The Sect of Angels

by Andrea Camilleri

  “For me, she’s dead. For her mother, she’s not.”

  So had the baroness lost her mind too? Both husband and wife, stark raving mad? That sort of thing does happen sometimes, in families. Didn’t Signura Rossitano think she was a wasp and her husband a hornet, and they communicated by buzzing?

  “Listen, Baron, maybe you’d better go home and—”

  “I’ll go home after I’ve shot your nephew.”

  This time Teresi snapped. He was fed up.

  “Would you please be so kind as to tell me why the hell you want to kill Stefano? What’s he got to do with this whole business?”

  “He’s got everything to do with it. He’s the only person who could have made my daughter Antonietta pregnant.”

  *

  Giseffa the maid arrived at her father’s house in Vicolo Raspa as the town-hall belfry was ringing four o’clock in the morning. At 4:05 A.M., Giseffa’s mother, Nunziata, opened the window and started shouting:

  “Cholera! Cholera!”

  Since the street was narrow, her shouts were heard in all twenty-five of the residences situated on it. The first family to head out to the country were the Cumellas, then the Licatas, the Bonacciòs, the Gaglios, the Bonadonnas, the Restivos . . . In short, by five o’clock the only ones left in Vicolo Raspa were seven cats, two dogs, and Tano Pullara, who, being ninety years old, didn’t feel like going anywhere with the others and said that he welcomed the cholera because he was tired of living.

  At ten past five, Gesummino Torregrossa, who every morning on his way to work came by at five to pick up his friend, Girlanno Tumminia, found nobody at home and saw only Tano Pullara, sitting outside his hovel. He asked him what had happened.

  “There’s cholera about,” said the old man.

  “Says who?”

  “Don Anselmo Buttafava.”

  Gesummino turned around and raced back to Vicolo Centostelle where he lived. By five-thirty, half of that street, too, was empty.

  At the day’s first Mass, at six A.M., the priests all seemed to have spread the word among themselves.

  Faces that had never been seen in the churches before suddenly appeared: servants, coachmen, stable boys, hard laborers, wet nurses, housemaids, cooks from the noble houses, had all sat themselves down beside their masters, and all were praying to the little lord Jesus to save them from cholera.

  Then there were the people just passing through who were ready to run away to the countryside but first wanted the Lord’s blessing. But in the various different churches, three families were noticeably absent: those of don Anselmo Buttafava, Marquis Cammarata, and Baron Lo Mascolo.

  It’s a well-known fact that there’s no sermon at the day’s first Mass.

  And yet on this occasion the priests all stepped up to their pulpits, but, instead of preaching the sermon, they hurled insults and curses.

  Patre Eriberto Raccuglia warned:

  “Didn’t I tell you that this town would end up like Sodom and Gomorrah? You must drive out the devil, who has taken the form of Teresi the lawyer . . . ”

  Patre Alessio Terranova said:

  “It’s no use crying and beseeching God to save you from cholera! First you must free the town!”

  Patre Filiberto Cusa exclaimed:

  “The poison plant must be uprooted!”

  Patre Alighiero Scurria scoffed:

  “So now you’re crying, eh? So now you’re praying, eh? You’re all a bunch of sheep crawling on all fours! And what did you do when I told you Teresi was the devil incarnate? Nothing! But maybe there’s still time . . . ”

  Patre Libertino Samonà proclaimed:

  “It’s time to embark on a holy crusade!”

  Patre Angelo Marrafà threatened:

  “I swear that no survivors of the cholera shall ever set foot again in this church if they haven’t first got rid of Matteo Teresi!”

  Patre Ernesto Pintacuda heroically offered his services:

  “I’ll lead the charge and hold the Cross high!”

  Only Patre Mariano Dalli Cardillo didn’t preach that day. He limited himself to praying, along with his flock, for the Lord to save them all from the cholera looming at the city gates like a terrible scourge.

