The Revolution of the Moon

by Andrea Camilleri

  “You did not take revenge,” don Serafino said firmly. “You only served justice. All the Councillors were corrupt, and you had them punished for their corruption. The offense made to the viceroy was merely the result of their profoundly corrupt actions and thoughts. You are not the sort of woman to take revenge. It is not in your nature. There is only justice in your nature.”

  Those words were like a gust of wind that bears the fog away. The veil over the marquesa’s eyes vanished at once.

  Donna Eleonora held out her hand, laid it on top of don Serafino’s, and kept it there.

  “Gracias. You understand me better than I do myself.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  An Ending neither Happy nor Sad

  It was an exhausting morning for donna Eleonora. Between inaugurations and receiving a special visit, she had a lot to do, all without pause.

  The first inauguration involved the Conservatorio dello Spedaletto, which had been entirely renovated and now housed its own endangered virgins; the second was for the Conservatorio of Reformed Magdalens, which welcomed former prostitutes who, owing to illness or age, could no longer ply their trade.

  The ceremonies were both very simple. The marquesa had decreed that there should be no pomp.

  Welcoming her and the princess of Trabia, whom the marquesa had wanted beside her on these occasions, was don Gaetano Currò, the Judge of the Monarchy, brimming with pride over the tremendous job he’d managed to do in such a short time.

  And he had every reason to be proud. They’d been able to rescue two hundred and fifty orphan girls off the streets, and more than two hundred aging prostitutes.

  And now, thanks to donna Eleonora, they had only days of serenity and peace ahead of them.

  Despite the fact that the orphan girls had begged her insistently to say a few words after the benediction given by the bishop of Patti, the marquesa didn’t want to open her mouth.

  She limited herself to hugging and kissing the youngest of the girls, who was only thirteen.

  She did the same at the other refuge as well.

  She hugged and kissed the oldest of the residents, but this time she whispered four words into her ear:

  “Rest well, hermana mía.”

  The third inauguration was for the Conservatorio di Santa Teresa, which followed the other two and was held by the nuns of the same convent. This was the refuge for the already fallen virgins—that is, those who didn’t pass Sidora the midwife’s test, but who had been violated against their will.

  Later she received a visit from the hundred girls for whom the royal dowry had been designated.

  At the end of this very long morning, the marquesa returned to the palace weary but happy.

  * * *

  That afternoon don Esteban de la Tierna, the Grand Visitor, came to pay a farewell visit. After Palermo, don Esteban had been dashing all over the island like a rocket, sending a great many dishonest people to jail, from the chief shipbuilder of Messina and the marquis Aurelio Spanò di Bivona, who was embezzling tax receipts, to the financial officer of Catania and the administrator of Calascibetta, a certain Trupiano. And he had confiscated a very great deal of money, homes, and lands that had been acquired illegally, and it all ended up in the royal coffers.

  “It will be my great honor to inform His Majesty of your lofty merits,” were don Esteban’s last words to donna Eleonora.

  And he exited walking backwards, like a roper, as a sign of respect, never turning his back to her.

  * * *

  That evening, as donna Eleonora and don Serafino were dining together, the conversation turned to the Inquisitor, don Camilo, who had limited himself to writing a formal letter of protest against the conviction of the bishop, but said no more. Apparently he could think of no other arguments.

  Don Serafino told the marquesa that for twenty-three years in the sixteenth century there had been an Inquisitor in Palermo, don Luis Rincón de Páramo, who was such a bloodthirsty fanatic that he wrote down the first and last names of all the hundreds of people he’d had killed. And he added that among all those imprisoned by Páramo there was one born rebel, a man opposed to power and men of power by nature, but who was also a poet, a true poet. His name was Antonio Veneziano.

  “Un poeta? Conoce algunas poesías suyas?”

  “All I can cite from memory are a few of his octaves.”

  “Recite at least one for me.”

  “The octaves are in Sicilian dialect. If you like, I’ll translate it for you afterwards.”

  “Please recite it, entretanto.”

  Don Serafino knew a good ten of them, but at that moment could only remember one. And he didn’t need to ask himself why.

  I was caught by the loveliness

  of your most divine visage,

  your ivory brow, your ebony tress,

  your mouth two rows of pearls the image,

  your eyes where Love and the Graces impress

  love and grace on those who pay you homage.

  Woman, you are of beauty the picture,

  a miracle of God, art, and nature.

  But don Serafino had changed one word.

  He’d turned the tress Veneziano sang of from “golden” to “ebony.”

  And the amazing thing was that he’d done so without realizing it.

  “Would you like me to translate it for you?” he asked.

  “La he entendido perfectamente,” said donna Eleonora.

  * * *

  The following day, which was a Friday, there was a session of the Holy Royal Council. And something out of the ordinary happened.

  That is, as soon as donna Eleonora declared the session open, the Grand Captain of Justice asked permission to speak.

