After glancing at the throne, the viceroy gave the floor to the Admiral of the Fleet, don Arcangelo Laferla, Count of Naso.
There was actually no need for the count even to open his mouth, in as much as everyone knew that he was in cahoots with the chief of the Messina shipyard.
Therefore, in the twinkling of an eye, poor Captain Aloisio Putifarre found himself demoted, kicked out of the Navy, and sentenced to prison as the sole party responsible for the accident.
The secretary stood up again, but don Angel signaled to him to approach. The secretary stopped in front of the three stairs. With a gesture of the hand the viceroy invited him to climb the steps, and when the man came up to him, he whispered something in his ear.
The secretary then ran out of the hall. A short while later he returned with Foti following behind him holding a screen under his arm, and Miccichè carrying a urinal covered by a white cloth.
This had happened twice in the preceding month, where don Angel had an urgent need to relieve himself, but, between stepping down from the thronelet, crossing the hall, reaching his apartment, getting to the privy, urinating, coming back, crossing the hall again and climbing back up the three steps, he made them all lose a good hour at the very least. The solution found by the protonotary and brought discreetly to the viceroy was the best they could come up with.
The two ushers unfolded the screen in front of the thronelet and then disappeared behind it. Amid the silence, all present could hear the powerful, labored breathing of the Viceroy as he stood up, and then the sound of the liquid squirting into the porcelaine vase. It took a good ten minutes. Finally Miccichè reappeared with the chamber pot and left the hall, while Miccichè, after folding the screen back up, followed behind him.
The session could now resume.
But it did not.
Because everyone realized that don Angel was now sitting with his eyes squeezed shut and trembling so violently all over that his wattles were flapping back and forth.
“What the devil is wrong with him now?” the protonotary asked with concern.
“Why is he trembling?” don Alterio asked the bishop.
“Perhaps he’s now feeling the need to empty his bowels as well,” Turro Mendoza ventured.
Without opening his eyes, the viceroy said:
“Tengo frio.”
They all balked. He was cold? On the third of September with a still August-like sun hot enough to split rocks?
The secretary dashed out of the hall, went to speak with Foti and Miccichè, then returned to his place.
Don Cono Giallombardo summoned his courage and leaned down to speak softly with don Arcangelo Laferla. Just to be safe, he put his hand over his mouth.
“Is it not time perhaps to inform His Majesty that our dear viceroy is not in good health?”
Don Arcangelo looked at him doubtfully.
“Are you serious or just joking?”
“I’m serious.”
“And so what we need, instead of don Angel, is a viceroy of sound body and mind who can think straight?”
“That’s right,” said don Cono, ending the discussion.
Two personal manservants came into the hall with a blanket, which they spread over don Angel’s legs.
Moments later, the viceroy signaled to the secretary that he could speak now.
Don Ernesto Rutè stood up and began.
“Next on the agenda is a petition from the Prosecutor of Castrogiovanni—”
“Eh?” don Angel interrupted him.
The secretary cleared his throat, coughed a few times, and repeated in a louder voice.
“We’re turning to the petition from—”
“Eh?” don Angel said again.
Had he gone deaf?
The secretary took a deep breath, reopened his mouth, and—
“Eh?” don Angel said yet again, before the other had resumed speaking.
At that point everyone realized that this was not a case of deafness. The viceroy was addressing someone whose words he didn’t understand and who was surely not in the hall. Don Angel then opened his eyes wide, as if in great surprise, and ever so slowly turned his head towards the throne.
A few minutes went by.
CHAPTER TWO
The Grand Captain of Justice’s
Brief Day of Glory
The Councillors silently sought each other’s counsel, exchanging only quick glances and minimal movements of the head to say yes or no. And they all came to the same conclusion. And thus the Grand Captain of Justice stood up, approached the thronelet, climbed the three stairs, and brought himself up to the viceroy’s level. Don Angel sat there motionless, his eyes still goggled wide, and the Grand Captain, with a touch of fright, became immediately convinced that those eyes could no longer see anything. There was a sort of transparent veil over the pupils, a very fine veil, made as if of air but stronger than iron, that henceforth separated the viceroy from the world of the living.
To be certain, the Captain reached out ever so slowly with one hand and with the tip of his forefinger lightly touched—as though afraid to come into contact with his viceroy’s flesh—the tip of the viceroy’s nose.
There was no reaction.
And so he started to press his finger harder, and little by little, don Angel’s head began, under the pressure of his thrust, to fall backwards, like a puppet’s.
There was no doubt.
Sitting on the viceroy’s thronelet was a corpse.
“I think he’s dead,” the prince of Ficarazzi, Grand Captain of Justice, said under his breath.
The Councillors all froze, like statues of salt.
The first to rouse himself from the general stupefaction was the protonotary, who stood up and exclaimed:
“We need the court physician at once, to ascertain—”
“Ascertain my ass!” the prince of Ficarazzi retorted, having meanwhile recovered.
This was a situation from which they could all profit immensely.
