Teresi left the station well after Vespers had rung, and headed for Piazza Garibaldi, where the church of San Cono stood. When he got there the church door was already locked. He looked at his watch: almost seven o’clock. It was just then starting to get dark. The parish priest, Don Filiberto Cusa, had told the captain that Rosalia arrived just as he was closing up, and that she’d left just after confessing herself. Calculating that she’d taken half an hour to tell the priest what Salamone the brigand had done to her, it must still have been light outside when she came out. This made it unlikely she’d run into any troublemakers, as the captain had conjectured. That wasn’t yet the hour for troublemakers to come out on the street. There were still too many people about at that time of day; all those who had fled because of the cholera scare were returning. The house of Giallonardo the notary was barely fifty yards away.
The grocery shop directly opposite the church was still open, and a man, perhaps the owner, was sitting on a wicker chair right beside the entrance . . .
Perhaps he was also there the same accursed evening Rosalia went into the church? There was no harm in asking. He had nothing to lose. The sign over the shop entrance said: GERARDO PACE GROCER.
“Good evening, Signor Pace.”
“Good evening,” the man replied, looking confused.
There was nobody inside the store. On the counter Teresi saw three or four rounds of tumazzo and other cheeses, including a caciocavallo. It must have been a house specialty.
“I’m looking for some caciocavallo di Ragusa. My good friend Giallonardo, the notary, just told me you might have some.”
The man stood up. He was fat and sweaty.
“Of course I’ve got some. I’m the only person in town who’s got it.”
He went into the store, with Teresi following behind.
“How much would you like?”
It was best to get on his good side.
“A whole round, if that’s all right.”
Gerardo Pace’s eyes glistened. He probably didn’t do a great deal of business. Clearly this lone sale would make up for the whole day.
As the grocer was weighing the cheese, Teresi was racking his brains trying to figure out a way to broach the subject. But then Gerardo Pace asked him a question that took him by surprise.
“Do you know if there’s any news about Rosalia?”
Since Teresi had said he was a close friend of the notary, it only stood to reason that . . .
“I’m very fond of that girl,” the shopowner continued. “She does all her food shopping here. What do they say at the hospital?”
“They’re not saying anything yet.”
“I knew it was probably something serious! I walked her back to the notary’s house after I saw her come out of the church.”
“You saw her come out of the church in front?”
“She didn’t really come out of the front door, but out the little door to the side, the one that leads to the sacristy. And, believe me, the girl couldn’t stand up! And she wouldn’t talk. I asked her over and over: ‘What’s wrong, Rosalì?’ And she’d say nothing! Poor kid, I felt so bad for her!”
“Do you remember what time it was?”
“It was probably round eight-twenty, something like that, ’cause I always close at eight-thirty, and I remember that after I walked her home, I came back here and closed up. Will you be needing anything else?”
“Yes,” Teresi said on impulse. “Another whole round, this time of sweet provolone. And give me that leg of prosciutto as well.”
“But how are you going to carry all this stuff? Want me to help you carry it home?”
Signor Pace would have attracted more attention than a brass band, walking him home with so much food.
“Tell you what. Please wrap it all up for me, I’ll pay for it, and tomorrow morning my nephew will drop by and pick it all up. But tell me something. Where does Don Filiberto Cusa live?”
“He’s got three rooms above the sacristy. There’s a wooden staircase leading straight up there from the sacristy.”
*
“Do you know Don Filiberto Cusa?” Teresi asked Stefano as they were eating with Luigino, who by now was getting up out of bed whenever he felt like it. Dr. Palumbo had said that he could go home to Salsetto in two days’ time.
“No. He doesn’t know me and I don’t know him. Who is he?”
“The priest of San Cono parish. Do you know at least where the church is?”
“Yes, that I know.”
“Good. Do you have a piece of black cloth?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Cut a strip of it and sew it onto the left sleeve of your jacket.”
“Mourning?”
“Yes indeed. And if you have a black tie, put that on, too.”
“So I’m in mourning.”
“Yes, you are.”
“So who died?”
“Your cousin, Rosalia Pampina, the daughter of your mother’s sister. She killed herself while she was staying at the hospital.”
“Why’d the poor thing kill herself?”
Teresi told him everything about the girl, and even told him about the talk he’d had with the grocer.
“What Pace told me confirms the captain’s and my suspicions. Rosalia suffered two sexual aggressions: first at the hands of the brigand Salamone, and second, at the hands of Patre Filiberto Cusa.”
