The balcony curtains filled with wind and bellied like sails; street clamours rose, undefinable but living and light-hearted; an irregular prospect of plebeian cottages darkened in the distance against the paling gold of the sunset; a blackbird whistled.
Now Natalia descended from the upper rooms, Donna Letizia’s beautiful daughter-in-law, with a babe in her arms; opening a door she entered their room. She had an oval face, fine and lightly-veined rosy skin, the clearest of eyes, diaphanous nostrils, in sum all the sweet features that blood may bequeath to the fair and the blond, happily glimpsed in fact under a black rebellion of opulent hair; and in her person, her clothing, her carriage there was a simple negligence, a happy, virtually bovine placidity, and that species of dairy-milk freshness that young mothers who nourish their infants at their own breast often have.
The moment she saw the tonsured dog, a gust of spontaneous laughter burst from her, a convulsion impossible to restrain.
‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!...’
What? Could Natalia dare laugh while poor Sancho was dying? Five virgin sensibilities turned their bitter and indignant focus on the irreverent, cruel sister-in-law. But she with light indifference bent near the animal to show it to her tot. And the semi-nude creature waved its little arms about, seeking to touch, its whole body vibrating with natural joy, babbling incomprehensible sounds from a mouth still dewy with maternal milk. And the animal, used to submit its head meekly to much handling, still had in its infirm members a remnant of hesitant playfulness and in its eyes a last glimmer of indulgent goodwill.
‘Poor Sancho Panza!’ Natalia finally murmured, withdrawing the infant, who was about to thrust its fingers into the dog’s foamy mouth; and since she saw the tiny lips curling in an imminent howl, she made two or three turns of the room while rocking her burden and lifting and dropping it lightly in her hands like a ball; then, stooping over the clockwork toy on the little table, she turned the key of its mechanism.
The macaque opened its mouth, fluttered its eyelids, rotated its tail, and became all animated internally to the sound of a popular gavotte. Natalia’s head moved rhythmically with the airborne wave of the voluptuous little dance. The light in the room was pleasantly mild; a fragrance of carnations came through the open door of the balcony.
Sancho perhaps no longer heard. From time to time he shook his body in response to the caustic burning of the blister on his nape and lowered his head with a feeble lament. His tongue, drawn back now between the teeth in the open jaws, had gone dark violet, almost black and lost any last suppleness. His eyes had become overgrown with a kind of bluish, damp membrane and no longer reacted to any movement before them beyond an occasional flick of the whites in the corner of the globes; foam dripped more copiously and thicker from his mouth. Asphyxiation seemed imminent.
‘Oh Natalia, do stop! Can you not see that Sancho is dying?’ Isabella burst out bitterly and tearfully.
The gavotte could not be stopped until the mechanism had wound down. The notes continued to flow out softly and obstinately slowly, expanding over the agony of the dog. Evening shadows meanwhile were beginning to penetrate the room, the curtains to flutter with a new freshness.
Donna Letizia, almost choked by her sobbing, unable to bear the dog’s and her own torture, left. Her daughters followed, one by one, weeping loudly, their tender breasts oppressed by grief. Natalia alone remained to watch the end with curiosity.
And as the gavotte came to its recapitulation, the good Sancho expired, surrounded by music, just like the hero in an Italian melodrama.
THE DEMISE OF CANDIA
I.
Three days after the Easter banquet, which by tradition was a large, superb event in the Lamonica house and was always attended by many guests, Donna Cristina Lamonica was counting her table linen and silver and replacing every item with perfect order in its chest or in a safe, ready for the next time.
Those necessarily present to assist were, as usual, the chambermaid Maria Bisaccia and the laundress Candida Marcanda, commonly known as Candia. Oblong trug baskets filled with fine linen sat in a line on the pavement, silver dishware and other table utensils glinted in a large hamper; those last, as all such work handed down from generation to generation in rich provincial families, were heavy and durable rather than refined, comprising the somewhat ungainly products of rustic silversmiths, the containers shaped in quasi-liturgical forms. A fresh odour of clean laundry had spread throughout the room.
