“Well, what could they threaten to do?”
“They’ll blow up San Giulio.”
“Ba-boom!”
“That strikes me as a clear case of defamation. I’ve known many abstract painters personally: they were all responsible husbands and fathers. One was even a grandfather.”
“I knew one who was a wife and mother. She was an aunt, too, because her sister was married with two children.”
“I’m not going to argue the point,” muttered the Milanese visitor, “I’m just saying what I’ve heard.”
“Where did you hear it?”
“On the train.”
“Oh, that’s great. People ride the train just so they can tell tall tales, since no one can check their facts. Once I shared a passenger compartment with a guy who claimed he’d been abducted by Martians.”
“Oh, now that you mention it, let’s not forget about UFOs.”
“What do you mean?”
“Flying saucers. Space aliens. They’re landing everywhere these days, couldn’t they have landed on the island of San Giulio?”
“If that’s what happened, then Charon would have seen little green men with horns.”
“Then it’s dangerous for us to be standing here.”
“I like the way you think. Let’s go get a beer.”
But something keeps them from walking away. A thrill of excitement surges through the crowd. A tiny dot of light is moving away from the island and advancing toward the Orta shore.
“Someone’s coming toward us.”
“A Martian?”
The onlookers who have telescopes squint into the darkness, eager to be the first to provide a report about the “someone” who is crossing the invisible boundary between mystery and dry land.
“He’s digging his oars too deep. He’s working twice as hard as he needs to.”
“There’s an umbrella hooked over his arm.”
“Oh, then that’s Signor Anselmo.”
“What did I tell you? It’s all just one of the baron’s tricks. Now he’s sending his butler to dictate his demands.”
One uncouth young man leans out toward the rower and beats time with his voice.
“Oop-la! Oop-la!”
“What are you doing?” observes an expert on Olympic regattas. “Don’t you see it’s a single sculler? There’s no coxswain on a single scull.”
Signor Anselmo—because that’s exactly who it is, recognizable not only by his umbrella but also by his white hair—steps out of the boat and onto the embarcadero, panting.
“Where … where … is the mayor?”
“What did I tell you? This is one of the mayor’s ideas.”
“Hello, here I am. Who asked for the mayor?”
Signor Anselmo clears his throat and adjusts the umbrella handle on his forearm. This is a solemn moment. Everybody hushes one another, producing a tremendous din.
“Mister Mayor,” Anselmo begins, “I am authorized to deliver the following message to you:
“ ‘First point: the island of San Giulio is under military occupation by the 24-L Gang.’ ”
“What did he say: 24-M?”
“No, 24-N.”
“L. Like Lamberto,” Anselmo explains. “May I continue now?”
“I would be grateful if you did,” says the mayor of Orta. “And all of you (addressing the crowd), stop interrupting him. Great Caesar’s Ghost!”
“ ‘Second point: the mayor of Orta is hereby appointed to summon within forty-eight hours the presidents of the twenty-four banks owned by Baron Lamberto.’ Here is a list of the presidents and their direct phone numbers, Mister Mayor.”
“And who is supposed to pay for all these long-distance and intercontinental phone calls? Look at this … Zurich, Hong Kong, Singapore … This will clean us out!”
“ ‘Third point,’ ” said Anselmo, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, “ ‘the ferryman Duilio is appointed to bring supplies to the island every morning at eight o’clock.’ Where is Duilio?”
“Here.”
“This is your expense account. In this envelope you’ll find the money. Anything that’s left over is yours, as a tip.”
“What if I’m not willing?”
“ ‘Fourth point,’ ” Duilio resumes without answering him. “ ‘If these orders are not carried out, the town of Orta will be bombarded from the island.’ ”
Nobody says another word. Matters have suddenly turned serious.
“ ‘Fifth point. It is forbidden to approach the island by boat, by swimming, underwater, or by air. Signed: The 24-L.’ ”
Anselmo is done. He sketches out a bow, mutters a hasty “buona sera,” turns his rowboat around, and heads back to the island. You can hear the dull splash of the oars entering the water. Digging a little too deep, as someone already pointed out.
