The Sleeping Mountain

by John Harris

  Don Dominico’s hand went up again – as though he were giving a blessing.

  ‘Amadeo, my own dogs have not slept easily.’

  Baldicera stared at him, and the priest was aware of the eyes of the woman and the boy also fixed on him, and he felt his responsibility lay heavily on his thin shoulders.

  ‘What is it, Father? What’s happening?’

  ‘I don’t know, Amadeo.’

  ‘There must be some explanation. What should we do?’

  Don Dominico felt very tired and conscious of the size and number of his flock. There were times – and this was one of them – when he would gladly have exchanged the service of the Lord for a pension and the chance to rest his old bones.

  ‘What should we do?’ Don Dominico, glanced at Amarea as he repeated the question. ‘First of all, I think it’s time other people knew of these events. We must let someone know.’

  It was Emiliano who introduced Don Dominico to Patch and Hannay. He had listened at his bar in his lugubrious way to the old man’s shy and rather hesitant account of what had happened in Fumarola, nodding vigorously and wringing his hands at the appropriate moments. There was a public meeting going on in the next square and it was hard to hear over the racket, but Emiliano paid careful attention, then, as the old man finished, beckoned to him to follow.

  The piazza was full of strangers and neither Patch nor Hannay, sitting outside in the shadow of the Garibaldi statue, looked up as Don Dominico appeared beside them. Then they realised Emiliano was there, too, and even Patch was stirred by the faint scent of trouble. As he swung round Emiliano cleared his throat to catch their attention.

  ‘There is somebody here, Signor Tom, whom you might like to meet,’ he said, flapping a hand at Don Dominico and pushing a chair forward. ‘I told him about you seeing the Mayor.’

  Don Dominico sat down, sweeping his dusty skirts away from the big black boots he wore. Hannay pushed a glass towards him and Don Dominico accepted the drink gratefully. For years his feet had never strayed far from the path between his home and the village church and outside Fumarola he felt lost. He was tired, too, now, and thirsty, and a little depressed. He watched the faces around him for a change of expression, then he went on to explain what he had seen on Amadeo Baldicera’s farm, and the other things that had caused so much uneasy speculation at the other side of the island. Hannay sat on the edge of his chair, looking rather like a terrier waiting for a biscuit as he listened. Patch leaned back, fanning himself with a newspaper. Emiliano’s busy hands were occupied with lighting a cigarette, but his eyes were fixed on the priest’s.

  ‘It’s been suggested,’ Don Dominico went on, ‘that somewhere on the slopes – perhaps near Amadeo Baldicera’s field – there may be a new fumarole we don’t know about which is leaking gas and that the birds which pass close to it are being affected. If there is such a fissure and the mountain does start to be active, it could be that it will open wider, for the lava rises to the cracks in the earth’s surface. And if it did–’ He stopped and smiled apologetically.

  Emiliano flapped the match he’d been using until the flame was extinguished – vigorously – as though he needed something to do. Hannay leaned forward. Patch sat up at last, and Don Dominico stared at the ruby glow in his glass, a wash of defeat in his faded eyes. Then he looked up.

  ‘They said at the Town Hall there was nothing to be afraid of,’ he continued. ‘But I am not so sure. I wondered if you would perhaps like to see Don Alessandro, at the Church of Sant’ Agata. He’s a man of great ambition. His brother’s a bishop and he’d like to be a bishop, too.’

  Hannay’s interest was caught immediately. ‘Go on, Father,’ he said.

  ‘He’s young and enthusiastic,’ Don Dominico went on. ‘He has energy and influence. He has the ear of Monsignor and even beyond. For such a small place as Anapoli, Don Alessandro’s an important man.’

  Patch leaned forward. ‘Father,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you see Don Alessandro?’

  Don Dominico smiled again. ‘I’m an old man,’ he explained. ‘And perhaps not a very efficient one. Don Alessandro and I have had a great many differences of opinion. He’s a great driving force and I am getting tired and stubborn. It’s like having a greyhound harnessed to a goat. He has a great deal of influence but not much patience. We are all a little afraid of him, and if I saw him I might be at a disadvantage from the start. We’ve had too many disagreements in the past. On the other hand’ – he looked up with a child-like smile – ‘you, if you were to approach him as you did the Mayor on behalf of the foreign residents of the island, might succeed where I would fail. At the very least, you might learn a great deal. Then what you knew, we should know, too.’