The protonotary looked at the Grand Captain in shock. Why didn’t he want any verification of death to be performed?
“But it would be only right . . . ” he insisted.
“And what do we know about don Angel’s illness?” the prince cut him short. “Maybe he just looks dead but has only fainted or fallen asleep. If he wakes up and finds a doctor beside him, he might mistake our haste for a desire to see him dead.”
“So what should we do, then?” asked the bishop.
This question was exactly what the prince had been waiting for.
“I propose that we carry on with our Council session as though nothing has happened. When we’ve finished, if don Angel still has shown no signs of life, we’ll call the court physician.”
“But how will we know whether the viceroy is in agreement with what you put forward?” the protonotary asked doubtfully.
“Silence is consent,” said the archbishop, who was a master slyboots and had immediately understood the prince’s suggestion.
The protonotary said nothing.
And in the hour and a half that followed, the Councillors took care not only of their own little business matters, but also those of their relatives, friends, and friends of friends. Whole fiefs were transferred from one noble house to another by decree, unsettled inheritances ended up going places where the testators could never have imagined they would go, people with the consciences of wolves were named administrators of Justice and Crown properties, appointed tutors of extremely rich orphan girls, put in charge of miserably failing enterprises. Last on the agenda, a large biannual subsidy, at the request of Simone Trecca, marquis of la Trigonella, was approved for a charitable institution that he had founded the previous year at his own expense.
The protonotary and secretary then stood up, with the former holding the great register of appro
ved measures and the latter holding a quill and ink, and went over to the Grand Captain.
“Your signature,” said the protonotary.
“It’s not yet time. That would be against the rules and the law,” the Grand Captain said, dismissing them.
As the two were heading back to their places, he turned and addressed the Councillors.
“For the time being, I think the fewer people know about the Viceroy’s condition, the better. Therefore, let the secretary go and tell the court physician that don Angel has fainted, but without making a big fuss about it. We don’t want to arouse people’s suspicions.”
His tone was peremptory.
It was well known that the law stated in writing that in the case of the sudden death of the viceroy, his position should be temporarily filled by the Grand Captain of Justice, who would remain in power until the arrival of a new viceroy from Spain.
Upon entering, the court physician, having been informed by the secretary that don Angel had lost consciousness, found all the Councillors standing and gathered at the foot of the three stairs, looking quite worried.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
“A minute before the secretary came to get you. We didn’t waste any time,” said the Grand Captain.
The doctor climbed the three stairs and immediately realized there was nothing more to be done.
He listened to the viceory’s heart, felt for his pulse, brought his ear to his mouth, and then shook his head in sorrow.
“He didn’t faint. He’s dead,” he said to the Councillors. “His heart must have given out, no longer able to support all that fat.”
The court physician was quite surprised at the reaction to his words. The Councillors gave themselves over to their grief, making a pitiful scene that touched his heart. The bishop raised his hands to heaven, then fell to his knees in prayer; the prince of Ficarazzi buried his face in his hands; the duke of Batticani started crying without restraint; the marquis of Roccalumera and the count of Naso embraced and consoled each other; while the baron of Pachino, beyond consolation, muttered:
“What a terrible misfortune! What an irreparable loss!”
Then the prince of Ficarazzi, still visibly shaken, said that unfortunately it was the duty of His Excellency the bishop to break the bad news to don Angel’s wife and express the profound grief and deepest regret felt by all the Councillors.
Once the bishop had gone out, the prince ordered the secretary to inform the chief guardian that all outsiders present at that moment in the Palace must be thrown out pronto, and told him to send for the Chief of Ceremonies at once.
When the latter arrived, he whispered something in his ear. The Chief of Ceremonies went and looked at the corpse, scratched the back of his head in doubt, came back, and spoke a long time into the Grand Captain’s ear. At first the captain shook his head “no,” but at the end he threw up his hands and said:
“Well! If there’s no other solution . . . ”
Fifteen minutes later the Chief of Ceremonies returned, followed by five manservants, all strapping young men, carrying the bier of Santa Rosalia, normally in the chapel, holding it by its long shafts. The Saint’s statue had been removed from it and laid on the sacristy floor.
The six manservants set the bier down at the bottom of the three stairs, climbed the steps, lifted don Angel’s body with great difficulty, then laid it onto the bier. Then, shouting “Heave!” in chorus, they hoisted the shafts onto their shoulders and exited the hall as everyone present bowed deeply, their heads practically touching the floor.
The court physician asked if he could leave. Before replying, the prince slowly climbed the three stairs and tried to sit down on the thronelet left vacant by the dead viceroy. It turned out, however, to be be too high for him. Planting his hands on the seat, the prince tried to hoist himself up, but was still unable.
At this point the court physician said:
“If Your Excellency will allow me . . . ”
As he was a large man, he slipped his hands under the prince’s arms, lifted him into the air, and set him down on the thronelet the way one does with a child.
The prince’s feet remained in the air, some three palms off the ground. He was swimming inside the thronelet, so much room was there.
