"I don't understand. Why was the order so afraid of Pardo Melchiorri?" Guido asked.
"Because he was the only one who saw things that no one else would be able to see. He saw. He saw beyond. And the church was afraid of the invisible realities that the cripple could perceive."
"It's complicated to follow you..."
The monk convulsively held the stick in his hands and beat him to the ground, as if he wanted to indicate a precise point on the floor. "I'm about to confess something I shouldn't be telling you. But I have because it's completely obvious that your presence was imposed by fate."
The monk clutched the small crucifix hanging from a rosary that he held wrapped in his hand, and continued: "The cripple sensed something that took root in this land. Something that came from afar, from the darkness of the centuries. The painter knew it, he felt it around him. The unhappy artist had an uncommon sensitivity. It seemed almost as if the good Lord had not cared for his body, which he barely sketched, to concentrate on developing a sharp, farsighted mind. And he, thanks to his particular gift, noticed an elusive, mysterious and invisible presence. Imagine
something as solid as rock, yet as flowing as water, as elusive and diffused as the sound of wind-blown foliage. Imagine it as a living, ubiquitous creature. Something lurking inside and outside of us. Do you follow me?"
"I'm trying."
"You have to Know that the painter did not paint sacred figures, but fauns, witches, demons. "All things abject and repugnant, but which he believed to be real, industrious and actives. He said that all those figures were in fact the many manifestations of that one being. An entity that could choose where to hide, how to transform, and who to possess. For Abbot Caligo, certain sacrilegious claims were enough to accuse the painter of heresy. We know he was arrested, but that's the end of the story. The Longa Manus of the Benedictine order managed to almost completely erase the cripple's life. Unfortunately, there are few paintings left to testify to this. Abbot Caligo was unable to destroy them because they ended up in the homes of wealthy lords, many of whom were sworn enemies of the Holy Mother Church.
The Benedictine paused, drank half a glass of water, and continued, "The painter was convinced that this mysterious entity had chosen this land for the need to feed on its fruits. He knows when, where, and how to catch them. He just waits for the right time to catch them. And it all suggests that the harvest has begun again.
The fruit to be harvested... I think it's a metaphor. Actually, he's talking about people's lives, isn't he?" said Guido, fascinated by history.
Father Romualdo neither denied nor nodded, but specified: "The task of the crippled painter touched by the grace of the Lord is to warn men of his presence".
"Perhaps it would be better to say it was the painter's duty."
"It is, boy. It is. Read it in the present. Those who believe in eternal life know there is no before, during or after. Eternity is a continuous present."
The boy tried to reflect, knowing he had many reasons to feel uncomfortable. He had lied about what should have been a confidential chat, but he was secretly recording the conversation. He didn't say how much he knew about Frater Paolous and didn't talk about the manuscript. A series of lies and omissions that the monk clearly perceived, but didn't care.
The Benedictine knew that there was enough room in Guido's mind to reflect on his lies and, at the same time, to get an idea of what he had just told him.
"Now I'll try to put my head in order, if you'll let me" Guido exclaimed in a sceptical tone. "To sum up, you told me that the Benedictines erased from history a painter they believed to have the ability to perceive the presence of a mysterious creature. I, however, think so: a solid church is often based on solid ignorance. And Abbot Caligo wanted, beyond the monopoly of faith, to hold the credulity of the Castelmusini in his hands. For this reason he decided to remove the cripple, whom he saw as a rival. In all honesty, Father Romualdo, you seem too smart to really believe in the existence of a monster that has taken root in Castelmuso.
The monk, nodding intently, asked, "Do you have anything else to add?"
"I have finished” concluded Guido.
"You're forgetting something, boy: coal."
"The... coal?" repeated Guido without understanding.
"The coal is a message" sighed the old man. "You saw it fall from the sky, didn't you?"
A cold pallor discoloured Guido's expression. He returned with his thoughts to the night of Daisy's accident, when something struck the windows of the newsroom that left long strips of soot on the windows.
