Three-Cornered Halo

by Christianna Brand

  Tomaso had brought the Arcivescovo back to the vaporetto and, in the absence of captain and crew, a-feast on the island, commandeered the one small saloon, below decks, and there laid the old man on a slatted wooden seat, with a rolled-up cloak beneath his head. Others had come forward with tentative offers of help; but with the Grand Duke in his present mood, both Church and State must be on the hop not to offend, and if Tomaso di Goya and his renegade friends cared to stick out their revolutionary necks and take the responsibility off their hands, so much the better. He sent off a message summoning the Gerente and, dismissing his followers, sat down by the still semi-conscious old man for an hour’s constructive thought.

  By the time Mr Cecil arrived outside their door, the Archbishop was better and, fortified with arguadiente, deep in agitated counsel with his new friends. That his execution would shortly take place appeared to be accepted fact, at least between himself and the Gerente: El Gerente, indeed, being lavish with promises to make the whole business when it came as little personally disagreeable to his Grace as possible. He only wished that he could have put Mario on the job; but Mario alas! was sailing tomorrow with a cargo of contraband including some heroin, and one dared not send anyone less responsible, drugs were always so tricky. Jose, unfortunately was not to be relied upon, but Jose it would have to be: the trouble was, he was apt to lose his head and let go at the critical moment and it did rather muck things up. However, said the Gerente cheerfully, at the Archbishop’s age and in his state of health, whatever happened he wouldn’t last very long; and in hanging, really that was all that counted. Of course, he added, if Juanita would only turn up trumps …

  “Juanita will give no sign,” said Tomaso, elaborately impatient. “Count that out.”

  “We must continue to pray,” said the Archbishop.

  “Of course. And if she answers, Arcivescovo, well and good. But …” He looked down at his black-rimmed fingernails, searching for some path of ingress into the old man’s pious and simple mind. “Why should she answer? This is an affair of men. How dare we ask the saints to intervene?”

  “It is not for myself, my son. Who am I to demand a miracle from heaven, to save my worthless life? It is for the honour of El Margherita herself. It is a challenge to her.”

  “You are too humble, Arcivescovo.”

  “No man can be too humble in the face of heaven.”

  “Ah, no. And, therefore—may not Juanita feel this too? Is it likely that for her own glorification, she will perform a miracle at the bidding of Juan Lorenzo?”

  “If she gives no sign, then we must take it that she is content to wait for recognition.”

  “But we can’t wait,” said the Gerente, bursting out with it. “Tomaso and I can’t wait.” Tomaso threw him a warning glance and he amended: “San Juan el Pirata can’t wait.”

  “I confess I would like to have known before I died—”

  “Exactly, Arcivescovo: you can’t wait either. But once Juanita were recognised—ah, then you could go to God with a peaceful mind, knowing your island was safe in her hands, knowing that from all over the world touristi would be flocking in—”

  “Pilgrims,” said Tomaso, kicking him under the table.

  “—pilgrims would be flocking in: from Italy and Spain, each having a share in our glory, from America and England and France and Germany, all eager to witness the ceremonies. We could spin the ceremonies out for—oh, as much as a year: start a whole new season, perhaps, in this way, popularise San Juan for the months of the English winter. The trade!” cried El Gerente, carried away, his ankles black and blue from Tomaso’s assaults on them, but oblivious of it all. “The smuggling! Think what the tourist hotels alone must import. And the funghi! My wife’s brother, Arcivescovo, who is in the kitchens at the Bellomare, he has made a discovery. By a mistake, some funghi were fed to a party of English touristi, which had been intended for the hotel milch goats. Guiseppe waited quite anxiously, he, alone, knowing what had happened; but instead of their dying off in agony, the touristi enquired a day or two later whether they might not again try this interesting dish. Arcivescovo, these toadstools are now gathered by the basketful by my sister’s children, dried in a disused fowl house and sold off in the streets at great price for these fools to take home to America and England in little paper bags. Let the tourist trade prosper and my brother-in-law will be a rich man one day. And then there is the wine. A whole business has grown up of expressing wine from the Toscanita grapes; who, if the touristi don’t continue to flourish, will consume this horrible stuff? And then, Tomaso, our snuff-boxes.…”

  “It is very true,” said Tomaso, his eyes darting daggers at his partner, “that material prosperity would follow Juanita’s canonisation. But we do not think of that. It is the spiritual gain, Arcivescovo. Innocenta, for example,” said Tomaso piously, “reckons that with two really bumper years at the Colombaia, she could afford to reopen the convent.”

