"I didn't know that. And I really don't know what it means."
"If I may say my opinion, I think Luca was an accident. Maybe the monster hadn't dealt with something that, if I'm honest, I never fully understood. Maybe it was the fact that he was gay that kept him from dying right away. As if that infernal being had added further torment to his suffering...".
"I don't follow you..."
"I've thought about it, but it's just a hypothesis. That monster takes root in man, and I believe it absorbs all the essence of man. In a way, he's a conformist. He wants to imitate what God did in his own image. So he captures the moods, vices and concerns of human beings. The monster can consider a homosexual from the point of view of human prejudice, espousing the cause he considers closest to his inclinations. He has deliberately chosen, like some men, to discriminate, but only to punish.
"Are you telling me that your son's calvary was no accident?"
"It's just a hypothesis. But I believe he chose to torture him to the end. Seven months of unspeakable suffering."
"Do you feel like talking about it?"
"No. But I must. Luca, I said, is no longer him. He had this black look in his eyes, his lips pulled by nerves that seemed to want to tear his face off. He came out of the rubble with fractured legs, internal bleeding, three broken ribs, one of them stuck in a lung. And he screamed that he saw it."
"The monster? Did Luke see him?"
"Not in the strictest sense of the word. He said that when the walls started shaking, he and the other guys clearly felt his presence. The pylons fell, the earth shook like it was on the back of an angry beast. They were all about to die, aware that they were not victims of an earthquake. They were simply chosen by the monster. Luca, during the seven months of intensive care, kept repeating over and over again that there would be more deaths. Of course, no one listened to him. The doctors would come in, check if the oxygen reached the lungs, if the leg was not at risk of gangrene, if the slow dripping of internal bleeding did not spread into the cells, if the pulse was regular, if the monitors sent reassuring signals. So they did everything they could to make him die slowly, without thinking about the one essential thing: listening.
"Would anything have changed, do you think?"
"Maybe nothing. But it would have created a new awareness. I don't mean to be too philosophical, but there was a unique opportunity to understand that reality often conceals itself. True reality operates behind our backs. And when it does, it has no qualms about killing our children."
(The witness has an emotional blockage.)
"Holy shit. I don't want to cry."
"Okay. Let's take a break."
17
A month after the earthquake, there were only a couple of reporters left, those of the most accredited TV stations.
The rest of the media circus, eighty journalists, seventy-two cameramen, ninety-four technicians from all over the international press, had already dismantled satellite dishes and antennas, loaded cameras and microphones onto the vans and left Castelmuso.
The earthquake had exhausted all his stories. After all, only fourteen people had died. Fourteen boys. All died under the rubble of Dancing Sport. Nothing compared to the earthquakes of recent years, all far more disastrous.
That night there were also many injured, but fortunately few collapsed; an uninhabited farmhouse, the top of the bell tower of the church of San Catervo, a piece of the ring road wall, a crane and little else. Eighty-six of the injured houses were declared uninhabitable. In the past, an earthquake like that would have caused carnage. What saved the lives of thousands of people was the effective earthquake regulations made in the previous years. For once, the dead of the past had awakened the conscience of a state without memory.
Guido had saved everyone that night, but he could not reveal the truth. He came up with a perfectly credible excuse. He explained that while he was alone with his new girlfriend, he heard the dogs barking: barking lasted at least a quarter of an hour. The fact that dogs can sense earthquakes before humans is not a myth. Studies had shown that some animals were sensitive to positive ions released by rock friction caused by an impending seismic movement.
For his friends, Guido was a kind of oracle, not a tightrope walker balanced on a string of lies.
But from that day he was no longer himself.
The certainty of the existence of a dark entity brought him to the brink of a nervous breakdown.
The guys in the newsroom had noticed how scruffy he was, and they were worried about him. Guido worked with an unshaven beard, his curly, greasy, stubbly hair, he was taciturn, grumpy, he'd started smoking again, and not just cigarettes. He was obsessed with what he'd found out, but if he talked, they would certainly think he was crazy.
