The Dawn of Sin

by Grassetti, Valentino

  "The painter from Castelmuso?" Leo replied promptly, "What everyone knows. That is, almost nothing."

  "He was a crippled and unhappy artist" Filippa intervened by moving his big butt out of the chair to grab with his fingers a strip of pants tucked between his buttocks. The girl opened Wikipedia to find out more.

  "It says here he was probably sick with rickets. Apparently he had a hydrocephalus head, but that must have worked great, given the way he painted. He was an active painter in the early 17th century, but neither his date of birth nor his date of death is known. There are only anecdotes, no official historical news. He was discriminated against all his life because of his appearance. Wikipedia has a testimony written in the vernacular, and it is the only one we know. Shall I read it?"

  Guido encouraged her to continue.

  "So, let's see..." Filippa squinted to better focus the words.

  The painter Pardo wears a rag bullet, a flap held with a gnarled hand, to hide an ugly face and a churning head. The house and shop are in the alley of the Hazmat, a lonely, dirty room where he paints the entire day...

  "Here the dialect Castelmusino gets tighter..."

  "Translate it into Italian, then” insisted Guido.

  "Okay. I'll try."

  Pardo walks like a sparrow with broken wings, the rude and ignorant Castelmusini feel the proud duty to despise him because it is customary among the peasants to pick on the insane and the sick. People beat him up, children throw stones at him, but no one does it with too much malice. It's like the fair when you're throwing cans at them. The wretched cripple moans but is silent because he knows he is an evil fruit of nature. So much deformity, so many dry and crooked bones, the big skull that protrudes all behind, reminds the louts of the invisible work of the devil. And, as

  priests say, the devil chases away some with contempt, some with a smile.

  "They were going down hard on the poor man” Leo exclaimed, scratching the red spot on the back of his neck with his fingernails.

  Guido nodded. "Even today in Castelmuso someone prefers to remember him as a monster and not as a painter. What else does Wikipedia say?"

  "There are only four paintings by Melchiorri” said Filippa. "The first is known as The Dark Faun. It was sold to the Museum of the Region in the 1960s. The second, The Anguana, is part of a private collection. Sold by the municipality of Castelmuso for a ridiculous amount of money. As if to say that the country continues to despise the cripple. The third is Allegory of the Night, which ended up in a second-order museum in a northern European city, Copenhagen, to be precise. His masterpiece remains, however, Beauty and Damnation. Unfortunately, it was lost during a disastrous flood almost three centuries ago. There are only a few poor quality copies of the painting. They are mostly charcoal drawings made by artists without the slightest talent. Pardo Melchiorri achieved a certain fame only after his death. In life he was only despised because of his appearance. He lived almost certainly like a beggar, which explains the lack of news."

  "Perfect. As you see, Pardo Melchiorri is a mystery to everyone. At least to this day" said Guido with an impatient grimace.

  "Now I think it's time for some amazing news, don't you?" said Filippa.

  Guido did not answer, but his gaze was speaking more than words.

  "Now listen carefully” Guido said, tapping the back of his hand on the copy of the archive document. "There's something big here. The translation was an enterprise,

  because it was written in old-fashioned, fancy Italian, and with almost illegible handwriting, but in the end, I think I did a good job. Title: The Curse of Castelmosso. For those who don't know it, Castelmosso is the old name of the village. It comes from Castrum Muso, the fortification built by the Romans two thousand years ago along the river Muso. And here I stop or we will arrive at the Neolithic. I said, title: The cursed of Castelmosso, that is Silvina Cannulo, a poor peasant girl neither witch nor woman".

  Guido Gobbi took a break. He pushed the glasses that were slipping from his nose, to watch the three assorted friends reading copies of the document.