ʺIt could be coalʺ he thought.
Guido was seized with a stinging anxiety that burdened his chest. The monk stared at him without speaking. His eyes
had returned inexpressive and distant, numb to his restlessness.
The Benedictine stretched out his legs with difficulty. He was old, clearly tired, and complained of knee arthritis. Said several signs of intolerance, complaining of very earthly pains. Evidently he wanted to be left alone, but he still had something to say. "My boy, I suppose you don't believe in God, or perhaps you do, but in your own way, as we all do. But know that this is not a matter of faith or being a believer. Invisible entities reason differently from our personal beliefs. And if they are manifesting, and you see them, and someone else sees them, it means something is going to happen. Be on your guard, son. And pray to the Lord."
Guido would have wanted to reply, but he didn't know exactly what to say.
Father Augustus arrived, surprisingly pale and sour, who invited him out of his cell.
"Thank you for your time" said Guido, before hastily leaving the monks' dormitory.
Father Romualdo heard the echo of footsteps fading and disappearing down the hall. Alone and absorbed, he wrinkled the rosary with his bony fingers. "Forgive me, Lord" he whispered in a lament.
"Forgive me. For you know I will sin again” he said, hiding his wrinkled face in the hood.
14
The van drove along the road that ran along the walls of the village, sometimes shaded by the curved branches of the willows. It passed in front of the arch of Porta Diaz, one of the ancient entrances of Castelmuso. On the gate you could still see the guard posts, the mouths of fire and the sumptuous bronze doors, the latter almost perfect copies of those completely in gold, plundered by the Napoleonic army a couple of centuries earlier.
Sailor was smoking a joint with his elbow resting on the window. Laurel stretched her legs resting them on the dashboard, in a spot abundantly covered with dust. The joint ran feverishly from hand to hand.
Brando, sitting next to Laurel, heard the phone ringing. It was Rinaldo Duranti, but he didn't need to answer it, since they had already arrived.
The band parked the van in front of the disco. The boys unloaded their instruments indolently. They were tired, smoked and unmotivated, the fee barely three hundred euros each. They dragged guitar, bass, keyboards and themselves into the club. They passed through a side door. This had probably been the entrance to a large basement of a noble palace in the past.
Dancing sport had always been the disco of Castelmuso.
A thousand square meters of space with plasterboard ceilings to cover unworthy of the sumptuous cross vaults. The pylons suspended above the walls were full of lighthouses and spotlights that illuminated the spaces in a completely chaotic way. The bar counter was a vintage seventies with glitters that spun like a comma, and seemed to be perfect for serving not so much the complicated trendy cocktails as the old-fashioned liquors that became famous in black and white advertisings, such as sambuca Molinari or the Riccadonna. A row of low, black armchairs was positioned in all corners of the venue; only those in the VIP area were armchairs were really expensive.
At the bottom of the club there was a live performance stage. The dance floor was considered to be a Dancing Sport gem. The owner had it built identical to the legendary 2001 Odissey disco, where John Travolta danced the world to the spectacular music of the B
ee Gees. A technician wearing a red beret with a stiff visor and a beer-drinker's belly turned on the lights on the platform.
Underneath had been installed hundreds of bulbs connected by meters and meters of old and worn-out electrical cables.
Brando was dragging the bass in his case when the track lights came on under the musician's feet. Rows of yellow, orange, and blue chess lit up the boy's sluggish expression, prompting him to think clearly about the venue: "Shitty place, brothers.
Whenever the boy was under the influence of marijuana, under the influence of universal brotherhood, he called everyone like that. Even strangers. Especially those.
"Shithole" Frankie tiredly repeated as he dragged his guitar across the stage. The disco was four hours away from opening. The boys attached the plugs to the guitars, tried the speakers and microphones, enjoying the acoustics of the venue.
