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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2013 by Sellerio Editore, Palermo
First publication 2017 by Europa Editions
Translation by Stephen Sartarelli
Original Title: La rivoluzione della luna
Translation copyright © 2017 by Europa Editions
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com
Cover image: Sir Anthony van Dyck, A Genoese Noblewoman and Her Son, Flemish, 1599 - 1641, c. 1626, oil on canvas, Widener Collection
ISBN 9781609453923
Andrea Camilleri
THE REVOLUTION
OF THE MOON
Translated by Stephen Sartarelli
THE REVOLUTION
OF THE MOON
To Rosetta
CHAPTER ONE
The Viceroy Opens the Session,
but Someone Else Closes It
The session of the Holy Royal Council, held at the palace every Wednesday morning at ten o’clock sharp by the Viceroy, don Angel de Guzmàn, marquis of Castel de Roderigo, began in customary fashion that day, the third of September, sixteen hundred and seventy-seven, in keeping with strictly established procedure.
First on the agenda, five chambermaids opened the windows to let in some fresh air, swept and washed the floor, and dusted and polished the furniture in the great hall.
The six Councillors’ armchairs were set up with three on either side of the great golden throne reserved for Their Majesties the Kings of Spain, none of whom had ever, however, had occasion to rest his august buttocks upon it, because none had ever deigned to descend upon the island.
The throne sat at the top of six great stairs covered with a thick red carpet.
To the right of the throne, but a bit forward and lower by three stairs likewise covered in red carpet, stood a smaller throne less gilded than the other. This was where the Viceroy sat. Four steps away from the last of the three armchairs on the left was a large table with two chairs. These were the places of the protonotary and secretary of the Council.
On the wall behind the King’s throne hung an enormous, full-figure portrait of His Majesty Carlos, four times life size. Beside the portrait was an enormous wooden crucifix. The sculptor hadn’t quite got Jesus’s face right, however: instead of showing it twisted up in sorrow and agony, he’d given it an expression of rage and indignation. Knowing such a harsh gaze to be upon them, the Councillors, none of whom had a clean conscience, felt uneasy and would try therefore to avoid looking up at the crucifix.
Once the chambermaids had left, the master blacksmith, Alizio Cannaruto, came in. It was his responsibility to check the iron framework, completely hidden under the gilded wood, that supported the Viceroy’s thronelet, which had had to be specially constructed to replace the one used before it.
Once the master blacksmith had left, the master measurer, Gaspano Inzolia, came in with two assistants. The master measurer would check that all the armchairs were perfectly aligned, not one hairbreadth ahead or behind one another. Even the slightest shift of one armchair could upset the Councillors’ sensitivities, or be mistaken as a sign of good will or ill will on the part of the Viceroy, or as a sign of arrogance on the part of one member of the Council, and therefore have grave consequences leading to long disputes, squabbles, even murder.
At a quarter past nine, the hall’s great gilded double door was solemnly opened by the first ushers of the court, Foti and Miccichè, who then took up position, face to face and stiff as boards, bowing to each Councillor as he entered between them and went to sit down in his appointed place.
They entered with chests thrust out and in formal dress, not bothering to return the ushers’ bows, one after the other, in keeping with their rank within the Holy Royal Council: His Excellency Don Rutilio Turro Mendoza, archbishop of Palermo; don Giustino Aliquò, prince of Ficarazzi and Grand Captain of Justice; don Alterio Pignato, duke of Batticani, Chief Treasurer; don Severino Lomascio, marquis of Roccalumera, Judge of the Monarchy; don Arcangelo Laferla, count of Naso, Admiral of the Fleet; and don Cono Giallombardo, baron of Pachino, Grand Master of Administration.
Then the protonotary, don Gerlando Musumarra, came in, followed by the secretary of the Council, don Ernesto Rutè.
At this point the two ushers went to inform the Viceroy’s chief chamberlain that all the Councillors were present and standing at attention, waiting for His Excellency, don Angel, behind the closed door, to make his entry.
By now it was half past nine.
When the Viceroy, Marquis don Angel de Guzmàn, first landed at Palermo almost two years earlier, he had surprised everyone for two reasons.
The first was his young age, since he hadn’t yet reached thirty, and no Sicilian could remember there ever having been a viceroy less than fifty years old.
The second was his extreme thinness. Don Angel didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. His skin clung directly to his bones. He must have weighed, at the very most, barely a hundred pounds. A strong gust of wind would have sent him flying through the air like a dry leaf.
He had come to Palermo alone, but was joined one month later by his wife, donna Eleonora di Mora, who was Spanish but from a Sicilian family and had been orphaned at the age of ten. Upon the death of her parents she’d been shut up in a convent where she was educated, learning Italian, among other things, and did not emerge until she was engaged. Don Angel and Eleonora were newlyweds, in that they’d been married only three months before. Word quickly spread that Donna Eleonora was twenty-five years old and so beautiful it was frightening, though nobody had had any reason to be afraid because nobody had actually been able to see her. Indeed, ever since her arrival, Donna Eleonora had remained holed up in the private section of the palace, in the care of the four chambermaids she had brought with her from Spain.
