AN UNEXPECTED BOUT of rain descended on the village for nine days in a row. Some of the downpours knocked all the fruit from the trees; it thudded to the ground and rolled down the slope. At other times, drops of water, backlit against the sunlight, seemed to evaporate on contact with the ground. Whatever the rain’s consistency or intensity, it showed no sign of stopping for any reason. The constant pelting cleared the leaves of the walnut trees from the uneven roofs of the houses and rocked the children to sleep after dark.
It was late October and the daylight hours were dwindling as fast as the women’s desire to go to church for vespers. Unlike in the villages on the island’s coast, summer in Lolai was little more than the agony of endless mugginess, but as autumn approached, the temperatures would begin to drop, as would the sunflowers in the fields, and reawaken people’s need for recovery after the lull of summer.
Everybody, thanks to the running water that encouraged thinking, had resumed making plans. On that Saturday morning, Miriam saw the sun rise again between the hills and headed to the church to ring the bells. No one went closer to double-check: everyone understood the announcement without needing to be told: there would be a solemn thanksgiving gathering the following morning.
Gavina got up at dawn, rubbed her aching leg and, now that the rain had stopped, resolved to call on Teresa. The latter welcomed her with traces of anger in her eyes and Gavina took a mere second to realise something serious had happened. Teresa told her about her skirmish with Carlo before the deluge in the village, and about the decision this extended period of isolation had inspired. Nothing would change her mind: she wanted to leave Lolai forever.
Gavina saw that Teresa was eager to put her plan into action and avoid the possibility of second thoughts, but she asked her to think it over, just the same. Tore needed to be given notice, Rita would be left without a job, and it would be complicated to manage a long journey with three children. Besides, where would she go?
Teresa had already taken everything into account and was only waiting for the week to start so she could get everything ready. Certain that Tore, too, would try to talk her out of it, she didn’t want to worry him, but she felt guilty for having made him travel back and forth to the fairs for nothing. She would leave him the tavern and the store, and Rita the money owed for her work. She would ask Gavina to take care of the house. Her family savings would cover the journey and the first few months away from the village. She swore in the name of Bruno that she wouldn’t look back.
Now that she had decided to leave, she felt it was absurd not to have thought of it sooner, and was impatiently waiting for the moment she would breathe city air. As she outlined the details of the move and the new work opportunities, her eyes glistened with restlessness. She’d heard there was a place that offered Italian language lessons in exchange for office cleaning, and that many women in a district near the harbour would get together on Saturday afternoons to swap tips about things in which they had expertise. The very notion of all these new possibilities gave her strength and provided an antidote to the tension that increased by the day.
Gavina understood Teresa’s desire for freedom, but at the same time was afraid it might fail. They both knew that such a long journey was unwise during the cold season, especially with small children in tow, so she tried to persuade Teresa to postpone it until the spring. Teresa was disappointed: the support of the only person she could rely on seemed to be wavering.
It struck her now that this village had always imposed inconvenient conditions on her: in these parts, being left a widow with three children meant becoming a martyr, and she knew well enough that she hadn’t met people’s expectations. But now—contrary to what she’d hoped—just as she was about to achieve the independence she’d earned, she felt terrifyingly dizzy.
‘I’ve always looked over my shoulder, Gavina,’ she said, ‘but I’ve never turned back.’
The black stain of her past, and the risk involved in looking into it, was for Teresa like being on the edge of too deep an abyss. Even though she had so much unfinished business, she’d always forced herself to look ahead; Bruno’s death and this new need for independence were yet more proof that the future, however uncertain, was the only time still worth something. And yet even though her head demanded that she didn’t turn back, she could not silence an increasingly powerful call for the truth.
Gavina understood the fear in her friend’s words and snapped her out of it just in time. She clapped her hands. ‘All right, it can be done. Everything needs to be planned in detail, but not today. Today is a day of rest.’
‘You’re right,’ Teresa said with a weary smile, buttoning her jacket. ‘We’re going to Mass. Will you come with us?’
Gavina gave her a doubtful look, but then agreed, and together they set off for church.
Everyone was there that morning. Enjoying the glare of the sun on the stone blocks in the square, the children stayed outside to play by the main gate, while the last adults to arrive, unable to find a seat in the pews, were following the service standing up by the door. In other circumstances, this large attendance at mass would have been considered an anomaly, but after so many days of being shut in, everyone felt it appropriate to set the spirit back in motion too. Miriam had already been waiting in the front row for an hour, walking back and forth to check if Don Giuseppe had all he needed. She smoothed the hem of a crumpled white cloth on the altar and gave a final touch to the white lilies around the lectern.
In the little side chapel, almost hidden from the rest of the assembly, sat the other women, entrusted with the singing and the collection. At their head were tzia Bonaria and sora Callitza, excellent sopranos and unequalled gossips. Maria sat in the second row, staring up at the crucifix hanging directly over the altar, while the men were in the right-hand-side pews: Biccu, Elio and Tonio in front, the three charcoal burners a few rows back, so as not to attract attention.