Candia was taking out of the baskets the various doilies, tablecloths and serviettes, offering them one by one to the signora for her examination and pronouncement that the linen was intact, and then handing each item to Maria, whose task was to pack them into drawers, the signora first sprinkling odorous spices between the layers and then noting the quantities in a book. Candia was a tall and bony woman, ‘thin as a rye stalk’ as the saying goes, fifty years old, with a back that was beginning to curve from the habitual bending required by her trade; she also had long arms, and, to imaginations predisposed to caricature, the head of a rapacious bird set on the neck of a turtle. Maria Bisaccia came from Ortona, was stout, with milk-white skin and clear eyes; she spoke softly, and had the slow, delicate gestures of one accustomed to serving sweet pastries, syrups, conserves and confections to company. Donna Cristina, also a native of Ortona, educated in the Benedictine convent, was of short stature with a sagging bust, had reddish hair, a face sparsely freckled, a long and large nose, bad teeth, and fine, chaste eyes that gave her somewhat the look of an effeminate priest.
The three women did their work with great care, expending in the process a good part of the afternoon.
Then when Candia had left, taking away with her the empty baskets, Donna Cristina, counting the cutlery, found there was a spoon missing.
‘Maria! Maria!’ she cried in some shock. ‘Count them! A spoon is lacking! Count them thou!’
‘How? It cannot be signó,’ replied Maria. ‘But let us see.’
And she gathered the cutlery again and proceeded to count it in a loud voice. Donna Cristina nodded as each silver piece tinkled distinctly on its heap.
‘’Tis true!’ exclaimed Maria at the end with a gesture of horror. ‘And now what is to be done?’
She herself was above suspicion. She had given proof of fidelity and honesty to that family for fifteen years. She had come from Ortona with Donna Cristina at the time of the wedding, almost as a part of the matrimonial appanage, and by now had acquired in the house a certain authority under the protection of the signora. She was full of religious superstitions, was devoted to her particular saint and bell-tower, and was an astute person. She had long combined with her employer in a species of alliance against all things Pescaran, and especially against the patron-saint of the Pescarans. Any occasion was an opportunity for bringing up the name of her natal town, its beauties and wealth, the splendour of its basilica, the treasures of San Tommaso, the magnificence of the ecclesiastical ceremonies; in contrast with the miseries of San Cetteo, who only possessed one small silver arm.
Donna Cristina said:
‘Go and look carefully.’
Maria left the room to make a search: she rummaged fruitlessly in every corner of the kitchen and in the outside gallery and returned empty-handed.
‘It is not there!’ she reported.
Then they both put themselves to thinking, to add one conjecture on another, investigate their memories. They went out into the gallery for a last look, both the part which gave onto the courtyard and around the gallery’s corner where the dishwashing was done. Since they talked in loud voices, the neighbours soon had their faces at the windows of the surrounding houses.
‘What has befallen you, Donna Cristí? Tell us! Tell us!’
Donna Cristina and Maria narrated the matter with a flow of words and many gestures.
‘Jesù! Jesù! Then there be thieves about!’
In moments, the rumour of the larceny was broadcast all over Pescara. Men and women set to discussi
ng and imagining who the thief could be. The news by the time it reached the remotest houses of Sant’Agostino had grown by inflation, no longer involving one spoon but the Lamonica household’s full complement of silver.
Since it was a fine time of day and the roses on the gallery had begun flowering and two finches sang in a cage, the gossips lingered at their windows for the pleasure of some leisurely scandalmongering; in such excellent conditions, in that sweet warmth of the air, female heads kept appearing beside window boxes of basil, and the babble of voices seemed to inspire a convening of cats on the eves overhead.
Donna Cristina said, joining her palms in an appeal to the heavens:
‘Who can it have been?’