“Inside the church?” asked Stefano, who couldn’t bring himself to believe it.
“I found out that you can go upstairs to the priest’s apartment directly from the sacristy. He must have taken her home.”
“And what do you want me to say to the priest, all dressed up in mourning?”
“I want you to wait for him to finish saying the Mass, then go into the sacristy and, observing him very carefully, tell him that Rosalia killed herself. Once he’s swallowed this news, you must tell him you want to talk to him in private, in a safe place, because you have something important to tell him. Try to get him to take you upstairs to his apartment. Then, when you’re alone, you’ll reveal to him that the night before she threw herself out the window, Rosalia talked to you and told you everything. And say there was also a nurse present.”
“Then what?”
“Then you’ll blackmail him. You’ll say that, for starters, he must give you two thousand lire.”
“And what if the guy’s innocent and calls the carabinieri?”
“He won’t, rest assured. If, at any rate, that were to happen, I’ll explain the whole thing to Captain Montagnet.”
At this point Luigino, who hadn’t uttered a word throughout, said:
“I want to go with Stefano.”
“And who will you be?”
“I’ll be the nurse who heard what Rosalia said to her cousin. I’ll be Stefano’s accomplice. That way it’ll all be more believable, I’m sure of it.”
“All right,” Teresi consented.
“And at what time should we go to the church?”
“At six in the morning, for the first Mass.”
“Shit, why so early?”
“Because it’s dangerous, Stefano. If, for example, Signora Giallonardo in the meantime goes and tells the priest that Rosalia is dead, we’re screwed. Ah, and since there’ll be two of you, there’s a grocery shop right in front of the church, and I want you go there to pick up a round of caciocavallo and another of provolone, and a leg of prosciutto.”
*
At a quarter to six the following morning, the two young men left the house to go to church. Teresi accompanied them to an appointed intersection. He was too nervous to sit tight at home waiting for them; it would have driven him crazy.
He went to the Burruano pastry shop and scarfed down three ricotta cannoli fresh out of the oven. In fact he’d wanted to eat only one, but the aroma was so heavenly he couldn’t resist. When he came back out he had the feeling that if someone stuck a finger down his throat, they would touch the creamy ricotta with which he’d filled his stomach.
If I don’t drink some coffee right away, I’m going to get heartburn so bad it’ll kill me, he thought.
But all the cafés in town were still closed at that hour. He had no choice but to go home and make his own coffee. When he was done, he fired up a cigar and started wondering whether or not he should inform Montagnet of the trap he’d set for Don Filiberto. But he came to the conclusion that it would be best to talk to him afterwards and present him with a fait accompli. It was ninety-nine percent certain he wouldn’t agree with the idea; he would say it was illegal.
But Teresi couldn’t stay at home. He felt like he was suffocating. He glanced at his watch. An hour had gone by without him even noticing. He decided to leave, and as soon as he was out the door, he saw Stefano and Luigino at the far end of the street, returning home. He went back inside and, feeling his throat parched, drank a glass of water.
“It’s done!” Stefano cried out loudly.
It was all Teresi could do not to start dancing.
“Did he give you the money?”
“No, Zio. He didn’t have that much, which makes perfect sense. He said to come back later, around one, and he would have it for us.”
“Tell me everything.”
Stefano did the talking.
“When the priest went into the sacristy, we followed him and approached him just as he was taking off his vestments. As soon as he saw us he said: ‘If this is going to take a while, please come back in an hour. I have to give last rites to a dying man.’ I replied that it wouldn’t take but a minute. ‘Then go ahead and speak,’ he said. But with a glance I let him understand that I didn’t want to talk in front of the sacristan. He immediately got my message and ordered him to leave. As soon as it was just the three of us, I simply said: ‘Rosalia killed herself.’ He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask when or where. Nothing. I got the impression he already knew. He leaned against the back of a chair with both hands, hung his head, and stayed that way for a minute, still without saying anything. I said I wanted to talk to him, but not in the sacristy, because other people might come in.”
“And how did he react?”
“Want to know something strange, Zio? He didn’t even ask what I wanted to talk to him about. He just nodded ‘yes,’ and walked towards the staircase, still keeping his head down.”
“So he already knew! I’d bet the family jewels he already knew!” said Teresi.
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Luigino.
