The Sect of Angels Page 10
“So you would rule out some secret boyfriend?”
“Absolutely. And I can also tell you that even if she had one, she would never make love to him until after they got married. I would bet my life on it.”
“So the baron’s reasoning concerning you wasn’t incorrect.”
“What do you mean?”
“That is, being the only man his daughter frequented and in whom she confided . . . ”
“Yes, in that sense, he was right. But I’ve never touched Antonietta.”
“Well, somebody did. And how!”
“But, Zio, where did it happen? How did he manage to persuade her? How did he find the time to be with her?’”
“You told me Antionietta was all church and hearth and home, right?”
“Right.”
“And what did Luigino say to us about Paolina? Didn’t he describe her with the same words as you just now did with Antonietta? Don’t the two girls seem like carbon copies?”
“They are like carbon copies.”
“And now let me tell you the story of a third girl I learned about on my way home. Her name is Totina, and she’s the daughter of don Anselmo Buttafava’s overseer. Like the others, she’s also two months pregnant, and says the father is the Holy Spirit.”
“What are you saying?” Stefano said in dismay.
“What I’m saying is true.”
“An overseer’s daughter!”
“As you can see, cocks don’t care about class. Now, back to Totina. When she and her mother come to town for Sunday mass, the mother never lets her out of her sight. The only time the girl is alone is when she goes to confession. So, another case of a girl who’s all church and hearth and home.”
“But that doesn’t seem to be of any help to us.”
“Oh, it’s a help, Stefanù, it’s a big help!”
“How?”
“Let’s think it through. If we rule out the possibility that these girls screwed up at home, what’s left?”
“Church.”
“There you go!”
“But, Zio, what’s going through your head? How would it be possible to do anything like that in church?”
“Well, technically, it is possible, as far as that goes. Have you ever been, for example, at midnight mass on the last day of the year? It’s so crowded you couldn’t fit a pin in there! And that was how my friend Gegè Pirrotta fucked his girlfriend the first time! Standing up, right there in church!”
“Zio, I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Here we’re talking about three women who—”
“Four.”
“What do you mean, four?” Stefano asked in shock.
“There are four of them, all two months pregnant. Montagnet told me.”
“And who’s the fourth?”
“He didn’t tell me her name.”
“All right, but can you imagine four women, in four different churches but on the same occasion, letting someone lift their skirts without making a peep? Your friend’s case was a little different, he and the girl were a couple. But I can assure you that Antonietta did not have a secret boyfriend. Nor did Paolina, I don’t think.”
“As far as you know.”
“Of course, as far as I know!”
“What if it was just one man?”
“But, Zio! Are you trying to tell me there’s some magic dick wandering from church to church?! Whether it was one man or four, the girls would have rebelled just the same!”
“Maybe they didn’t open their mouths because they were ashamed of what was happening to them.”
“Knowing Antonietta as well as I do, I think she would have started screaming so loud they would’ve heard her all the way to Palermo!”
“All right, let’s make another hypothesis. I never go to church, and neither do you. However, the last time a procession went by, I saw that it wasn’t just old and young women and old men behind San Cono, there were also middle-aged and young men. Some of them were wearing rosettes in their lapels.”
“That’s the symbol of the congregation of San Cono.”
“And who are the ones with the cowls on Good Friday?”
“They’re the congregation of the Passion.”
“Do you see what I’m getting at? There isn’t a single church that doesn’t have its congregation. And they are composed of more or less young men who go to those churches. Who share the same devout sentiments as Antonietta, Paolina and Totina. Who share spiritual interests. Isn’t it possible that one of the girls could have a secret lover among these men?”
“But I’ve already told you, Zio, that before she’s married, Antonietta will never—”
“But how do you know they’re not already married?” Teresi asked, wild-eyed.
“Married? Without anyone knowing?”
“What need is there to tell anyone? They could have got married in secret before God! In their minds and consciences they’re married! And in that case Antonietta could very well make love with the man she considered her husband!”
“And where would they have consummated the marriage, in your opinion? On the main altar?”
Teresi didn’t answer.
“I’m a little tired,” said Stefano, getting up. “I’m gonna go talk to Luigino a little and then go to bed. Good night.”
But Teresi did not have a good night. He spent three quarters of it in his study, racking his brains and taking notes.
*
The chief clerk at the registry office of Palizzolo, Cosimo Spartipane, opened the office at eight o’clock sharp, as he did every morning except weekends and holidays. He went in, doffed his hat, bent down to open the bottom drawer of his desk, where he kept his pen and ink pot, and when he stood back up, he found Captain Montagnet before him. He nearly had a heart attack. First, because, though he was a perfectly honest man, the mere sight of a carabiniere always scared him to death. And, second, because he hadn’t heard him come in.