  “As to that, my son, I have discussed the matter with both the Grand Duke and El Patriarca and both are of opinion that this dream of Innocenta di Perliti should be discouraged.”

  “Discourage the convenuto!”

  “El Beatitud considers that as a convenuto the Colombaia would be a loss to San Juan. That sink in the town is fit only for casuals from the mainland, come over on the vaporetto for the day trip. If Innocenta retires—where, says El Beatitud, will there be to go? He thinks not so much of the young ones as of the married men, respectable fellows like yourself, Gerente, with your families to think of. And the Grand Duke is anxious about the touristi, what will they think if we can offer them but one colombaia?—and that a wretched hole-in-the-wall in Barrequitas.”

  “But, Arcivescovo—the convenuto! To the glory of El Margherita!”

  “Alas, my son, when I am gone, who will fight for the glory of El Margherita?”

  “Exactly,” said Tomaso triumphantly. “And, therefore, this must be achieved before you die.”

  “I have not long. If Juanita fails to give some sign on San Juan’s Day …”

  El Gerente groaned, burying his face in two large, dirty brown hands.

  “If on San Juan’s Day she fails,” said Tomaso, decidedly, “her canonisation will not come in our generation—if ever. When you die, Arcivescovo, there is no one. El Obispo will become Archbishop in your place, and El Obispo is wax in the hands of the Patriarch.”

  “The Bishop is a good man, my son, you must have respect for the princes of Mother Church. But if he shows signs of resistance to the Patriarch …”

  “… he will not succeed as Archbishop. So, since El Patriarca is against applying to Rome for the canonisation, so must the Bishop be. And all I say is, Arcivescovo, what you say yourself—all hope is lost of the canonisation if, on the Fiesta di San Juan, Juanita gives no sign. The truth is,” said Tomaso, leaning forward, his thin brown face keen and dominating in the dim light, his thin brown hand clenched on his embroidered knee, “the truth is that on that day El Margherita must—she must—give a sign.” He paused. “Or rather …”

  “Or rather?”

  “Or rather,” said Tomaso slowly, relaxing back against the wooden chair and letting his hands fall limply at his sides as though the matter were concluded by the speaking of the very words, “or rather, let us put it this way—El Exaltida must receive a sign.”

  The boat rocked gently, the water softly slapping wet hands against her wooden sides, the dying daylight filtered through the smeared round portholes into the little room. Outside, Mr Cecil leaned against the tarnished rail of the companion-way and listened with all his ears, within the old man sat bolt upright trying to control the senile shaking of his head; and Tomaso and El Gerente put out hands to their arguadiente glasses, drained them and refilled. “Arcivescovo?”

  “No, no, my son, thank you.” But he changed his mind, he was desperately weak from the hideous events of the day, a day that had started with the delivery of the Sermone de Defunto and gone on through the muffled hor
ror of hours spent beneath the hood and cloak of the Hanging Men: the dragging of old, bare feet across the arena and up to the Gallows Rock, buffeted by the movements of the blindfolded dancers, racked by the shovings and jostlings of the populace who, unaware of his identity, urged him on with laughter and mockery to join in the caperings of his fellow condemned. And now it seemed that all was not yet over. He tossed down half a glassful of the raw spirit and it fled through his bloodless veins like a thing on fire. “What do you mean—'the Grand Duke must receive a sign’?”

  “I mean simply that if Juanita will not send a message, we must send a message for her.”

  The Gerente’s jaw dropped, he sagged in the folds of the great, blue cape staring in blank incredulity. The colour drained from the old man’s face, leaving the white scar gleaming on his forehead, a splash of milk spilt upon mottled marble. “God forgive you, child: this is sacrilege!”

