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296 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2002

Wariness is like a disfiguring disease. I even love Judas more than St Thomas. I have painted both of them but Judas is my favoured one. Wary, doubting Thomas I showed shoving his finger into Christ's wound like an impotent dotard fingering a whore's gulley. But Judas I gloried in. I used an old man as a model for Judas, a man with a face mottled from too much drink. I always got into trouble for that; for using common people as models. They, the priests and my patrons, told me it was profane. Hah. Of course it was profane. That's the point.
There was Palermo, the capital of the island to the north-west. Or there was Messina to the north-east, a bigger town than Palermo strangely enough, for it was a thriving seaport, and the nearest one to the mainland of Italy, which was just a short stone's throw over the Straits of Messina. Men have even talked of building a bridge over the straits, though none can do it yet, for they have not the means. It would be the longest in the world, I think. Men have certainly swum it, though the currents can be treacherous.
You can see from my description that I chose Messina first. Really it was a toss-up. In fact quite literally a toss-up, for I was so much indifferent that I threw a coin in the air and it came down heads, which meant Palermo.
So I went to Messina instead, because I'm fucked if I am going to be ruled by superstition.