The Revolution of the Moon Read online

  “How delightful! How delightful indeed! Apparently you two are the only members of the Holy Royal Council with consciences clean as a looking-glass,” was the Grand Captain’s bittersweet, slightly menacing comment, addressed to the bishop and Don Alterio.

  “It’s not a question of having clean consciences,” the bishop retorted. “We all know that even a ton of lye wouldn’t suffice to clean the consciences of all of us in here. But I am convinced that don Francisco Peyró, though a man of determination, would never have the courage to set himself against the Holy Mother Church.”

  “You have a short memory,” don Cono intervened. “Let me remind you that just four years ago, when Peryó audited the accounts of the Holy Inquisition and did not find them in order, he forced don Néstor Benítez, who was nothing less than second-in-command to the Grand Inquisitor, to resign and go back to Spain, where he was promptly arrested. So you can imagine how afraid he is of you, who are a mere bishop.”

  “Good God, you’re right,” said Mendoza, recalling the whole affair. His only justification for forgetting was that, although already a bishop four years earlier, he was in faraway Viterbo.

  “And what about you, don Alterio?” asked the Grand Captain. “Who’s protecting you? Care to tell us? Perhaps donna Eleonora herself, since the two of you have been meeting on the sly?”

  Don Alterio, scared to death that the story of his private visit on behalf of don Simone Trecca and the Holy Refuge might come out, reacted loudly:

  “I was summoned by the marquesa in my capacity as Chief Treasurer! And we only talked about numbers! And if I didn’t tell you about it—for which I again beg your pardon—it is because I forgot!”

  “You must admit, at least, that this little lapse of memory is a bit strange.”

  “But it’s because these days I . . . have an illness in the family.”

  “But you too, my dear don Alterio, come hell or high water, will have to resign,” said the Grand Captain.

  “Why?”

  “For the simple reason that we can’t very well present ourselves to all of Sicily as five dishonest men and one honest man, now can we?”

  “What does that have do to with anything?”

  “It has everything to do with everything. At any rate, if you don’t resign, don Francisco Peyró will be duly informed that you too, who claim to be so honest, have some skeletons in your closet.”

  “I have never taken advantage of—”

  “We know. But you haven’t been able to refuse your playmates a few little favors just the same. Shall I name a few names?”

  “No,” said don Alterio.

  And he threw up his hands in resignation.

  “All right, I’ll resign.”

  “I have an idea, and I think it’s a good one,” the bishop intervened at this point, addressing them all, after stepping back to think it over. “Instead of sending the marquesa six letters of resignation, one for each of us, let’s send her just one, signed by us all.”

  “Why?” asked the prince.

  “Because in this letter we’ll write that the only real reason for our irrevocable resignations—because they have to be irrevocable—is the intolerable affront the marquesa has made to our honesty by sending for the Visitor. By summoning him, she is saying she does not trust us, and this lack of trust is an insult to us. That way nobody can think that we’re resigning because we’re afraid of the Grand Visitor.”

  They all immediately came out enthusiastically in favor of his proposal.

  “Let’s write it at once,” said the prince.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to give it a little thought first?” countered the bishop.

  “No, we’ll write it now and send it to her at once. That way she’ll realize just how great and spontaneous our indignation is.”

  “All right,” the bishop consented.

  “Who’ll write it?” asked don Severino, who had recovered and could now stand up.

  “I will,” said the Grand Captain, and he went and sat at the desk of the protonotary and secretary, where there was paper, a quill, and ink.

  “Why don’t we write it in Spanish?” don Cono suggested. “In my opinion it will have more of an effect.”

  “Does anyone here speak Spanish well?” asked prince.

  It turned out that they could all get by speaking it, but writing it . . .

  In short, they lost an hour before they’d even started writing it, and another three to finish it. Then they turned it over to the Chief of Ceremonies.

  When donna Eleonora received the letter from the six Councillors, she was in the company of don Serafino.

  “Hemos vencido! Hemos fecho clean sweep!” she exclaimed.

  And, carried away by her enthusiasm for the victory, without even realizing it she grabbed the court physician’s right hand between her own and pressed it hard to her breast.

  Following this gesture of immense trust, don Serafino’s face, in an instant, turned from purple to yellow, and then from yellow to a cadaverous white. Then his legs suddenly gave out, and while for a moment he was able to remain standing, he quickly could no longer keep it up and fell to the ground, unconscious.

  “Un medico! Un medico!” a terrified donna Eleonora started shouting.

  Estrella came running. But fortunately there was no need for her to run out and look for a doctor, because a minute later don Serafino opened his eyes again and apologized, feeling ashamed of himself.

  “You scared me,” donna Eleonora said, looking at him lovingly. “If I were to lose my only friend, el único verdadero amigo que tengo . . . ”

  Only with a superhuman effort was don Serafino able, this time, to avoid falling straight into a cataleptic state.

  * * *

  That same evening don Alterio rushed to the Holy Refuge, dying of hunger for Cilistina.

