“I never thanked you for what you did,” Mena said in a ringing voice.
Saro felt his heart leap into his throat. “Don’t mention it; it was nothing.”
“That poor man could have killed us all.” Then she burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her delicate hand. “There I was on the floor with a man on top of me. I saw Nennella’s eyes—she was about to have a stroke.”
“I did the first thing that occurred to me,” Saro said in excuse.
But Mena was still smiling. “Yes, but you didn’t jump on Nennella to save her, and she was right next to me. Clever, hmm?” Mena touched him affectionately on the shoulder.
The contact once again thrilled him, and Mena was aware of it. “Go on, I’m joking, silly. Saro Ragusa, don’t tell me you’re touchy?”
Actually, he was very embarrassed. “Of course not,” he lied, feeling exposed.
“But wait.” From the pocket of his cheap wool jacket, he pulled out the ID. “This is yours; you lost it in the confusion.” Mena’s eyes widened, and possibly she overdid her show of happy surprise. “My ID card! I thought I would have to get another one! You really are my guardian angel!” She clapped her hands delightedly and then took the document from Saro. She saw that with it was a slip of paper, folded in two.
“Oh! Oh! What’s this?” She took it and opened it up, discovering that it was one of the tombola tickets. She was ready to hand it back, not realizing that Saro had intended it as a gift. However, Saro was no longer in front of her. She searched for him among the crowd, but he had disappeared. Instead, she saw Nennella coming toward her.
“Was the young man you were talking to Saro?” she asked in the tone of an inquisitor.
“He brought back my ID card. He found it.”
“Good thing. That way we won’t have to get another one,” the governess replied distractedly.
Mena hid the bingo ticket in her hand and continued strolling among the stalls.
At precisely noon, the saint’s heavy baldachin was carried out of the doors of the church, not without some difficulty. It was borne on the shoulders of sixteen of Salemi’s most robust men. Around her neck, Saint Faustina wore a necklace of dried figs along with many five- and ten-lira bills. In front of her, the florid figure of Monsignor Antonio Albamonte could be seen along with the young parish priest, Don Mario, who held up a tall metal crucifix. On either side of them, a swarm of altar boys scurried along to keep up with the procession, and behind them came the women of the cathedral’s congregation. Don Mario chanted litanies that were repeated first by the pious women and then by everyone else, with the same cadence and intonation.
As the saint passed by, farmers came out of their doors and tossed handfuls of wheat grain, saved from the last sowing, at her effigy, to promote the coming harvest and bring good luck to the family.
In the crush of the procession, Mena and Saro seemingly by chance found themselves side by side again. Saro had made quite an effort to reach her.
“Where are you going to watch the fireworks?” he asked.
“In the piazza,” she replied, speaking loudly to be heard over the boisterous din of the crowd.
“I know a fantastic place where we won’t miss a single burst,” he said, fearful that she might reject him.
“Saro, see Nennella?” She pointed to the heavyset woman in front of them, she too dragged along by the flow of people. “She’s always with me.”
“So we’ll bring Nennella along with us,” he said with a smile, glad of the complicity that had been established between them. He wanted to add that he was happy to see her again, but the crowd separated them: Saro was pushed in the opposite direction from Mena, and as they were drawn apart, the two smiled at each other, surprised by the feelings welling up inside.
* * *
The stentorian voice of Ninì Trovato read the number that a child had pulled out of the tombola drum: “Forty-three!” he shouted, showing the ball to the villagers crowding Piazza del Castello, to prove the actual drawing of the number.
“Quaterna! Four in a row!” A girl’s voice rose in the piazza, and an arm waved the ticket with the number that had been drawn. The voice was Mena’s, and the lucky ticket was the one that Saro had given her. “I won! I won!” she cried excitedly.
Nennella, standing beside her, smiled happily at the win as well.
Ninì Trovato invited the lucky girl to come up to the platform, while a young man from the planning committee hung the chosen number on the large bingo board.
Mena made her way through the crowd and headed for the spot where the prizes were on display.
