The Sect of Angels

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Did he make it through the night all right?” he immediately asked.

  “He was delirious.”

  “Fever?”

  “A hundred and four.”

  “Let’s go and see him.”

  As he was climbing the stairs, the doctor asked:

  “How about your nephew?”

  “He’s gone to bed. We took turns.”

  They’d put the injured young man in a small room barely big enough to fit a single bed, a chair, and a bedside table.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Teresi went into the kitchen, made the coffee, and then brought it to him. The doctor took a sip.

  “What do you think?”

  “About the coffee?”

  “No, about the kid.”

  “I haven’t had a good look at him yet. But the main thing is that he made it through the night.”

  The doctor handed the little cup back to Teresi.

  “I’ll be waiting in my study,” said Teresi. “Call me if you need anything.”

  He sat down and started thinking about the things he’d heard coming from the delirious young man’s mouth during the night. Not that he really understood any of it; all that came out were truncated words mumbled by a mouth missing three teeth, through swollen lips as big as cucumbers.

  “ . . . no . . . no . . . pleeathe . . . no more . . . no . . . no . . . ”

  This part, unfortunately, was all too comprehensible.

  “ . . . on flefo . . . pleeathe . . . on flefo . . . ”

  He’d also said other things Teresi couldn’t understand. Flefo. Flefo.

  Maybe he was saying no flefo. What did it mean? Nothing. How about Don’t flay me? No, that didn’t really fit. Perhaps Don thay tho—that is, Don’t say so? But maybe the . . . on didn’t mean “don’t” at all. Wait a second. Maybe it was a mangled way of saying I’m not afraid of you: . . . no’ fray ’f’ou. No, that didn’t work either. If the lad wasn’t afraid, then why would he plead for the person to stop?

  Wait. What if it was Don Flefo?

  The doctor came in.

  “Do you know anyone by the name of Don Flefo?”

  “No. What an odd name. Listen, do you know how to give someone a shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then give him this in four hours. I’ll leave you the syringe and the medicine. I don’t want to come here too often, otherwise people might notice.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “Better. He’s a strong, healthy young man. He’ll definitely recover. I’ll be back to give him a third shot this evening, around nine.”

  After the doctor left, Teresi started thinking again about what the lad had said during the night.

  Let’s put aside this flefo for a minute. What did he say after that?

  . . . no . . . no . . . tu ariddru . . . ttu ariddru. . . no . . . cent . . . gno . . . no . . . cent . . . gno . . .

  The lawyer stopped at this point, leaving aside the other things he’d heard the boy say. He grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil. Best go about this in orderly fashion. He was going to work something out of this muddle, even if it took him all day. And he was convinced that whatever it was, it would allow him to screw don Filadelfo Cammarata, the marquis.

  Wait a second, Matté, he said to himself.

  Don Filadelfo. Don Flefo. That could be it. Don Flefo might very well be don Filadelfo.

  *

  At eight o’clock the following morning, as the mayor was going up to his office in City Hall, the usher warned him:

  “The captain’s here, you know.”

  What a constant pain in the arse that man was! With some effort, the mayor managed to smile as he entered his office.

  “My good captain!”

  “Good morning,” the other said drily.

  He was sitting in the armchair in front of the desk. The mayor took possession of his own chair.

  “A quiet night?” he asked.

  “Quiet as can be,” Montagnet replied. Then he said: “Did you summon Don Raccuglia?”

  “I’ll do so immediately.”

  “There’s no longer any need.”

  Mayor Calandro felt a little relieved. The fewer priests around, the better for all involved.

  “Well, I’m gla—”

  “I changed my mind,” the captain continued. “I went and paid him a call at church.”

  “When?”

  “At six o’clock this morning. I waited for him to finish saying the first Mass, which was a mass of thanksgiving for the passing of the cholera menace. The church was packed.”

  Well, thanks a lot, captain dickhead! Might as well have gone there with a brass band and woken up the whole town! First he says he wants no speculation or malicious gossip and then he goes and shows up in uniform in front of all of Don Raccuglia’s parishoners!