  We deal in this story of Silvina, reported the writing, a flourishing country girl too joyful, not at all severe in costume and not at all afraid of God. Silvina was slapped in the face by her husband for a reason that is unknown, perhaps futile or perhaps not, and however you read it was the healthy right of a husband who emphasized his authority over the evil bride. Silvina, perhaps because she was rebellious by nature, perhaps because so many blows had turned her brain, did something that not even the most hysterical of damsels or the most wicked of witches had ever dared to think.

  It is said that, when she got pregnant, every time she ate a meal, she marked it on a big, big tome.

  Because she was illiterate, she made little drawings of the food she consumed. She was precise, finicky, punctilious. She was good at drawing, but she used her evil left hand.

  When the child was about to born, she opened the book and announced, "This creature will not be the daughter of my husband or any other man.

  My husband put only one seed. While I have fertilized it with three hundred and eighty raw, cooked and boiled eggs,

  twenty-three chickens, three thousand pounds of bread, and so on...

  The fool wanted to imply that the little angel was the fruit of all the fruits of that land, and the tiny seed of a man.

  The peasant woman who mocked God and men did not, however, come to terms with the land she trampled on, the land where she made the animals graze and where she picked those fruits which, as she claimed, became a living being by transitive property.

  Silvina the illiterate, neither witch nor woman, did not know that long ago the heavy hand of fate had touched those fields she loved so much. It was there, in fact, in that land, that centuries ago the people of Castelmosso were buried. Healthy and strong men, restless and chastened women, wrinkled old men and innocent children. All died of an evil disease. Silvina's was a land cursed by God and deconsecrated by fate. How could she have given a healthy fruit? How could a maiden who challenged her creator to think of lettuce, eggplant and food all as parents of life? So what had to happen: the child was born male and repulsive. A miserable small and crooked bundle, its head as big and long as a pumpkin.

  "And the story ends here” exclaimed Guido.

  "Let me get this straight, you don't believe that this child is Pardo Melchiorri" asked Leo, the bored air of someone who's just heard a fairy tale, but no longer has the age to appreciate it.

  "No. I'm not saying that” Guido replied, extending his arms forward, almost as if he was physically a hypothetic, but it sounded plausible.

  "It's just a little story, one told around the fireplace. We can only assume that someone fictionalized the birth of the painter, but we have no proof."

  "Perhaps. But certain stories around certain characters may also have historical value” clarified Filippa Villa, who hastened to add: "We could publish it on the cultural page. Whatever it is, we'll take credit for finding something that might tickle the curiosity of some scholar. The Union of Milan demands above all this from us. Articles of some depth. If we can satisfy them, they will have a special eye for us. Who knows, maybe the editorial staff won't be transferred and we won't lose our job.

  The consideration of Filippa Villa animated Manuel's doubtful face.

  "I don't think a story like that will affect the editorial staff any more than that."

  "Actually, there are eighty-six others” Guido pointed out with the expression of those who say less than they know, as if the information in their possession were a precious nectar to be poured carefully.

  "Eighty-six what?" Manuel asked surprised.

  "Yes. This is getting interesting” added Filippa, turning the lighter wheel to light a Tuscan. She watched the bluish flame appear and disappear to the rhythm of his finger. It was a sign that the gas was running out.

  Guido Gobbi approached his desk. He opened the briefcase. He slipped his hand inside to ex
tract a heavy volume.

  At first glance, it seemed a few centuries old. It was a manuscript bound in Moroccan leather, with the corners and centre of the cover protected by a row of metal studs, a device used in the past to preserve the volumes from the rubbing caused by contact with the lecterns and bookcase shelves.

  "As you can see, I probably did something illegal, though I'm not so sure” Guido said, tapping his pale palm on the thick cover of the manuscript.

  "I don't believe it. Did you steal that book from the archive?" Manuel asked, his eyebrows marked with wonder.

  "That's not exactly how it is. I'll explain everything in detail later. Now observe carefully." Guido opened the cover, discovering thick sheets of parchment of the complicated writing of the monks of Amanuensis. There were no illustrations, no miniatures, no gold or silver on the scrolls. Those who had written it seemed to want to keep a low profile, carefully avoiding a work full of arabesques, frills, and colors. It seemed to be written with almost constraint, without any happiness. A work that felt like it was not meant to spread knowledge, but only to send a warning.