  Fifteen

  Don Alessandro was not in the church when they arrived, but there were several women sweeping the entrance where the dust had sifted in through the great door during the past two days, unnoticeable in its fineness, obscuring the colours of the mosaics and the gilt on every angle and curve. The women were talking quietly as they worked, heedless of the girl kneeling before a group of candles and the young man with a shabby briefcase crossing himself with holy water from the font.

  They stood for a moment looking for the priest, and Patch noticed that Hannay, in spite of his Non-Conformist upbringing, genuflected solemnly towards the altar before they turned away, heading for the gardens behind the church and Don Alessandro’s room in the crypt.

  Don Alessandro looked up briefly from his desk as they were shown into his study, a stone-walled room lined with books and heavy oak. His thin ivory-pale face was taut with concentration and his bloodless lips were pursed with effort.

  He had been writing a speech for a Catholic Women’s Meeting and had been trying hard to construct one which came down heavily on Pelli’s side and yet sounded like a speech in support of the Church of Rome rather than of a political party.

  ‘Forgive me a moment,’ he said, ‘while I finish this sentence. We mustn’t put weapons in the hands of the Church’s enemies by using the wrong word.’

  He wrote a little more, then looked up. ‘The doctrine of Christ,’ he said precisely as he put down his pen, ‘is irreconcilable with those materialistic principles which, if we accept them, can only mean desertion of the Church and ceasing to be a Catholic.’ He smiled. ‘The Holy Father in Rome stated that as long ago as 1947.’

  Listening to him, Patch found himself comparing him with the friendly, shabby old man from Fumarola and was startled to realise he was as chilled by the frightening efficiency as Don Dominico.

  ‘I’m afraid I must limit our interview,’ the priest was explaining. ‘I have a meeting shortly. I’m going to tell them how they ought to vote in the coming election. The conscience of a sincere Catholic obliges him or her to give the vote to the party which accepts Divine Law and the Christian moral doctrine, and ever since Cardinal Schuster said that followers of Communism or other movements opposed to the Church of Rome cannot obtain absolution, we’ve held a whip hand. This is a Catholic country.’

  To Patch the gloomy stone walls seemed to grow in oppressiveness as Don Alessandro pushed aside his papers and prepared to listen.

  While he explained the reason for their presence, the priest sat motionless, one pale hand resting lightly on the desk. He had been disturbed in the Church of Sant’ Agata by the rumble from the mountain the week before. He had become aware of the movement of the earth under his feet as the chandelier tinkled behind and above his head in the gilt and purple entrance. He had looked up, troubled, at the crash of plaster outside, but he had seen no movement except for a faint shivering among the crystals.

  He hesitated before he replied. He disliked getting himself involved in lay matters – he considered the election anything but a lay matter because it affected the Catholic conscience of the community and therefore demanded all his attention – and he knew that already the Mayor and his own arch-enemy, Bosco, had been interviewed on this matter of the mountain and had refus
ed to do anything about it.

  ‘The mountain seems quiet enough,’ he began cautiously. ‘But if there is danger, it is the will of the Lord.’ He indicated the life-size plaster Christ on a rough-hewn cross on the wall. ‘I can do no more than offer prayers.’

  ‘Father – suppose there were an investigation? Suppose some expert were prepared to say there was cause for concern.’

  Don Alessandro summed up for himself in his precise way the possibilities that might arise from such an event. It was a nicely poised question. Such problems made him feel more a diplomat than a priest. Immediately, his mind flew to the voting he was so concerned with and the disastrous results that could arise from any wild statements of danger.