  *

  The mayor, Nicolò Calandro, was woken up by a great deal of shouting under his windows. His wife, Filippa, who was as deaf as a doorpost, kept right on sleeping. He immediately thought it was something he’d been fearing would happen sooner or later: a popular uprising unleashed by that incorrigible sonofabitch, Matteo Teresi.

  And he imagined himself strung up, head down, from the tree in the middle of the public garden, as had happened thirty years earlier to his predecessor, Mayor Bonifazi.

  “They’ll never take me alive!” he shouted, getting out of bed and grabbing the revolver he kept in the drawer of his nightstand.

  Barefoot as he was, and still in his nightshirt, he went up to the window and looked through the shutters, which luckily were not fully closed.

  He was flabbergasted to see what he saw.

  An endless stream of men, women, old folks, youngsters, and children leading a procession of goats, sheep, chickens, and rabbits, running along as they pulled small handcarts or an occasional donkey with household objects piled on top, mattresses, cooking pots, water jugs, chests filled with clothing . . .

  But it wasn’t a revolution. They were not angry at him. The people were fleeing. But why? What was happening in town? He opened the shutter, stuck his head out, and asked:

  “What on earth is going on?”

  “Cholera! Cholera!” said many voices as one.

  What the hell were they saying? Cholera?

  “Who told you there was cholera?”

  “Don Anselmo Buttafava,” said a woman’s voice.

  Don Anselmo was generally considered a sensible person, and should therefore be taken at his word. But then why hadn’t Dr. Bellanca said anything about it to him, the mayor?

  Mayor Calandro got dressed in a flash and went out of the house without bothering to wake his wife. Five minutes later he was knocking on the doctor’s door.

  A window opened.

  “My husband’s gone out looking for you, Mr. Mayor,” Signura Bellanca said from the window.

  City Hall was still closed at that hour, which meant that the doctor must be headed for the mayor’s house. And in fact he found him there at the door, knocking pointlessly, since Signura Filippa’s deafness was so great she would even miss an earthquake.

  “Why didn’t you tell me there was cholera about?” the mayor asked angrily.

  “Calm down! And don’t speak to me in that tone of voice!”

  “But aren’t you aware of my responsibilities as mayor of this town?”

  “Of course!”

  “So why didn’t you tell me anything about the cholera? It’s obviously been festering for days, and you—”

  “Oh, enough of this cholera nonsense!” the doctor interrupted him.

  The mayor thought he’d heard wrong.

  “What did you say? You mean there’s no cholera?”

  “Precisely! Just to be safe, before coming here, I went and woke up my colleague, Dr. Palumbo, and he too was taken completely by surprise.”

  “So then how do you explain that don Anselmo Buttafava . . . ”

  People kept streaming past them at a run. One of them, holding a sickle in his hand, stopped.

  “So you rich folk aren’t running away, eh? Cholera never attacks you bastards!”

  “Get out of here or I’ll kill you!” shouted the mayor, pulling out the revolver he’d put in his pocket.

  A woman grabbed the man by the arm and pulled him away with her.

  “Don’t go getting into trouble, Ninù,” she said.

  “Bastards!”

&nb
sp; “I can explain what happened,” the doctor said as soon as the man was gone, “but not in the middle of the street like this, with all these people around. It’s a very confidential thing.”

  “Let’s go to City Hall.”

  But after they’d taken just a few steps they were hailed by Totò Carrubba, who had a little food shop. The man was pulling his hair out in despair.

  “They’re cleaning me out! I’m ruined!”

  “What happened, Totò?” asked the mayor.

  “They broke down the door of my shop! They’re stealing everything.”

  So now there was looting? Calandro made a snap decision.

  “Doctor, you can tell me about don Anselmo later. We need some law and order here! I have to go and talk to the carabinieri.”

  *

  “My good baron, let me remind you, before you enter my nephew’s bedroom, that you gave me your word of honor that you would not shoot him before I’ve had a chance to talk to him.”

