By a strange coincidence they sat at exactly the same table as Donati had seen in his dream, facing each other, as in the dream. Feeling warm, Lina fanned herself with her handkerchief. She let her mantle fall on to her shoulders and rested her elbow on the table. Donati watched her, without saying a word.
For several minutes past, Donati had appeared strangely ill at ease. He gave disjointed, irrelevant replies, and eventually the words died on his lips. Lina, a little rosy from the heat, and bright-eyed behind her mask, as in the dream, talked enough for two. She finally noticed the discomposure Donati was incapable of mastering, and after an even more incoherent response than before from him, she said, ‘Oh … what’s wrong with you?’
He reddened. After all, really … what was wrong with him? It was ridiculous! Incredibly, his dream last night seemed to have rendered him foolish for an entire day! And he shrugged his shoulders, openly laughing at himself. ‘Bah!’ he said. ‘What’s wrong is that I’m an ass. It’s the silliest thing! And if I were to conceal it from you, I’d be doubly silly. Let me tell you!’ And he recounted the dream that had come true in every respect, except for one detail which he did not mention, of course, or rather he adjusted to spare her embarrassment, telling her that in the dream she had confessed to being in love with him, no less!
Donati laughed again, wholeheartedly, as he gave a blow by blow account of his weird dream, which became even more absurd in the retelling. He laughed at how strangely affected he had been by the recurrence of some of the details of his dream. At first she blushed. She listened to him in silence, with her chin in her hand, not looking at him any more, nor laughing. When he had finished, she gave a faint smile, by way of some kind of response – it was the best she could manage – and she stood up. They left hurriedly, conversing sporadically, sometimes at a loss for words.
Donati was not quite sure whether he had said something foolish, but he had the vague feeling that he would have given a month’s salary not to have told that story, indeed not to have had any story to tell. The feast day ended very quietly, and cheerlessly.
Every year, the day after the holiday, the three friends used to go for lunch in the country. This time Lina was unwell, and there was no outing. Donati desperately wished that day could have been spent the same way as every other year, because he was still bothered by the dream and by his blathering on about it, and he wished the whole thing was dead and buried, so they could continue to do what they had always done, and not give it any more thought. However, they spent that evening at home together, as usual. Lina appeared a little late, looking like a woman with a migraine, but calm and serene. Donati asked her how she was. She stared at him so hard, he felt riveted by those two eyes as if by two nails, and she replied very brusquely, ‘Fine.’
That was the first evening of coolness between them. From then onwards there were several such evenings. Lina sewed, Donati played the piano or read, and Corsi did his best to strike up a conversation, to which his wife would respond in monosyllables, keeping her eyes fixed on her needlework, and Donati with a kind of grunt, without abandoning his book or his cigar. Even Corsi, expansive and good-humoured by nature, also became taciturn and dispirited. There was an atmosphere of sullenness in his house that cast a pall over everything. They would part early, Lina hardly holding out her hand: sometimes she appeared only for a moment to say goodnight.
Poor Donati could not forgive himself. He felt at fault, but the greater fault was to exaggerate the harm he had done, by his guilty demeanour. And he called on all the saints to give him the courage to take Lina aside, once and for all, and say to her, ‘Come on, tell me, what’s the matter? What’s happened? What have I done wrong?’ But this simplest of questions became the most difficult thing in the world. This new behaviour, this reserve, this unaccustomed coldness changed her into a completely different woman, a woman who caused the most eloquent pleas to die on his lips, leaving him tongue-tied and shackled in his movements. On one of these evenings, turning round suddenly, he caught Lina staring at him, with an expression in her eyes that made his blood curdle from head to toe. It was a look such as he had never seen in those eyes before, an intense look, with a gleam of bitterness, an unwonted curiosity that was fierce and fervent. Lina’s face flamed, and she bowed her head. He dared not turn round again for fear of meeting those wild eyes once more.