Carlo had mentioned his latest setback to the other two, leaving out several details but not the most important one: his patience was wearing thin. He’d received nothing but refusals from the woman, and he was determined to claim the respect she’d denied him, no matter what the cost. Although his anger was ready to spread like wildfire, he was still hoping that Teresa would show up.
Teresa and Gavina had left the children to play in the square, and arrived just a moment before the bells rang. They sat quietly in the back row. In front of them sat Annedda—a breviary open in her lap and rosary beads clutched between her fingers—and Rita, absent-mindedly adjusting her bun. While the rest of the gathering were watching the priest ascending the altar amid the peeling of bells, Sofia, sitting next to Annedda, turned sideways towards Teresa.
‘You made a big mistake by refusing Carlo’s proposal. You could have gone back to being a mother, instead of working all day like a man.’
Before Teresa and Gavina, both incredulous, could reply, Sofia turned back to the altar, as Don Giuseppe made his way to the pulpit. With every step he took, his long, olive-green cassock, embroidered with gold crosses on the sides, billowed at his feet like a peacock’s tail.
‘For which of you, desiring to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, “This man began to build and was not able to finish.” So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple. This is the word of the Lord.’
‘Praise be to you, O Christ,’ the assembly replied in unison.
As Don Giuseppe descended from the pulpit, scrutinising the congregation, and deliberating over the words for his homily, his gaze fell on Teresa.
Her left leg had started to quiver at the words ‘This man began to build and was not able to finish’, but Gavina had nudged her, reminding her to take deep breaths to control her anxiety.
The priest was still dwelling on Teresa’s recent rudeness towards him, when she had thrown him out of her house. He knew the roles were now reversed and that it was her turn to be the unwelcome guest.
‘Dear brothers and sisters, today’s Gospel asks us to distinguish, as Christians, the essential from the superfluous. The Lord says that anyone who wishes to build a tower must first ask himself if he has the means to bring it to completion. It is man’s perennial need to plan everything. But it’s more important to decide what to build than how to build it. What kind of tower is therefore worthy of a good Christian? The earthly one, to protect us from outside attacks, or the heavenly one, governed by charity? For the first, we would need to gather what we don’t have, while for the second, we would have to discard even what we have. Jesus says, “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven,” and “You cannot serve God and money.” Man’s greed is in fact the greatest obstacle to divine justice.’
Don Giuseppe spread his arms as he spoke, never looking away from the back row, where Teresa sat hunched over, trying to make herself invisible. The judgement was so blunt that little by little all those present—as though a higher entity had taken over their bodies—turned in unison to look at her. Don Giuseppe joined his hands in prayer once again before continuing.
‘The Holy Scriptures have much to teach us, even nowadays. Let these words leave an impression in the heart of each one of us and beware,’ he said, pointing at the ceiling, ‘beware those who show off their wealth and do not ask forgiveness for their sins. They will shut the doors to God’s mercy and will have no place in the kingdom of Heaven.’
A deathly silence fell on the church, but upon hearing this last sentence, Teresa stood up and went to the centre of the nave. She took deep breaths, blinking repeatedly because her eyes were starting to sting. Gavina grabbed her by the arm before she could take another step and whispered in her ear. ‘It’s not worth it, Teresa.’
Teresa remained motionless. A couple of metres away, the priest was looking at her smugly. All at once, she dropped her head and spat on the floor, then turned and went out into the sunlit square, so unlike the church, which, in just a few minutes, had turned darker than a cave. Tore followed at her heels.
Gavina stood, unmoving, in the space her friend had occupied earlier. Her eyes like two slits, she addressed those present; as her voice reverberated between the walls, it sounded amplified.
‘The charity you fill your mouths with will end up choking you. You like repentant sinners, do you, Don Giuseppe? One of them said “Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves.” If a woman must apologise for being who she is in order to save herself, then you can keep your God. Mine has a different kind of justice in mind.’
Before anyone could open their mouth, Gavina crossed herself and went out the front door. The priest broke the silence by shaking his cassock and returning to the altar.
‘Let us continue,’ he said, signalling tzia Bonaria and sora Callitza to start the offertory hymn. They responded to the command with the promptness of trained militia and sang even louder, drowning out the disturbing echo of Gavina’s words.
‘Before the final blessing,’ Don Giuseppe said after Communion, ‘I have an important announcement for everybody. After Mass, Carlo, Giovanni and Tommaso have invited everyone up to the guesthouse for lunch, prepared with the help of some of our parishioners. Those who wish to contribute something may bring wine and cakes, of which there are never enough. The Lord be with you,’ he concluded, raising his arms to invite the congregation to stand.