“You may go,” the Grand Captain said, now that he was seated.
The court physician bowed and went out.
“According to the law, as of this moment I assume the full functions of the office of viceroy. And in keeping with the rule, you must all now pay obeisance to me,” the Grand Captain ordered them.
“His excellency the bishop is not present,” the protonotary pointed out.
“Let us proceed just the same,” the prince replied.
For a moment, nobody budged. Indeed nobody felt like bowing in obeisance to the prince of Ficarazzi, who, though he might well be the Grand Captain of Justice, was still a puffed-up gasbag, according the bishop’s definition. But they had no choice. The duke of Batticani rose, stopped at the bottom of the three steps, knelt down, left knee touching the ground, put his right hand over his heart, bowed his head, stood back up and returned to his place. The others did the same.
The prince began to feel like such a giant that he had the impression the thronelet had become too small for him
“Bring me the register, so that I may sign it,” he ordered.
His name now carried the same weight as that of the King of Spain.
For a brief moment he felt dizzy.
The assistant Chief of Ceremonies had accompanied Bishop Turro Mendoza into the viceroy’s apartment and, after informing Donna Eleonora, had sat him down in an armchair in the antechamber and then left.
The bishop had waited and waited until he forgot he was sitting there waiting and lost himself in thoughts of the choir of altar boys, for whom he had special intentions. At last a door opened and donna Eleonora appeared.
The bishop rose to his feet but had to sit back down at once because he’d gone weak in the knees. Based on the rumors, he’d imagined he would find a beautiful woman before him, but apparently there were limits to his imagination.
The young woman looking at him, waiting for him to speak, was raven-haired, tall, slender, and elegant in her Spanish dress. The finest painter on the face of the earth could never have portrayed her as she really was. And what eyes! Very large and black as ink, they were like a dark and scary night in which one would have been more than happy, however, to lose oneself for all eternity.
The bishop managed to rise, and opened his mouth to speak, but with a gesture of the hand, with fingers slender, harmonious, and interminable, donna Eleonora stopped him.
“Ha muerto?”
How did she know?
The bishop was in any case taken aback by the fact that there was neither anguish nor grief, or anything else, in donna Eleonora’s question. It was a simple question and nothing more. As if she had asked about the death of a dog, and not that of her own husband.
“Yes,” he replied. “And by the authority of the Council, I—” Donna Eleonora repeated the same hand gesture.
“Lo han matado?” The tone was the same. But what did this woman think the Councillors were? Did she somehow think that don Angel had been slaughtered like a bull in the arena? With everyone looking on? If it had happened in a secluded place, at night, then perhaps . . .
“The viceroy died a natural death. The Lord called him to his side,” he replied.
“Por favor, I want you to tell the Gran Capitan de Justicia that necesito hablar con él ahora mismo.”
Then, without another peep or change of expression, donna Eleonora nodded by way of taking leave, turned her back to him, opened the door, and vanished.
The bishop sat there spellbound. What was that woman made of anyway? Stone?
What kind of heart was hidin
g behind those bottomless black eyes?
All at once it occurred to him that since her arrival, donna Eleonora had not once felt the need to confess. Too bad. Had she taken on a priest as her spiritual guide, he would certainly have known more about this woman who made him so uncomfortable.
“Luckily she won’t be staying around much longer,” he said to himself, exiting the antechamber.
In the corridor he crossed paths with the bier bearing the viceroy’s body on its way to the viceregal apartment.
When he entered the hall of the Council, he saw that they had all left. He was about to turn and leave as well, when he was stopped by a voice.
“Where are you going? I’ve been waiting for you.”
He turned back around. The Grand Captain was still sitting on the thronelet. He wasn’t very visible from a distance, rather like a worm on the trunk of an olive tree. The bishop approached.
“You’re the only one who hasn’t yet bowed in obeisance to me.”
The bishop hastily knelt and stood back up.
“Did you inform the widow?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The Holy Royal Council will meet again this afternoon at five o’clock. We shall discuss the funeral ceremony, which must be stately and equal to the greatness of don Angel.”
“Ah, I almost forgot,” said the bishop. “Donna Eleonora wants to speak with you.”
“Is she as beautiful as they say?”
The bishop shook his head.
“There are no words to describe her.”
“Very well, then, I’ll see her after I eat.”
“She said she wants to see you at once.”
“Oh, all right then,” the Grand Captain said with irritation.
The bishop left. If the viceroy had been alive, the captain would have gone at once. Now, however, donna Eleonora had to learn who gave the orders around there.
He remained a while longer in the hall, alone, relishing his little throne.
At half past four Bongiovanni, the master carpenter, went into the hall and replaced the iron-reinforced thronelet that don Angel had used with an older thronelet that he had hastily pounded back into working shape. He’d tilted the seat so that the Grand Captain could remain as though standing, even while appearing to be seated. It would make his diminuitive stature less obvious.
The Revolution of the Moon Page 2