The Sect of Angels Read online

  “I just now received a telephone call from my commander. He told me there’s a big surprise in store for me, which he’ll reveal to me tomorrow, when I return to headquarters. Except that it won’t be a surprise to me, since I already know what it is. I’m going to be promoted and transferred.”

  “Promoveatur ut amoveatur.”5

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m not sure whether I should congratulate you or be disappointed.”

  “You can do both. Oh, and listen: I also read that article attacking us and insinuating that we were plotting together . . . ”

  “Ignoble.”

  “Exactly. I just hope my uncle doesn’t read it, since it was written in a national daily. He’s getting on in years, and it would upset him greatly.”

  “Excuse me for asking, Captain, but who is your—”

  “Oh, just a country priest. I lost my father before I was ten. We were poor, and it was this uncle who brought me up and saw me through my studies . . . Everything I have I owe to him, even my character. Well, I’d better be going now, counsel. And be careful . . . I mean it.”

  “Careful about what?”

  “You’re Sicilian and you have to ask me, who is from the Piedmont? For now you’ve won, and they may even hoist you up onto their shoulders . . . ”

  “You’re right, you know. The president of the social club has asked me to resubmit my request for admission. He assured me that the club will be honored to have me as a member. And the mayor has even recommended to the prefect that I be given a knight’s cross.”

  “You see? And yet I’m convinced that, starting tomorrow, you’ll be entering the most difficult period of your life. A backlash will come. It’s inevitable. I wish you the best of luck.”

  4In the original text, the Bishop, who speaks in Roman dialect, says that Labarbera “è tanto, ma tanto scacarcione,” a phrase clearly echoing a line by 19th-century romanesco (Roman dialect) poet Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli, a man of severely anticlerical sentiment. Writing of Pope Gregory XVI, Belli writes: “Povero frate! è ttanto scacarcione / Che ssi una rondinella passa e fischia / La pijja pe ‘na palle de cannone.” (“Poor brother! He’s such a pants-shitting coward / That if a swallow passes and tweets / He takes it for a cannonball.”)

  5Latin expression meaning: “Have him promoted, to get him out of the way.” Nowadays we sometimes say that such a person is “kicked upstairs.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE WHEEL CHANGES DIRECTION

  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 decl
ared 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.