The Sect of Angels

by Andrea Camilleri

  “As you can see, Mr. President, there is no point in voting. My advice is that Signor Teresi, if he’s really so keen on it, should submit a third and final request.”

  The silence that descended upon the salon was broken by don Stapino’s cheerful voice.

  “Casimiro, bring out the playing cards!”

  *

  At seven o’clock Monday evening, the town council met to discuss the mayor’s proposal to write to the prefect to have Matteo Teresi awarded the title of cavaliere and given the knight’s cross.

  “I would like to speak in a personal capacity,” said Mangiameli, a lawyer.

  “Please go ahead,” said President Burrano.

  “I speak as a practicing, observant Catholic. I had been entirely in favor of underwriting the mayor’s proposal because I was convinced that my legal colleague Teresi’s action against the parish priests who had revoltingly betrayed their divine mission was dictated by a sincere desire for justice. But after what happened yesterday morning during the procession I had to revise my position. He offended the holy solemnity of the occasion! He started shouting in the presence of the Most Holy Sacrament! This I have taken as a clear sign that he hasn’t the least bit of respect for our sacred religion!”

  “And neither for our sacred Mafia,” someone said under his breath, though it was unclear who.

  “And therefore,” Mangiameli concluded, “I will vote against rewarding Teresi, and nothing can make me change my mind!”

  “Permission to speak!” said Pasqualino Marchica, a grain and fava bean merchant.

  “Permission granted.”

  “With all due respect to our mayor, I wouldn’t feel right voting yes, either. Matteo Teresi is a man whose opinions I respect, but he’s also someone who always comes out guns blazing without thinking twice. He seeks to do the right thing, but without taking into account the harm it might bring to others.”

  “That’s the absolute truth!”

  “I’ll cite just one example. When he found out what those swinish priests were doing, he took that bucket of shit, and instead of dumping it into the pit, he threw it over the whole town! He covered us all in shit! The priests surely deserved it, but not everyone else. He ruined the lives of four girls who—”

  “Five,” said another voice.

  “ . . . five girls who—”

  “There are seven of them,” suggested another voice.

  “Would somebody then please tell me how many goddamn girls there are?” asked Pasqualino Marchica.

  “Just one minute,” said President Burruano, counting on his fingers. “Paolina Cammarata, Antonietta Lo Mascolo, Totina Perricone, the widow Cannata, Lorenza Spagna, and Filippa Lanza. That makes six.”

  Pasqualino Marchica resumed speaking.

  “ . . . ruined the lives of six girls who—”

  “Hey, Pasqualì, it doesn’t add up!”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re forgetting the dead girl, Rosalia Pampina.”

  “But she’s already dead! Just let me finish! He’s ruined the lives of six girls whose only fault was to have believed what their priests told them! These poor young women, whether noble or of humble station, can only become nuns now. They’ll never find a husband anymore! Thanks to our fine lawyer friend, all over Italy everyone’s talking about Palizzolo as if it was some kind of whorehouse! He’s not the kind of man to do the right thing. And so I say no!”

  After three hours of discussion, the town council decided to reject the mayor’s proposal.

  “Montagnet was right,” Teresi said to Stefano at the dinner table. “The wheel of fortune is already changing direction. The backlash has begun.”

  “But you didn’t really believe him, since you requested admission to the club a second time. If you had, you wouldn’t have made the request, because you would have known that in one way or another they would say no.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t believe Montagnet. I thought my fellow townsmen would be a little more grateful. When in fact they’re not. No club membership, no knight’s cross.”

  “But did you really care so much?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “Zio, you know what your worst fault is? Being an idealist.”

  “Is that a fault?”

  “Well if you don’t like the word ‘fault,’ we can call it a ‘shortcoming.’”

  “Oh, there’s something else I wanted to tell you. I went to the bank today and they told me the manager wanted to talk to me. He never once looked me in the eye; he only said, ‘Thank you.’ And I said: ‘For what?’ And he said: ‘For having ruined my life, and my family’s life. I’m hoping to be transferred out of here as soon as possible.’ The poor guy! I really felt sorry for him. But what do I have to do with any of it? I didn’t even know that his daughter Filippa was one of the girls involved! It was the widow Cannata who revealed her name, but the fault is always mine!”

  He threw his napkin onto the table and went out onto the balcony.

  It was a hot evening. Dark but starry. He pulled a cigar out of his waistcoat pocket and lit a match.

  The bullet passed so close to him that it blew out the match.

  CHAPTER XIV

  HOW IT ALL ENDED

  The following morning was market day.

  As he had always done every week, Teresi didn’t miss it, despite the fact that the gunshot of the previous evening had cost him a few hours of sleep. You can be as brave as you want, but a bullet whizzing right past your head will never fail to rattle your nerves at least a little. But he did not feel afraid. It was something he’d been expecting, in a sense. One of these days they’re going to shoot me, he often used to think when some of the more fiery polemics he wrote in his newssheet touched upon untouchable local interests or roiled the already foul waters.

