My First Seven Years (Plus a Few More) (13 page)

More than a month went by after the scandal at the Heremitage. Signora Sveva and her daughter Alfa began to get worried. The Engineer, who was in charge of technical operations at the glassworks, had walked off without asking for leave of absence, much less severance pay. The Signora went along to the works office to ask for some settlement, at least as regards salary: ‘Very sorry, Signora, but without the authorising signature of your husband, we cannot pay out a penny.'

Sveva Rosmini gave vent to a loud curse … in French of course. She then went over to the executive offices of the glassworks in the company of her daughter, and burst into her lover's studio. ‘Are you going to tell me what we're playing at here? They've got me on a cleft stick. The bank account's blocked, the salary frozen … the whole village sniggers when they see me, and you won't lift a finger to get me out of this mess!'

‘Well, there might be one way for you to get complete satisfaction … in fact more than one,' said Colussi to calm her down. ‘If you kill him, everything would get a bit more tricky, so I'd suggest you settle down and wait. Considering the unhealthiness of the place where he is lodging, the dangerous company he's keeping, the ruinous diet he's eating … everything points to the likelihood that your husband won't be troubling us much longer. However, the really sneaky solution would be to have him certified as insane, but to succeed you'd need to demonstrate he's no longer capable of understanding or knowing what he wants.'

Signora Sveva and her daughter had already calmed down. All they had to do was wait patiently, but regrettably the Engineer, apart from taking to roosting in the occasional tree, turning up on the odd church tower, giving nods by way of greeting to the townspeople whom he passed and exhibiting himself in exotic clothes, gave no sign of obvious madness. In addition, the odd innocuous extravagance in a town of madmen like Porto Valtravaglia did not arouse any special surprise. However, a faint hope was dawning.

During the funeral of Jean Bartieux, founding father of the crystal works, a curious incident took place. Butrisa, the lead drummer, who for years had carried his bass drum on his back on the occasion of parades or processions, all of a sudden collapsed, keeling over with his drum. Several of the workers who had been with the firm since its foundation were there with members of their families following the hearse. The leader of the band turned to the bystanders for help. ‘Is there anyone who could give a hand and take his place?' Without hesitation, the Engineer, in his caliph outfit, fez on head, pushed forward and, without so much as a by-your-leave, heaved the big bass drum onto his back. The drummer boy strapped him in. The Engineer took his place alongside the tambourines and the band took up where it had left off with the funeral march.

The following Sunday as they entered church, the people found the Engineer sitting on one of the choir stools. He was wearing a white lace surplice and one of those red soutanes which had been hanging in the wardrobe in the vestibule. So there he was, right next to me … and still with the fez on his head. The parish priest could not help noticing him as he came in, and stopped for a moment in bewilderment. The Count-choirboy gave him a peremptory nod whose meaning was: mind your own business and get on with the rituals!

The priest began celebrating mass. We in the choir began intoning the
Nunc Dimittis Domine.
The Engineer drew a long breath then joined decisively in the chant with a deep baritone descant. People craned their necks to get a better glimpse of the new singer. Some were even moved to applaud. Signora Sveva covered her eyes with her hands, whispering: ‘Go on, go on, you're doing fine.' Her daughter Alfa sobbed: ‘He's doing it deliberately to mortify us, to fuck things up for us in front of everybody.' The lawyer Colussi reproached her: ‘Watch your language, especially in front of your mother!'

‘I'm sorry, I forgot that “fuck up” comes from “fuck” and that certain allusions sound irreverent in this family.' Her mother shut her up with a smart slap on the mouth. As the slap rang out, the whole church turned to stare. The choir launched into the
Laudemus.

The sacristan, holding the pole for the collection, moved among the faithful, pushing the bag attached to it in front of their faces. The Engineer appeared on the far side, he too holding a pole with a collection bag attached: he sallied forth, lance at rest, inviting the faithful to be generous. With a circular movement, he banged the bag against Colussi's nose. His first inclination was to protest, but he realised that in this situation, he'd better donate a few coins, and fast. The peremptory collecting technique did not stop there. When mass was over, the sacristan counted and recounted the cash, incredulously.