Donna Isabella Sertale, called ‘the Marten’, who had indeed the quick and furtive movements of a small predator, asked in a high-pitched voice:
‘Who was that with you, Donna Cristí? I thought I saw Candia walking past…’
‘Aaah!’exclaimed Donna Felicetta Margasanta, known as ‘the Magpie’ for her garrulity.
‘Aaah!’ repeated the other gossips.
‘Did you not give that some thought?’
‘Did you not consider that?’
‘And do you not know who Candia is?’
‘We can tell you who she is!’
‘We certainly can!’
‘We will tell you!’
‘She washes the garments well; one can say nothing there. She is the best laundress in Pescara; there is no question regarding that. But she has the flaw of the five fingers… You did not know?’
‘I once lost two doilies.’
‘I a towel.’
‘I a shirt.’
‘I three pairs of socks.’
‘I two pillow-cases.’
‘I a new petticoat.’
‘I got nothing back at all.’
‘I had something lacking.’
‘I too had something lacking.’
‘I did not dismiss her; for who else is there? Silvestra?’
‘Ha! Ha!’
‘Angelantonia? Babascetta?’
‘One worse than the next!’
‘You have to have patience.’
‘But a spoon, now!’
‘That is going too far!’
‘Do not stay silent, Donna Cristí; do not stay silent!’
‘Silent? Silent?’ burst in Maria Bisaccia, who although she had a placid and benign look never let an occasion pass when she could bully the other servants or put them in a bad light. ‘We will deal with that, Donn’Isabbé; we will.’
And the exchanges between the gallery and the windows continued. And the accusation was propagated from mouth to mouth throughout the town.
II.
The following morning, while Candia Marcanda had her arms deep in a solution of lye bleach, there appeared on her doorstep the town policeman, Biagio Pesce, nicknamed ‘the Bantam Corporal’. He said to the laundress:
‘Signor Mayor wants to see you. Now. At the Hall.’
‘What did’st thou say?’ asked Candia, frowning but continuing with her task.
‘Signor Mayor wants to see you. Now. At the Hall.’
‘He wants… And why?’ replied Candia brusquely, unable to imagine what could have occasioned this unexpected summons, but swelling and as ready for combat as a bull surprised by a shadow.
‘I cannot know why,’ Bantam Corporal replied. ‘I have been given a command.’
Naturally obstinate, the woman continued to ask for a reason, the demand nonplussed her.
‘The Mayor wants me? And why? What have I done? I do not want to go. I have done nothing.’
Bantam Corporal, grown impatient, said:
‘Oh, you will not come? You will be sorry!’ And he left, with his hand on the hilt of the old cutlass at his side, muttering.
And, meanwhile, some who had heard the dialogue came out in their doorways to look at Candia, who had gone back to stirring the lye, her arms in the mix. And, since they knew about the silver spoon, they laughed among themselves and made ambiguous comments that Candia could not interpret. But with the sound of that laughter and those comments, disquiet entered her soul, and it grew to alarm when the Corporal returned accompanied by other members of the town guard.
‘Walk!’ he ordered.
Candia dried her arms in silence and went. On the square, people stopped. Rosa Panara, an enemy, standing at the threshold of her shop, shouted with a ferocious laugh:
‘Drop that bone, thou!’ as one might address a thieving dog.
The laundress, confused and lost, unable to imagine the cause of this persecution, could think of nothing to reply.
In front of the City Hall a group of people had gathered to watch her passing. Candia, overcome with ire, mounted the stairs with energy and arrived breathless before the Mayor, to demand:
‘Well, what do you want from me?’
Don Silla, a man of timid temperament, was for a moment taken aback by the ill-humoured tone of the laundress, and he turned a quick look towards the faithful custodians of Mayoral dignity standing on each side of her. Reassured, and taking a pinch of tobacco from a bone snuff-box, he said:
‘Now, daughter, take a seat.’