  At the market he loved to browse from stall to stall, and especially to chat with the merchants and hawkers, who, in covering the entire province over the course of the week, knew more things than the prefect himself. And since they all knew Teresi well, they would tell him everything: all the stories of infidelity, theft, and fraud, as well as the marriages, births, and deaths that had occurred in the towns they’d just been through. They were better than any local news correspondents could be, of which he had none for his newssheet anyway. Some of these stories actually came in installments, and each week he would get the most recent updates.

  That morning, however, as he walked among the people, stopping at each stall, he felt that something around him had changed. Something barely perceptible, but real. A darting glance perhaps, a half smile, a word left hanging . . .

  He also noticed another difference. Whereas in the past he’d always had to shoulder his way through the throng, this time, as soon as people saw him, they stepped aside, almost as if to avoid coming into physical contact with him.

  They know! he thought.

  The night before, when he went out onto the balcony, he was absolutely certain there wasn’t anybody in the street below. And right after the shot, he hadn’t heard so much as a window open or close. So how was it that the news of the gunshot had reached the ears of everyone?

  “Attorney Teresi!”

  He turned around. It was a carabiniere.

  “I went to your house looking for you, and your nephew kindly told me I would find you here.”

  “What is it?”

  “Marshal Sciabbarrà wants to see you.”

  *

  “Could you please explain to me why you went directly to the market this morning instead of coming to this station?”

  “Why should I have done that?”

  “To report what happened last night.”

  “And what happened?”

  “So nothing happened to you last night?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Teresi with a questioning
expression on his face.

  “I get it,” said the marshal. “So I guess I’m just talking to hear the sound of my own voice.”

  “If you feel like talking and enjoy doing so, go right ahead.”

  “No, I don’t feel like it, and I don’t enjoy doing so. There’s nothing enjoyable about it whatsoever. If you find a gunshot that actually blows out the match you just struck to light your cigar enjoyable, that’s your business. To each his own. I’m just trying to do my job.”

  Teresi was flabbergasted. How the hell did the marshal know even the detail about the match? There was no need to ask.

  “This town, my good lawyer, is like a sleeping cat. Its eyes are shut, it doesn’t move, and we think it’s asleep. But in fact the cat is counting the stars in the sky. In this town, nothing ever remains secret. Everyone comes to know everything about everyone. For that reason, I understand perfectly well why you don’t feel like reporting the incident. Shall I tell you why?”

  “Please.”

  “First of all, you are correctly convinced that if you did report it, and I began an investigation, it would be like trying to catch the wind. Secondly, any report on your part would, in one way or another, only increase the gossip about you, whereas you, at the present moment, need a little peace and quiet around you.”

  “You’re a very intelligent man, Marshal.”

  “Thank you. But, to continue, and to keep hearing the sound of my own voice, even if you need a little peace and quiet around you, there’s no saying that other people want to grant you this peace and quiet. Eternal peace, perhaps, yes, but a few months of quiet, probably not. Know what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t really follow.”

  “My good man, whoever shot at you last night . . . Actually, no, let me rephrase that: Whoever shot at a man lighting his cigar on the balcony last night—”

  “—and missed . . . ”

  “You really think so? Come on, Mr. Teresi, whoever shot at you missed on purpose! He needed only to fire a second time to kill the man on the balcony. But he didn’t. He didn’t, because his intention was to send you a message. That bullet whizzing past your head was talking to you. And it could only have been saying two things: ‘Whatever you’ve done is done. But from this moment on, be careful what you do.’ Is that a little clearer now?”

  “Perfectly clear. And what was the second thing?”

  “The second thing may have been the following: ‘Pack your bags and get out of this town while there’s still time.’ Clear?”

  “Perfectly. And I thank you for your courtesy. Oh, and, listen: Have you got any news of Captain Montagnet?”

  “I’m told the good captain left yesterday for his new destination. He’s been promoted to major. And he’s moving to Alessandria, in the Piedmont. He’ll be very happy, I’m sure.”

  And thus they’d taken away the one friend he could always count on.

  *

  “Have you heard the news?” asked don Anselmo, entering the club in a rush.

  “Yes, we have,” don Serafino Labianca, don Stapino Vassallo, and Commendatore Paladino, the only people present, replied almost in unison.

  “Attorney Teresi sent his regards to ’u zù Carmineddru through ’u zù Peppi Timpa, and ’u zù Carmineddru didn’t waste any time replying,” said don Stapino, laughing.

  “You think so?” asked don Serafino.

  “Why, do you have a better explanation for what happened?”

  “I’ve got more than just one, my friend, as far as that goes. Let’s begin by saying it could have been a shrewd move by a father whose daughter has been ruined by the scandal Teresi stirred up. So he shoots at him, unfortunately missing his target, but it’s no sweat off his back, because afterwards we’re all ready to say that it could only have been ’u zù Carmineddru or ’u zù Peppi Timpa that did it.”

  “It seems to me you’re thinking of one person in particular.”