“When we went upstairs, I told him that Rosalia had said what had happened first with Salamone and then with him. And when I finished, before I could even ask for the money, and without raising his head, he asked: ‘How much?’ I was so shocked I couldn’t answer.”
“So I answered for him,” said Luigino. “‘Two thousand,’ I said.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said simply: ‘Come by later at one o’clock. I’ll have the money for you. Now please leave by way of the sacristy door, and when you return, come back the same way.’ And that was all. We went back down the stairs, but the priest stayed where he was.”
Teresi sat there, looking pensive.
“What is it, Zio?”
“There’s a problem that just occurred to me. From what you’ve just told me, it’s clear the priest feels responsible for the girl’s death. Caught by surprise, he agreed to give you the blackmail money. But can we trust him? If he talks about it with any other priests, they’re sure to make him change his mind. And that’s what could ruin us all. Or else he could change his mind on his own.”
“And not give us the money?”
“He might even give it to you. But when I weigh in by writing an article about the whole thing in my weekly, he can still claim you guys made the whole thing up, that you tried to blackmail him, but he didn’t give you one lira because he had nothing whatsoever to do with Rosalia’s death. And if he finds out that you, Stefano, are not Rosalia’s cousin but my nephew, and on top of that, that Luigino has never worked as a nurse at Camporeale hospital, then all three of us will end up in jail.”
“So, what should we do?” asked Stefano.
“I’m going to tell the whole story to Montagnet. That should give us cover. Did you bring back the cheese and other stuff?”
Stefano slapped himself in the forehead.
“Damn! We completely forgot!”
*
Teresi dashed off to the carabinieri station, but Marshal Sciabbarrà told him the captain had just left for Camporeale, where he’d been summoned to report to the provincial commander, Colonel Chiaramonte.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“I can’t really say.”
“I’m sorry, but is it some sort of state secret?”
“No, sir, but the fact is that the colonel summoned him to a meeting in the early afternoon, and the captain decided to take advantage of the situation to drop in and see his family.”
Teresi balked. Montagnet had a family? Seeing him always in uniform, with never a button out of place, elegant, impeccably groomed, inflexible, polite but aloof, Teresi had come to think of him as a kind of machine, not a man capable of the same feelings as other men.
“Is he married?”
“Yes, and he has two children. The boy is seven, the girl five. Is there anything I should tell him when he returns?”
“No, thank you, Marshal. I’ll drop in again later.”
*
So, what could he dream up to help the time pass? He went and paid a call on Giallonardo the notary. He wanted to know what he and his wife had decided about Rosalia. And if Giallonardo asked him why he was so interested, he would reply that he wanted to write an article about it. But there was no need to ask anything.
“My husband’s not in,” said Signura Romilda.
Her eyes were red. It was clear she’d been crying.
“When will he be back?”
“He’s gone to Camporeale to bring Rosalia back here. Did you know she killed herself?”
Big tears began to roll down her cheeks.
“Yes, I was told.”
“I’m sorry, but we were very fond of her, my husband and I. She was a poor orphan girl. We took her in when she wasn’t even ten years old, poor little thing. Tomorrow, since the funeral can’t be held in a church, I’m going to have Don Filiberto give his benediction outside the church of San Cono. He was so fond of Rosalia himself! He was always saying how devout she was! How powerful her faith!”
“And at what time will he give his blessing?”
“Tomorrow morning at nine.”
“I’ll be there.”
He wouldn’t have missed Don Filiberto Cusa’s blessing for Rosalia for all the gold in the world.
*
While stepping out of the notary’s house, he heard someone calling him. It was don Anselmo.
“How are we coming along?”
“On Totina’s case?”
“Of course!”
Teresi decided to tell him a lie to keep him in check.
“It couldn’t have been the husband of the sister of the wife of your overseer.”
A complicated sentence, but he’d forgotten all those people’s names, except for Totina’s.
“Why not?”
“It’s true he’s eighty years old, as you say, but to look at him you’d think he’s at least ninety. The guy can barely even breathe.”
“But have you seen him in person?”
“Of course. With these two eyes. I always serve my clients honestly.”
“But are you starting to get any ideas as to who it might have been?”
“I’m gathering information, don Anselmo.”
“Well, I’m telling you: if and when you find out who did it, I want to be the first to know.”
“But why are you so keen to know?”
“So I can shoot him.”