  “And I will keep my word.”

  They went in. The lad was sleeping like a baby. Teresi was holding an oil lamp, the baron his revolver. Firmly convinced of his nephew’s innocence, the lawyer was extremely tense and ready to throw the oil lamp in the baron’s face the moment the latter made any move to start shooting.

  Teresi approached the bed, while don Fofò, in keeping with the agreement they’d come to in the lawyer’s study after two hours of negotiation, stood fast in the doorway.

  “Stefanù, wake up,” said Teresi, shaking the young man’s shoulder.

  The nephew opened his eyes and immediately shielded them with his arm, as the lamp was right in front of his face

  “What time is it anyway?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

  “I don’t know. Six-thirty, seven o’clock . . . ”

  “Has something happened?”

  And he made as if to get up. But if he got out of bed, he would surely notice the baron.

  “Stay in bed. I just need to ask you something.”

  “So ask.”

  “Do you swear you’ll tell me the truth?”

  “Of course!”

  “Swear on your mother’s soul?”

  “I swear on my mother’s soul. What do you want to know?”

  Teresi swallowed and then spat out the question in a loud voice, so the baron could hear him clearly.

  “Did you do anything with the daughter of Baron Lo Mascolo?”

  “With Antonietta? Do what?”

  Teresi was worried that if he said even one wrong word, the baron might feel offended and start firing wildly. And he ended up doing even worse.

  “Do ‘it.’”

  And just so as not to be mistaken, he made a fist and pumped it back and forth.

  “Know what I mean?”

  But then, realizing the gesture he’d just made without thinking, he closed his eyes and waited for a bullet to shatter his skull.

  CHAPTER IV

  WHAT DR. BELLANCA TOLD MAYOR CALANDRO

  The lad reacted with unexpected violence, his right hand shooting straight out of from under the cover and striking his uncle’s left cheek hard.

  “Don’t you ever dare say anything like that about Antonietta.”

  He was now sitting up in bed, trembling with indignation and white as a sheet.

  “You must tell me who it was who said those vile things about her! I’ll kill him with my bare hands!”

  Teresi, who as a lawyer had a way with words, was suddenly speechless. To his immense satisfaction, and despite his burning cheek, he was becoming acquainted with his nephew’s true nature, which until that moment had remained hidden.

  “Calm down, Stefanù!” he managed to say.

  “No, I won’t calm down! You must tell me who told you that calumny!”

  There was no longer any reason for the baron to remain in the shadows outside the door.

  “Signor barone, please, if you will . . . ”

  There was no reply.

  “The baron is here?” Stefano asked in shock.

  Without answering, Teresi stood up, went out of the room, and managed just in time to see don Fofò opening the front door to go outside.

  “Signor barone!”

  Don Fofò turned around, looked at him, stood there in silence for a moment, then said:

  ‘“Your nephew convinced me.”

  And he left, closing the door behind him.

  Teresi had just turned round to go back to his nephew’s bedroom when he again heard knocking at the door, accompanied by kicks and cane-blows, just like a few hours earlier.

  It could only be the baron again, newly prey to the whims of his folly.

  “Somebody’s knocking,” Stefano said from his room.

  Teresi didn’t move. He didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t it too dangerous to let that raging madman back into the house?

  “Please open the door, for Christ’s sake, they’re coming!” said the baron from outside the door.

  And who could it be that was coming? Surely these were fantasies that existed only in the baron’s fevered brain. At any rate, weighing his options, Teresi decided it was best to find out what was going on.

  “Stefanù, look out the window and tell me if you see any people coming.”

  He heard the window opening, followed by the frightened voice of his nephew.

  “There’s hundreds of them!”

  But who the hell were all these people coming? Since the baron clearly was not seeing ghosts but real people in the flesh, Teresi raced downstairs and opened the door for him. Don Fofò rushed in, out of breath and panting.

  “They’re on their way here!”

  “But who is on their way here?”

