He fell asleep at once and slept for two straight hours.
*
He was awakened by Signura Agata, his wife.
“Time to wake up. Girolamu and ’Ngilino are bringing up the trunk with the clothes.”
He went into the privy.
When he reemerged, his wife was taking the clothes out of the trunk, and he could tell she was angry because she was whining with her mouth closed. Agata was a good-hearted woman, but she liked to be served. She normally wouldn’t even bend down to pick up a pin that had fallen to the floor.
“What need is there for you to do that work yourself? You could have asked Catarina and Totina to do it when they got back from town.”
“’Ngilino told me they didn’t go into town.”
“Then where did they go?”
“They didn’t go anywhere. They’re right here, at home.”
“At home? Then why didn’t they come out when we arrived?”
“Because they’re sick.”
“Both of ’em?”
“Both of ’em.”
“But were they in church this morning?”
At don Anselmo’s personal request, Don Ernesto Pintacuda, priest of the church of Saints Cosma and Damiano, had accepted Catarina and Totina as members of his parish, when they should by rights have gone to the church of the Most Holy Crucifix, the peasants’ church. The fact of the matter was that don Ansemlo was terribly fond of Totina. The girl was a sight to behold, and her cheerful disposition was contagious. Don Anselmo would sometimes spend hours out on the balcony, watching the girl performing her chores in the farmyard. And, unbeknownst to Signura Agata, he’d even given her money to buy herself some nice clothes so she would look good at Sunday Mass.
“No, they weren’t.”
A thought flashed into don Anselmo’s mind.
“Shit!”
“What’s with you?”
“Shit shit shit!”
“Don’t use obscenities! What’s wrong?”
“The clo . . . the locked doors! The closed windows! Just like Palazzo Lo Mascolo! And . . . and Palazzo Cammarata! Put all the clothes back in the trunk!”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Agatì! The epi . . . the epidemic has spread here too!”
He went out of the room, raced down the stairs and into the courtyard, headed for the stables, went upstairs, and promptly kicked open the door to the room where the coachman slept.
Girolamu, who was in his underpants, very nearly had a heart attack.
“Wha—what is it, sir?”
“Hitch the carriage back up! We’re leaving!”
“Where to, sir?”
“To La Forcaiola!”
Girolamu looked bewildered.
“But, sir, that’ll take a two and a half hours at the very least! And it’ll be dark soon.”
“I don’t give a damn. Hitch ’em up! Then come and get the trunks!”
“Could I ask ’Ngilino to give me a hand, sir?”
“No! You mustn’t so much as look at his shadow!”
“Sir, can I tell you something, since your missus isn’t present?”
“Tell me.”
“You should know that people are saying Salamone the brigand’s been hanging around Forcaiola way.”
That was all they needed! Salamone the brigand not only stripped any nobleman or bourgeois he encountered of everything he had, leaving him as naked as Adam, but he never passed on any woman he crossed paths with either. He did them all, from age fifteen to fifty, right before the eyes of their husbands, fathers, and brothers, whom his henchmen would restrain. Anselmo’s wife was already past sixty, and so wasn’t in any danger.
The problem was that Salamone was liable to make off with the carriage itself, leaving both of them—actually, all three of them, since the brigand certainly wouldn’t spare even Girolamu—naked on a godforsaken country road in the middle of the night.
But, between cholera and the brigand, the choice was clear.
“Hitch ’em up! Hitch ’em up!”
*
La Forcaiola was an estate belonging to a first cousin of don Anselmo, don Lovicino Scattola, who at present was in prison in Palermo, serving a seven-year term for having killed don Michelangelo Fichera during a hunting party, after the latter had claimed, just minutes before, that don Lovicino had never in all his life managed to shoot a rabbit or hare because he was incapable of hitting even an elephant from two feet away. And so don Lovicino shot him from thirty feet away, just to show, in the presence of witnesses, that the man was wrong.
Upon hearing news of his boss’s sentence, Benuzzo Cogliastro, don Lovicino’s farm overseer, had felt his heart fill with joy. For seven years he would be the real owner of the estate. But then one day don Anselmo had shown up with full power of attorney granted by his cousin, and Benuzzo had sworn to get even with him. For this reason don Anselmo didn’t show his face much around there, if at all, and only went when he absolutely had to. As in the present instance.
*
They arrived late at night, luckily without having crossed paths with Salamone the brigand. The situation at the estate was almost exactly the same as at San Giusippuzzo. The shutters of Benuzzo’s house seemed to be open, but there wasn’t a hint of any light inside. Surely the whole family was asleep. Girolamu took the cart lamp out out from under the carriage and lit the way for don Anselmo, who was holding the keys, to unlock the main door of the villa. Signura Agata hadn’t wanted to get out of the carriage before the all the oil lamps in the entrance hall were lit.
Hands trembling from fatigue, don Anselmo had to try three times before successfully putting the key into the door. And at that exact moment, a rifle shot rang out, splitting his eardrums. The large boarshot of the lupara blasted several holes in the great door, just a few inches from his head. And the two horses, frightened by the blast, started running towards the farmyard exit, with Signura Agata screaming wildly. But when the animals took a turn a little too sharply, the left wheel crashed against the wall and the carriage flipped.