Finally, on one occasion when Corsi was not there, he suddenly felt inspired with the courage for which he had so often prayed. Lina was deeply immersed in what she was reading, and had not breathed a word for a long while. He stood up, took a step towards her and stammered out, ‘Lina!’
She sat bolt upright, panicked by that single word, as white as a sheet and trembling all over. Donati was left open-mouthed and could not go on. She was the first to recover. She picked up the embroidery lying beside her, but her hands were still trembling so much that her needle kept stabbing the cloth. He became annoyed with himself for being so foolish. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said at last. ‘Are you angry with me? Will you never forgive me?’
The woman looked up in dismay and stared at him as though astounded. She bowed her head again, and in a faint and unsteady voice muttered a few unintelligible words
Donati’s visits gradually became less frequent. Corsi behaved ever more coldly towards him. Whenever the two former friends found themselves in each other’s company, they felt, without knowing why, an inexplicable awkwardness. Their coldness transmitted itself from one to the other, and thereby increased. Had Corsi deduced everything from the altered behaviour of his wife and his friend, or had Lina told him the whole story? The last time Donati went to see her, on her nameday, he found her alone at home. Lina flushed deep red, and barely suppressed a flinch of surprise. Donati was left fiddling helplessly with his hat, floundering for the right words.
She was seated on the sofa, with such formality the poor visitor felt like jumping out of the window. The visit lasted ten minutes. As he went down the stairs, the former Pollux murmured in a choked voice, ‘It’s all over! It’s all over!’
After that, he did not have the courage to knock at that door again. He would go home dragging his feet, as late as possible, glancing furtively up at that lighted window which reminded him of those happy evenings beside the fire, with a warm heart and warm feet, and he would hurry across the staircase landing. His modest rooms had never seemed more silent, more cold and melancholy. Now the poor lonely fellow spent as little time as possible there. Being out and about, he did what Corsi had done, and met another Lina.
Come September, Corsi moved house without even saying goodbye to him, and they had not seen each other since. Lina had been ill, seriously ill. Donati found out much later. He was told her illness had greatly affected her. He often thought of her, often pictured that delicate, pale profile and those feverish eyes, with almost a pang, almost remorse. But he could never have imagined the effect that face and those furtive glance would have on him the first time he ran into Lina, with his wife-to-be. She had turned to take a sneaking look at him, the way people look at a monster or a criminal.
*
Now a year had gone by, and the feast of St Agatha had come round again. Donati was soon to get married. He was waiting in the crowd for a masker who had more or less promised she would appear for a moment, when he suddenly felt someone grab him by the arm. He took a rapid glance at the masked woman, but his fiancee was of smaller stature and did not have such glittering black eyes. His heart missed a beat. He did not know what to say, and he let himself be led into a cafe.
His companion chose an isolated table and sat down opposite him. She seemed tired and extremely emotional. He studied her anxiously. ‘Lina!’ he finally exclaimed.
‘Ah!’ she said, with a laugh expressive of so many things, and rested her mantled forehead on her hand.
Donati stammered out a few meaningless words.
‘Are you surprised to see me here?’ Lina asked after a long silence.
‘You?’
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‘Are you surprised?’
Donati bowed his head. She let her mantle fall onto her shoulders, and murmured, ‘Look!’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Donati.
‘Do you feel sorry for me? Oh, if only that at least! But it’s not your fault, no! I’ve always been of delicate health. … So don’t worry … I wouldn’t like to spoil your honeymoon.’
‘Oh, what are you saying! If you knew … if only you knew how much I’ve suffered!’
‘You?’
‘Yes! And how sorry I am …’
‘Ah, you’re sorry!’
‘I can’t forgive myself! I can’t understand … what happened …’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No, on my life!’
‘What happened was … I fell in love with you.’
‘You! You!’
She turned even paler, leapt to her feet, and said to him in a strangled voice, ‘Why then did you tell me that dream?’