  “I speak,” he said, “on behalf of all the Councillors, who chose to assign me this pleasant task. We of the Council wish that it be put on the record that to a man we consider ourselves supremely honored to have been called upon to participate in the enlightened decisions of the viceroy, donna Eleonora di Mora, marquesa of Castel de Roderigo, and we declare ourselves likewise unanimously ready to follow her in any further decision she may wish to take, as we harbor unlimited faith in her extraordinary, generous, magnificent gifts for governance.”

  Donna Eleonora spoke right after the Grand Captain.

  “I wish to thank you all for the trust you placed in me, now and in future. But what I want to say is that the ‘enlightened decisions,’ as you call them, which I have taken, are only the fruit of an elementary lesson I learned all the years I lived in a convent, which is that Dios he creado el hombre a su imagen y semejanza. Ever since, I have always made sure to respect todos los hombres—meaning those, naturally, who are worthy of the name—for in them the image of God is reflected. It follows, then, that if we do not help those who suffer, a quien sufre la injusticia, a quien se muere de hambre, if we do not help the weakest—and women are always the weakest—we commit not only a sin of omission, but also the much graver sin of blasphemy. That is all. Y ahora, if you don’t mind, let us move on to the subjects for discussion.”

  The secretary stood up, opened his mouth, and then immediately shut it when the Chief of Ceremonies appeared in the doorway, holding a sealed envelope in his hand.

  “I beg your pardon, but . . . ”

  “What is it?” said donna Eleonora.

  “A courrier has just landed with an urgent message from His Majesty the King.”

  “I’ll read it after—”

  “Please excuse me,” the Chief of Ceremonies insisted, “but the envelope says: ‘To be read immediately upon delivery.’”

  “Give it me.”

  The Chief of Ceremonies came forward and handed it to her.

  “Perdonen,” donna Eleonora said to the Councillors as she broke the royal seal.

  She read it, blanched
momentarily, then brought a hand to her brow as though she felt dizzy.

  The Council held its collective breath.

  Then she said:

  “I shall read it in Italian. Forgive any mistakes.”

  She read it in her usual steady voice, without inflection, as though the matter didn’t concern her.

  It is with utmost regret and genuine displeasure that I must order you to return at once to Spain, and to step down, beginning the first day of October, from your functions as Viceroy.

  Pending the appointment of your successor, the functions of Viceroy will be filled pro tempore by the Grand Captain of Justice.

  Your repatriation, we are keen to insist, has nothing to do with your actions, which have, on the contrary, been quite worthy in our eyes, but simply with the fact that since the Viceroy of Sicily, according to the Church of this Monarchy, is the Born Legate of Holiness the Pope, it is not possible for a woman to occupy this high office.

  I have had to bow to this conclusion after receiving a pressing request from the Holy Father.

  Nevertheless, all acts of government decided and passed by you while still in office, until the thirtieth of September, having been achieved with a full respect for the Law and fully within your rights as Vicecroy, shall remain in effect and cannot be abrogated, altered, questioned or mooted by your successor.

  A tomblike silence ensued.

  The Councillors looked dumbfounded in their armchairs.

  The only person to retain her self-possession was donna Eleonora.

  “Obedezco,” she said, facing the king’s vacant throne.

  Then she rose, lightly descended the three stairs, airily extended her hand to the Grand Captain of Justice, and pointed her long, tapered index finger at the thronelet, saying:

  “Ahora vuestro puesto es este.”

  Don Filippo Arcadipane stood up, pale and disconsolate.

  “I’ll not dare take that place,” he said firmly, “so long as you are here.”

  “Please arrange for me to sail on Sunday con mis sirvientas. I would also like the casket with my husband’s mortal remains to travel with me.”

  “It shall be done,” said the Grand Captain.

  “Why are you in such a hurry to leave us?” asked the bishop of Patti.

  His question quickly became a sort of chorus of supplication.

  “Why? Why?”

  Donna Eleonora didn’t answer. Slowly, she looked every one of the Councillors in the eye, one at a time. Then she said.

  “Gracias.”

  And she turned her back and went out of the hall, looking as if she was floating several inches above the ground.

  The first to give free rein to his tears was don Filippo Arcadipane.

  By lunchtime the whole city already knew that donna Eleonora was no longer viceroy, by decree of His Majesty, and that she would be leaving Sunday evening for Spain.

  Little by little, street beggars began to gather in the square in front of the palace, people in rags, crippled and maimed, people missing a leg or an arm, the blind, the sick, the deformed at birth. Every one of them was holding a piece of bread they’d been able to buy because they could now afford it.

  And they came to eat in silence, and in thanks, in front of donna Eleonora.

  The marquesa, meanwhile, was discussing matters with the Grand Captain, who had come to remind her that there was a whole protocol that had to be followed, a ceremony in which the people bid their last farewell to every viceroy leaving the island, and which could not be avoided.

  But donna Eleonora wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Since I’ve been an anomalous viceroy, let the anomaly continue, hasta el final!”

  But don Filippo wouldn’t give in.