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Of course. In the sacristy.”

  “And what did you say to him?”

  “That I’d denounced him to the court of Camporeale for sedition and inciting public disorder.”

  Well at least he didn’t put him up in front of a firing squad! But did this captain see things backwards or something?

  “But, Captain, that’s not exactly the way things went.”

  “Oh, no? Then how, exactly, did things go?”

  So now the man was going to play the wise guy?

  “If there’s anyone in town inciting people to rebel, it’s the lawyer Teresi! You have no idea what the man says and writes!”

  “You’re wrong, I do have an idea. His weekly comes to Camporeale, and I read it. As part of my duty, of course.”

  “So you know perfectly well which of the two men is the real subversive. It’s Teresi!”

  “Allow me please to firmly disagree. In this specific case, it wasn’t the lawyer leading the unrest, but the priest.”

  “But you must try to understand Don Raccuglia! Teresi advances ideas which—”

  “—Which in no way authorize Don Raccuglia to stir up the population against him.”

  “But he dared fire a gun at the crucifix!”

  “He fired in self-defense. If I take any action against him, I must also take action against don Liborio Spartà and his wife, and against the Veronica brothers. What do you think about that?”

  Clever man, this captain. The mayor weighed his options.

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Thank you. And as for the fact that he shot at the crucifix, I would advise you not to insist too much on that version of events. First, because the lawyer shot in the air. And second, because, even if he had fired at the crowd, he would have been firing at a priest using the crucifix to break down his door.”

  The mayor said nothing. But the captain didn’t let up.

  “And now, would you please give me the name of the person who sowed the rumor about the cholera?”

  Mayor Calandro had given this a lot of thought after his long discussion with Dr. Bellanca.

  “All right,” he said. “I checked into the matter and came up with the name of a very stable person considered by all to be a serious man of great integrity. And not only, but—”

  “Are you talking about don Anselmo Buttafava?” asked the captain, interrupting him.

  Calandro’s eyes opened wide.

  “But how . . . how did you know that?”

  “We’re carabinieri, my good man. At five o’clock this morning I sent five of my men out to arrest him.”

  “But do you know where he is?”

  “Of course. I’ve learned that Signor Buttafava owns an estate called San Giusippuzzo. And he also manages another, La Forcaiola, for a cousin of his who’s presently in jail. He’s
either at San Giusippuzzo or La Forcaiola, there’s no two ways about it. I think he’ll be back here in town by eleven at the latest.”

  Don Anselmo, arrested by the carabinieri? Was this asshole trying to trigger a revolution or something?

  “In . . . handcuffs?”

  “No. There’s no reason for that. Don’t worry, he’ll be treated with the utmost consideration. Along with the two carabinieri I also sent Lieutenant Villasevaglios.”

  “Speaking of consideration . . . ”

  “Tell me.”

  “The municipal physician, Dr. Bellanca, told me last night that he can explain how don Anselmo came to misconstrue the situation. May I have him come?”

  “Of course,” said the captain, rising to his feet. “And now, if you’ll allow me, I have to leave you. I have a few little things to attend to. I’m going to ring His Excellency the Prefect by telephone to set his mind at rest. And while I’m at it, I’m going to ring His Excellency the Bishop as well.”

  Was this man insane? The bishop? So now he was going to go and bust the bishop’s chops as well? Why? A bout of genuine cholera might really have been less of a plague than this goddamn captain!

  “I’m sorry, but why the bishop?”

  “Well, you know, it may not be in my line of duty, but I think it’s only common courtesy to inform him that I have reported one of his priests. I’ll see you back here at eleven.”

  I hope you break your neck, the mayor said to him in his mind.

  *

  His Excellency the Most Reverend Monsignor Egilberto Martire put down the telephone receiver and grabbed a notepad he had on the table. He opened it, thumbed through it, tore out a sheet, and then rang the little bell he kept within reach.