“Good morning,” said the captain.
“Good morning. Do you need something?”
“Yes. Two family status certificates.”
“For whom?”
“For Baron Alfonso Lo Mascolo and Marquis Filadelfo Cammarata.”
“I’m not sure whether regulations allow—”
“As you may have gathered, I am not requesting them for my own personal pleasure. I need them for an investigation. And I don’t think family status certificates are confidential. Therefore . . . Unless you intend to put up an obstruction, in which case—”
“When do you need them by?”
“Within the hour.”
As soon as Montagnet left, Spartipane dashed into the office of the mayor, who had just arrived.
“The captain wants the family status certificates for Cammarata and Lo Mascolo!”
“Why?”
“How should I know?”
Want to bet that Montagnet was itching again to throw someone in jail? Perhaps it was best to alert both men, the marquis and the baron, of this new development. The mayor wrote two identical notes in which he changed only the name of the addressee, and sent them off with two municipal policemen in two open envelopes, so that the policemen could read them and tell everyone in town about the captain’s latest move.
*
At nine o’clock that morning Teresi came knocking at don Anselmo’s door and was immediately shown into his office.
“So, as I was saying yesterday evening, I would like to denounce Captain Montagnet for . . . ” don Anselmo began, trailing off when he saw the lawyer raise his hand.
“I spent all light researching whether there were any legal precedents,” said the lawyer.
This was a big fat lie, but Teresi had no reason for wanting to turn Montagnet against him. But neither did he want to displease don
Anselmo.
“Why the hell should I care about precedents?”
“You may not care, but we lawyers do! And I have to tell you that I found no precedents for this kind of case.”
“Oh, yeah? So if someone steals my shit, I can’t do anything about it because nobody has stolen anyone’s shit before?”
“Your comparison is not exactly apropos, don Anselmo. The fact is that the captain has been acting in accordance with the powers granted him by the state of emergency.”
“And has the state of emergency been lifted?”
“It has.”
“Then why doesn’t this goddamn captain get the hell out of our hair instead of going around and asking left and right for everybody’s family status certificates?”
“Everybody who?”
“Everybody like Baron Lo Mascolo and Marquis Cammarata, for example.”
“And when did he request them?”
“Somebody came and told me just a minute before you got here.”
What could this mean? Teresi would give this some thought later.
“That’s why, don Anselmo, I’m sorry I can’t help you. But I do think I could be some use to you in Totina’s case.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I would need to talk to—”
“The girl isn’t talking; all she says is that it was the Holy Spirit that did it.”
“All I would need is five minutes with her mother.”
Don Anselmo took his watch out of his pocket.
“Are you free at five o’clock this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Then come back at five, and Catarina will be here.”
The explanation for Montagnet’s requesting the family status certificates came to Teresi as he was eating a morning cannolo at the Cafè Esperia. Dropping the cannolo halfway through, he dashed back home.
There he found Stefano and Luigino chatting and laughing.
“Stefanù, do you know exactly how old Antonietta is?”
“Seventeen years and seven months old.”
“And how old is Paolina?” Teresi asked Luigino.
“Sixteen and a half. Why do you ask?”
“Because they’re both minors, that’s why!”
Then he got into his carriage and galloped off to Camporeale, where he had to argue a case in court.
*
And so he missed the greatest spectacle ever seen in Palizzolo.
At ten-thirty that morning, two carabinieri corporals and one marshal, led by Lieutenant Villasevaglios, who was looking even taller and thinner than usual—looking indeed like death itself on the march—left their compound and headed towards the center of town. Feeling curious, a few layabouts started following them. When the carabinieri reached the main square, the number of rubberneckers doubled. In short, by the time the carabinieri turned onto Via Cammarata, there were some fifty people behind them. Lieutenant Villasevaglios knocked on the great door. They went inside. The door closed. Taking advantage of the pause, a few people ran off in search of other townfolk.
Then, all at once, despite the fact that all the windows were closed, a terrible buzz of voices burst forth inside the palazzo, shouts, wails, cries that could be heard all the way down in the street.
Then the door opened, and out came, in the following order: Lieutenant Villasevaglios, the carabinieri marshal, the Marquis Filadelfo Cammarata in handcuffs, and, bringing up the rear, the two carabinieri corporals. The marquis’s face was green and he was trembling like a leaf. But clearly it was not from fear or shame, but from rage. The instant he came out the door, all the windows on the front of the palazzo opened suddenly, and seven of the marquis’s eight daughters appeared, shouting and cursing at the carabinieri.