A month after his wife’s arrival, however, don Angel had begun to change radically, before the astonished and increasingly dismayed eyes of the Court.
The phenomenon intially took the form of an extremely rapid fattening of the viceroy’s belly, and only his belly, so that don Angel, with the rest of his body still gaunt, looked exactly like a woman nine months pregnant.
But the fatness then quickly spread to his arms, legs and feet. Lastly, it attacked his face. Once a crescent moon, it became a full moon.
In less than six months don Angel weighed over two hundred pounds, and six months after that he was at three hundred. Lately he seemed to have stabilized at four hundred. An elephant.
And there had been no way to arrest the phenomenon. The court physician, don Serafino Gustaloca, during repeated examinations, prodded here and prodded there, gave out medicines galore, administered leeches and enemas, and in the end abandoned hope and threw up his hands. And even a great Spanish doctor, a font of science sent expressly by King Carlos, ended up doing the same.
Even after fasting for a whole week, without drinking so much as a drop of water, the viceroy kept getting bigger and bigger, like a pig being fatted.
The court tailor, Artemio Savatteri, quickly got very rich and had to take on four helpers because he had to remake the Viceroy’s wardrobe from scratch every week.
At thirty-five minutes past nine, the door was thrown open, and don Angel’s two personal manse
rvants, who had helped him to get dressed, handed the viceroy over to the two ushers. Foti and Miccichè took him by the arms, and don Angel, leaning on them, began to advance towards the Hall of the Council.
Moving was not easy for him. His thighs were so fat that, to take a step, he couldn’t put one foot forward as nature decreed, but first had to shift the whole leg to one side and then advance his foot.
But in so doing, his body would lose its center of gravity, totter precariously, and weigh entirely down on the forward leg, and therefore whoever was holding him from that side had to bear the weight of that great mass of flesh. If this person were ever so unfortunate as to lose his balance, he would be squashed at once under the Viceroy’s falling body.
As soon as don Angel appeared in the doorway of the hall, the Councillors all rose to their feet, bowed deeply, brought their right hands to their hearts, and waited for the viceroy to settle onto the thronelet before sitting back down.
But don Angel was in the habit of stopping for a moment in the doorway to catch his breath. Amidst the general silence his loud panting sounded very much like a powerful bellows being slowly pumped. Then he resumed his walk, which looked not so much like a walk as the advance of a ship pitching and rolling over rough seas.
The worst, however, was yet to come.
He still had to climb the three stairs up to the thronelet.
Running to take the places of Foti and Miccichè were the protonotary Musumarra and the secretary Rutè, who were the designated assistants to the ushers in such matters.
In front of the first of the three steps, Foti bent down and with both hands grasped don Angel’s left foot, raised it with effort, pushed it forward, and set it back down.
In so doing, however, the Viceroy’s entire body lurched dangerously backwards and, to prevent his falling, Miccichè had to hold him upright from behind with both arms outstretched and his own body leaning forward, feet planted tiptoe on the floor, as a counterweight. Finally the protonotary and secretary also had to come up behind don Angel and push until the viceroy had made it onto the first stair.
After granting don Angel the time to work his bellows even harder and rest a little, the operation was repeated in the exact same fashion for the second and third stairs.
Finally, at ten o’clock sharp, the viceroy’s four hundred pounds collapsed with a crash onto the thronelet, whose iron frame continued to vibrate for a few minutes after.
The opening of the session was still further delayed a little by the fact that the entire Council remained spellbound by the sight of don Angel’s gigantic double-chin, which continued to quiver for a bit like a crème caramel, owing to the vibrations transmitted by the thronelet’s iron skeleton.
Once the double-chin’s trembling had stopped, don Angel signaled to the protonotary, and don Gerlando Musumarra stood up, declared in the name of the viceroy that the council session was open, and sat back down. The secretary then rose and requested permission to read out the items for discussion on the agenda.
The viceroy turned and looked at the King’s empty throne.
He customarily did this before giving an answer of any kind, as if to imply that he was simply the spokesman for the will of His Majesty.
This time, however, he merely sat there staring at the throne and did not answer the secretary—who, immediately convinced that don Angel hadn’t heard him, after casting a glance of consultation at the protonotary, repeated the question.
There was no answer. Don Angel sat there without moving, face turned away towards the throne.
He’d been a good viceroy, had don Angel, but over the past month he was no longer really all there. At first he’d shown himself to be an honest man, respectful of the law and his fellow men, ready to condemn injustice and connivance, tyranny and the abuse of power. But then he’d eased up on the reins, and now the councillors did as they pleased.