  “The Marquis Cammarata? No, I would rule him out. But it could have been—just to name one possibility, for the sake of argument—ragioniere Toto Lanza.”

  “The bank manager? No, come on!”

  “I’m sorry, but why does that surprise you? Didn’t his daughter Filippa end up being the talk of the town because of Teresi? And then Toto Lanza’s own history . . . ah, never mind!”

  “Oh, no you don’t! Now you must tell us everything you know!”

  “Just the other day I spoke with the lawyer defending Patre Samonà, who took advantage of Filippa, Lanza’s daughter. He said Don Samonà had told him that once, right after he’d finished doing it with the girl, Toto Lanza himself had come into the sacristy. The priest had forgotten to lock the door! Luckily they’d both just put their clothes back on, but Filippa’s face was as red as a tomato, one of her tits was hanging halfway out, and it was clear that something had happened between the two. But Toto Lanza said nothing. He just whispered, ‘Excuse me,’ and went back out.”

  “But that means he hadn’t understood a thing!”

  “He’d understood perfectly well, my friend! In fact, one month later he went to Patre Samonà and told him he’d discovered that the priest was a cousin of the bank’s president. In short, he asked him to ask his cousin to promote him from teller to manager. And Don Samonà, who realized the man was trying to make a deal with him, did what he needed to do and, one month later, Toto Lanza became the branch manager.”

  “It’s hardly surprising,” said don Anselmo. “Toto Lanza actually looks like a cuckold. Cuckolded by his own daughter, and probably also by his wife!”

  “That’s something you’d have to ask don Cecè Greco, who unfortunately is not present!” said Commendatore Paladino.

  It was well-known that Michela Lanza and Cecè Greco had had a thing going for years.

  “But there’s another possibility,” don Serafino resumed. “Which is that nobody at all shot at Teresi.”

  “What are you saying?! All the neighbors heard the shot!”

  “Calm down. I’m saying that Teresi may have told his nephew, Stefano, to go down into the street and fire a shot at him.”

  “But why would he do that?”

  “Because, since nobody saw who fired the shot, Teresi can give the gunman whatever name he wants when he writes about it in his newspaper. And thereby ruin the life of whoever he’s got it in for most at that moment. Someone like you, don Stapino, for example. If the man writes that it was you who fired the shot, how will you defend yourself? Sue him for libel? If you sue, then people will start to think it really was you. Take my word for it: there’s only one thing we should be hoping for: that next time the gunman doesn’t miss.”

  “But didn’t you say you would have voted in favor of admitting him to the club? Have you changed your mind or something?” asked don Anselmo.

  “And would you yourself vote to admit a momentarily walking corpse?”

  *

  “For pressing family reasons I find myself forced to terminate our association, as I am no longer in need of your services. Regards, Giovanni Galletto.”

  With the above telegram, the fifth of its kind, Matteo Teresi lost the fifth of the six most important cases he was working on. Five telegrams in a single week, almost one a day, all the same, all using the same formula: “For pressing family reasons . . . ” This was to make him understand, if he hadn’t already, that this was all by design, and he would never again be given the kind of case that allowed him to eat, to live his life, to publish his newssheet.

  The Mafia, the priests, and the nobles, with these telegrams from his former clients—whom they’d threatened and forced to withdraw their support—were telling him that they intended to reduce him to abject poverty. Because all his other cases—the ones involving the poor, the wretched, the peasants abused by their masters—not only did they not bring him a single lira in revenue, but very often he had to
pay for the officially stamped documents and the court fees out of his own pocket.

  He had enough money in the bank to live for about two or three months. What would he do afterwards?

  “Zio,” said Stefano. “I have something to tell you that will upset you, but I have to tell you just the same. You’d even predicted it, actually.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I ran into Luigino.”

  “So why haven’t I heard from him?”

  “You’ll know in a minute. He told me the Chiarapana family has decided not to press charges.”

  And there went his sixth and last important case!

  “Was that why the marquise went to talk to Luigino’s mother?”

  “It’s not the only reason.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Yes. The scheme’s a little more complicated . . . ”

  “Go on, don’t be shy.”

  “Luigino’s gonna go to the carabinieri and tell them it was him who got Paolina pregnant, letting Patre Terranova off the hook. Terranova will swear he never laid a hand on Paolina, and only abused the widow and Totina—both legal adults—on the day at the convent. That way he gets out of the more serious charge of corrupting a minor, and the marquis gets to claim the usual extenuating circumstance of defending family honor for the crime of attempted murder of Luigino, which on top of everything else he failed to complete.”

  Attorney Teresi had become so pale that Stefano got scared he might be having a heart attack.

  “Drink a little water, Zio.”

  “So what does Luigino get out of this?”

  “He gets married to Paolina and they make him a rich man. They pay off all his father’s debts, which are considerable, he gets the Cammaratas’ palazzo in Salsetto, as is, and they’re going to give him their Zummìa estate in the dowry.”

  “So, I guess it all works out.”

  “And you want to know something else?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I ran into Baron Lo Mascolo by chance. He said he wants to talk to me.”