One week later, on the quiet, the bishop of Camporeale sent for Don Mariano Dalli Cardillo. When the aging priest was shown in by Don Marcantonio, His Most Reverend Excellency Egilberto Martire got up from his armchair and greeted him with arms raised to the heavens, as if they were old friends from the seminary.
“Our dear Don Mariano!”
He rested his hands on the other’s shoulders, looked him in the eye with one half of his mouth smiling, the other not, then sat him down on the sofa and sat himself down beside him.
“How are things, my dear friend, how are things with you? Not too good, I take it? My own wounds have not yet healed, and I imagine it’s the same for you! At any rate, with God’s help, we can say we overcame this terribly difficult ordeal the Lord has put before us!”
Don Mariano thought that since His Excellency was speaking to him in Italian, and not Roman dialect, it must mean he was not angry at him.
“And now, to us. I wanted to see you in person, you know, so I could thank you!”
“For what, Your Excellency?”
“For what?! What do you mean, ‘for what?’ For having demonstrated—by your presence, by your daily practice—that not all the priests of Palizzolo were made of the same matter as those seven base individuals unworthy of their office as shepherds of souls!”
“But, Your Excellency, I—”
“No, no—no modesty, let me tell you outright! You were like the luminous beam of a lighthouse as all the world around you fell into darkness!”
“But, Your Excellency, I did nothing special! I merely kept on doing what I’ve always done, hearing confessions, comforting the faithful—”
“Giving counsel . . . ”
“Also, yes, as needed.”
“Well, come to think of it, on the subject of counsel, do you remember the words of our Lord Jesus, when he said: “Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s?”
“Of course I remember those words!”
“Have you always kept them foremost in your mind?”
“Yes, sir, I have!”
“Then why is it that when that widow came to you to confess, and asked for your fatherly advice, you consented that she should give to Caesar what should in fact have been given to God?”
Patre Mariano was totally flummoxed.
“But, Your Excellency, I don’t know what you’re—”
“Let me explain. Unless I am mistaken, when that unfortunate woman, the widow, revealed to you, during confession—during con-fes-sion, mind you—the turpitudes of your confrères, you allowed her, consented, permitted, paved the way for her to go straight to the Royal Carabinieri to report their actions, causing what happened to happen.”
“And what should I have done?”
“But, my blessed son, it’s priests we’re talking about! Ministers of the faith! Anointed by the Lord! Men of God! Priests who had, yes, erred from the straight and narrow path—I’m the first to admit it—but still priests nonetheless! In aeternum! You should have given to God what was God’s; you should have told that woman to come to me and tell me that a few soldiers of Christ were sullying their cassocks! You forgot, Don Mariano, that they were wearing frocks, not the uniforms of—I dunno, the royal army or carabinieri! I myself would have taken care of banishing those scoundrels, but with the proper care, and the necessary caution, over time, without creating a scandal . . . Because, let’s be frank, the scandal you so carelessly triggered risked shaking the very foundations of the Church!”
“Please forgive me, Your Excellency, I beg you, I implore you to forgive me! But I was so upset by that woman’s revelation that I didn’t think for a moment that—”
“But I’m not reproaching you in any way! I understand you! I understand you perfectly!”
“To this day, I swear, I still cannot fall asleep. Ever since that woman told me everything, I spend my nights awake, in prayer!”
“Indeed when I saw you come in today, I got scared. I thought you were seriously ill.”
“No, Your Excellency, I’m not ill, it’s just that this whole business—”
“But you can’t carry on like this! With no sleep for a whole week! You’re at the end of your rope, my dear friend! You’re urgently in need of help! Listen, Don Mariano, shall we do what’s best?”
“And what’s that?”
“Shall we have you take a nice, long period of rest? Don’t say no; you really do need one. Tell you what: in the next two or three days I’ll send another priest to relieve you. What do you say?”
“God’s will be done.”
“Good for you, Don Mariano! Come, let’s have a big hug!”
*
“Gentlemen, fellow members, your attention, please. In two days—that is, this next Sunday—at ten o’clock in the morning, all members, as is written on the flyer posted on the showcase window, are invited to vote on the admission to this club of the attorney, Matteo Teresi, who has resubmitted his request,” said don Liborio Spartà.
