by Frank Wynne
A group of fanatics remained about San Pantaleone. Atrocious insults for San Gonselvo broke out amid waving scythes and brandished hooks:
“Thief! Thief! Beggar! The candles! The candles!”
Other bands took the houses by assault, breaking down the doors with hatchets. And as they fell, unhinged and shivered, San Pantaleone’s followers leaped in, howling, to kill the defenders.
The women, half-naked, took refuge in corners, imploring pity. They warded off the blows, grasping the weapons and cutting their fingers. They rolled at full length on the floor, amid heaps of blankets and sheets.
Giacobbe, long, quick, red as a Turkish scimitar, led the persecution, stopping ever and anon to make sweeping imperious gestures over the heads of the others with a great scythe. Pallid, bare-headed, he held the van, in the name of San Pantaleone. More than thirty men followed him. They all had a dull, confused sense of walking through a conflagration, over quaking ground, and beneath a blazing vault ready to crumble.
But from all sides began to come the defenders, the Mascalicesi, strong and dark as mulattos, sanguinary foes, fighting with long spring-bladed knives, and aiming at the belly and the throat, with guttural cries at every blow.
The mêlée rolled away, step by step, towards the church. From the roofs of two or three houses flames were already bursting. A horde of women and children, wan-eyed and terror-stricken, were fleeing headlong among the olive trees. Then the hand-to-hand struggle between the males, unimpeded by tears and lamentations, became more concentrated and ferocious.
Under the rust-colored sky, the ground was strewn with corpses. Broken imprecations were hissed through the teeth of the wounded; and steadily, through all the clamor, still came the cry of the Radusani:
“The candles! The candles!”
But the enormous church door of oak, studded with nails, remained barred. The Mascalicesi defended it against the pushing crowd and the axes. The white, impassive silver saint oscillated in the thick of the fight, still upheld on the shoulders of the four giants, who refused to fall, though bleeding from head to foot. It was the supreme desire of the assailants to place their idol on the enemy’s altar.
Now while the Mascalicesi fought like lions, performing prodigies on the stone steps, Giacobbe suddenly disappeared around the corner of the building, seeking an undefended opening through which to enter the sacristy. And beholding a narrow window not far from the ground, he climbed up to it, wedged himself into its embrasure, doubled up his long body, and succeeded in crawling through. The cordial aroma of incense floated in the solitude of God’s house. Feeling his way in the dark, guided by the roar of the fight outside, he crept towards the door, stumbling against chairs and bruising his face and hands.
The furious thunder of the Radusan axes was echoing from the tough oak, when he began to force the lock with an iron bar, panting, suffocated by a violent agonizing palpitation which diminished his strength, blind, giddy, stiffened by the pain of his wounds, and dripping with tepid blood.
“San Pantaleone! San Pantaleone!” bellowed the hoarse voices of his comrades outside, redoubling their blows as they felt the door slowly yield. Through the wood came to his ears the heavy thump of falling bodies, the quick thud of knife-thrusts nailing some one through the back. And a grand sentiment, like the divine uplift of the soul of a hero saving his country, flamed up then in that bestial beggar’s heart.
V
By a final effort the door was flung open. The Radusani rushed in, with an immense howl of victory, across the bodies of the dead, to carry the silver saint to the altar. A vivid quivering light was reflected suddenly into the obscure nave, making the golden candlesticks shine, and the organ-pipes above. And in that yellow glow, which now came from the burning houses and now disappeared again, a second battle was fought. Bodies grappled together and rolled over the brick floor, never to rise, but to bound hither and thither in the contortions of rage, to strike the benches, and die under them, or on the chapel steps, or against the taper-spikes about the confessionals. Under the peaceful vault of God’s house the chilling sound of iron penetrating men’s flesh or sliding along their bones, the single broken groan of men struck in a vital spot, the crushing of skulls, the roar of victims unwilling to die, the atrocious hilarity of those who had succeeded in killing an enemy,—all this re-echoed distinctly. And a sweet, faint odor of incense floated above the strife.