  “You rang, Your Excellency?” said his secretary, Don Marcantonio Panza.

  “Don Marcantonio, on this sheet of paper are the names of the priests of the eight parishes in Palizzolo. I haven’t yet made my episcopal visits, so I don’t know them yet. I want them all here, at the bishopric, at four o’clock this afternoon. I will not tolerate any absences.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Working with His Excellency Egilberto Martire was worse than living in a barracks. Physically, he looked more like a sergeant major than a bishop. Fat, short, and with a red face that, when he got upset, started to turn purple. In the six months since he arrived at Camporeale, he’d instituted a military-style discipline. The best of it was that, being Roman, every so often he would speak in obscenities.

  “The stupid shits!” Don Marcantonio heard him in fact say as he was leaving the room.

  *

  Don Anselmo Buttafava did not come in at eleven o’clock, for the simple reason that before reaching La Forcaiola, Lieutenant Villasevaglios and the two carabinieri ran into some trouble. And therefore don Anselmo didn’t find out that day that he was supposed to report to Captain Montagnet to defend himself against the accusation of disturbing the peace. Right where the trail to La Forcaiola branched off into a smaller trail leading into the Galluzzo district, there stood a giant olive tree. Up in the boughs of this tree a brigand from the Salamone gang was hiding, a man known as Savaturi ’u pecuru—“Salvatore the Sheep”—because the great quantity of hair he had all over his body. He was standing guard. Seeing the three soldiers approach, he gave a shepherd’s whistle to sound the alarm.

  Salamone the brigand, who the night before had seized three women fleeing from Palizzolo, was having his way with them inside a nearby cave. Outside the cave, keeping watch, were two trusted brigands, Arelio the Hare and Pancrazio the Snake.

  The rest of the gang had headed on towards the Arbanazzo woods a few miles away.

  Hearing the whistle, Arelio and Pancrazio ran over to the olive tree and took up position. As soon as the carabinieri were within range, they started shooting. The three soldiers dismounted, took cover behind some trees, and returned fire. After five minutes of firing back and forth, the lieutenant signaled to the two carabinieri and, slithering along the ground through the grass, he came close to the tree from which Savaturi ’u pecuru was firing, took careful aim, and cut him down with one shot.

  Savaturi’s dead body fell right onto Pancrazio’s head, whereupon the bandit shot to his feet only to fall back down again a second later, struck by another bullet from the lieutenant, who was a peerless marksman. Scared to death, Arelio the Hare started running towards the cave, yelling. The carabinieri gave chase, and two things happened at once. As Arelio fell down, dead, at the mouth of the grotto, out of the same grotto came Salamone the brigand, naked and a little woozy from having repeatedly ravished the three women. As soon as he saw the three carabinieri, he realized he was done for and put his hands up. Behind him, in tears, appeared the three women, also naked, who ran into the carabinieri’s arms saying they’d been sent by God to deliver them from a certain death at the hands of the bandits. After giving the women a chance to put their clothes back on, the lieutenant let them go as they wished. That way they could tell everyone that Salamone had treated them like queens and respected them like Madonnas.

  The only person Lieutenant Villasevaglios had to escort back to Palizzolo was therefore Salamone, and he forced the brigand to trudge into town in his underpants, which he’d been allowed to put back on so as not to offend common decency and bound in ropes so tight he looked like a walking salami being pulled along by a horse.

  Less than an hour after reaching Palizzolo, Salamone was “made to pay the consequences” by order of Captain Montagnet. The corpses of the other three brigands were hung from nearby trees.

  This time there were a lot of people attending the execution in front of the wall of the ancient convent.

  *

  The clock was striking the twelve chimes of midday when Stefano woke up. Matre santa! He’d fallen asleep instead of taking over for his uncle!

  He got dressed in a hurry and went into the young man’s room. His uncle wasn’t there, but the injured youth was sleeping and didn’t seem agitated. Stefano placed his palm on the sleeper’s forehead: the fever seemed to have dropped a little.