But now no one feels like making any observations. You can only hear whispers, murmurs, people coughing. The mayor is hurrying to town hall to get on the phone. He calls the prefect, the Minister of the Interior, and his wife, who is at the beach in Viareggio. Then, with a sigh, he begins dialing the numbers from the list that Anselmo gave him.
The curious onlookers who are still looking across at the island now have the impression that it is becoming darker and more compact. The lights that once punctuated its mass are dark now. It’s as if the island has cut off all contact with the mainland, and is preparing for a long siege.
This is how it must have looked, before the year 1000, to the Emperor Otto when Berengarius, the king of Italy, took refuge there, and it took weeks before the emperor could force the king to surrender. Once Berengarius was defeated, his wife Willa took refuge on the island of San Giulio, with all the kingdom’s treasure. Otto was forced to begin his siege over again from scratch, and it lasted a lot longer this time: some say two months, others say three months. In the end, they came to an understanding: the queen handed over the treasure to the emperor and in exchange he allowed her to go where she wanted. Final score: one all. Old stories involving people who’ve been dead for a thousand years. The stones of the island, however, still remember and now they assume a menacing appearance in the dark.
“Come on, let’s go to bed,” the crowd says.
“Come on.”
THE BANDITS ARRIVED BY WATER, IN small groups, in a variety of disguises. A few rented a boat in Pettenasco. They wore Boy Scout uniforms, and explained that they had come from Domodossola on a field trip. Before dawn, a few others stole a sailboat that belonged to the chief physician of the hospital at Omegna. Later, people at Pella would remember a pair of cheerful and likable monks who paid to be ferried over to the island by motorboat; after paying the skipper, they also gave the boat a benediction. The skipper kidded them:
“St. Julius didn’t need a motorboat to get across the lake, though, did he? He just spread his cape on the surface of the water, stepped onto it, and walked across the lake, no sails, no motor.”
“We’re not saints,” the two fake monks replied, “and as you can see, we don’t wear capes, because it’s not the right season.”
Once on the island, the bandits foregathered in the ancient basilica, as if they were a group of pilgrims. The chief issued his commands: this one keeps an eye on the lakeshore, that one climbs the belltower, these others take the machine guns and small-bore cannons, the last three are to come with him, to the villa of Baron Lamberto.
They knocked at the door, Anselmo came to answer, and the first thing they asked was:
“Is it raining in there?”
“No, why?”
“Excuse me, but we see you’re carrying an umbrella.”
“I just like it. It’s something I remember my old father by; he was an umbrella-maker from Gignese.”
“Good for you, you honor your father and mother. Now get inside, lock the door, hand over the key, and summon the baron.”
“Who shall I announce, if I may ask?”
“Take your pick, this is a pistol, and that’s
a submachine gun. Get moving.”
Anselmo obeyed and hurried to the baron, who was training with a punching ball and greeted him enthusiastically.
“Watch this, Anselmo. Look at this cross, observe how I lunge, admire the feints, note the movement of the legs. Tomorrow I want you to run over to Milan, I’ll give you the address of a gym, and you’ll go find a boxer willing to train me. I’d say a middleweight, what do you think? Or should we look for a middle-heavy weight? As for the pay, just offer him twice what he asks, we shouldn’t overdo it.”
“Baron, may I speak?”
“Tell me, Anselmo. What’s the matter? Why is your umbrella trembling?”
“There are some gentlemen downstairs, Your Lordship.…”
“Send them away, I’m not expecting anyone.”
“That’s not possible, Baron. They’re armed.”
“Armed … what do they look like?”
“I couldn’t say, Your Lordship. They have masks over their faces.”
“Masks! There must be some mistake, Carnival was months ago.”
“If Your Lordship would like to hide in the attic, or in the basement, I can tell those gentlemen that you’re not here right now, that they should try stopping by tomorrow.”