The silver idol had not, however, reached the altar in triumph, for a hostile circle stood between. Giacobbe fought with his scythe, and, though wounded in several places, did not yield a hand’s breadth of the stair which he had been the first to gain. Only two men were left to hold up the saint, whose enormous white head heaved and reeled grotesquely like a drunken mask. The men of Mascalico were growing furious.
Then San Pantaleone fell on the pavement, with a sharp, vibrant ring. As Giacobbe dashed forward to pick him up, a big devil of a man dealt him a blow with a bill-hook, which stretched him out on his back. Twice he rose and twice was struck down again. Blood covered his face, his breast, his hands, yet he persisted in getting up. Enraged by this ferocious tenacity of life, three, four, five clumsy peasants together stabbed him furiously in the belly, and the fanatic fell over, with the back of his neck against the silver bust. He turned like a flash and put his face against the metal, with his arms outspread and his legs drawn up. And San Pantaleone was lost.
THE POST BOX
Jalil Mammadguluzadeh
Translated from the Azerbaijani by Vafa Talyshly
Jalil Mammadguluzadeh (1866–1932). Born to Iranian parents in what is now Azerbaijan, Jalil Mammadguluzadeh worked for many years as a teacher in rural schools, before purchasing a publishing house with friends and becoming editor of Molla Nasraddin, a satirical magazine whose political positions saw it banned and eventually closed down. He wrote numerous short stories, essays, novels and dramas. He was a champion of his mother tongue, then in danger of disappearing, and is credited as one of those who saved Azeri as a literary language.
It was the 12th day of November. The weather was cold, but it hadn’t snowed yet. The doctor examined the Khan’s ill wife. He said that she had improved and that it would be possible to start traveling in a week. The Khan was in a hurry to go to Yerevan because he had some very important business matters to attend to there. Also, he was afraid that it would snow and then it would be impossible for his wife to travel in the cold weather. He took up his pen and wrote to his friend Jafar Agha:
“Next week I hope to arrive in Yerevan with my family. Could you please make sure that the rooms where we’ll be staying are all warmed up and ready for us? Have the servants lay the rugs, light the stoves and air the rooms. I want to make sure everything will be comfortable for my wife, who is ill. Please reply by telegram. I have taken care of the matter that you asked about. Goodbye!
Sincerely,
VALI KHAN”
The Khan folded the letter into an envelope, addressed and stamped it. He intended to give it to his servant to drop in the post box, but then remembered he had already sent him out on another errand.
Just then he heard someone at the gate. The Khan went out and saw that it was Noruzali [pronounced no-ruz-a-LI] from the village of Itgapan. Noruzali often came to see him and always brought something such as flour, honey or butter. Again this time, Noruzali had not come empty-handed.
As soon as he saw the Khan, he set his walking stick against the wall, started to open the gate and pushed the donkey with the load on its back inside. Then he took three to four chickens from off the donkey’s back. He untied the load, placing a few sacks on the ground. Then he raised his eyes to look at the Khan and bowed low in greeting.
“Why do you go to all this trouble, Noruzali?”
“It’s no trouble at all, my lord. I am your faithful servant until the day I die,” the peasant replied, brushing the dust off his clothes.
As it was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon when the mail would go out, the Kh
an asked, “Noruzali, do you know where the Post Office is?”
“I’m a villager, how would I know where the Post Office is?”
“Do you know where the Central Courthouse is?”
“Yes, my dear lord, of course I know where it is. I went there last week to complain to the Chief of the Courthouse because the mayor of our village is tormenting us. To tell you the truth, our mayor is originally from another village, and that’s why he hates us. Last week two of my calves disappeared. So I went there …”
“Hold on. You can tell me the rest of the story later. Listen carefully, there’s something I want to tell you. There’s a building across the street from the Courthouse, and on the wall there’s a box. That’s the Postbox. It has a long, narrow lid. Go there, lift the lid, drop the letter inside and come back right away!”
