles. Wait for me in the square.



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