Not even two miles away, Filippa, Manuel and Leo were doing a fair amount of work locked in the oppressive heat of the newsroom. Daisy was waiting for them that evening at Dancing Sport, where the club’s entourage had reserved a table for them.
Manuel and Leo, who were not clubbers, had accepted the invitation after some reluctance.
The appointment was just hours away, and three items were still waiting to be sent to the printer.
Leo finished proofreading an interview with Giorgio Paoloeta, an earthquake geologist. It was a high-quality, interesting, if somewhat disturbing article. The geologist, who worked at the National Institute of Geology and Volcanology, explained in appropriate language and without too many technicalities the subtle movements of a fault that had been in place for years. This in spite of the strong earthquakes that, in previous years, had affected the whole system of faults close to the central Apennines.
The subterranean rift ran one hundred and twenty kilometres along a ridge from the Sibylline Mountains to the Adriatic. And Castelmuso was touched by the fault.
The geologist explained, without trying to create alarm, the beginning of a new seismic activity. And Leo's personal interview was no accident. For several days, in fact, slight tremors had been felt throughout the so-called crater. It was a huge area that included one hundred municipalities in three different regions, all considered seismically threatened.
Leo, reading the article, preferred to cut out parts that might have frightened readers. Most importantly, he removed one disturbing passage, where he emphasized a highly unlikely, but not impossible event: the fault may in principle have accumulated so much energy that, if suddenly released, it would produce a magnitude of more than seven on the Richter scale.
Filippa, as usual, was in charge of translating the manuscript. The arrival of the famous critic Eugenio Zevi was four days away. And anxiety grew.
Filippa was blaspheming for an unforeseen impasse. Frater Paolous' handwriting had at times become impossible to translate. "Fuck. The Benedictine abandoned the antiquated litter and began writing in his own handwriting. It's like going from the simple block letters of a first grade text to an incomprehensible prescription scribbled by a doctor."
"I don't understand. Why this change?" Manuel asked.
"Something must have happened” the girl assumed. "I have a feeling that the monk is no longer writing an official document. It seems he is now writing only for himself, as if the painter's life is no longer of interest to anyone but himself. What do you think, Leo?" Leo didn't answer. He was sitting in front of the computer, his hands hanging steady over the keyboard, his ears straight and eyes circling restlessly.
"There's been another jolt, hasn't there?" he asked concerned.
"No, no tremors” Filippa exclaimed as she looked up at the ceiling. The neon lights were perfectly still.
"There has been. Small, but it did." confirmed Manuel.
"Look on your cell phone. Check out what Earthquakes in Italy says” shook Leo.
"It's early. It's at least ten minutes before the NEC spreads the magnitude” says Manuel, spelling out the motto of the National Earthquake Center, the institute that monitored seismic activity throughout the country.
"However, there hasn't been one. My ass is particularly sensitive to tremors” Filippa insisted, looking at the Pringeps on his wrist. "That's enough work for today. I'm off. I'll see you at the disco."
That night, the moon's scythe spread a pale glow over the headland, where the sea glistened like a silver blade.
The Dancing Sport sign shone brightly, spreading colored lights, illuminating a throng of fresh, young faces lined up in front of the club's entrance.
In the meantime, someone was smoking, especially minors. A girl had left her coat in the car, and now she was banging her feet to warm herself, even though the night was not particularly cold. A couple of very pretty, perfectly made up girls were showing off a lot, knowing that all eyes were on them.
Away from the line, a young drunk man had thrown a bottle of beer, breaking it on the wall of a building. An elegant big men in tie approached and dragged the boy into an alley. After ten seconds, the drunk came out bent in two, his hands clasped over his nose, blood dripping between his fingers.
The order service that night was really serious.
Filippa lived two streets away. She walked down the street in the old town, swearing off a pair of slim-heeled boots that were sticking out between the cobblestones. She arrived in front of the disco greeted by a whistle of approval. "You
look hot tonight” complimented Leo, who showed up in a grey blazer, red hair freshly shampooed and streaked with gel. The shiny black shoes taken from his father, as well as the dress. Manuel arrived shortly afterwards.