“I’m dying!” cried Signura Agata, before fainting.
“Get out of here or I’ll kill you all!” a man shouted angrily.
Don Anselmo, dropping to the ground and shaking in terror, recognized the voice of Benuzzo, the farm manager.
“Benuzzo! It’s me, don Anselmo! Don’t shoot!”
By way of reply a flash went off in one of the windows of Benuzzo’s house, and don Anselmo closed his eyes.
“I’m a dead man!” he thought.
The shot hit the great door again.
“You’re not don Anselmo, you’re Salamone the brigand and you take me for a fool!” said Benuzzo.
“Get me out of here! Help! Somebody get me out of here!” Signura Agata shouted in the meantime, having regained consciousness.
Since Girolamu had dropped the cart lamp in terror and was now spread out belly-down on the ground, praying to the Madonna aloud, don Anselmo got a crazy idea.
He reached out, grabbed the lamp, and held it next to his face.
“Take a good look at me, you stupid shit! I’m don Anselmo!”
“Oh! So it’s you? I din’t rec’nize you, sorry. You coulda told me you was comin’! I’ll be right down.”
At that moment don Anselmo realized, from Benuzzo’s tone of voice, that the overseer had known perfectly well from the moment the carriage had entered the courtyard that it was him and not Salamone the brigand.
And he’d shot at him on purpose, the bastard!
But when he tried to stand up, don Anselmo was unable. His body ached all over.
“Go and help the signora!” he yelled at Girolamu.
By this point the voices of the farmer’s wife Ciccina, son Paolino, and daughter Michilina could be heard inside t
he house, as they hurriedly got dressed to go and help the masters who had just arrived.
Benuzzo came down out of breath and, with a lamp in his hand, bent down to look at don Anselmo. He still had his rifle in his other hand.
“Wha’d I do, hit you?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m glad for that! Here, lemme help you up.”
And he held out his hand. Don Anselmo didn’t take it at once, but instead asked Benuzzo a strange question:
“Everyone in the family all right?”
“Everyone’s fine, thanks be to God.”
Only then did don Anselmo grasp the farm manager’s hand. If they were all fine, it meant that the cholera, luckily, hadn’t spread to that area yet.
CHAPTER III
DON ANSELMO’S CHOLERA AND OTHER COMPLICATIONS
At around the same time that don Anselmo finally managed to fall asleep at La Forcaiola—that is, around four in the morning—the great door of Palazzo Lo Mascolo was carefully opened, and a man’s head poked out and looked both ways to make sure there wasn’t anyone around.
Reassured, the man came out, closing the door behind him.
He was completely masked, wearing a cloak tossed over his left shoulder in such a way that it covered his face, leaving only the eyes visible, since the beret on his head was pulled down over his brow.
On his feet the man had an old pair of hobnailed boots like the kind the peasants wore. In his right hand he was holding a shepherd’s staff.
Walking away, he didn’t encounter another living soul. But even if he had seen someone, the person was unlikely to recognize that bundled-up peasant as Baron don Fofò Lo Mascolo.
Arriving at the home of Teresi the lawyer, a lone, freestanding house near the top of the hill whose slopes the town was built on—indeed behind the lawyer’s house was a drop of some two hundred feet—the baron stopped, raised his walking stick, and knocked hard on the wooden door. Nobody came to open it.
Teresi was not married, and lived with a lad of twenty, Stefano Pillitteri, son of his sister, who had married a ne’er-do-well and died young. The lawyer was very fond of his intelligent nephew and kept him around as an apprentice, paying for him to study law at the University of Palermo.
The baron resumed his assault. As he was slamming the knocker with all his might with his right hand, he rapped his cane against the door with his left, all the while kicking the door with his hobnailed boots. You could have opened a tomb with all the racket he was making. And, indeed, through the shutter slats over one of the upstairs windows a dim light came on, the window opened, and Teresi the lawyer appeared, reciting his customary formula:
“My door is open to everyone. Therefore, whoever you are, you are welcome in this house. I’ll be right down to open the door.”
Five minutes later, the man entered the house. At first Teresi didn’t recognize him. But as soon as the man removed his barracan and cap, the lawyer balked in surprise.
“Baron! So it’s you? Why are you dressed like that?”
“I didn’t want anyone to recognize me.”
“Why not? You’ve certainly never put on a disguise to come to my house before.”
“Well, this time I did.”
“Let’s go into my study.”
Teresi sat down behind the desk, while the baron settled into the armchair opposite it.
“Shall I make some coffee?”
“No.”
There was a silent pause. The lawyer knew from experience that it was always best to let the person in front of you make the first move.
“Is your nephew here?” the baron asked after a spell.
“Stefano? Yes, he’s in his room, sleeping.”
“And why didn’t he wake up?”
“No idea. Maybe because kids sleep deeply. May I ask why you came here at this hour of the night?”