  “Sacrilege! Is it not sacrilege, rather, for Juan Lorenzo to demand this miracle? If Juanita, Santa Juanita, will not dance to his tune—he will do thus and thus: so says the Grand Duke. A man, a mere man—he challenges the saints. What sacrilege then? if mere man take up the challenge in defence of the saints. I say it is the Grand Duke’s duty,” said Tomaso, thumping his brown hand on the cabin table, “to apply for recognition of El Margherita. He evades his duty by issuing to her this impudent ultimatum. It is a trick: to cheat Juanita before all the people, a trick to cheat all the people. The answer is very simple: let the people, in our persons, trick him back.”

  “But if Juanita …”

  “If Juanita herself gives a sign, then there will be two signs instead of one, that is all: our sign will be a leading-up to hers, a rounding-off of it. There is nothing to be lost by our trying: and so much to be gained which, if we do not gain it now, is lost for ever. The Grand Duke has promised: if he receives a sign, he must apply to Rome. And your other wish, also, Arcivescovo, must surely follow. The Grand Duchess is to pray for an heir; if she receives a sign then surely, surely she must accept from now on, what children the good God sends her. So everyone is made happy. Your life will not end upon the gallows and when it does end, you will die content. Innocenta, will have her Perliti again if Juanita gives her sign, El Gerente will grow rich; and I, no doubt,” said Tomaso, looking down his long nose, “shall find my reward, wherever it happens that I may seek it.” He gave them no time for further protest or argument. “Arcivescovo—the thurible, the Cellini thurible.…”

  “The thurible?”

  “The thurible is in your keeping. Let me have access to it for an hour or two, let me have it for a morning in my workshop: and on the day of the fiesta, when the Grand Duke has made his appeal to Juanita and steps forward to offer incense as the custom is, then from the thurible shall come, not a cloud of white smoke scented with the scent of incense, but a cloud of rosy pink smoke, scented with the scent of a thousand roses, the national flower of San Juan: the scent of a thousand, thousand roses, mingling with the scent of the roses in the Duomo, that will rise up and up in a great rosy cloud so that all shall know, even the blind shall know, that Juanita has answered. The scent of our island flower shall be Juanita’s answer to our island’s prayers.…” He paused at last. “It is simple and it is dramatic. There can be no flaw in it.”

  “Simple is not the word for it,” said El Gerente. “As for dramatic, the drama will come when El Exaltida discovers that attar of roses instead of incense has been thrown on the coals, with a little red colouring matter for good measure.” Not for nothing had El Gerente, two years ago now, spent a week in the invigorating aura of Scotalanda Yarrrda as represented by Inspector Cockrill, brother of Cousin Hat.

  Tomaso looked at him coldly. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  “A fool by no means. Simply a raving lunatic with no concern for your own neck or the Arcivescovo’s neck or mine. Rosy smoke, indeed! Who will believe it for a moment? Anyone can throw a little bath salts on the thurible coals.”

  “You heard me ask for access to the thurible for some hours, in my shop. Do I need several hours, to throw bath salts on the coals? Arcivescovo, Serenity, take no heed of him. Give me this censer tomorrow morning for an hour or two …” He threw wide his clever hands, shrugging his shoulders up to the lobes of his ears. “Am I not goldsmith to San Juan?”

  “But what can you …?”

  “A sliding door, Serenity: a tiny, sliding door concealing the scented pellet, so arranged that it opens only when the Grand Duke swings the thurible forward, and closes as it swings back. Invisible when the thurible is not actually in use, invisible to anyone examining it, however closely. Let the Grand Duke throw his own incense on the coals, let him arrange and light the coals himself, if he will; let him go over the thurible afterwards with a magnifying glass—still when it is tossed up and forward it will send forth billows of rosy, rose-scented smoke; and still he will never be able to discern that it has been tampered with.”

  “A miraculous thurible!” The Gerente thought it over, shaking his head in wonder. “Clouds of rosy smoke—our national flower, the flower of San Juan’s Day! And …” He grew eager. “And not once only?—not once, Tomaso, but always, would not this be possible? Imagine it!—Juanita’s gift to San Juan, in honour, in celebration of her canonisation—a miraculous thurible which, fed with ordinary incense, sends forth the scent of roses. A new pellet each time—what more simple, Tomaso, eh?”