“I’m sorry, but what has this got to do with you? You’re not her father, husband or brother . . . ”
“You’re right! But I’ll shoot him just the same! Come on! I’ve been raising the kid for twenty years, buying her things, giving her money without telling my wife, and the girl could never spare me even a caress or a little peck on the cheek . . . And now the first son of a bitch to come along suddenly gets her pregnant?”
*
Teresi made a plan. Go home, prepare a liter of chamomile tea, drink the whole thing, take a bath, change all his clothes because he was all sweaty, then go to the station at twelve-thirty and ask after Montagnet. If he happened to be in—which was impossible because the colonel had summoned him for an early afternoon meeting—he would tell him everything. If he wasn’t, the only thing to do was to wait in front of the church, stop Stefano and Luigino when they arrived, and wait for Montagnet to return.
The lads weren’t at home. Stefano’s jacket with the mourning band on the sleeve was hanging from the coatrack. He would have to drop by to put it on. Beside it was the black tie. All at once, Teresi felt a chill run down his spine. Matre santa, what a terrible mistake they’d made that morning! Good thing it was still early and there were no people out on the street. Because anyone who knew Stefano, seeing the youth on the street, dressed in mourning, would surely have asked him who in his family had died! Teresi went into the lad’s bedroom, took an overcoat from the armoire, and brought it into the entrance hall. Then he did what he’d decided to do, and as he was coming out of the bathroom, he heard Stefano return. He got dressed in a hurry. It was half past twelve.
“Where’s Luigino?”
“He’s waiting for me near the church.”
“I’m going to the carabinieri station to see if Montagnet’s there. And, listen: I want you to wear an overcoat. I put yours in the vestibule.”
“Why?”
Teresi explained why.
“And if anyone asks why I’m wearing an overcoat?”
“Tell them you have the flu. Everyone’s been getting the flu in this town, so why can’t you?”
*
“No, there’s been no news from the captain.”
Teresi became discouraged. He was sure that Don Filiberto would give the money to Stefano, but also that as soon as he broke the story in his newssheet, the priest would claim that none of it was true, and that it was a scheme hatched up by the notorious anticlerical lawyer Matteo Teresi in cahoots with his nephew Stefano to drag the church’s good name through the mud. His brain was telling him to dash over to San Cono and stop the two lads. But his instinct told him to let things take their course. His instinct won out.
He raced back home, got undressed down to his underpants, and lay down in bed with his head under the pillow.
Then, a little while later, he heard the front door of the house open and close. He pulled his head out from under the pillow. He could hear the two youths in the kitchen, but they weren’t talking or laughing. What had happened?
He went downstairs dressed just as he was. Stefano hadn’t even taken his coat off and was sitting in a chair, drinking a glass of water. He looked pale. Luigino was also sitting down, his head in his hands.
Neither of the two seemed to have noticed Teresi.
“So what happened?”
They said nothing.
“Jesus Christ, would you tell me what happened?” said Teresi, raising his voice.
“The priest hanged himself,” said Luigino.
Teresi felt the ground give out from under his feet. The trap he’d laid for the priest had worked all too well. Damn the moment he got that brilliant idea!
“Did anyone see you go in or come out?”
“No.”
“Tell me about it.”
“We entered by way of the sacristy door, which was open,” said Luigino. “We went upstairs, and there he was, in the first room. Hanging from the ceiling. It was . . . ghastly. There was an envelope on the table.”
“Did you take it?”
“Yes. And I put it in Stefano’s pocket. I had to literally drag him out of there. He was in shock and couldn’t move.”
Teresi looked over at his nephew. The lad’s eyes were open wide and staring into space. He went up to him, stuck his hand in the youth’s pocket, took the envelope out, and opened it.
You won’t get the money you wanted, because I was unable to find anyone to lend me such a sum. In exchange, I give you my confession. I abused Rosalia Pampina, my parishioner, for a long time, and in unnatural ways, making her believe that what we were doing were secret practices to ward off temptation and to allow her to remain pure until marriage. But the evening she came to confess about having been raped by Salamone the brigand, I don’t know what got into me. What Rosalia said isn’t exactly correct—that is, that the penance is like the sin. In fact, the penance was worse than the sin. You can sell this letter of mine to a newspaper, if you like. They will surely pay you more than what you asked of me.
This was followed only by the man’s signature.
“Do me a favor,” Teresi said to Luigino. “Go and look for Dr. Palumbo and bring him back here. I’m getting worried about Stefano.”