Candia remained standing. Her curved nose appeared to have swollen with ire, and her flushed cheeks trembled with the fierce contraction of her jaws.
‘Speak, Don Sì.’
‘You took back some laundry to Donna Cristina Lamonica, yesterday?’
‘Well, what of it, what of it? Was something lacking? It was all counted, piece by piece. Nothing was lacking. What is it then? Well?’
‘One moment, daughter! The silver was in that room…’
Candia, now understanding, poised ready to attack like a falcon, like a viper, and her thin lips trembled.
‘There was the silver in that room, and Donna Cristina found that a spoon is missing… Do you understand, daughter? You have taken it, mm, perhaps by mistake?’
Candia sprang like a locust at that unmerited accusation. She had taken nothing, nothing.
‘What, I? What, I? Who said so? Who saw me? You amaze me, Don Sí! You amaze me! I, a thief? I? I?
And her indignation was infinite. She was moreover wounded at the unjust accusation because she felt herself capable of doing the deed they had attributed to her.
‘So you did not take it?’ Don Silla interrupted her, prudently withdrawing into the depths of his ample magistrate’s chair.
‘You amaze me!’ the woman began raging again, flailing her two arms like batons.
‘Well, all right. We shall see.’
Candia left without a good-bye, shouldering into the door-post on the way out. She was livid, beside herself. Arriving in the street and seeing all the people who were assembled there, she understood that public opinion had already firmed against her, that no one would now believe her blameless. That did not stop her shouting her innocence to the four quarters. The people laughed as they turned away and dispersed. Furious, she returned home, to sob with rage and fall into despair as she passed inside.
Don Donato Brandimarte, who lived next door, taunted her:
‘Cry louder, dear woman, cry louder, people are passing, they may hear.’
As a pile of soiled laundry was waiting to be treated with wood ashes and boiling water, and Candia finally grew quieter, she rolled up her sleeves and went to work again. While working, she thought of ways to exonerate herself, framed methods of defence, searched her astute woman’s brain for artful means to prove her innocence, losing herself in strange and subtle schemes, using every expedient of plebeian dialectic to construct an argument that would persuade the incredulous.
When she finished what she needed to do, she left, planning to go to Donna Cristina first.
Donna Cristina would not see her. Maria Bisaccia listened to Candia’s long and rambling speech, shook her head, said nothing in reply and withdrew with dignity.
At that, Candia made the circuit of all her clients. To each
one she recounted the facts, at each place she laid forth her defences, adding each time a new argument, more words, grew heated, more despairing as she confronted incredulity and scepticism. All was useless. She felt that no vindication was possible now. Gloomy discouragement seized upon her. What more could she do! What more could she say!
III.
Meanwhile, Donna Cristina sent to summon one called la Cinigia, a woman of the masses who professed magic powers and practiced empirical medicine with great success. This person had already on a number of occasions discovered stolen goods, and it was said that she herself had diverse relationships with the world of petty thieves.
Donna Cristina told her:
‘Find me the spoon and I will give you a worthy present.’
La Cinigia replied:
‘Very well. Twenty-four hours will be enough.’ And after twenty-four hours she returned with the answer:
‘The spoon is in a hole in the courtyard, near the well.’
Donna Cristina and Maria went down to the courtyard, looked, and found it there. They were greatly astonished.
The news spread rapidly throughout Pescara.
At that, Candia Marcanda, triumphant, hurried out into the streets. She seemed to have grown taller, held her head high, smiled as she looked everyone in the eye, as if to say:
‘Well, you see? You see?’
The people in the shops, seeing her pass, said something inaudible and broke into knowing sniggers. Filippo La Selvi, drinking a glass of neat bad brandy in the Café d’Angeladea, called out to Candia:
‘A glass for Candia! Come over!’
The woman, who loved strong spirits, made a greedy movement with her lips.
Filippo La Selvi continued his invitation:
‘You have deserved it and no question.’
Pescara Tales Page 21