“No, Anselmo, that’s not right. You’re too old to be exposed to certain risks. I’ll come downstairs immediately. In the meantime, offer those gentlemen some orangeade or a chamomile tea, or whatever they like.”
Anselmo went back down to where the bandits were waiting.
“His Lordship the Baron will be with you immediately.”
“Exactly, that’s precisely what he must do.”
The baron took off his track suit and put on a pair of blue jeans and a light blue t-shirt, and he welcomed his visitors with an open, welcoming smile.
“Good morning, gentlemen. How can I be of assistance to you?”
With a nod of the head, the chief signaled two of his men, who moved off to scout the villa from top to bottom.
“Your Lordship,” the chief said, “you are our prisoner.”
“I don’t recall declaring war on anyone,” the baron replied, “nor do I remember losing any battles.”
“Your answer,” said the chief, “clearly shows that you are a brave man. I congratulate you. I hate dealing with people who wet their pants in fear the minute they see a gun. That however does not change the situation. Courageous though you may be, you are still our prisoner.”
“Whose prisoner, if I may ask? You can’t expect me to surrender to the first stranger who happens by. Introduce yourself, introduce your friends, and then we’ll see.”
“You,” the bandit chief went on, “are a prisoner of the 24-L.”
“What did you say? The 24-M?”
“No, L, Your Lordship. L as in Lamberto.”
“What a coincidence! That happens to be my name.”
“It’s our name, too, Your Lordship. There are twenty-four of us and we’re all named Lamberto.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” said the baron, “in fact, a pleasure multiplied by twenty-four. I never thought my name was so common. Aside from myself, I’ve only met three Lamberti in my life: one in Milan, one in Venice, and one in Constantinople, though he was from Forlí. He happened to be in Turkey in business; he was a wholesaler of jams and marmalades. I remember I asked him the time in the street. And do you know what he said to me? He said: “It’s time to go drink a beer. Come with me.” And that’s how we chanced to meet. Speaking of beer, Anselmo, you still haven’t offered these gentlemen anything to drink …”
“Thanks, maybe later,” the chief broke in. “First you must listen closely to what I have to say. First of all, don’t worry about the weapons, we have no intention of hurting you in any way, if you accept our conditions.”
“Chief,” (the two men that went to inspect the villa had returned and one of them, quite boorishly, interrupted the conversation) “everything’s under control. But there are some strange people up in the attic. They claim to be the baron’s employees, and their job is to take turns repeating his name, day and night. One of them is sitting at a table, saying ‘Lamberto, Lamberto, Lamberto,’ and he refused to stop, even when we showed him the pistol.”
“That must be Signor Bergamini,” the baron explained. “He’s a calm gentleman, very devoted to his work.”
“What’s this all about?” the bandit chief demanded.
“It’s just my idea of fun,” the baron replied, “the whim of a millionaire. I like to know that there’s always someone with my name on their lips. It’s gratifying, like scratching an itch. In other words, it’s just a hobby. Do you have any objections?”
“Absolutely not,” the chief assured him. “It doesn’t interfere with our plans.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” replied the baron, winking an eye at the unfortunate Anselmo, who was white as a ghost. “For that matter, I pay them handsomely. You wouldn’t want to interfere with their right to work, I trust.”
“I already told you I don’t,” the chief said again. “In fact, it’s a pleasure for us as well, because we’re called Lamberto just like you.”
“In fact, that’s astonishing to me. Not even one of you is named Giuseppe, Reginaldo, or Stanislao? How did you manage to put together twenty-four people with this same name?”
“We put an ad in the classified section of the newspaper,” said the chief. “Now, enough chitchat, let’s get down to brass tacks.”
“You can also say ‘let’s get down to business,’ ” the baron pointed out.
“Here’s how matters stand. The island is under military occupation. The villa is isolated from the rest of the world and the Milky Way. You, Your Lordship, are our prisoner. In order to regain your liberty, you must pay us a million dollars for each of your twenty-four banks. That’s a grand total of twenty-four million dollars.”