After Mass, the prospect of sharing a meal and venting communal gossip restored the good mood. Besides Maria, who had fled from the church immediately after Gavina, the only people missing were the Murrus. There was no sign of them anywhere in Lolai.
By one o’clock, the sun was high and many hungry villagers turned up punctually at the guesthouse. In the shade of the olive trees was a stone enclosure with a long table covered by a wooden awning. The charcoal burners had started the fire an hour earlier, in order to roast enough meat to feed all the guests.
The men hadn’t had to be asked twice to bring wine, and a flask of amabile adorned the table every two place settings, along with olives, cheese and thin slices of bread. When Sofia, Miriam and the others started serving malloreddus with sausage, the wine was already flowing, the guests increasingly merry and the earlier awkwardness forgotten.
Don Giuseppe arrived later, his face pale from fear. He said that, on his way, a snake had suddenly appeared before him. He’d tried to scare it off with his cane, but hadn’t managed to kill it.
‘There are no venomous reptiles in Sardinia, Don Giuseppe,’ Biccu said, sipping his wine, his cheeks scarlet. ‘But a worse venom comes from the tongue of whoever curses, right?’
The priest nodded. The charcoal burners spent all afternoon filling the guests’ glasses and asking them if the food was to their liking. Carlo helped the women and Giovanni entertained the children by making small items disappear behind his back; Tommaso, however, sat apart once lunch started. He’d found refuge at a corner of the table and taken a pencil and a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket. Hunched over the table, he lifted his head every now and then and stared into space before going back to writing.
Meanwhile, Biccu was inflicting improbable anecdotes on the table, leaving the rest of the group doubtful but nonetheless curious. ‘I’m telling you: Bobore, tziu Lodde’s cousin…the devil once paid him a call at home!’
Tonio teased his friend by elbowing him, and a few drops of wine fell from his glass onto the wooden table.
‘Mi’—look—I’m not joking!’ Biccu continued, serious. ‘As a youngster, he stole a sheep, then climbed up the mountain where the devil had been sent at the witching hour, when hell revolts. And he found the devil in his bedroom that very night. People are scared of looking him in the face, so the devil disguises himself: sometimes he’s a child, sometimes an elegant gentleman, or even a boar with horns! “His majesty came to see me,” Bobore would say. Earlier, he’d heard a loud noise, like chains dragging, and a constant mumbling. Do you know how he sent him away in the end?’
The others shook their heads.
‘He asked what he wanted. “Ita ollis?” he said, and the devil replied, “Oh, nothing.” And from that day on, he never bothered him again.’
The crowd that had gathered around him burst into shouts of disapproval and insults at Biccu for having given the story such a disappointing ending, but he carried on laughing, drinking and swearing it was all true. The meal ended with countless trays of sweets and many glasses of myrtle liqueur to help the digestion.
While the men continued exchanging more or less plausible stories about demons and witches, Don Giuseppe got up, complaining of a bad headache. He excused himself from the party and Miriam took him home to rest.
After lunch, a small group of women gathered at the table, not far from Tommaso; they flopped onto the chairs in unison, exhausted by the to-ing and fro-ing over lunch.
‘When food is shared, the angel joins in. It really is true,’ one of them declared, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the edge of her apron.
The others smiled and nodded in agreement, enjoying the noisy good mood of the guests.
‘It’s a good thing she didn’t come, or she would have been capable of spitting on the lunch too,’ tzia Bonaria said, annoyed. ‘That’s no way to behave.’
‘T’arrori, it’s ghastly, she’s always making a scene,’ sora Callitza replied. ‘She says she doesn’t like attention but then she goes looking for it.’
‘Instead of being glad that a man wants her, she spits on the floor, and then her friend goes blaming other people. Cos’e maccus. That’s insane.’
‘Miriam told me that even Don Giuseppe tried to persuade her, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I think it’s all about money.’
‘When her husband was alive, she certainly didn’t mind being courted. In times of war, lies galore. Quite the contrary.’
All of a sudden, Tommaso, who’d been eavesdropping on the conversation, stood up and climbed on the table, startling the women. ‘Ladies, this is precisely what we need to talk about,’ he said in a solemn tone.
Then he formed a circle with his thumb and forefinger, placed it under his tongue and whistled at his two companions. Carlo and Giovanni heard the signal and, as though they’d rehearsed the sequence of events many times, gathered all the guests before Tommaso. He looked down at their heads from above, like a guest of honour at an improvised assembly, his body tilting, his mouth oily. He was holding the lapels of his jacket as though they were braces, like one of those mamuthones who used to parade through the village at carnival time, scaring children with the metallic sound of their cowbells.
The sun outside the awning began to disappear behind the olive trees; Tommaso lowered his hand, put his empty wine glass at his feet and—with an urgency dictated by the impending darkness—began to talk.