Two-Way Ticket

The whirring wheels were music to Immacolato, what did it matter if the villagers considered him mad? He had escaped, he would no longer hear them. They would never change; he thought back to his father and grandfather, one as ignorant as the other. Years ago a few villagers had gone to fight against the Abyssinians but none had returned. That had convinced the others to stay put and deride rash adventures but for Immacolato anything was better than staying and decaying. The villagers hated him because he called them blockheads; “Where’s your degree?” they asked. He promised himself that Filippo would have a degree, perhaps two.

The horses set such a brisk pace that he felt he was flying amid the olive trees lining the road. He credited Filippo’s mother for his fine features and long hands which would never become like blocks of pumice stone from working the fields.

As the carriage crested a hill, Immacolato craned out. Palermo could not be far off. He would always keep in…