When she reached Ninì, a barrage of jubilant whistles and warm applause showered her. She laughed good-naturedly and waved the ticket at the crowd. Then she approached the loudspeaker and repeated the four numbers that had won her the quaterna. “Three, seventeen, twenty-nine, and forty-three!”
“Are you Mena Losurdo?” Ninì asked her, though he already knew the answer.
“Yes, I’m Mena.” Ninì brought his mouth to the microphone. “The young woman, ladies and gentlemen, has won four bottles of red wine, four salamis, four caciocavallo cheeses, and a dozen feet of sausage,” the crier announced.
Everyone clapped, and the prizes were placed in a gunnysack that was then given to the lucky girl.
“Can you carry it?”
“You fill the bag, Ninì, I’ll do the rest,” the winner replied with a contagious smile.
Coming down the steps of the podium, Mena looked around for Saro as everyone congratulated her.
But there were too many people in the piazza, and finding him was impossible. When she reached Nennella again, the woman threw her arms around Mena and took the bag from her to peek inside.
When a half hour later the tombola was awarded to the person getting all the numbers on the card, and the swaying crowd erupted into applause for the lucky victor, Mena felt someone take her hand. She turned and saw Saro, who had once again materialized beside her. She didn’t have time to tell him that she’d won with his ticket because Saro immediately pulled her aside, elbowing the people closest to them.
Nennella, still holding Mena’s sackful of winnings, was shrieking joyfully. Turning to where she thought Mena was, and not seeing her, she wasn’t too concerned, entirely taken up with cheering the lucky winner.
Mena, meanwhile, pulled along by Saro, did not resist, but she had stopped laughing and was beginning to worry. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see, trust me.”
“But I don’t even know you.”
“Trust me,” he said firmly.
He entered the door of a house facing the fortress and started walking down the stone steps leading to the cellar. But Mena yanked him back, forcing him to stop.
“Hey, come on! What do you take me for? I’m not going into the cellar with you.”
“Mena, I’m asking you to trust me. I want to surprise you!” He made the request so eagerly that Mena couldn’t help but give in.
“All right . . . let’s go,” she agreed after a moment’s hesitation.
The two reached the bottom of the steps and then entered a tunnel that opened alongside a cask.
They walked down the long passageway that seemed to descend underground, and then finally came to an open space, barely illuminated by light coming from above. From there a set of wooden steps led up. Saro went first. Mena followed him nimbly, never once betraying the anxiety that gripped her. When they reached the first landing, she grabbed the boy by his jacket, jerking him forcefully around. “Saro Ragusa, I hope for your sake that the surprise is really a surprise; otherwise I’ll see to it that you end up badly. Remember that I have two big brothers, not to mention my father.”
The threat was serious, and Saro replied in kind: “You won’t be disappointed.” With that, he moved to a wrought-iron spiral staircase.
“And now we have a long climb ahead of us. Do you think you can make it?”
“Worry about yo
ur own legs,” the girl replied, pushing him aside and tackling the stairs first. Saro followed her. He tried looking up. He caught a peek of slender ankles and firm young legs under her skirt, but Mena’s sharp voice stopped him: “Keep your eyes down! Either you do, or I’ll kick you and knock your teeth out!”
The climb took several very long minutes. The steps seemed never ending. Finally, the last, even steeper flight was signaled by a thick rope hanging from the cone-shaped ceiling, since there was no longer a railing to hold on to. Mena grabbed the rope, as did Saro. She climbed the last steps with some difficulty and reached a small, round ledge inside a kind of sentry box, with a low wooden door.
“Here we are. But now close your eyes.” Saro went to the door and opened it. Mena, somewhat impatient but more curious than she had ever been, closed her beautiful green eyes. Then Saro led her through the low door, gently making her duck her head to avoid the lintel. At last, they came out into the open.
On her face, Mena felt the cool air of evening that was lowering its dark mantle over the entire valley. Opening her eyes, she saw a panorama that made her shiver with emotion.