  ‘Knowing the mountain’s history,’ he said slowly. ‘I would naturally deeply suspect any such statement and I should welcome any delay in its publication that would give time for it to be checked and re-checked. Any such irresponsible suggestion of danger could lead to a mass evacuation, and the people are leaving the islands too fast as it is.’ He permitted this to sink in before continuing: ‘They never return when they go and we shall eventually end up like Stromboli, with empty houses and no people. We should never hasten such an event. We need the people here. We have a live and living church and must keep it so. The Bishop has spoken to me most clearly on this subject.’

  The priest’s pale face showed two pink spots of anger and watching his eyes, glittering like brown burning glass, Patch began to feel he was in the presence of a fanatic. He could almost imagine Don Alessandro presiding at an Inquisition, or permitting the destruction of a community as a scourge to the public conscience. To Don Alessandro suffering and spiritual cleanliness were probably one and the same thing. Although he managed to cloak his opinions in ecclesiastical trappings, there was little doubt but that he had much the same feelings as Pelli and Bosco about calling for help.

  Patch drew a deep breath and tried again.

  ‘Father,’ he pointed out. ‘Nobody wants to leave yet. It’s reassurance they want. That’s all.’ He was speaking from his heart, not because he was being goaded into it by Hayward or Hannay. ‘People are becoming afraid, Father. They only ask for an investigation. No more. The Mayor and his opponents are too busy to seek one. Forla, who is powerful enough to make them, is not on the island. Won’t you undertake to force their hand?’

  Don Alessandro spread his pale fingers in his lap and appeared to be counting them.

  ‘Any such investigation,’ he said, ‘would inevitably lead people to suppose there was danger, and such a supposition could only lead people to stop work – particularly those who work high on the slopes of the mountain, Forla’s people.’ Patch sat up quickly, and Don Alessandro raised his eyes. ‘Signor Patch, this church stands only by the charity of Forla and by the aid of his family. If I started taking sides with the forces which are opposed to the things the Forlas represent, those gifts might stop.’

  Patch frowned. He noticed that Hannay was fidgeting heavily in his chair.

  Don Alessandro had sat back now, his hands folded, his black-garbed figure tranquil. ‘Signor Patch,’ he concluded firmly, ‘I shall pray, of course. But I cannot become involved in any dispute. This church couldn’t exist without the Forla family. Since the growth of the present materialism, the men of the island have left us but the Forlas, though they no longer live here, have continued to support us in a way no one else can any longer afford, and I will not have the Church of Sant’ Agata reduced to the penury of some of the churches of Italy. It is something I feel most strongly about. Everything in it was contributed by the Forlas. The tomb of the Duke of Anapoli was rebuilt by them when it was in danger of falling down. The duke’s remains were originally disinterred from an inaccessible grave on the mountainside and placed in the church by the Forlas. They built the façade and the steps which are our pride. It is all Forla.’

  Sixteen

  Patch found himself stumbling to his feet, followed by Hannay, while the sharp, intelligent eyes of the priest accompanied them to the door. He had expected to be laughed at and had been untouched by Pelli’s gentle mockery, but the deliberate refusal of Don Alessandro had shaken him to the point where he could no longer think rationally about it.

  He had accepted Hannay’s challenge to see Pelli and Bosco and now Don Alessandro because he had thought the issue had seemed clear-cut and simple. The mountain either was or was not entering an active phase. And if it were, then obviously it should be investigated with all possible speed. It had seemed so straightforward at first, but now politics and patronage had become involved and the issues were obscured by all sorts of side-issues that touched upon it.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this affair,’ he said, exploding into the sunshine. ‘You’re getting me involved with the bloody politics of the place – you and Leonardi and the others. From now on, sort it out yourself. I’ve finished.’

  Hannay stood for a long time in silence by the entrance to Don Alessandro’s garden, a short, square figure, his hat on the back of his head, staring after Patch’s lean nervous shape striding across the square. Behind him the sun streamed through the scimitar leaves of the palms that framed the entrance to the courtyard and striped the flagstones with jetty shadows. The oleanders were bursting into blossom round a noseless statue of Tiberius which had stood by the mole until some antiquary had carried it into the town and erected it by the church.