THE GOLD KEY
They were reciting the rosary after dinner at the canonry in Santa Margherita, when suddenly a gunshot rang out in the dark.
The canon turned pale, with the beads still in his hand, and the women crossed themselves, straining their ears, while the dogs in the yard barked furiously. Almost immediately an answering shot resounded in the gorge beneath the Fortress.
‘Jesus and Mary, what on earth could that be?’ exclaimed the maid from the kitchen doorway.
‘Quiet everyone!’ cried the canon, as white as a sheet. ‘I’m trying to listen.’
And he went and stood at the window, behind the shutter. The dogs had calmed down, and outside the wind could be heard in the valley. All at once the barking resumed even louder than before, and in the midst of it, at intervals, came the sound of someone banging at the gate with a stone.
‘Don’t let anyone in!’ shouted the canon, running to fetch the rifle at his bedside, beneath the crucifix. His hands were shaking. Then, amid the uproar, someone was heard shouting on the other side of the gate. ‘Open up, your reverence, it’s me, Surfareddu!’ And when the bailiff down on the ground floor finally went out to quieten the dogs and unbolt the gate, in came Surfareddu, with a grim look on his face, and the shotgun he was holding still warm in his hand.
‘What’s going on, Grippino? What happened?’ asked the canon.
‘What’s going on, your reverence is that while you’re asleep and resting, I’m risking my life to protect what’s yours,’ replied Surfareddu.
And, standing on the threshold, rocking on his feet in that particular way of his, he described what had happened. He had not been able to sleep because it was so hot, and had gone to stand at the door of his hut, over there on the mound, when he heard a noise in the gorge, where the orchard was, a noise of a kind distinguishable only to his ears, and to Bellina, a thin mangy bitch that followed at his heels. Someone was beating down oranges and other fruit in the orchard. No wind ever made a rustling like that – and then intervals of silence while they filled their sacks. So he had taken his gun from beside the door of his hut, the old long-barrelled flintlock with brass fittings that he held his hand. Talk about fate! Because this was the last night he was to spend at Santa Margherita. He had given notice to the priest at Easter, with no hard feelings on either side, and on the first of September he was supposed to move to his new boss’s place, over in Vizzini. Only the day before, everything had been settled up with the priest. And this was the thirty-first of August: a dark and starless night. Bellina went ahead of him, with her nose to wind, keeping quiet, just as he had taught her. He walked very slowly, picking his feet up so that no rustling of the hay would be heard. And the dog looked back every ten paces to see if he was behind. When they reached the gorge, he said quietly to Bellina, ‘Get back!’ And he took cover behind a big walnut tree. Then he gave a call: ‘Ayee!’
‘A call, God forbid!’ the priest used to say, ‘that would make your flesh creep, coming from Surfareddu, a man who in his capacity as watchman was responsible for more than one murder.’
‘Then,’ Surfareddu went on, ‘then they shot at me at close range – bang! Fortunately I responded to the flash of their guns. There were three of them, and I heard screams. Go and look in the orchard, my man must be still there.’
‘Oh, what have you done, you villain!’ exclaimed the priest, while the women wailed among themselves. ‘Now the magistrate and the police will be turning up, and you’re leaving me in a mess.’
‘Is that all the thanks I get from your reverence?’ Surfareddu replied curtly. ‘If they’d waited to rob you until I’d left your service, it would have better for me too, as I wouldn’t have had this run-in with the law again.’
‘Now get on your way to the Grilli, and tell the steward that I sent you. You’ll be needed there tomorrow. But for the love of God, don’t let anyone see you, now that it’s the prickly pear season and there are people all over these hillsides. Who knows what this incident is going to cost me? It would have been better if you’d turned a blind eye.’
‘Oh no, your reverence! As long as I’m in your service, Surfareddu is not going to tolerate any infringement of this kind! They knew I was the watchman on your farm until August the thirty-first. So much the worse for them! I’m certainly not throwing my gunpowder away!’