  “My sons …”

  “Crowds flocking to San Juan to see the miracle take place, each time the censer is used. The touristi!—special vaporetti from the mainland upon every fiesta day, my cousins between them own both the vaporetti … And momentos—miniature censers, Tomaso; you could design a miniature thurible, one copy and we could have them turned out for the touristi by the hundred … Tangiers … El Hamid—we could use him again, more positive specifications this time of course.…”

  “My sons …”

  “Tiny censers for charm-bracelets, that actually worked: my cousin’s children could be employed, perhaps, rolling the little pellets.…”

  “My sons,” said the Arcivescovo, for the third time, forcing up his thin old voice to shout El Gerente down. “No more of this! To stage a ‘miracle’ upon this one occasion to the glory of Juanita—well, perhaps; but to repeat it for mere monetary gain, to profane the piety of our people—it is not to be thought of. Tomaso di Goya …”

  “Do not look at me, Arcivescovo, no such thought ever came to my mind. The moment our single ‘miracle’ is over, I will in your presence dismantle the work I have done.”

  El Gerente bowed his head in shame. “Forgive me, Arcivescovo, I was carried away.” He remembered the horror with which, only three days ago, he had received Tomaso’s proposals regarding the multiplication of Juanita’s crumbs; and crossed himself and muttered a prayer for her intercession on his behalf. But in those three days, he could not help observing, while he might have deteriorated, Tomaso’s attitude had undergone a remarkable change for the better. He eyed his friend warily. There was something odd about this plan of his, something vaguely childish: and Tomaso di Goya was not, on the whole, remarkable for childish attributes of mind.

  The widows came sniggering down the stair, exclaiming at the piously funereal aspect of the little bar which, consistent with the rest of the décor, was in mourning purple with touches of silver and black, right down to black edges round the labels on the bottles; and even, said Mr Cecil, recovering from his rage at being interrupted in so delicious an eavesdropping, black olives in the dishes on the counter. He treated them to a Juanello apiece, calculating the cost exactly and leaving the money with a little note on the bar counter—to the immeasurable astonishment of the next casual customer, who promptly pocketed it. The widows were flattered: but they were anxious about the dear Major—not seen him for hours, so unlike him to leave them unattended and these Juanese were so untrustworthy, could Anything have Happened, was there Anything they should Do …? They chittered and
chattered like a flock of starlings, sipping daintily at their drinks.

  Mr Cecil eyed them uneasily. A bevy of well-to-do relicts—and the Major hard up, solitary, still a little kick left in him, and visibly chafing at the long, fraying tether of his devotion to ‘poor Hat’ … Mr Cecil was fond of Cousin Hat. He liked rather waspish middle-aged ladies, being something of a waspish middle-aged lady himself; and he would not see her outpaced by some second-hand article less in need than herself of the Major’s comfort and care. “What’s this? Gone off on his own?”

  Well, not exactly on his own. That Miss Cockrill had been with him. An old friend, it appeared.…

  Jealousy, jealousy! cried Mr Cecil.

  The ladies, tittering, disclaimed: passing the buck to one another, making dabbing little, fishing little jokes, steely-eyed, behind the jokes, to detect the real truth of one another’s feelings. ‘It’s Mrs Trubshaw, she went quite pale when the Major went off, you know you did, Mrs Trubshaw …!’ ‘Well, I like that—who went off with him herself, that evening in Rome …?’ ‘And what about a certain bunch of flowers in Cortina D’Ampezzo …?’ Mr Cecil drank it all in and did not care for it a bit. Major Bull was hardly acute of observation but even he, surely, must recognise sooner or later if he had not already, that well-padded comfort both of body and bank-balance was, in half a dozen guises, his for the asking. He decided to take a hand. “Well, all I can say, duckies, is do be careful. You wouldn’t want to find yourselves numbers six to twelve in Bluebeard’s little abattoir, now would you?” But he clapped his hand to his mouth. “Oh, dear!—I shouldn’t have said.”

  The ladies put down their Juanellos one after another, the sound of glass upon wood made a clop-clop-clop of regimental precision all along the bar counter. “Bluebeard?”

  Oh, dear, cried Mr Cecil, again, he never should have mentioned it. They must forget all about it, every word, please, please, just forget … And anyway, he added, honestly duckies, sheer exaggeration. “Not more than two at the most, of that I’m certain.”