The power of that entity seemed to be unlimited, and perhaps it was. But he, at that point, was able to know when it would manifest itself. Father Romualdo was right. The coal was a message: the signal that the monster was about to strike.
Guido was considering returning to the convent to speak with the monk when he was distracted by an unusual theatre that had been staged in the newsroom for several weeks.
"Kiss, brother!" exclaimed a young man as he appeared at the office door, accompanied by his friend.
"You again?" replied Leo, raising his eyes to the sky, pretending to be annoyed.
"You kiss me. And don't beat yourself up anymore, okay? Look at my nose! Look at Bojan's nose!"
"Come on, every time you tell me this. I am sorry. Is it alright?"
"No, you are not sorry, my friend. You were a big asshole. Don't you kiss my friend Miroslav too?"
"Okay, come here brother. But then get the fuck out of here, I've got work to do." Leo got up from the computer where he was proofreading an irrelevant article. He was wearing a brace on his right leg. He had no fractures, just a few stitches in his tibia and an uncomfortable tear in the right lateral
tendon of his knee. He hugged and kissed the two boys, and invited them out of the office.
"Bye, guys, I love you. And make sure you don't deal."
"You offend. We work. We bricklayers. No thugs."
"Yes sure... good night."
Before those two turned around, Leo gave them the finger and they did the same.
A month earlier, those same rough-looking, angular boys had risked their lives to pull him out of the rubble.
If it hadn't been for Bojan and Miroslav, Leo would have been the 15th victim of the earthquake. That night, while they were saving his skin, they had suppressed the temptation to beat him.
The two Slavs were the same ones that Leo, sometime before, had beaten to death in front of the Grancafè.
"It is true that tragedies accumulate victims and executioners” joked Filippa, struggling with the translation of Frater Paolous' manuscript. Cigar in his mouth, he sucked a big puff of smoke, which he held in his throat until he felt his lungs burn.
Manuel was on an aluminium ladder, a newsprint hat on his head. He was passing a roll of white paint over the cracks in the plaster with painstaking finesse.
The shock had dropped the computers, knocked over some folders, cracked the ceiling and filled the floor with rubble. The whole building that housed the editorial office had danced dangerously. The facade had lost its cornice, but otherwise everything could be considered fit for use.
"I wonder why you are still translating the manuscript" exclaimed Manuel, coming down the stairs for coffee.
"You should still write some more about the earthquake, don't you think?"
"Try not to stress me. And make me a coffee too” Filippa cut short.
"Come on, you know that in Milan they are enthusiastic about your services" insisted Manuel Pianesi, who to reinforce the concept, pointed his finger at a newspaper clipping hanging on the wall.
It was the editor's editorial. The article was dedicated to them, to the young editors who escaped the earthquake. Their pieces had been read and appreciated by thousands of people.
Thanks to them, the circulation could be considered constantly growing. From that day on, the Castelmusina editorial office had ceased to be an experiment. The bills were paid regularly by the Milan office.
"We are the light of their eyes. We are the light that illuminates the Union's turnover, so the manuscript can wait."
"What is the amount of money that made us lose our innocence?" Filippa asked, nibbling on the Tuscan to get a better taste of it.
"More than nine hundred thousand euros" replied Leo as he corrected a piece sent by an external collaborator who wrote articles that were attractive in substance, but insufficient in form.
"In the last month, the Union's circulation has increased by thirty percent" Leo recalled, adding, "from 71,000 copies to 89,000. At one euro and fifty per copy, figures in hand, it is almost a million more turnover. According to the publisher we will arrive at the weekend with one million and four hundred thousand euros. And if Filippa would start again to write a few articles on the earthquake, you can add a few tens of thousands of euros. Do you understand, dear? That manuscript will not help the newspaper to make a profit.