Filippa also cashed in his compliments. The big girl could be considered interesting for once. She wasn't pretty, but that night she showed a certain style. She wore a long black coat that slimmed her hips down. Underneath it was a grey pinstripe with precious fabric. On the lapel of her jacket was a huge silver brooch that resembled a weave of roses. At the collar, an elegant silk scarf tied with a large knot. The hair, gathered in large locks, was always wild, but not fallow, and gave it a special elegance.
Leo and Manuel agreed to consider her a female version of Lord Byron.
The queue in front of the club continued to grow. Only once in living memory was such an influx recorded. It happened when Rocky Roberts performed for eight hundred and twenty thousand lire, singing songs like Le belle donne, Sono tremendo, and the famous Stasera mi butto. The guys in line were born at least thirty years after that memorable evening.
A girl with a stewardess's face and a delicate nose up, checked the guest list. A smile gave the green light to Filippa, Manuel and Leo, who walked into the club and jumped the line.
"I feel a little out of place” said Leo, who, on advice from Filippa, had left his jacket in the cloakroom. With the blazer off, he regained the natural elegance of an athletic physique to feed the girls' imagination.
A pierre in miniskirt accompanied the three boys to the VIP area.
In spite of the privacy, at Dancing the tables reserved for guests had been placed in the centre of the disco, arranged rather roughly. At Castelmuso discretion was at least an
abstract concept, even offensive to the villagers who had gone dancing just to see Daisy Magnoli up close.
The pierre sat the three guests on a refined leather sofa. A waiter arrived with a tray full of glasses and a bottle of champagne. Leo thought the night was going well.
"Wow! They put us at the same table as Daisy" he exclaimed, reading the name on the placeholder on the low wicker table.
"So all eyes will be on us" worried Manuel, who normally hated being the center of attention.
Filippa, waiting for her famous friend to arrive, stretched her legs, pulled out a cigar, and looking around, said, "Well, guys, now that we're here, what the hell are we going to do?
At home, Guido turned his face left and right under the lights hanging around the bathroom mirror. He lowered his chin and lifted it up, turned his neck looking
at himself in a trellis, trying to catch all the points of view of shaving.
He had spent one eye on a six-blade razor pack. He realized with disappointment that there was no difference with disposable razors. Even the multi blade couldn't quite remove certain small, hard hairs nestled under his nose, where the skin in the center of his upper lip formed a dimple.
Probably only he saw those little black hairs. No one had ever pointed them out to him. But certain details, even the most insignificant ones, made him nervous. Especially when he was on a date with a girl.
He had to pick her up on Crepax Street, the elegant district south of Castelmuso. He only knew the girl's name: Caterina.
He'd only talked to her for three minutes in front of the monastery. He knew nothing about her. All he had to do was call her on her cell phone.
She had accepted with enthusiasm to go out with him.
As he shaved, he thought back to his meeting with the monk. That day he had practically escaped from the abbey. With a cold mind, he realized that there could be no evil entity. But he was disorientated when the monk told of the coal that had fallen from the sky. How could he have known about it? Guido thought about it until his brain ached, but he couldn't find a convincing answer.
He came out of the bathroom. The mother couldn't escape the smell of cleanliness hovering around her son.
"Is she pretty, at least?" the woman asked curiously.
"Not as pretty as you, Mom."
"Then you won't get a big deal” she laughed. Stefania Monachesi, married in Gobbi, could not be counted among the forty-year-old proud of her toned and slim bodies kept alive by hellish gym sessions. Stefania was small, mushy and close to menopause. But she had a clear, open-minded character, and many motivations that did not include excessive sweat loss. Stefania, on the treadmill, preferred a novella by Calvin, a tale by Ottieri, or a collection of poems by Sandro Penna.
The Dawn of Sin Page 16