  Before he went out, however, donna Matilde had made him lose time, raising a great ruckus the moment she learned that he’d resigned from his office. She’d been so proud to be married to the Chief Treasurer! And now, just because of a little Spanish trollop . . . And she’d carried on for so long that by the time don Alterio got to the Holy Refuge, it was already past nine.

  As usual, he dismissed his carriage and then knocked at the door. But nobody came to let him in.

  How could this be? It wasn’t even ten o’clock.

  He knocked and knocked until he finally realized that it was no use. But for nothing in the world did he want to give up spending the night with Cilistina.

  So he decided to check and see whether everyone was asleep and, turning round the corner of the palazzetto, he went behind and headed for the marquis’s little window. The shutters were closed, but a bit of light shone through. Without thinking twice, he bent down, felt around with his hand, grabbed a large stone, and banged it hard, with all his might, against the wooden shutters, making a loud crash.

  “What the hell is going on?” the marquis asked from inside the room.

  Don Alterio said nothing, but only crashed the stone against the wood again.

  Don Simone opened the window, then immediately fell back and drew his dagger.

  “Who are you?” the marquis asked, unable to recognize the person he saw in the shadows.

  “It’s me,” said don Alterio.

  “My lord duke! Your Excellency! Wait while I come and open the front door for you,” said the marquis.

  “No need for that,” said don Alterio who, placing his hands on the windowsill, hoisted himself up and inside. His lust for Cilistina had made him feel as strong as when he was twenty.

  Once inside, he saw that there was another person in the office, a shabbily dressed man with the kind of face that was best avoided at night, and in the daytime as well. The man was sitting there stock-still, eyes motionless and cold, like a snake’s.

 
“This is a trusted friend of mine, Totò ’Mpallomeni,” said the marquis. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I was convinced that by now, given the late hour, you weren’t coming this evening. And so—”

  “Good evening,” don Alterio cut him short, not wanting to lose any more time than he already had, and he went out of the room.

  Don Simone ran after him.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think I’m going?” don Alterio replied without slowing his hastening step.

  “Wait,” don Simone insisted, grabbing him by the sleeve.

  Don Alterio wrenched himself free of don Simone’s hand, indignant, and kept walking.

  “I’ve something important to tell you!”

  “You can tell me tomorrow.”

  “Listen, my lord duke . . . ”

  Meanwhile they’d come to the bottom of the staircase, and don Alterio had to stop, because there was a man coming down the stairs.

  As he passed them, the man asked the marquis:

  “Where’s Totò?”

  “He’s waiting for you in my office.”

  When don Alterio started climbing the stairs he realized the marquis had given up trying to bust his chops and was chasing after the other man.

  Before opening the door, he got the urge to look through the spyhole. He recoiled.

  Cilistina was standing naked, pale, and trembling beside a basin on a tripod, wiping her back with a wet cloth, trying to wipe some blood away.

  He unlocked the door and went in. Cilistina turned her back to the wall.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing? What’s all this blood?”

  “I said it was nothing!”

  Don Alterio looked at the bed and saw that the sheets were also covered with blood.

  “Let me see your back.”

  Cilistina pretended not to have heard him.

  “I said let me see your back.”

  The girl still did not turn around, and so don Alterio grabbed her by the waist and forced her to turn.

  Her back was covered with some ten or so small, not very deep cuts, made with the tip of a dagger to cause more pain than damage.

  “Who was it?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Tell me who it was or I won’t help you.”

  Cilistina reluctantly gave in.

  “It was Pippo Nasca. He wanted me tonight, and the marquis couldn’t get him to change his mind. Pippo’s a wild beast, and the marquis figured you weren’t coming anymore, and so . . . ”

  It was the man he’d crossed at the bottom of the staircase. So that was why the marquis had tried to stall him; so he wouldn’t go in when Nasca was still with Cilistina.

  “Why did he use the dagger?”

  “Pippo likes to do that when he fucks . . . ”

  Don Alterio, while appearing to stay calm, was actually in the throes of a furious rage. The girl belonged to him now, and the marquis couldn’t just do whatever he pleased with her. He had to set things right.

  “You keep washing yourself while I go and have a talk with the marquis.”

  “No! for heaven’s sake!”

  “Why don’t you want me to . . . ”

  “Because then, after my lord leaves, the marquis will have me thrashed! My lord has no idea what that man is capable of! My lord must think only of how to get me out of here!”

  Don Alterio spent the night tending the girl’s wounds. And racking his brains trying to find a way to free her. But however hard he tried, he couldn’t think of anything. Not until he was on his way home did he remember donna Eleonora’s words to the Council, when she declared she would be reinstating the subsidy to the Holy Refuge.

  She’d said that she would do so only after conducting an inspección. What kind of inspection?

  If he could find out before it was done, he might have a good card to play against don Simone, and in exchange for some information he might be able to secure the release of Cilistina.

  But how?