“So we’re starting all over with that same bloody headache?” asked Commendatore Paladino.
“But do the rules allow that?” asked Giallonardo in turn.
“The rules allow three admission requests,” President Spartà clarified. “And this is Teresi’s second request.”
“Well, while we’re talking about rules,” don Anselmo intervened from his damask chair, “I’d like to know whether abstention is allowed, or we must vote only yes or no.”
“One who abstains is someone who hasn’t the courage of his convictions,” declared Colonel Petrosillo.
“And, since you have no convictions whatsoever, you have no need for courage, either,” retorted don Anselmo.
“Well, dear sir, for your information, I have been awarded the bronze medal!”
“What was that? I didn’t quite hear. What kind of medal?”
“The bronze!”
“Ah, I’m sorry. I thought you’d said the ‘pawn’s medal.’”
In an effort to wash this terrible slight away with blood, the colonel took off through the air, flying across the salon towards don Anselmo, but was intercepted in midflight by don Stapino Vassallo.
“Consider yourself challenged!” shouted the colonel, foaming at the mouth as he struggled to free himself of don Stapino’s embrace.
“Like the last time? When first you challenged me, then you disappeared from circulation?”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen! For goodness’ sake!” said the president. “Please calm down. And allow me to clarify something. It was I myself who personally solicited Attorney Teresi’s new request.”
“Why not just let sleeping dogs lie?” queried don Anselmo.
“Because I consider it the highest of honors for this club to have, as a member, a person who did not hesitate to risk a great deal, to expose himself to personal danger, to—”
“Who’s the other sponsor?” Giallonardo interrupted him.
“Our dear mayor.”
“I call to your attention that my question has not yet been answered.”
“Yes, abstention is allowed.”
“Well,” said don Anselmo, “I hereby declare that I will abstain.”
“Whereas I, this time, will vote ‘yes,’” said don Serafino Labianca.
“Did the Grand Lodge order you to do that?” asked Professor Malatesta.
“The Grand Lodge hasn’t a bloody thing to do with it! And enough of your priestlike insinuations, you who used to serve Mass with Patre Samonà! And kneel before him to kiss his hand! I’m voting yes because Teresi helped send that renegade Marquis Cammarata to prison!”
“And I’m going to vote ‘no,’ precisely because I used to serve the Mass with Patre Samonà! But don’t you realize that this is a plot against the Church?” asked Professor Malatesta.
“Oh, come now! A plot?”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, this is no time to argue. The voting will take place Sunday morning. We have two more days to think it over. You should each take the time to reflect calmly, and—”
“Mr. President, if I may. Sunday morning is no good,” Commendatore Paladino interjected.
“Why not?”
“On my way here I saw some people posting announcements. On Sunday morning there’s going to be a great procession of reconciliation, on the orders of the bishop of Camporeale.”
“All right, then, we will postpone the meeting until five P.M. that evening. Is everyone in agreement?”
*
“Thank you for inviting me to lunch,” said Luigino Chiarapane, whom Stefano had run into by chance that morning in Palizzolo.
“What did you come into town for?” Teresi asked him.
“Well, there’s something I didn’t really understand, to be honest.”
“What do you mean?”
“Three days ago, Zà Ernestina suddenly arrived at our house in Salsetto.”
“The marquise?!” Teresi and his nephew said in chorus.
“Yes.”
“And what did she want?”
“No idea,” said the young man. “At first my mother didn’t even want to see her, but Zà Ernestina insisted, and she was crying. So in the end they shut themselves up in Mamma’s bedroom and were in there talking for two hours.”
“And didn’t your mother tell you anything afterwards?” asked Stefano.
“No, nothing. Then, the day before yesterday she came here to Palizzolo.”
“To talk to her cousin?”
“Of course. Why else would she come here?”
“Maybe her cousin wants your mother to withdraw her denunciation,” said Stefano.
Teresi started laughing.
“Stefanù, I get the feeling that your law school studies . . . Don’t you know that at this point nobody can do anything anymore? At most, the marquise could ask the Chiarapane family not to press charges. Which means I would lose a job, since I’m her lawyer. Oh, well . . . ”
“But you still haven’t told us why you came into town,” said Stefano.