  He knew Patch’s accusations were genuine enough but he felt with all the force of his upbringing that even if there were no danger from the mountain – and he sincerely believed there must be – it was still the duty of someone to make certain. In spite of his lonely life at sea, Hannay was still securely part of humanity. He belonged to people and people belonged to him. In his ingenuous way that reduced everything to its ultimate simplicity, he had a firm belief that human beings were a family and there was no part in the shape of things that permitted him or anyone else to turn his back on unhappiness – or, for that matter, happiness. He extracted his share from both and he couldn’t see, being as he was, that anyone else could feel differently.

  He fished unhappily in his pocket and dragged out the stubby pipe he smoked. Sticking it between his teeth, he smoothed his rumpled jacket into some semblance of neatness then thoughtfully removed the pipe from his mouth again and began to pack it with tobacco. He was lighting it when he became aware of Cristoforo standing alongside him.

  ‘Sir Captain’ – Cristoforo smiled nervously, unsure of Hannay’s mood – ‘I am here.’

  Hannay threw away the match and ruffled Cristoforo’s hair as he stood poking at the dust with his toes, waiting for Hannay to speak.

  It seemed right and proper to Cristoforo to remain silent while Hannay thought. Hannay was a man with responsibility and he needed to think.

  It would probably have startled Hannay’s humble soul to realise that Cristoforo admired him so tremendously, but to the boy he represented integrity and honesty. Even his rebukes over Cristoforo’s smoking had the ring of truth about them, for he was taut and clean himself and always shaved – organised in a country where organisation was at a premium. Even Patch, with his utter indifference to everything – people, meals, clothes, even cleanliness – when he was engrossed in painting, seemed disorganised to Cristoforo and all his life he had wanted to be organised.

  He waited a little longer for Hannay to speak, then he smiled nervously and looked up.

  ‘They tell me, Sir Captain,’ he said, ‘that the men from the sulphur refinery have gone back to work. They’ve heard that the Mayor says there’s no danger. There’ll eventually be enough sulphur to load the Sir Captain’s ship.’

  ‘That’s fine, Cris boy.’ Hannay was still far away.

  ‘Will the Sir Captain then depart?’

  ‘Eh?’ Hannay was still busy with his thoughts. ‘Why, yes. I’ll have to go then.’

  ‘The Sir Captain could not, perhaps, somehow take me? I’ve arranged that Matteo Lipparini in San Giorgio
should take my dog. He loves him well and he wouldn’t be unhappy. If there is likely to be any difficulty, perhaps I could hide myself on the ship. Then no one will know and when the ship has left I will appear and you’ll not be responsible. No one will then be angry with you.’

  Hannay stared in front of him. Struggling with the complicated machinery of a small boy’s mind, he was finding the interview was getting a little out of hand.

  ‘People who do that,’ he explained ‘aren’t allowed ashore. You’d have to stay aboard and come all the way back.’

  ‘Perhaps the Sir Captain’s wife might have me. I can’t remember my mother, signore.’

  There was loneliness in the boy’s appeal and Hannay found himself considering what Mabel’s reactions would be to the sudden and unexpected appearance of Cristoforo in their modest semi-detached. He could almost hear her: ‘The boy looks half-starved. He needs feeding up.’ He could see her running round the kitchen in a frenzy of haste to provide a meal before Cristoforo fell apart at the seams. He could imagine her rushing upstairs and fishing out some clean sheets and clothes. Could imagine –

  ‘Cristoforo!’ He pulled himself up sharply before his thoughts ran away with him. ‘That’d be impossible.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the Sir Captain’s wife like me?’

  ‘I’m sure she would.’

  ‘Then what can be wrong?’

  ‘Look, Chris boy,’ Hannay said heavily. ‘For us to do that, your uncle would have to give his consent. Without it, I can’t do a thing. And the time’s not right to ask him just yet.’

  Cristoforo stared at the ground again. ‘But if he says no’ – his face was blank with bewilderment – ‘what are we to do? You want me to come. I wish to come. He will say no. I know he will. Something ought to be done.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cristoforo glanced up at Hannay, conscious of his troubled manner, and he thrust his own cares aside loyally. ‘The Sir Captain is worried?’ he asked.