  Donna Eleonora had never seen don Francisco Peyró in person. She’d only heard tell of him. She was curious to meet him. When the Chief of Ceremonies informed her that the Grand Visitor General had arrived and requested an audience with her, she said she wanted to see him straightaway in the sitting room. She wanted to have a tête-à-tête with him before the official audience.

  The Grand Visitor General might be grand and a general, but he was still a man—a man who, in the presence of donna Eleonora’s great beauty, felt his heart suddenly skip a few beats.

  He made a deep bow, bent down on one knee, and said:

  “My lady, please accept the honor on behalf of our beloved king.”

  “Please rise, don Francisco.”

  The Visitor stood up and gave her a baffled look.

  “What did you call me?”

  “Don Francisco.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, ‘why’? Isn’t that your name?”

  “No, my name is Esteban.”

  This time it was the marquesa who was baffled.

  “But aren’t you the Grand Visitor General?”

  “Indeed I am! And here is His Majesty’s letter.”

  Donna Eleonora took it and opened it. In it, His Majesty informed her that unfortunately, don Francisco Peyrò had fallen ill at the moment of departure, and that he’d thought it best, so as not to lose any time, to send, in his place, don Esteban de la Tierna, a valiant, strict man who, if he wasn’t just like don Francisco, he came pretty close.

  Donna Eleonora wanted don Esteban to stay and dine with her. The other two guests were don Serafino and don Valerio Montano, just appointed Magistrate of Commerce.

  They talked for a long time, even well after they’d finished eating.

  The marquesa wanted don Serafino and don Valerio to think of some names of people who could become Councillors to replace those who had resigned. In the end, donna Eleonora wanted to be left alone with don Serafino. She wanted to ask him something concerning the Holy Refuge for Endangered Virgins.

  As soon as town criers announced donna Eleonora’s two new laws, and people also found out that she’d succeeded in obtaining the resignation of all the rogues and greedyguts on the Royal Council, three-fourths of the people who’d been against having a woman as Viceroy quickly changed their minds. This was a woman who knew what she was doing, and who could teach the men a thing or two.

  Bishop Turro Mendoza, the prince of Ficarazzi, and don Como, running into each other by chance at a wedding, stepped aside to discuss the situation.

  “Have you heard the news?” asked the bishop.

  “What news? There’s been so much . . . ” said the prince.

  “I was referring to the fact that the marquesa had scared the pants off of us by telling us that the Visitor would be don Francisco Peyrò, when in fact it’s someone called Esteban de la Tierna.”

  “I knew that,” said don Cono. “It’s because don Francisco got sick as he was getting ready to leave.”

  The prince of Ficarazzi started laughing. Then, looking at the other two, he opened his mouth, brought his right hand to his lips, fingertips pinched together, and started shaking it back and forth.

  “You swallowed it! You swallowed it!” he said.

  “Why? Isn’t it true?” asked the bishop.

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the real story?”

  “Can you really not figure it out for yourselves? The good marquesa knew all along that this de la Tierna was coming, but she told us Councillors that it would be don Francisco. And we all fled in terror. Which was exactly what she wanted. In short, my good men, we’ve just taken it in the ass from a woman.”

  “If that’s the way
it is, she’s a real devil!” the bishop commented.

  “What can we do?” asked don Cono.

  “I’ve been gathering some information,” said the prince. “There’s a variety of opinions about this Visitor. Some say he’s a reasonable man, so to speak, while others say there’s no hope with him. I’d like to find out in person whether—”

  “Yes, but now the man can’t do anything to us,” the bishop interrupted him.

  “Be careful. He can’t do anything to you as an ex-Councillor, but as a bishop you’re still fair game. Are the Cathedral’s accounts in order? How about the diocese’s? If donna Eleonora plants a seed of doubt in his mind . . . And then there’s something very important the protonotary didn’t tell us, but which I went and looked up myself.”

  “And what’s that?” asked the bishop.

  “While it’s true that the Visitor cannot insitute proceedings against an ex-Councillor, he does have the right to demand the restitution of all inappropriately acquired money—and I mean all. Should the Councillor refuse, the Visitor has the power to expropriate.”

  “What does that mean?” asked don Cono.

  “It means that if donna Eleonora feels like it, she can leave us all with barely enough clothes to cover our bums.”

  “O matre santa!” said don Cono, turning pale.

  “O madonna biniditta!” exclaimed the bishop.

  “No point in invoking mothers and madonnas,” said the prince. “We need to take action, without wasting any more time. I have an idea.”

  The other two looked at him eagerly.

  “Tomorrow I will invite this don Esteban to eat at my house. I will explain to him that we personally have no gripe with him, but with the marquesa who sent for him. That way, as we’re talking, I’ll see what kind of man he is and whether he’s someone we can deal with.”

  “And what if we can’t?” asked don Cono.

  “We’ll say a novena in the Cathedral,” the bishop said bitterly.

  As he was leaving his house to go to his former office as Chief Treasurer to withdraw the personal papers he’d left there, don Alterio had a faint dizzy spell.