“My mother said I had to come to see Zà Ernestina’cause she wants to talk to me. She’s expecting me this afternoon at three.”
“Just be sure that you don’t run into ’u zù Carmineddru again!” said Stefano.
They all laughed.
“Still, I’m dying of curiosity to know what she wants from you,” Stefano added.
“Let’s do this. After I go to see her, I’ll come back here around five and tell you everything.”
But Luigino never returned.
As soon as the procession emerged from the Mother Church, it was clear it was going to be a grand affair.
Preceded by all the municipal police officers in full dress uniform, four priests came out hoisting up a large, gold-embroidered baldachin with His Excellency the bishop of Camporeale sitting inside, holding a monstrance, also gold, in his hand.
Behind him came the four remaining priests of Palizzolo.
And right behind them were Baron Lo Mascolo, Baron Roccamena, Baron Piscopo, and Marquis Spinotta.
Then there was a short space between the nobles and the town council, and in this space was a lone man, all dressed in fustian, shod in boots, and carrying his coppola beret in his hand.
After him came Mayor Calandro with the town council and staff, followed by the town businessmen and bourgeois—all of them, from don Liborio and don Anselmo to don Serafino, Giallonardo the notary, Professor Malatesta, and Colonel Petrosillo . . .
And each—whether noble or bourgeois, businessman or bureaucrat—with his respective wife.
The municipal band separated this group at the head of the procession from the rest of the common folk. Almost three thousand in all, a first.
All the other people who had come out on their balconies and terraces, wearing their Sunday best, knelt down as the procession passed, showering the bishop’s baldachin with roses and other flowers.
The procession then headed down the street on which Teresi’s house stood. Everyone looked up.
And they saw the lawyer on his balcony with his hat on. Was he trying to taunt them all by keeping his head covered in front of the Most Holy Sacrament? There wasn’t a single person in the passing procession who wasn’t staring at him. But then, the moment the baldachin was directly under his balcony, Matteo Teresi doffed his hat and made a deep bow.
Not to the Most Holy Sacrament, however, but to the man in fustian walking alone between the nobles and the town council.
And he called to him loudly, shouting above the blare of the band:
“When you see ’u zù Carmineddru, give him my fondest regards!”
Then he went inside, shutting the doors to the balcony.
“Gentlemen members, I hereby open the voting for the admission of lawyer Matteo Teresi into our club. I remind you that a black marble means ‘no,’ and a white marble means ‘yes.’”
“Please, if I may,” said Giallonardo.
“Yes, go ahead.”
“Mr. President, when you announced to us the other day that we would be holding this meeting, something unusual happened. According to the rules, the voting must be secret. Whereas two days ago, two members openly declared what their vote would be. You should have immediately disqualified them. But you didn’t. So my question is: are their publicly admitted votes still valid?”
“Please explain what you mean,” the president said with some pique.
“I’ll cite an example. The last time we met, Professor Malatesta, here present, declared that he would vote against admission. So I now ask the professor, is he still of the same opinion?”
“Of course I’m still of the same opinion! All the more so after what the lawyer did when the procession passed by his house!”
“Speaking of which, who was that man?” asked don Liborio.
“Don’t you know?” asked don Serafino. “You’re probably the only person here who doesn’t. That man is ’u zù Peppi Timpa, whom we could call ’u zù Carmineddru’s temporary replacement.”
“Well, to continue,” Giallonardo the notary resumed, “if that’s the way it is, then it’s clear that the voting will be invalid, since Professor Malatesta’s pre-announced black marble will be counted and admission to the club must be based on unanimity. Therefore voting will only be a waste of time.”
“So how do we get out of this predicament?”
“I have a suggestion, if I may . . . ”
“Please go ahead, sir.”
“The novelty of the other day—meaning, the open declaration of a member’s vote, which is not explicitly prohibited by the rules and therefore could be admissible—could be of help to us here. You could ask the members how many of them intend to vote no, without them needing to say why.”
“Would the gentlemen members who intend to vote no please raise their hands?” asked the president.
Some twenty hands went up. The president turned pale and said not a word. Aside from five or six strict Catholics, all the others must have been people who couldn’t bring themselves to accept the public insult made to ’u zù Peppi Tinca, or whatever the hell his name was.
Giallonardo the notary spoke for the president.
“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.