And off he went, while it was still dark, with his shotgun over his shoulder and Bellina at his heels. No one in the house at Santa Margherita slept another wink that night, for fear of thieves and the thought of that man lying on the ground in the orchard. At daybreak, when passersby began to appear on the path opposite, up on the Fortress, the canon ventured out, armed to the teeth and with all the farmworkers behind him, to see what had happened. The women wailed, ‘Don’t go, your reverence!’
But just outside the yard they found that Luigino had sneaked out with the rest of them.
‘Take that child away,’ shouted his uncle, the canon.
‘No! I want to come and see, too!’ screamed the boy. And the sight that met his eyes at such a young age remained imprinted on his mind ever afterwards, for as long as he lived.
A few steps into the orchard, he lay on the ground, under an old diseased olive tree, his face the ashen colour of dying men. He had dragged himself on his hands and knees to a pile of empty sacks and there he had remained all night long. His companions had run off carrying all the full sacks with them. Nearby was a patch of earth raked by his fingernails and all blackened with blood.
‘Ah! Your reverence,’ mumbled the dying man. ‘I’ve been killed for the sake of few olives!’
The canon gave him absolution. Then, around midday, the magistrate arrived with the police, ready to blame the canon and tie him up like a criminal. Fortunately there were all the farmworkers and the bailiff and his family as witnesses. Nevertheless, the magistrate railed against this servant of God who was like some ancient baron in his arrogant behaviour, and employed the likes of Surfareddu as watchmen and had people killed for the sake of a few olives. He wanted the murderer handed over dead or alive, and the canon perjured himself, swearing that it was all a complete mystery to him. Until after a while the magistrate accused him of being an accessory, and instigator, and threatened to have him tied up by the police anyway. And so the shouting went on, and the to-ing and fro-ing under the orange trees in the orchard, while the doctor and the registrar did their duty regarding the dead man lying on the empty sacks.
Then the table was moved into the shade in the orchard because of the heat, and the women persuaded the magistrate to take some refreshment because it was starting to get late. The cook excelled herself: marcaroni, sauces of every kind, and even the ladies went to great lengths so that the table should not disgrace anyone on that occasion. The magistrate ended up licking his fingers.
Afterwards, the registrar turned back a bit of the tablecloth from one corner, and hurriedly wrote out a ten-line report, with the signature of the witnesses and everything else, while the magistrate drank the coff
ee that had been specially made with the coffee machine, and the farm workers looked on from a distance, half hidden among the orange trees. Finally the canon himself went to fetch a bottle of an aged muscatel that would have raised the dead.
Meanwhile, the body had been perfunctorily buried beneath the old diseased olive tree. When the time came to leave, the magistrate accepted a bunch of flowers from the ladies, who had two large baskets of the finest fruit loaded into the saddlepacks of the registrar’s mule; and the canon accompanied the visitors to the edge of his estate.
The next day a messenger arrived from the district administration office to say that the magistrate had lost his watchkey in the orchard, and could they have a good search for it, as it was sure to be there.
‘Give me two days, and we’ll find it,’ the canon had conveyed to him. And he wrote at once to a friend in Caltagirone, asking him to buy a watchkey. A fine gold key that cost him two onze, and he sent it to the magistrate, saying, ‘Is this the key you lost, magistrate?’
‘Yes indeed it is,’ the latter replied. And the legal proceedings followed their course in a straightforward manner, up to the events of 1860, and Surfareddu returned to work as a watchman after Garibaldi’s pardon, till he was stoned to death in a dispute with some watchmen over certain pasturing rights. And whenever the canon spoke about what had happened that night that caused him such trouble, he would say of the magistrate of that time, ‘He was a gentleman! Because instead of just losing the key, he might have had me looking for the watch and chain as well!’
Sparrow (and other stories) Page 15