At that exact moment the marquis leapt forward and in a flash sunk his teeth into the ear of the marshal in front of him, not letting go until the lieutenant, having unsheathed his sword, whacked him in the head with the side of it.
It was estimated that some two hundred people accompanied the carabinieri to the station.
Less than fifteen minutes later, the lawyer Sciortino arrived. He was greeted by Lieutenant Villasevaglios.
“Mind telling me what my client is charged with?”
“Attempted murder, in complicity with Signor Carmine Pregadio.”
“Have you also arrested Pregadio?”
“He has fled and is at large.”
“And whom did they try to kill?”
“A young man by the name of Luigi Chiarapane.”
“And why?”
“I don’t know the answer to that question.”
*
At noon there was a special meeting at the castle of the Duke Ruggero d’Altomonte, attended by all the nobility of Palizzolo, namely: Marquis Spinotta, Baron Piscopo, Baron Roccamena, and Baron Lo Mascolo (who had gone out of his house for the first time since the start of the confusion, owing to the gravity of the situation). Unavoidably absent was the Marquis Cammarata.
The meeting was held in the duke’s bedroom. The duke sat in an armchair with a heavy woolen blanket over his legs. At a hundred and two years of age, he was always cold. And continuously talking to himself.
“There is no more religion!”
“There is no more respect!”
“There is no more order!”
“There are no more manners!”
“What have we come to?”
“A marquis handcuffed like a common delinquent!”
“Held up to public ridicule!”
“To the mockery of the low-born rabble!”
When the duke had finished his rant, Marquis Spinotta said that they had to prevent the captain from doing any more harm.
“Can he do any more than he’s done?” asked Baron Lo Mascolo.
“Absolutely!” replied Baron Piscopo. “And his next victim will be you!”
“Me?!”
“Yes, sir, you! Did you know that Montagnet has asked to see your family status certificate?”
“Yes, I know. But why did he do that?”
“How should I know? The fact remains that he requested the Cammarata certificate and then immediately arrested the marquis. Therefore . . . ”
Baron Lo Mascolo turned pale.
“What sort of rapport do you have with your cousin, the duke of San Loreto?”
Duke Simone Loreto di San Loreto was the highest functionary of the court of His Majesty the King.
“I have an excellent rapport with him. Why do you ask?”
“Could you ring him in Rome and describe to him the situation that has developed here? If the duke could just say a few words to the General Commander of the Carabinieri . . . ”
“I can try,” said Marquis Spinotta.
At that moment Duke Ruggero d’Altomonte opened his mouth to speak.
“Friends . . . ”
Since he spoke in only the faintest of voices, everyone drew near to listen.
“Would you like to know who’s to blame for all this?”
Amidst the respectful silence of everyone present, the duke, after taking a short breath, pronounced his verdict:
“It’s all the fault of the French Revolution!”
*
Teresi wasn’t at the Camporeale courthouse more than half an hour, because the hearing was postponed. The hospital was right next door to the courthouse.
Without thinking twice, he decided to go and inquire about the condition of the girl who had been raped, the one mentioned in the doctor’s deposition he had read while waiting for Captain Montagnet. Her story was of interest to him as a journalist. He wanted to write an article about it. Luckily he remembered her name.
“My name is Stefano Torrisi,” he said to the nun at the entrance desk. “I would like some news about a relat
ive of mine.”
“What is her name?”
“Rosalia Pampina.”
Why did the nun seem a little awkward?
“I don’t know whether . . . Well, please take a seat in the waiting room.”
After a short wait, a doctor in a white coat came in.
“Signor Torrisi?”
There were three men in the room, and none of them moved.
“Is there a Signor Torrisi here?” the doctor asked again.
All at once Teresi remembered he’d given the receptionist that name.
“I’m sorry,” he said, standing up. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“Please follow me,” said the doctor.
He led him into an office, sat him down, and closed the door.
“In what way were you related to Rosalia Pampina?”
Were related? Why didn’t he say “are related”?
“I’m a second cousin. Why do you ask?”
“Because Rosalia Pampina committed suicide at dawn this morning, throwing herself out a fourth-floor window. My deepest condolences.”
“But . . . wasn’t anyone keeping an eye on her?”
“Why should we have been keeping an eye on her? Yesterday evening we had the impression her condition was starting to improve.”
“In what sense?”
“She spoke. She made a perfectly comprehensible statement, even though the meaning was a little obscure.”
“What did she say?” the lawyer asked, feeling, for reasons unknown, a lump in his throat. As if Rosalia really were a relation of his.
“She said: ‘The penance is like the sin.’ And she repeated it twice. Then fell back into her catatonic state. But there’s a problem you could perhaps help us with.”