  “How the hell should I know? Men and women armed with clubs, pitchforks, and hoes and being led by a priest carrying a cross! I don’t want them to recognize me!”

  “But what do they want?”

  “How the hell should I know?” the baron repeated, more alarmed than ever.

  At that moment they heard the first shouts.

  “Death to Teresi! Death to the devil incarnate!”

  “Give me your revolver and come with me,” said the lawyer, who had turned white as a sheet.

  At the back of the entrance hall was a window that Teresi opened. The morning light poured in.

  “You can go out this way.”

  “But there’s an overhang!”

  “No, that’s what it looks like, but there’s a very narrow pathway that leads down below. You just need to be a little careful.”

  Closing the window, Teresi went into his study, took his revolver, and when upstairs. Stefano looked as if he was in a daze and no longer understood what was going on. His uncle handed him the baron’s gun.

  “If they try to break down the door, fire a shot from your window. But in the air, first time around. I mean it. If they don’t run away, get back inside and shut yourself up. I’m going into my room.”

  But there weren’t hundreds of them. There were about sixty, which was quite enough to do damage. At that moment they were all kneeling, and the priest with the cross was giving them benediction.

  “O my holy crusaders,” he said. “You, my beloved children, who revere the sanctity of the family and keep watch over the virtues of the home . . . ”

  Taking advantage of the fact that they were all looking at the priest, Teresi opened the shutters slowly, just enough to slip his hand with the revolver out the window.

  Then, all at once, the priest, whom Teresi recognized as Patre Raccuglia, turned around, raised the cross in the air, and said:

  “Go! Let’s rid ourselves of the demon!”

  In a flash Teresi realized these people would break down the door on their first try.

  “Shoot!” he shoute
d to Stefano, as he did the same.

  The echoes of the two shots hadn’t yet faded before there was nobody left in front of the house. Or, at least, there was nobody still standing. Because there were in fact a man and a woman lying on the ground.

  Teresi felt his blood run cold. But he’d shot up into the air! He was positive! He ran into his nephew’s bedroom.

  “I told you to shoot in the air!”

  “I did!”

  They looked back outside. The man, by now, had stood up, and the woman was getting to her feet. They’d fainted in fear and were now running away.

  At around eight o’clock that morning, the marshal of the Palizzolo Carabinieri station, Vitangelo Sciabbarrà, in direct consultation with the mayor, declared that the situation was worsening.

  Indeed three shops had already been looted; some burglars had tried to enter Palazzo Spartà before they were driven away by a pair of rifle blasts fired by don Liborio and his wife Vetusta, who was the best shot in town; and there had been an attempted assault on the Veronica brothers’ mill.

  The brothers had also defended themselves with rifles, with one fatality. True, the victim was a delinquent with five or six burglary convictions already; but he was still dead.

  What was happening was that many men, having accompanied their families out to the country, had come back into town to take advantage of the situation and steal what there was to be stolen.

  The mayor was normally supposed to have six municipal policemen at his disposal, but hadn’t seen a single one of them that morning. No doubt they had all run away. And what could the ten carabinieri at the station do by themselves? At half past eight, Marshal Sciabbarrà phoned the main headquarters at Camporeale, which was some twenty kilometers away, to ask for reinforcements.

  And by twelve-thirty the reinforcements arrived, in the form of a squadron of mounted carabinieri under the command of Captain Eugenio Montagnet, who declared martial law and took over all local operations.

  At two o’clock that afternoon, a half-witted wretch who got by on begging for alms and whose name nobody could really remember, since everyone knew him only as ’u cani (that is, “the dog”), was “made to suffer the consequences” after being caught with a kilo of potatoes without being able to explain where he’d got them. Nobody witnessed the execution. Twelve carabinieri shot him against the wall of the ancient convent. ’U cani died laughing, convinced up to the very end that it was all some kind of joke, one of the many that the townfolk were always playing on him for their amusement.