Noruzali carefully took the letter. First he looked at the Khan, then he looked at the letter again with terrified eyes. He went towards the door and bent down to put the letter on the ground.
The Khan shouted, “Don’t put it there! It’ll get dirty. Go put it in the box right away and come back.”
“Khan, my dear Khan, let me hang a bag of oats around the mule’s neck. He’s come a long way and he’s probably tired and hungry.”
“No, not now. It can wait a while. You’ll miss the mail. You can feed him when you get back.
“All right. Then let me just tie him up. I’m afraid he’ll eat all the trees in the yard if I leave him untethered.”
“No, no. That’s OK. Hurry! Go as fast as you can! Go put the letter in the box and come back!”
Noruzali put the letter inside his jacket.
“My dear Khan, these chickens are still tied up. Poor animals, let me untie them and give them some grain.”
Noruzali put his hand in his pocket to get some grain, but the Khan screamed even louder, “No, no! Later, after you’ve come back!”
Noruzali took his walking stick and started to run like a little child. Then he remembered something else, turned and again pleaded with the Khan, “Khan, there are eggs in one of the sacks. Be careful with them. I’m afraid that the donkey will lie down on them and break them.”
The Khan shouted even more loudly, “Stop talking! We’re losing time.”
Just as Noruzali was about to leave, the Khan called him back.
“Noruzali, don’t give the letter to anyone. Don’t show it to anyone. Put it in the box and come back right away! Understand?”
“I’m not a child! I’m not as inexperienced as you think. Don’t worry, even the mayor wouldn’t be able to take this letter away from me.”
Noruzali disappeared after saying these words.
The Khan went back into the house and spoke tenderly to his wife, “Well, Light of my Eyes, start getting ready. I wrote a letter to Yerevan so that they’ll warm up the rooms. We can go now. You’re looking better now, thank God. The doctor says a change of climate will do you good.”
As the Khan was speaking to his wife, his servant came in and said, “Khan, whose donkey is in the yard? Who brought those things?”
The Khan replied, “Put those things away! Noruzali brought them from Itgapan village.”
The servant took the chickens and eggs to the kitchen and led the donkey off to the stable. Then he opened one of the sacks with flour, took a pinch of it and showed it to the Khan, “This is quality flour.”
The Khan looked at the flour and told his servant to start baking the bread.
Two hours later after he had finished eating the bread, the Khan remembered Noruzali and the letter. He summoned his servant, but was told that Noruzali had not come back yet. The Khan was surprised that it was taking him so long. Perhaps Noruzali had put the letter in the postbox and then gone to the bazaar to buy something to eat. Another hour passed, but Noruzali didn’t come back.
Finally the Khan called for his servant to go find out what had happened to him. Half an hour later, the servant returned saying that Noruzali was nowhere to be found.
The Khan went out on the balcony and lit a cigarette. He paced up and down the balcony wondering what had happened.
Just then, a policeman dropped by. “Khan, the police chief wants you to come to the police station and bail out your village countryman. If you don’t, the chief is going to put him in prison.”
The Khan gazed at the man in astonishment. Then he replied, “That villager is such a meek person. What could he possibly have done to get arrested?”
“I don’t know exactly what happened. It would be better if you went to the police station yourself.”
The Khan got dressed and said nothing to his wife so as not to worry her. Before entering the police station, he looked inside the jail cell and saw Noruzali sitting in a corner along with the other prisoners. He was crying like a child, wiping his tears away with the hem of his chukha.
After the Khan found out what had happened and vouched for Noruzali, the two of them went back to the Khan’s place. Noruzali gave some feed to his donkey, sat down against the wall and started crying again.
The Khan went into the house, lit a cigarette, went out on the balcony and called to Noruzali, “Now tell me what happened, Noruzali! Your story sounds very interesting. Someone could write a book about it. Tell me every detail. Start from the beginning when I gave you the letter, and tell me how you ended up in prison.”