This was certainly owing to his illness, but also, perhaps, to a rumor that had been circulating for a while among the noblemen of the Council. And the rumor was that the illness had caused every part of don Angel’s body to swell to elephantine proportions except one, which was precisely that part that distinguishes a man from a woman, and which, given the new dimensions of the rest of his body, had become practically impossible to locate, more difficicult than a needle in a haystack. Poor donna Eleonora, the gossips said, had become melancholic and fallen mute because of her forced abstinence, and the situation caused don Angel no end of suffering.
Upon the second failure to reply, the Councillors looked at one another in perplexity.
What should they do?
Should the question be repeated a third time? Did they have the right to interrupt the viceroy’s silent discussion with His Majesty? No, they didn’t. But could they let the entire morning go to waste, staring at the viceroy as he stared at the king’s vacant throne?
After five minutes of silence, the prince of Ficarazzi, who in his capacity as Grand Captain of Justice was second in rank only to the Viceroy, stood up and approached the thronelet.
Since he was a lot shorter than the average man yet still much taller than a dwarf, he had to climb all three stairs to come up to the level of don Angel. And at that point he realized that the Viceroy, though indeed facing the thone, had a lost, faraway look in his eyes, which were looking at nothing at all, or perhaps at something so far away as to be equivalent to nothing. The prince of Ficarazzi froze, a bit frightened and not knowing what to do or say.
But the viceroy became aware of his presence. First he gestured as if to shoo away a troublesome fly, but then, ever so slowly, his eyes came to focus on the prince’s face. At which point, seeing that the viceroy was looking at him, the Captain of Justice bowed and raced back to his seat.
Don Angel turned his head to look around, as if trying to figure out where he was, as if he’d just woken up from a good long sleep. Seeing the secretary standing before him, he gave him a questioning look.
So the secretary repeated the question a third time.
Don Angel turned his head momentarily towards the throne, and then signaled to him that he was granting his permission. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The session was about to open, as every other time.
The secretary stated that the first item for discussion concerned a dispute between the bishop of Catania and the bishop of Messina over the two testaments of the baroness of Forza d’Agrò, in one of which she left everything to the church of Messina, and in the other to the church of Catania. Both bishops had appealed to the Council to adjudicate the matter, and a quick response was urgently needed.
The viceroy looked first at the throne, and then at Archbishop Turro Mendoza, who stood up with a wicked smile on his lips. There wasn’t a single person in the hall who didn’t already know what the bishop was about to say. They were all familiar with the war that had been raging for years between Turro Mendoza and Gioacchino Ribet, bishop of Catania.
It was a war waged through hearsay, insinuations, gossip, and calumny. Ribet had spread the rumor that Turro Mendoza practiced the foul deed with altar boys, while Turro Mendoza riposted with the accusation that Ribet had impregnated a nun and then had her murdered to avoid scandal.
The bishop of Palermo, who was so short and fat he looked like a ball, had such a loud voice that when he spoke from the pulpit he could be heard as far away as Cefalù. He didn’t so much speak words as fire cannons. He said that Gioacchino Ribet was an unscrupulous scoundrel and that the testament bequeathing the inheritance to the church of Catania was clearly forged. He claimed that he had had it carefully examined by experts and had proof to back this up.
The viceroy asked those assembled if they had anything to say about the matter.
Nobody breathed a word. Then don Angel, after looking at the throne, said the question was resolved in favor of the bishop of Messina.
The secretary sat back d
own and read out the second item for discussion. It was a rather delicate matter. According to a number of anonymous denunciations, barely half of the taxes paid by the citizens of Bivona were reaching state coffers because the other half was being pocketed by the man in charge of collecting them, who was none other than the Marquis Aurelio Spanò di Puntamezza, an extremely rich and powerful man whom one could not afford to offend by casting doubt on his integrity.
As the viceroy was turning around to look at the throne, don Cono Giallombardo, Grand Master of Administration, the man in charge of tax questions, prepared to speak.
And, as had been the case with the bishop, none among those present was in doubt as to what he would say.
It was universally known that Griselia, don Cono’s beautiful granddaughter and the apple of his eye, was the mistress of Tancredi Spanò, eldest son of the Marquis of Puntamezza. And everyone knew that the girl’s word was law for the Grand Master of Administration. Who, when his turn came to speak, claimed that those anonymous letters were an outrage and not to be taken seriously, as their intention was to blot the reputation of a man known for his rectitude. Indeed the honesty of the Marquis of Puntamezza shouldn’t even be up for discussion.
Nobody breathed a word. The viceroy looked at the throne and then declared the matter was unworthy of examination by the Council and should be struck likewise from future matters for consideration.
The third item the secretary came out with was the matter of the Gloriosa, the battleship which, upon putting out to sea on its maiden voyage had gone and crashed against some rocks and sunk to the bottom, causing the death of fifteen sailors. The Gloriosa’s commander, Captain Aloiso Putifarre, blamed the accident on the fact that the helm did not respond to the helmsman’s commands because the ship had been poorly built by the Messina shipyard, which had skimped on the materials used. The master shipbuilder claimed that the fault belonged entirely to Putifarre, who hit the bottle often and hard.
The Revolution of the Moon Page 1
