Acireale, early in the morning, when the sun has not yet reached the front of the houses that face the sea, on this Mediterranean side of the town, with the blue Ionian in the background at each slope. A persistent memory of a maritime village accompanies me, I go up an alley again at random, I come down another one. But I do not want to let myself be enthralled by the desire of going farther down, of giving consistency to that blue line which seems to be calling me. The sea of Acireale is another one, in a different dimension, separate. It is a sea to look at from above, for now. I come across a church, with a terrace that streches beyond the steep road. The sun shines only on the bell tower. Inside they are preparing baskets of flowers, probably for a wedding. The light, still cold, coming down from high large windows, shines widespread, on baroque frescos. A figure that I had not yet noticed if not for the movement of a hand holding a long sharp paintbrush, is restoring a painting in a niche. A priest politely tells me that the best hour to enjoy the frescos is towards midday, when the sunshine enters through the windows. It’s the baroque of Santa Maria del Suffragio (Our Lady of Suffrage), a baroque without bright features, almost mute.

I go up again another street still in the shade. Gradually the houses, often with one storey at first, sometimes with the coloured wriggle of an agave or of the foliage of a mandarin beyond the wall of an inner garden low anyway and simple, the same houses that I could see in a fishing village, acquire dimension and importance. Then a high wall behind which appears a round dome, and around the corner, the green scrub of a small garden. There are very high slender palm trees, a small fountain, park benches very close to a hedge, at the centre a statue, still ignored by the sun, stands out in the background of the aristocratic eighteenth century façade of a palace. I sit down, not for being tired. I look at the silhouette of the statue, I listen to the sound of the fountain water. It is a cool, quiet place. I am now close to the centre. I pop out at the side of San Sebastiano church, with the marble sentries of its statues which guard the entrance of the balustrade. They are ten, all of them biblical characters, headed by a Moses in his most classical pose. On the façade there are other statues, small angels with a dreamy look. This is the baroque of Acireale, rich, aristocratic and also mythical.

I feel like staying longer to discover the expressions, the secrets of these marble faces. They are extraordinary. The interiour is grandiose, with the frescos of Pietro Paolo Vasta, a prolific painter, native of Acireale. The pillars of the three aisles articulate, as it were, a motif of power, the pulpit glitters with pearly inlay, the floor is beautifully and sumptuously decorated. In the chapel on the left I discover a treasure. Frescos which openly declare their origin: a seated Christ has, in the background yet perfectly recognizable, Mount Etna. And, below, a net with wriggling fish in it, has a moving flavour of true stories. Going out is like popping into a strange world.  A few paces and I am in the heart of the town. The Cathedral Square. The Cathedral with two bell towers, a rose window geometrically embroidered below an aerial cloister. The sun is beginning to shine also on the lower part of the façade. A baroque which probably might not have existed without a catastrophe.

During the night of 11th January 1693 a very powerful earthquake devastated Sicily, and practically destroyed Acireale. The reconstruction has produced these master-pieces. The small square which opens towards the mountain is delimited at the end by the basilica of the Saints Peter and Paul, with its imposing structure and its asymmetric bell tower - it should have had another one, like the cathedral, but it was never built, and its absence has no effect after all - and on the opposite side at the cathedral the small square is delimited by the Municipal Palace. While crossing this square, which is the salon and the soul of the town, I get the same impression that I had when for the first time I was in front of the Miracles Square at Pisa. It is like moving in a dimension which you are aware of not belonging to, into which you have been allowed to enter as if for a magic moment. That cannot last always, but which you will always carry within.

These churches, with the austerity of the vertical lines continually interrupted and made more vivid by the decora, statues and ornaments. And the façade of the secular palace, the incredible supports of the long balcony in wrought iron which look at me with a hundred different eyes, with infinite expressions born in a world which belongs only to dreams. A fantasy collection of creatures which do not belong to this world. Corso Umberto (main street) extends beyond, elegant palaces and shop windows, but now I feel the need to go up again other small streets. This time towards the mountain. Because Acireale is a unique town, divided between the sea and the mountain. The mountain of fire. Etna. The main streets run parallel with the sea, and divide the other streets between those which go down towards the blue of the Jonian and those which go up towards the volcano. A small market, baskets alive with the colours of nature, people speaking in a loud voice, the shouts of the sellers, the silver flash of a fish box. Shops and gates, other masks carved in lava stone, till the blackest and fiercest one of the magnificent Musumeci palace, in a small square shut in by another big church - a neo classic one. I have to see Etna. Then I meet a kind lady and I peep out from the highest terrace of the area.

And I see Acireale, the whole of it. From the blue of the sea beyond the spires of the bell towers and still farther the light blue shadow of Calabria to the more recently built houses below the green line of the fields on the slopes of the big mountain and upwards, till the snow and the peak of the highest crater, where the smoke is a white cloud, different from any other cloud, which disperses west-wards in the wind.  This is the reality, the meaning of this town. Water and fire, the two elements which merge, the two primeval forces that regulate the life of Acireale. I could spend entire days looking at this panorama, letting it enter me and my thoughts , but I do not want to make further abuse of this extraordinary hospitality - offered with good grace to an unknown person. I go back towards the main streets, the elegant shop windows, the sun which by now has reached the heart of the most narrow streets. The beautiful viewpoint, with its park thick with trees and greenery, conceals the statue of Aci and Galatea. The mythical origin of the town.

Then the stone splits, and from the fissures tender reeds emerge, and the deepest cavity echoes with the sound of waters in motion. Ovid sings the story of the nymph Galatea and of the most beautiful shepherd Aci, and of the monstrous Polyfemus who killed him out of jealousy. Thus Aci transforms himself into a river and Galatea will for ever mourn for him. The description of the murderous rage of the cyclope, who lives on Mt. Etna and who thundering hurls a rock at his rival, seems to me, after all, a poetic interpretation of a natural event, an earthquake or an eruption. The earth splits open from which a river flows, that will give to the future town its name. Still water and fire. From the balustrade of the viewpoint the other vast water of Acireale, the Jonian. With the small houses and the rock with the small tower of Santa Maria La Scala, below, beyond the jutting natural cornice upon which the town is built. I go down on foot, through the sweet-smelling Mediterranean bush, towards the small portico with the colours of the fishing boats on dry ground, and I discover a village with black lava cliffs, houses of fishermen and ancient lords. This is the beach of Acireale, like Santa Tecla, Pozzillo, Santa Caterina. The volcano appears to be farther away, but its white summit remains immanent on everything. And the lava of the rocks laced with spray paint is another sign of its power.  I return to Acireale at sunset. The street lamps and the shop windows are lighted up, the sun reddens with a warm light the bell towers and the basilica of the cathedral. I cannot help going and looking again at the inhuman grimaces under the balcony of the Municipal palace.

A gentleman walking about the square looks at me in amazement at first, then he grins. I was thinking about the "apothropaical" meaning which some scholars give to these masks - namely that of driving away demons, the spirits of evil - and probably I too was smiling. Certainly, in the ancient civilizations, that was the idea. But not here, not in this town. Probably, there may have been a desire to attract good luck. That is why here carnival time is so important. It the occasion when these masks become alive, parade among the people in a feast of collective merriment.

They too are part of the soul of this town, besides the water and the fire. Water and fire which are once again the protagonists of another most ancient characteristic of Acireale: the thermal baths. I shall go there tomorrow, now it is getting dark and I feel like meeting people. I cross the street and turn around: the square with its scenery looks like something that I have always known, where I shall always like to go. Acireale seems to me like a breath suspended in time.

Alessio Camusso