  “My lady, I understand your reasons. But it is my duty to inform you that such a gesture on your part might be misunderstood—interpreted, that is, as a refusal to meet with that part of the nobility and populace who, though they may not have always actively supported you, certainly never opposed you.”

  In the end, donna Eleonora let herself be persuaded.

  And they determined that the ceremony would be held the following morning, from nine to noon, in the great hall of Council.

  Then she spent the entire afternoon beginning to pack. That evening, when it was time to eat, she waited a long time for don Serafino, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  At a certain point, donna Eleonora started to get worried. What could have happened to him? Her concern grew so great that she lost what little appetite she’d had.

  And she went to bed without eating.

  Don Serafino, however, had been lying down in his room for hours.

  Having learned from an acquaintance on the street that donna Eleonora had been recalled, he’d rushed to the palace, where he ran into don Filippo Arcadipane, who was on his way out. And he had his bitter confirmation.

  He lacked the courage to go upstairs and meet with donna Eleonora.

  He would have started crying like a little boy.

  And so he went back home, weak in the knees, and threw himself onto his bed in despair.

  At nine o’clock on Saturday morning, the square in front of the palace was mobbed with the seventy-two guilds of Palermo and the patri onusti. A delegation consisting of two consuls, two fathers, and the Magistrate of Commerce was the first to be received.

  Between princes, dukes, marquis, counts and barons, the representatives of the nobility numbered about a hundred.

  Then came the turn of the high royal functionaries. The protonotary, the secretary of the Holy Royal Council and . . .

  Donna Eleonora really hadn’t expected to see the court physician appear before her with the red eyes of one who’s been crying his heart out.

  As don Serafino was bending down to kiss her hand, she said to him softly:

  “I shall expect you for supper esta noche. Es mi última orden.”

  The marquesa’s afternoon was spent entirely with the Grand Captain, the Judge of the Monarchy, and the secretary of the Council, seeing to the transmission of her orders to her eventual successor. Donna Eleonora’s hand grew weary from signing her name so many hundreds of times.

  When they had finished, it was already dark outside.

  Returning to her apartment, she asked the chief chambermaid if don Serafino had arrived.

  “Yes, he’s in the sitting room.”

  “He’ll forgive me if I’m a little late.”

  She wanted to undress, bathe, scent herself, and put on a clean but very simple dress, a household garment. In so doing, she wanted to show herself to don Serafino as she felt herself to be in reality: just another woman, and not the viceroy she had been.

  Yet, without wanting to, she achieved the opposite result. If earlier she had been like a fruit covered in marvelous foliage, now, without leaves, the fullness, color, and perfection of the fruit was like an explosion of beauty.

  “Shall we go to the table?” she asked, opening the door to the sitting room.

  Upon seeing her, don Serafino was unable to stand up at first.

  She spoke only at the beginning.

  “Why didn’t you come yesterday?”

  “I didn’t have the strength.”

  “I was worried.”

  “I beg you please to forgive me. I was also . . . ”

  “You were also?”

  “I was afraid to inconvenience you. Surely you had a great many things to do . . . ”

  “Your presence has never been ‘inconvenient.’”

  And they didn’t exchange another word. They even avoided looking at each other. Then, inevitably, they came to the end.

  Donna Eleonora rose. Don Serafino did likewise, but with great effort.

  Donna Eleonora closed her eyes, reopened them, and took one step towards him. D
on Serafino did the same. They were very close to each other.

  “We must say adios,” said donna Eleonora.

  Her voice was barely a breath.

  And she closed her eyes again. And don Serafino saw a tear, just one, a pearl, fall from her left eye and roll ever so slowly down her cheek, stop for a moment before dropping off, and . . .

  His right hand caught it in his open palm. He then squeezed it tight in his closed fist, wishing that tear could penetrate his flesh to the point of entering his very blood.

  And that miracle may even have occurred, as don Serafino heard his own voice say:

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Cómo?” said donna Eleonora, opening her eyes and looking at him in dismay.

  “I’ll come with you,” don Serafino repeated in a firm tone.

  “Pero aquí tiene una madre, una hermana . . . ”

  “They’ll find a way to accept it. It would take me only a week, no more, to leave my affairs in order.”

  “Pero en España . . . ”

  “I’ll work as a medical doctor, as I do here. When your husband fell ill, I became friends with don Juan de Torres, the physician sent by His Majesty, and we still write to each other from time to time . . . He’ll help me out.”

  “Le esperaré,” said donna Eleonora.

  Her hand then hovered in the air, light as a butterfly, and came forward and caressed don Serafino’s cheek.

  “I can only promise you a dinner invitation tres veces a la semana,” said the marquesa.

  “That will suffice for me.”

  The Admiral of the Fleet had made a powerful warship available to the marquesa. The time of departure had been set for sundown, but the people of Palermo had started to gather and crowd the port in the early afternoon.

  A thousand Spanish soldiers were arrayed along the road that led from the viceroy’s palace to the port, and another five hundred were lined up on both sides of great wooden wharf below the ship, which was flying the flags of Spain and Sicily from its bulwark.