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—”
“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!”
“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.