They were on the highest rampart of the fortress, whose vista took in the entire plain of Salemi. The shadows of night had not yet shrouded the mountains, forests, and farms in the valleys. The mistral had risen and was sweeping away the clouds that shortly before had threatened rain.
Toward the horizon, the luminous points of light from oil lamps in the windows of houses clinging to the mountains, gave the impression of an antique Nativity scene.
Mena looked at Saro and with eyes full of gratitude thanked him for the breathtaking sight. Saro smiled tenderly at her. He was about to take her in his arms, but all of a sudden he heard a whistling sound. From the bottom of the gorge, just in front of them, a flare rose to the sky. Mena turned to look and squealed with wonder. With a bang, the rocket burst into a thousand tiny stars. From that moment on, there was a succession of launches, explosions, radiant cascades, multicolored clusters of firecrackers, red, yellow, and white pinwheels, and showers of golden light that were projected and went off overhead, giving the two young people an endless thrill. Mena clung to Saro, as if seeking protection from the volley of blasts and booms. Saro put his arm around her waist, drawing her close. Then came the final detonation announcing the end of the show.
When the roar had faded among the valley’s ravines, Mena raised her face to the boy. Not moving, the two continued to cling to each other, trembling with desire—but then they broke free of the embrace.
“We have to go back. Nennella must be looking for me,” Mena said shyly, holding out her hand.
“Come on,” Saro said sadly. He took her hand and led her into the sentry box to begin their descent. Neither of the two dared speak a word, preferring to savor the memory of those moments holding each other close at the top of the Castello.
Chapter 6
– 1938 –
The suicide of Davide Zevi in the town hall had deeply shaken Dr. Peppino Ragusa’s spirit. He’d lost his appetite and didn’t want to see anyone; as soon as he could, he would close the medical office and take refuge at home. He had even decided to terminate the evenings he devoted to tutoring the town’s illiterates.
Annachiara was desperate and furious over the depression her husband had sunk into and tried to rouse him by whatever means she could.
“You can’t abandon them like that. It means forsaking your ideas, your ideals,” she chided, waving her index finger under his nose.
Ragusa didn’t answer, not wanting to quarrel with his wife.
“Have you thought about them? Or are you content to feel sorry for yourself? Play the victim?” But Ragusa just shook his head, inconsolable.
Annachiara then tried using compassion. “Peppino, please, you mustn’t give up. Don’t let those idiots win.”
There was a timid knock at the door. Worried, Annachiara wondered, “Who can that be?” Ragusa raised his head, seized by panic.
His wife opened the door and, seeing who it was, broke into a smile. “Turi! Pericle! What a surprise! Come in, come in.”
Ragusa stood up and went to greet his elderly pupils, moved by their gesture of solidarity. He embraced the four men, and they held him warmly in silence, choking back tears.
When they broke apart, Turi Toscano handed him a black-covered notebook.
“Here, Doctor, I managed to do my homework.” Turi’s fingertips were corroded by salt, and he had a hard time holding the pen steady.
Ragusa opened the notebook and read aloud Turi’s sentences, written in a hesitant script. “All men are born with equal dignity . . . Only decent work sets us free . . .” He wasn’t able to go on, and once again he embraced the old salt miner, touched.
“Turi, thank you. Our evenings were not wasted.”
“Doctor, why do you want to abandon us?” Turi Toscano finally asked.
“Dear friends . . .” The doctor looked at them as if counting them. “And Gerolamo? And Vincenzo Valli?” He waited for an answer from them, but the four men withdrew into an uncomfortable silence and lowered their eyes to avoid meeting his gaze. “There, you see? That’s the reason. Didn’t you hear Ninì’s proclamation? What I feared would happen has started. From now on, life will be difficult for us Jews. For that reason, I don’t want to drag other people into my troubles.”
“We won’t let them harm you.” Toscano was the first to break the silence. “Besides, who do you think cares about us, way down here? Rome is halfway around the world.”