  "There is much talk of the painter in here. It is four hundred and twenty-six pages written entirely in Latin."

  Guido placed the book on the table. He leaned over his shoulders and moistened his index finger with the tip of his tongue to turn over the parchment sheets. The three friends looked silently and concentrated over their shoulders to look at the manuscript.

  "It is all to be translated. If you look closely, you will see that there are some dates of birth, many notarial deeds, names, places, events, and many stories. Things that nobody knows. From what little I understand, the manuscript is the work of a certain Frater Paolous Girolimini. A Benedictine monk from the monastery of Castelmuso. A religious who lived in the seventeenth century, a time that is in many ways forgotten in these parts. I'm not sure, but it seems the Benedictines were constantly taking notes on Melchiorri, as if they were keeping an eye on him for some mysterious reason.

  "It excites me so much that my period has stopped” Filippa murmured in a harsh, almost male voice.

  "I don't like this story” Manuel said annoyed. "You have stolen an archive document. You must return it immediately, or we all risk being reported for theft."

  "I have good reason to believe that no one knows anything about this manuscript."

  "How can you be sure?" Manuel asked sceptically.

  "Because it didn't come out until after the reorganization of the archive. I remind you that it was in the red zone of Castelmuso."

  A moment of silence followed. Everyone returned to the ruinous earthquakes of 2016, when several buildings in Castelmuso were declared completely uninhabitable.

  The so-called red zone became sadly famous all over the world. It was a precise area of a village, often a historic centre, declared inaccessible because it was totally devastated by earthquakes.

  "As you know, the archive has been closed for a long time" Guido recalled, "it was only reopened two months ago. There are still scaffolding around the building, as the work is not yet finished. When I found the book, I couldn't understand why it wasn't filed or mentioned in any of the city's deeds. One of the bricklayers who is just finishing the building, explained to me that the fourth tremor, the terrible six-point-five magnitude tremor, had collapsed a piece of the wall in the building. Behind it was a cavity, a small empty space where books were stored. Books that had been in there for centuries."

  "So the manuscript had been hidden. But why?" Leo noticed Leo scratching a new psoriasis spot with his fingernails, this time growing under his elbow.

  "I don't think it was hidden” said Guido. "It's possible he might have gotten there by accident. It was probably at the top of a shelf, and it fell through a slit. One of those used for air replacement. I can see the scene: two or three hundred years ago, when part of the Benedictine heritage fell into the hands of the municipality of Castelmuso, a scholar entered the archive, climbed up a wooden ladder, reached for a few volumes of amanuensis, bumped into the book... the book fell behind the shelves, fell into the slit and disappeared into the cavity. The scholar did not notice anything. As time went

  by, someone thought it best to close the crack. That's why no historian ever had it in his hand. The bricklayers took it and put it in boxes along with the other volumes. I come in and I am colossally lucky to find it. When I think I was there to find the rotarians..."

  "So the carpenters know about the book" Manuel warned.

  "Don't worry. They saw it and forgot it in a moment” reassured Guido. "I know I shouldn't have taken it. But as someone said, sometimes dirty work has an ethic on it."

  Guido closed the manuscript and exclaimed in an important tone: "There is enough material here to write something new about a painter who is considered brilliant, but little or nothing is known. In short, we can do quality journalism. Exactly as we are asked from Milan. But we need to get a move on. In the next meeting of the editorial board, in fact, the future of our office will be discussed. That's why I'd say we should start working on it right away. Filippa, I think you're doing well in Latin..."

  "Let's say I don't have any big problems, even though I don't love him very much” confirmed the big girl, who added with a bit of presumption: "I’ve got Thirty and praise at the oral exam and same thing at the written one. If I were so good at courting girls in the faculty of letters, I would not be here now, but at coierit in perpetuum. Shall I translate it?"