"Filippa, where are you at with the translation?" Guido asked her, "with his fingers on the hard beard. He was sloppy, nervous, so restless that even the kids got anxiety.
Filippa tapped the tip of the extinguished cigar on the computer screen. "I'm concentrating on the least ruined
pages" she replied, "but it's uninteresting stuff. They have a certain historical value, for God's sake, but they're a shredded bunch of assholes I'm not telling you. Anyway, I sent you some material. I thought you'd seen it..."
"Ah... material. Then I'll take a look." Guido responded distractedly by putting a cigarette in his mouth, and forgot he had one already lit on the ashtray.
Filippa noted: "Good stuff, as I told you. "I didn't anticipate anything so as not to spoil the surprise. Would it offend you if I told you something?"
"Tell me."
"You smell worse than usual today."
Guido didn't answer. He turned his back to the desktop, clicked on the file sent to him by Filippa and read what the girl had renamed the Chronicles of Frater Paolous.
In the last few days Filippa had made a summary of the incomprehensible passages, reconstructing a chronicle that Guido found entirely consistent with Father Romualdo's revelations. For the boy, the historical value of the manuscript had now become completely irrelevant. He just wanted to know what his role was in all that history. He needed to understand what bound him to that dark, murderous entity.
A.D., September 16, 1628
Today the painter was dragged before the court.
He had the stumps on his hands and feet, the marks of torture on him.
He seemed even smaller, more hunchbacked, more sickly, more miserable in everything.
They took him into the Priors' Palace. The public cannot attend the trial. The presence of a defence attorney is not even allowed. But I have read the defendant's testimony and statements, all of which are on the record.
Pardo Melchiorri did not deny his art. He did not repudiate his paintings. He had it in writing that he paints demons simply because he can see them. He explained that his work is not an artistic allegory. They are real, and they are the expression of one evil entity.
But this evil being is not his friend. The demon fears him. And the church fears the demon. The only accuser is the investigator, Abbot Gaspare Caligo.
The abbot is his great enemy. He who has cast me out of the order of the monks.
Abbot Caligo therefore decided for a corporal punishment not provided for by any legal system. When I read what they would do to him, I cried.
The translation ended there.
Filippa explained to Guido: "The writing became thick and illegible. The old-fashioned litter has been completely abandoned. The monk now always uses his own handwriting. The testimonies are signed with the words ʺPaolous Giroliminiʺ, and no longer ʺFrater Paolousʺ. Proof that the Benedictine was forced to leave the order.
Guido was surprised at the painter's conviction by the inquisition. Father Romualdo had not spoken about it at all during their meeting.
"Guido, my God!" Filippa spread his arms with controversy.
"What?" he asked in a low voice, very distracted.
"Cigarettes, fuck off. You lit three. One in the mouth, the others are on the ashtray."
"Ah, the cigarettes” repeated Guido, whose insomnia seemed to have narrowed his mind's spaces: lately he had to choose whether to read, think or listen, since it was no longer possible to do everything at once.
"You're a wreck. Maybe you should get some rest."
"It's okay” he replied abruptly, memories fossilized again on the night of the earthquake. He was thinking of Caterina's reaction to the coal rain. Guido had made some absurd
excuses to justify the phenomenon. He had invented such things as the malfunctioning incinerator in the valley. He talked about broken filters, carbon particulate matter leaking, cold winds, acid rain, and a whole series of unfortunate events. Catherine took the excuse well and never returned to the topic.
Guido was totally focused on his work. For a good half hour, he had managed to isolate himself from all the overwhelming thoughts. Then his cell phone began to vibrate insistently at the bottom of his pocket. An anonymous number flashed on the display. It was a voice message. He pulled the Galactic over to his ear. No one was talking.
Guido closed his eyes with a sigh, the feeling that his nerves were failing completely.
18
The Sports Palace in Padua was packed with enthusiastic fans.