In her attempt to play the part of the despairing wife, Signora Sveva went that very evening to see Dr Ballarò, the general practitioner who also fulfilled the role of psychiatrist. It was his responsibility to issue the licence authorising the removal in the council's van for the insane of those who had gone mad.

‘I'm worried about my husband,' the Signora stuttered out, amid tears. ‘I'm at the end of my tether and I feel totally responsible for the crisis which has undone him. But something must be done. He's getting worse day by day.'

‘I imagine that you want the Engineer to be taken to the asylum. Is that right, Signora?'

‘Obviously he can't be allowed to wander around freely … have you heard? This morning he started singing in church.'

‘You're quite right,' nodded the doctor. ‘Singing during a sung mass … it's both blasphemous and criminal. We must have him dragged off immediately in the vehicle for the criminally insane, and with him all the choirboys, the priest, the sacristan … and he was out of tune into the bargain.'

‘Doctor, you're not taking me seriously!'

‘Look here, Signora. If you want to get your husband away from the town and its surrounds, find another solution. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't be so obsessed with getting rid of him. I've had a long chat with the Engineer. I found him serene and relaxed. He has no resentment towards you or Colussi, no desire for revenge.'

‘Oh that's wonderful, that is!' guffawed the Signora. ‘No desire for revenge! You do not know my darling Count. His whole behaviour, every single outrageous thing he does, is conceived with the one intention of humiliating us, provoking us, driving us off our heads like him. Is there no one in this town who will apply the law in defence of the citizens?'

‘Stop right there, Signora,' the doctor interrupted her. ‘I know exactly what laws you are referring to, the same ones you were pressing the police to use – an accusation followed by summary arrest. It is my duty to warn you of one difficulty: you in your turn run the risk of a charge of unwarranted harassment of a free citizen. What are you after, Signora? Your husband doesn't get himself drunk, he's not guilty of acts of obscenity in the presence of minors, he doesn't use indecent language in a public place, doesn't spit on the ground … he has a job, even if only an occasional one…'

‘A job! You're well aware he has not shown up in the offices for over a month…'

‘I know. I'm talking of his new jobs.'

‘And what would they be? Singing in church, banging the drum, taking up the collection in church or lolling about at the top of bell-towers?'

‘No, no, those are only unpaid hobbies. I'm referring to his position with the sewage company.'

‘Do you mean in the sewers?' She almost choked on her saliva.

‘Yes, the town council is responsible for around thirty cesspits scattered throughout the valley. Your husband volunteered to take charge of the cleansing operations and to see to the maintenance of the sewage pumps.'

‘So that's where that stench that he always has comes from.'

‘Would you like a coffee?' he asked, to take the heat out of the situation. ‘It's freshly made.'

‘No, thank you. I am stuck with a sewage operator of a husband who puts on a stinking farce to cover me with shit in front of the whole town, and you lot are helping him out. You're all in it together.' She rose to her feet, issuing her parting shot as she exited. ‘Bunch of shits!'

A few days later, the word got about that her daughter Alfa had run away from home. Colussi, prompted by the girl's mother, went in search of her. Good Friday was at hand. At that time, all the bells were tied up for the seven preceding days so that their ding-dong would not break the sacred silence. For the same reason, the clockwork mechanism which marked each hour with the ringing of the bells was switched off. The
mascarat-de-dolo
[the dolorous masks] roamed around the valley: these were groups of children who painted their faces red, dressed in black, waved rattles and swung bundles of ropes with which they mimed the action of scourging each other. At each crossroads, the
mascarat-de-dolo
stopped and issued warnings in the traditional manner:

‘Sem arrivà al primo quarto'

‘El Signor l'è bastonà'

‘Spudà'

‘E ghe fan turment'

‘Jesus basa i ogi e no' fa lament'

‘Bative, bative!'

‘We have come to the first quarter'

‘The Lord has been struck'

‘Spat on'

‘They torment him'

‘Jesus, lower your eyes and make no lament'

‘Beat yourselves, beat yourselves!'