  He went downstairs and into his uncle’s study. Teresi was sleeping, mouth open, head leaning against the back of the armchair. On the table he noticed some sheets of paper with writing on them. As he turned to leave, to let his uncle sleep, Teresi opened his eyes and called to him.

  “Stefano, come here!”

  The tone of his voice sounded pleased.

  “Sit down.”

  And he handed him a sheet of paper.

  . . . no . . . no . . . pleeathe . . . no more . . . no . . . no . . . on flefo . . . pleeathe . . . on flefo . . . no . . . no . . . tu ariddru . . . no . . . cent . . . I . . . no . . . cent . . . no . . . cent . . . . . . ahhh . . . ahhh . . . ndu . . . nuthin . . . olina . . . oww . . . no . . . no . . . nuthin . . . o . . . olina . . .

  “So? That’s the stuff the guy was saying last night, all strung together. But it doesn’t make any sense.”

  Teresi chuckled.

  “Did you manage to make some sense of it?” Stefano asked.

  “In fact I think I did,” said his uncle.

  He handed him another sheet of paper.

  . . . no . . . no . . . please . . . no more . . . no . . . no . . . don Filadelfo . . . please . . . don Filadelfo . . . no . . . no . . . ’zù Carmineddru . . . I’m innocent . . . I’m innocent . . . innocent . . . ahhh . . . ahhh . . . I didn’t do nothing to Paolina . . . ahhh . . . no . . . no . . . nothing to Paolina . . .

  Stefano turned pale. Then Teresi slapped himself hard on the forehead.

  “The shot!”

  He grabbed the medicine and syringe and raced down the stairs.

  “Except for that one . . . what’s your name?” Bishop Egilberto Martire asked the oldest of the eight priests lined up in front of him.

  “Mariano Dalli Cardillo, Your Ex
cellency.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventy.”

  “Now, going from right to left, the names and ages of everyone else.”

  “Alessio Terranova, forty-three years old.”

  “Eriberto Raccuglia, forty years old.”

  “Filiberto Cusa, forty-one years old.”

  “Libertino Samonà, forty-five years old”

  “Angelo Marrafà, forty years old.”

  “Ernesto Pintacuda, thirty-nine years old.”

  “So, with the exception of Don Dalli Cardillo, the rest of you are young. Too young to understand in full the responsibilities that rest on the shoulders of a parish priest—and not just religious responsibilities. This was a grave mistake my predecessor made. He should have taken care to ensure that it didn’t happen. I will try to set things right as quickly as possible. But let’s get to the point. This morning I was told by Carabinieri Captain Montagnet, who was sent to Palizzolo over that cholera idiocy, that you, Don Raccuglia, were so goddamn stupid as to get yourself reported for sedition. Nice going! A seditious priest!”

  “I’d like to explain, Your Excellency . . . ” Don Raccuglia began.

  “You’re not going to explain anything to me, got that?”

  “But . . . ”

  “Shut up! Here you talk only when I say so! And that’s not all! The good captain also informed me that in all the churches, except for that of Don Dalli Cardillo, you incited the faithful, from your pulpits, against Teresi the lawyer! You incited the faithful to hatred! Come on! Where are you, anyway! You’re in Church, for Christ’s sake! In church you’re supposed to preach love, and only love should spread outward from the church! Have you forgotten what Jesus said? Love thy neighbor as thyself! That’s what Jesus said! You say: But Teresi the lawyer wants to destroy the family! So what! And you, instead of preaching love for the family and the sanctity of matrimony, you start preaching against some lawyer? Are you shitting me? Fight that lawyer with your own weapons, not with his! Take one Sunday, any Sunday, when the sun is shining bright, and declare it Family Day! Have all the married couples with all their children come to the church. Then organize a big feast in the churchyard! With singing and dancing! And everyone will smile and laugh and say: What a great thing the family is! What a beautiful thing is the sacrament of holy matrimony! And then you all eat and drink your fill to spite Teresi the lawyer! Do we understand one another now?”