Noruzali got up and moved closer to the Khan and said, after wiping his tears on his coat, “My dear Khan, forgive me! I am not to blame. I’m just a poor, ignorant peasant from the village. How am I supposed to know about letters, postboxes and post offices? Forgive me, Khan, I beg you. Let me make up for all this trouble. There’s no way to undo everything I’ve done. It must have been God’s will. Forgive me, Khan. I’ll be your faithful servant until the day I die …”
Noruzali came closer and bent down to kiss the Khan’s feet.
“Don’t make such a big deal out of it, Noruzali. Am I accusing you of anything? Have you done anything wrong to me? So then why should I forgive you?”
“Ah, Khan, you don’t know the half of it. That infidel, the son of an infidel took your letter, put it in his pocket and walked off with it.
“Who put the letter in his pocket and went away?”
“That stranger, that Russian guy!”
“Where did he take it?”
“He went into that building you told me about, the one with the box in front. He went inside that building.”
The Khan was silent for a moment.
“Didn’t you put the letter inside the box?”
“Of course I did! That stranger opened the box somehow and took the letter out as soon as I put it in.”
“Were there any other letters inside that box beside ours?”
“Yes, plenty of them. He stole them all.”
The Khan started to laugh very loudly. “No, Noruzali, tell the whole story – everything from start to finish exactly as it happened, from start to finish.”
“Khan, my dear Khan, I took the letter from you and went to the Central Courthouse building. I found the building you were telling me about and I also found the box. I opened its lid and wanted to put the letter inside it, but then I stopped. I looked at the letter first, then I looked at the box. To be honest, I was afraid that you would get angry with me. I didn’t know what to do, whether to put the letter in or not, because I had forgotten to ask you if I should stay near the box after putting the letter in or if I should come back home. I thought, if I put it in and stayed near the box, then I would have to stay until evening.
But as you saw for yourself, my dear Khan, I left the poor donkey hungry and also left the chickens with their legs tied up. I brought some flour as well. And it’s still here in the yard. Khan, let your servant and me take the sacks inside the house. I’m afraid that it will rain and the flour will get wet.”
“No, Noruzali, don’t worry about them … Tell me, tell me, what’s the rest of the story?”
“So I d
idn’t put the letter in the box. I closed the lid and walked away for a little while. At first I wanted to come and ask you, but then I was scared that you would get angry with me. I was afraid that you’d say that Noruzali was like an animal, like a donkey, that doesn’t understand anything. So I leaned against the wall to rest. Then I saw an Armenian boy, about this tall, about 12 or 13. He went up to the box, opened the lid, put a letter inside it exactly like the one you gave me, then closed the lid and went away. I called after him to ask why he put the letter in the box, but he didn’t answer. I don’t know – maybe he didn’t understand me. Anyway he didn’t look back.
“A few minutes later, a Russian lady rushed up to the box, put a letter in and left. This time I got brave. I thought to myself that this is probably the way it has to be, that the letters should stay in the box. So I got brave. Having said ‘bismillah,’ I went and opened the lid of the box, put the letter inside and turned around to come back to your service.
“When I was about this far from the box, that Russian guy went up to it. At first I thought that he wanted to put a letter inside the box, too. But then I saw that no, he wanted to do something else. He put his hand inside the box. I understood right away that he wanted to steal the letters … Khan, I’m speaking too much, forgive me, tell your servant to help me get on my way home, it’s getting late.”
“No, I won’t let you go yet. Tell me what happened after that.”
“Well, my dear Khan, may my children be your servants! May I never live another day without your blessing! Well, I saw this guy taking the letters out of the box. He closed the lid and was about to leave. I ran over to him and made him stop. I said, ‘Hey you, where are you taking those letters? You think people put their letters in there for you to steal them? Put them back! Noruzali isn’t dead yet, and he won’t let you steal a letter his Khan gave him. Don’t take something that doesn’t belong to you. Don’t your Russian laws say that stealing is a sin?’ Khan, may my children be your servants. Khan, let me go home – it’s getting late.”