  "I think I see the point. You'd get laid all the time. But you're more useful to us here. Now, finish writing the articles, proofread the proofs, layout and mail. Then we'll get on with the manuscript."

  Guido phoned his mother to inform her that he'd be back late, if he ever came back. So did Filippa, who sensed the importance of Guido's discovery more than anyone else.

  "Let's try not to use the copier or scanner to copy the pages" exclaimed Guido. "We'll just take pictures on our mobile phones. That way we won't have to put parchment paper on the machine boards, risking opening the manuscript too

  much, and the danger of blowing up the binding. So we'll pass the photo on to the computer, then we'll go to print. Better to study on paper and not on the desktop. "Essential point: take the photos, and the erase them from the cell phone memory."

  Guido Gobbi began by photographing the first pages of the manuscript. The camera of the Galactic 9 had a spectacular resolution, but the printer was slow and cumbersome, and the copies were of poor quality. Everything was still perfectly legible. Manuel flipped through the parchment paper gently, waiting for Guido to take the photos.

  In the meantime Leo was printing the material, while Filippa was studying the documents by transcribing the translated lines on the computer.

  They remained in the editorial office until late at night. The first to give in to fatigue were Leo and Manuel, who left after twelve hours of feverish work.

  Guido, the bags under his eyes deeply engraved by the frames of his glasses, had been standing for seventeen hours. He had photographed the whole manuscript, passed the photos to the computer, and printed at least half of them.

  Filippa meanwhile had translated the most understandable pages. They were all written in the style of the littera antiqua, the most used by the Benedictine monk Frater Paolous Girolimini.

  It was three o'clock in the morning when Filippa, exhausted, lay down on the cot, his fat hand hanging on the ashtray full of cigarettes and Tuscan cigarette butts. After a few seconds, he snored without restraint.

  Guido, his beard lasts for a day and his eyes bruised, he wanted to read some translations before going to sleep. He kept wondering why the monks kept an eye on the painter. Perhaps it was because of his horrible appearance that he approached the devil, as his contemporaries used to say... or was there something else?

  Shortly before, Filippa had mentioned something interesting, but had collapsed before going into detail. Guido stood in front of the girl's computer. He noticed the cle
ar and consistent translation of some notarial certificates, but which did not lead back to the painter. He searched in a pink folder renamed ʺwow!ʺ by Filippa. If there was anything remarkable, it was definitely in there.

  Guido opened the folder.

  Translation no. 6

  Testimony by Frater Paolous Girolimini

  Year of the Lord

  24 August 1625

  That day, with the excuse of blessing, I entered the four miserable walls of the most miserable district of Castelmuso. The painter was in his shack. He was intent on sewing a rough canvas, which he pulled and fixed with difficulty on a wooden frame. Then he heated a saucepan over the fire where there were pieces of glue from the animals. He threw in an ounce of linseed oil, some white lead, and a handful of finely chopped white chalk. Then it all went on the canvas. The prints also had colored earths, like those used by Venetian painters. When the canvas was ready to be painted, I left so as not to arouse suspicion. But I spent every day with a variety of excuses. I pretended there was a dead man to be anointed, or that I had to pick certain nettles, good for the monastery's herbal teas. I lied for the love of God. In fact, I went there to see the painting the cripple was painting. At first, the canvas, after injection, was the color of a figure's embodiment, only it wasn't there. The painter then took a smoked stick and splashed a face that looked like the face of the Virgin Mother with the devil's hand. Then, with nervous and quick strokes, he gave birth to another figure,

  though this one could only be considered a vague and indefinite sketch.

  So as not to arouse suspicion, I withdrew from the alley, and returned after three days. When I moved the greasy rag covering the shell, I saw Melchiorri sitting there painting. The brushes, held by that dry, gnarled hand, were soaked in color, sometimes dark, sometimes bright. In the end, under my enchanted eyes, they gave volume, matter, and divine form to that portrait.