The music was enthralling, the lights spinning illuminating the sweaty faces of the young people. Everyone sang, many danced in the stands knowing that they were there for a just cause, if not for a real act of faith.
Daisy Magnoli arrived walking with an extraordinarily sexy step on the catwalk that cut the audience. She wore a sinful turquoise and lilac dress adorned with cheeky fringes where at every step of the dance everything moved and showed itself.
The concert lasted two hours. It ended with the singer making a heartfelt appeal. Everyone knew that she had survived the earthquake. And she told all the details of that tragic night and was moved to tears. Many girls in the audience cried with her.
She was there to show solidarity with the families of the 14 guys who died under the rubble. Daisy reminded the audience that this was going to be a fundraising concert, and mentioned the free numbers to call if they wanted to make a real contribution.
The lines immediately became incandescent.
It was the most exciting charity concert ever seen in Padua. Rinaldo, sitting in the backstage, double-breasted in black and white pinstripe and legs crossed, raised his glass to the monitor. Closed within the four walls of a dressing room, he toasted to Daisy's tears. Doing the math, it was worth at least two hundred thousand euros.
Two employees filtered the phone calls. Duranti mentioned a couple of journalists who wanted to interview him, to come back after the concert. He welcomed with a certain amount of anger the councillor who had given permission to use the tensile structure. A handshake, two pats on the back, a drop of Cristal and the envelope with twelve thousand euros inside. The sweaty, fat councillor explained that a large portion of the money would be donated to the victims' families. Rinaldo nodded unbelievably before patting him on the back again, just to invite him to get out of the way as soon as possible. In fact, journalists sniffed out corruption just as the Navy Seals were sniffing up all the shit that came their way.
Alderman aside, Rinaldo felt satisfied with the movement around the dressing room. The chaos backstage was always a sign of a successful evening.
Daisy entered the dressing room next door. She closed the door behind her, leaning on her sweaty back. Outside, you could hear endless noises. Euphoria, shouting, enthusiasm, the rough voice of the security man telling the fans to get away.
"Fuck it all. Fucking circus.!"
Daisy raved, her face pulled by nerves and stress. She walked up to the mirror. She found herself unobserved. Two black streaks of makeup were poured under her eyes, reducing her face like a sad Pierrot mask.
A menthol stick was enough to irritate the eyes and make them cry. Pretending to cry on stage had been a foolish and cowardly trick. She approached the table filled with
bouquets of fragrant roses. She opened the drawer where she kept the mescaline tablets. She took two pills and began to undress. An annoying twitch in her right eyelid made her swear again. She lit a cigarette, her white, shaking hands couldn't hold a cigarette lighter or silver mouthpiece.
Daisy had come out of the earthquake completely destroyed. From that night on, she began to suffer from insomnia. Her mood had also become unstable, and her temperament had become restless and incessant. Psychiatrist Salieri, also a survivor of the destruction of Dancing Sport, diagnosed her with a nervous breakdown. She was irritable, sometimes aggressive, but always beautiful. But hers was a glow without light, like a diamond guarded in the darkness of a chest.
Daisy heard a knock on the dressing room door.
"Darling, may I?"
"Just a second more."
She slipped on a bathrobe that smelled of lavender. She opened the glass door that concealed a pretty little shower room. She turned the tap, the water gushed hot and steamy.
"Come on in."
The record company opened the door with a wide smile that showed off two gold teeth on either side of his mouth.
Rinaldo played the part of the one who had been enchanted by the show. A pantomime made of an admired silence, the rise of panama from his head, and a deep bow. "Finished playing the fool?" she said before going on: "How much?"
"More than two hundred thousand. And 70,000 just for you."
"Will we get anything from the free-phone numbers too?"
Rinaldo sat down with adrenaline-pumping agility. He raised his annoyed hand, as if to tell somebody to go to hell.
The Dawn of Sin Page 19