“Turi is right,” spoke up Ottavio Gravina, the youngest and toughest of them all. “We’re not afraid of anybody.”
“This battle can’t be won with force, however,” the doctor went on. “They will always be stronger.”
There was another knock at the door. Everyone turned around.
A smile lit up Annachiara’s lovely face. “It must be your other friends. You see? They’ve come too.” She went to the door and opened it, ready to welcome the latecomers.
But in front of her, in the darkness of night, stood a leering Jano surrounded by three of his most loyal comrades: Ginetto, Nunzio, and Prospero.
“Good evening, Annachiara, aren’t you going to invite us in?” Leaning against the doorframe, Jano took a quick look inside.
At that same moment, at the farmstead of Prince Ferdinando Licata’s gabellotto or overseer, Rosario Losurdo, a small party was being held. One of Losurdo’s armed guards, his campiere Manfredi, had just returned from Africa, from Addis Ababa, where he gone a year and a half earlier to try his luck as an immigrant, prompted by the regime’s illusory promises. He had traveled to Ethiopia in the hope of becoming the owner of a piece of land—a large estate—where he could live out the rest of his life, but those eighteen months had proved a bitter disappointment.
The farmhouse was lit in celebration. Everyone had questions for Manfredi, but he responded impatiently in monosyllables.
Rosario Losurdo was very attached to Manfredi. When Losurdo had been imprisoned on charges, later dropped, that he had been behind the massacre at Borgo Guarine, Manfredi had held the reins of the estate for five years, without anyone bemoaning the gabellotto’s absence.
Manfredi had devoted himself to protecting Losurdo’s family as if it were his own. He had not let them lack for anything and had continued carrying on the affairs of the estate, collecting the taxes as if the gabellotto had never been away. This honesty and dedication had won over Losurdo, who, once he was released from prison and assumed control of Prince Licata’s property again, began treating him as an equal, like a brother.
Among the young men most interested in Manfredi’s venture was Saro, who asked him what the land was like, if it was true that it was easy to get permission to plant there, how much farms cost, if seeds had to be brought from Italy, what were the most productive crops, why he had come back after only eighteen months, whether the people there were very hostile toward whites—and if it was true that
the girls were beautiful and that they were all willing.
At that question, the other young men burst out laughing, making risqué remarks under their breath and whispering double entendres.
Manfredi dampened their enthusiasm. “It’s all a fraud. Everything they tell us to convince us to go to Ethiopia is false.”
“But what about the empire, the place in the sun, the promised land?” Saro asked dejectedly.
“All lies. The only ones really getting rich are the ‘sharks’: the upper echelons, military men, diplomats, big contractors—in short, friends of friends of the government. They live in houses that have been expropriated from the old Ethiopian bourgeoisie, and their wives drive around the city in official cars that should be off-limits to them, but their use is tolerated.”
“I’ve always said it: it’s America that’s the promised land,” Saro told his friends.
“It’s true. Those who have come back say that in New York anyone can become a millionaire,” claimed Michele, one of Losurdo’s sons.
“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get out of this thankless land.” Setting out for other worlds had been Saro’s dream since childhood.
Rosario Losurdo approached the group of young men who were besieging Manfredi.
“Give this poor soul a chance to breathe.” His voice had the presence to silence them all as they turned toward him. “And you, Saro, where do you want to go? To America? Do you want your father and mother to die of a broken heart?”
Glasses began being passed around. Everyone toasted Manfredi’s return and drank good wine from Rosario Losurdo’s vineyards.
“So, you want to go away?” The feminine voice made Saro spin around, nearly spilling his wine on Mena’s dress. “You want to go to America? Haven’t you thought about me?” Those words only increased Saro’s embarrassment.
“Actually—”
The girl burst out laughing. “Come on, I’m kidding, I’m teasing you, silly.”
“It’s just an idea. I’d like to, but I don’t know if I’ll ever have the courage.” He stared into her eyes. She couldn’t hold his gaze. “But why did you say I don’t think of you?” Saro asked.
The Prince Page 4