“Plus tax?” the baron asked, without turning a hair. “Plus registration stamps?”
If the bandit chief answered him, no one heard what he said, because at that very moment his nephew Ottavio entered the room, accompanied by the bandit who had captured him on his return from Orta with his pockets full of sleeping pills.
“Uncle dear, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, Ottavio. All sizzle and not much steak.”
“Ha, ha,” snickered the bandit chief. “For a line like that, I’d almost be willing to give you a discount.”
“Do I strike you as the type who haggles over the price?” Baron Lamberto asked him. And without waiting for an answer, he stood up, announced that he intended to resume training with the punching ball, and left the room, followed by bandits with weapons in their hands.
“This evening you will take a boat and go to Orta …” said the bandit chief to Anselmo.
“I don’t know how to row,” whined Anselmo.
“You’ll learn as you go,” said the chief.
And that is how the invasion of the island of San Giulio began.
As the evening shadows lengthened, Anselmo climbed into a boat to perform the mission he’d been assigned. He was so upset that he dropped his umbrella into the lakewater. At precisely that moment, Signor Giacomini, from the attic, reeled in his fishing line and the hook caught the umbrella. Signor Anselmo refused to set out without his umbrella. One of the bandits had to go upstairs to get it for him.
“It’s soaking wet,” Anselmo complained. “Give me a chance to dry it off.”
He ran to get his hairdryer, and he dried the umbrella inside and out. Finally he set off for Orta. The rest of what happened you’ve already heard.
NOW THERE’S A SPECTACLE TWENTY-FOUR hours a day in Orta. The island is surrounded by a tight cordon of boats filled with policemen, keeping an eye on the bandits. Around this first circle there’s a second circle of boats packed to the gunwales with rubberneckers and special correspondents keeping an eye on the police. All over the lake, whether the sun is shining or rain is falling, other news professionals
and curious dilettantes come and go in powerboats or take advantage of the wind to do a little sailing. At night, the boats are lit up with spotlights, flashlights, carbide lamps, candles, and torches. All that’s missing is fireworks, because it’s not the feast day of St. Julius.
The old town is flooded with tourists who prefer adventurous vacations to sleepy holidays. There’s not a single vacancy in the hotels of Lake Orta, Verbano, or Ossola. Camp grounds spring up like mushroom patches along the lakeshore, around towns midway up the slope, in the forests, and in the subalpine valleys. Journalists, radio announcers, and television news anchors have arrived from the five parts of the world, because Baron Lamberto is famous from the North Pole to the South Pole on account of his banks. So not only the Italians, but also the Swiss, the Burgundians, the Americans, and the Afro-Asiatics want to know every last detail about every development that concerns him. There are newsmen camped out under the porticoes in the town square, and others perched on balconies and roofs. There are spyglasses and telescopes aimed at the island from every scenic outlook along the switchbacks and hairpin curves along the roads that run around the lake, both the eastern and the western shores. There are powerful telephoto lenses observing constantly from atop the bell towers of Pogno, San Maurizio d’Opaglio, Alzo, Pella, Corconio, Lortallo, and Vacciago; though not actually on the tippy-tops of the bell towers, because they are too pointy, but actually from the windowsills of the belfries.
Other points of observation that are much vied over by the press are these:
—the Belvedere of Quarna, where the beer is always chilled;
—the sanctuary of the Madonna del Sasso, perched high above the lake;
—a tavern in Valstrona, where you can’t really see a thing, but which serves an excellent polenta with rabbit;
—the tower of Buccione, built in the twelfth century, but still in excellent shape;
—the monastery of Mount Mesma, where the monks are very clever about collecting rainwater, but offer their guests a savory dessert wine;
—the sanctuary of the Madonna della Bocciola;
—and of course, high behind Orta, on the highest point of the promontory, the open square of the Sacred Mount, from which, if a thunderstorm begins, one can quickly reach shelter in the chapels where colorful terracotta statues, coated with dust and riddled with age, silently recount the story of St. Francis.
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