“To kill your nephew Stefano,” said Baron Lo Mascolo, taking a revolver out of his pocket and setting it down on the desk. “Shall we wake him up?”
*
Signura Agata, meanwhile, had confided to her chambermaid Suntina the reason why they were in such a hurry to get away from Palizzolo.
“My husband don Anselmo says it looks like there’s cholera going around. But he doesn’t want anyone to know.”
The last time cholera had passed through town, Suntina had lost her father, mother, all four grandparents and her only brother. Afterwards, she was taken in by her father’s brother, Tamazio, a peasant who ended up treating her like a servant (which was normal), deflowered her at age thirteen (which was also normal), but also demanded that the girl wash his feet every Sunday. This was not normal, and Suntina would not stand for it. So she ran away and knocked at the first door she saw. Which was the front door of Palazzo Lobue, where lived Galatina and Natale Lobue, Agata’s young parents. Suntina helped raise the little girl, and when Agata got married to don Anselmo, she brought Suntina with her.
“Do you want to come with us, Suntì?”
“No, ma’am. I’d rather stay here and wait for you to come back.”
“But that may be dangerous, you know.”
“I know, but if I stay, I can watch the house for you.”
And this was a good idea, since during the last wave of cholera many houses had been robbed and ransacked.
“As you wish.”
As soon as the masters had left, Giseffa, the other housekeeper, who wasn’t yet twenty years old, went into such a song and dance that Suntina was forced to tell her the reason for their departure.
“Matre santa! Cholera! I’m leaving too! Right now!” said Giseffa, scared out of her wits.
“And where you gonna go?”
“To my father’s house.”
“But your father’s house is also here in town! Listen to me: just stay here, that would be best.”
“Why would that be best?”
“First, because cholera never attacks the rich, only the poor. If we stay here, in the house of rich people, it’s possible that when the cholera passes through it’ll be in a hurry and mistake us for rich people too. Secondly, because here there’s flour, cheese, salted sardines, tomatoes, and all the water we need. We could hole up here for at least three months without ever having to go out. We’ll lock the great door and not open for anyone.”
“No. I want to go to my father’s house.”
“Listen, tell you what. Since don Anselmo doesn’t want the news of the cholera to get out right away, you’ll sleep here tonight, and tomorrow morning, you can get up at the crack of dawn and go to your father.”
“Is this some kind of joke, Baron?”
“I’m warning you, Teresi, if you piss me off, I’ll shoot you too.”
“All right, all right. But can you at least tell me the reason?”
“Shall we set something straight, first?”
“If you think we need to, then yes, of course.”
“How would you characterize the relations you and I have always had?”
“I would say they’ve always been good.”
“And I would say excellent. I’ll cite just one example. Didn’t I entrust you with my lawsuit against Baron Mostocotto instead of giving it to the lawyer Moschino, who was very keen on having it?”
The reason for the dispute between the two barons was that one day, Baron Mostocotto, who had a weak bladder and therefore was always having to pee, was caught by don Fofò urinating against a corner of Palazzo Lo Mascolo. The baron took umbrage.
“Look,” Mostocotto had said to him, to defuse the situation, “if you want some kind of compensation, you can come and pee on my palazzo whenever you like.”
But there was no settling the dispute, not even with the authoritative intervention of Giallonardo the notary. Baron Lo Mascolo finally sued his fellow baron for damages to his building
.
“Yes, that’s true,” Teresi admitted.
“And didn’t I pay you, with no questions asked, the rather considerable advance you asked of me?”
“Yes, sir, you did.”
“And when you asked me to support your request for membership to the club, did I support you or not?”
“Of course you did.”
“And did I not allow your nephew, Stefano, to come and call at our house whenever he liked?”
“Yes. And I am very grateful to you for your generosity.”
“But he’s not.”
“I’m sorry, he who?”
“Your nephew.”
“He hasn’t been grateful to you?”
“No.”
“And that’s why you want to shoot him?”
“Stop speaking twaddle, Teresi.”
“Then why?”
“Three days ago, my daughter Antonietta felt unwell. For the first time in eighteen years. And so my wife sent for Dr. Bellanca. Ever since, my house has been in deep mourning.”
“Oh my God, is her illness really so serious?”
“Serious? My daughter is dead!”
The lawyer stood up.
“Please allow me to embrace you, Baron,” he said sincerely. “So terrible a misfortune warrants—”
“Just remain seated or a terrible misfortune will befall you instead. Until tonight, despite my wife’s prayers, my daughter hadn’t wanted to talk about it.”
Teresi broke into a cold sweat. Baron Lo Mascolo had surely lost his mind; there could be no other explanation. One branch of that family did have a history of madness. Hadn’t the baron’s sister, donna Romilda, become a nun? And hadn’t she one fine day, after twenty years of cloistered life, come out of the convent and start dancing naked?
“Well, the problem, my dear baron, is that, normally, we can pray all we want, but the dead don’t—”
“What dead?”
Teresi wiped the sweat from his brow with one hand.
“Baron, unless I’m mistaken, just a moment ago you told me your daughter was dead, and so—”
The Sect of Angels Page 3