With the flagellation completed, they went on their way in silence to the next crossroads, but this year the
mascarat-de-dolo
inserted a variation into the journey. They continued towards the piazza facing the Mangelli Palace, and there they stood a moment in silence until the chief penitent gave a signal, whereupon they launched into a refrain freshly composed for the occasion.

‘Vergognanza e perdisiun'

‘Bative!'

‘Sbatiment de dona grama, el Signor a ve condana'

‘Fornigon'

‘Femena bramosa scelerà, i vergogn te saran brusà'

‘Tuti pecator smorbidi, dentra al fogo sarit rostidi!'

‘Pentive! Pentive!'

‘Shame and perdition'

‘Beat yourselves!'

‘Wretched woman's embrace, the Lord will you condemn'

‘Fornicators'

‘Lustful, wicked woman, your loins will burn'

‘All evil sinners will roast in the fire!'

‘Repent! Repent!'

And off they went, miming flagellation and dancing like tarantulas on heat.

In her house, Signora Sveva put her hands over her ears, let out a scream and exploded in rage. She threw open the terrace window, came out brandishing a twin-bore hunting rifle, which she fired at the group of penitents. Two tremendous broadsides. General stampede. Two or three children rolled down the staircase, pierced by pellets from the gun.

In those years, the Stations of the Cross were still erected on the night of Good Friday. Each village was responsible for preparing one scene from
The Passion of Christ,
and the parishioners of Porto had the task of staging the so-called ‘Prologue to the Passion', that is the scene featuring Herod slavering for the love of Salomè, and the subsequent beheading of Saint John the Baptist. I too was a member of the troupe, and was assigned a wonderful part – that of the slave with the fan. My job was to stand at the back and wave the huge fan so as to cool down the tyrant, his lover Herodias and the splendid Salomè, the solo dancer.

The moment the procession arrived at the town hall portico which served as the stage, four searchlights were switched on and Herod appeared embracing his lover. Herodias was played by a boy, Stralusc (which means ‘arrow' in the local dialect), who, with all the necessary apparel of wig and breasts, had been dressed up as a woman. The processors took their stance around the portico, and many people came to the windows of the houses and palaces surrounding the piazza. Signora Sveva herself appeared on the terrace of the Mangelli residence.

Under the portico, the king and his concubine rolled about in a strange mime which looked more like a Graeco-Roman wrestling contest than any loving embrace. Preceded by a roll of drums, Saint John made his entrance, accusing forefinger pointed at the fornicators, to bawl out his anathema: ‘Shame on your carnal lusts! Damned be the harlot!'

At this point, the guards intervened to seize hold of the recalcitrant saint and bind him to a pillar. Herodias, overcome by a hysterical crisis, smashed the plates and crystal vases (obviously all rejects from the prize-winning glassworks) noisily to the ground.
Coup de scène.
Appearance of Salomè, the dancer-daughter. The mother bursts into tears, and implores Herod: ‘I beg you, cut off the head of that bastard, Saint John. He has insulted me!'

‘Not on your life!' replies Herod. ‘Next thing, Jesus will come along and lay on me a curse which will bugger me for all eternity.' He stops a moment, peers at the lovely Salomè and promises: ‘Yeah, I will remove his head if your daughter will do a dance for me.'

Salomè is ready and willing: ‘All right, I'll go along with you, but first of all, you take an oath by the Lord that as soon as the dance is over you will give the order for the saint's head to be chopped off.'

‘Yes, I swear, but in return you'll have to take off all seven veils.'

‘Let's make it five.'

‘No, all or nothing.'

‘All,' shout the guests at Herod's table, clapping their hands as they cry out.

Cue the orchestra: two accordions, one saxophone, two trumpets and the double-bass. A quiet number for starters. They strike up a languid tango. The lovely Salomè (now substituted by a girl with a stupendous body) begins her dance, all rhythmically writhing thighs and buttocks. She bends so far back that her falling hair almost scrapes along the floor. At intervals, she pulls off a veil which she tosses in the face of Saint John, who is still there, bound hand and foot.