The Revolution of the Moon

by Andrea Camilleri

  Young Baron Tricase determined that henceforth his wife would never eat with him again and would have to do so alone and serve herself in a little room next to the kitchen where the servants normally ate.

  Don Pasquali Pisciotta, a textile merchant, told his wife that from now on, whenever she asked him for food money, she would have to kneel.

  And so, when the Councillors went down into the great courtyard to get into their carriages, they found themselves assailed by a great many friends and acquaintances who were dying of curiosity.

  “How did it happen?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “How is it possible that a woman . . . ”

  “This is worse than a revolution!”

  Don Alterio Pignato had just managed to climb into his carriage when a man, stepping onto the footboard and hoisting himself up, appeared in the window. It was the Marquis della Trigonella, don Simone Trecca.

  “Forgive me, don Alterio, for taking your time, but I wanted to know whether the petition for assistance for my charitable institution— ”

  “I’m happy to say that the proposal we’d agreed upon was approved this morning without any difficulties.”

  “I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I never doubted your generosity. And if you’d like to do me the honor of visiting my charitable institution, the doors are always open for you. You know the address.”

  Don Alterio thought about this for a moment.

  “I could drop in tomorrow, an hour after sunset.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  At the first light of dawn the following day, anyone passing outside the two palazzi giving onto the Cassaro realized that, on the façade of one, somebody had hung, anonymously and during the night, a scroll with the words:

  A woman as viceroy is something to dread,

  we all know that women are good only in bed.

  While on the façade of the other hung a second scroll with a completely different message:

  The men of the Council are so rotten and cruel,

  They deserve to submit to a woman’s rule.

  The city had expressed its opinion. But since the opinions were two in number, and completely opposed, they ended up, as was always the case in Sicily, being of no consequence whatsoever.

  * * *

  The best coffinmaker in town, ’Ngilino Scimè, had been rather quick in preparing a giant casket for don Angel. He’d simply adjusted to the late viceroy’s measurements a coffin he’d set aside for the baron of Ribolla, a man of great size who’d been at death’s door for six months but couldn’t quite take that final step.

  With the help of two coffin-bearers, he brought the casket to the Palace at nine o’clock in the morning.

  And so the body, having been blessed the previous day by Don Asciolla, the priest of the palace chapel, was boxed, taken into a small room prepared for that purpose, and set down on an iron stand.

  Donna Eleonora had four huge candlesticks placed along the sides, ordering that the candles must remain always lit, night and day.

  Then, for the first time since her husband’s death, she fainted. She’d spent the night keeping vigil over don Angel’s body.

  Concerned, the chief chambermaid ran to the Chief of Ceremonies, who raced off to get the court physician, don Serafino Gustaloca.

  Who, never having had occasion to see donna Eleonora before, not only nearly fainted himself at the sight of her, but also realized immediately that he’d fallen hopelessly in love with the woman.

  Don Serafino was a big man of about forty-five, pale and unkempt, who for his entire life had done nothing but study medicine. He was a sincere, honest man with many good qualities. Having never married, he lived with his mother and an older sister, who was also unattached.

  This was the first time he’d felt love for anyone, and since he had no experience, he didn’t know how to hide it, no matter how much he would have liked to. And so he let it show at once, remaining spellbound as he gazed at donna Eleonora.

  He immediately forgot who he was, where he was, and what he was doing there.

  Luckily, since all strength had deserted him, his bag of herbs and medicines fell from his hands, and the thud it made upon hitting the ground roused him from his reverie.

  He immediately wanted donna Eleonora’s chambermaids to undress her and put her to bed, while he waited in the next room. Then he went in, all sweaty and with throat parched, held out a trembling hand, and touched donna Eleonora’s forehead as she stared at him.

  Then he took one of her hands to check her pulse and, for a brief moment, got the impression that the lady’s fingers had squeezed his own. He was overcome by dizziness and fell into a chair that luckily happened to be nearby.

  Donna Eleonora smiled to herself. She’d made a friend, and she realized she needed friends.

  The court physician, stammering a little, explained to the chief chambermaid how to prepare an infusion with an herb he kept in a little sack, and he told donna Eleonora that he would wait in the next room. But the lady asked him to stay and sit down.

  With heart beating madly, don Serafino obeyed.

  Donna Eleonora then asked him whether don Angel had suffered. Don Serafino ruled that out categorically.

  Donna Eleonora closed her eyes for a moment, then re-opened them and asked a second question. Who had gone to get him?

  The secretary.

  And what exactly had he said to him?

  That the viceroy had simply fainted.

  Donna Eleonora then asked him another question that even someone so naive as don Serafino realized how cunning it was. In his opinion, for how long had the viceroy been dead when he declared him so? Don Serafino was immediately convinced he could only tell her the truth. He replied that the Grand Captain had told him that they’d sent for him at once, but that in his opinion, as an experienced physician, don Angel had died at least two hours earlier.

  “Ah!” said donna Eleonora.

  The herbal tea arrived. Don Serafino wanted to administer it to her himself, but when he slipped one hand behind her neck to support her head, he began trembling so violently that he very nearly spilled the cup onto the bed. The chief chambermaid intervened as the doctor was collapsing in his chair, exhausted.

  A short while later, donna Eleonora’s eyelids began to droop.

  “Tengo sueño.”

  Don Serafino stood up.

  “Por favor, come back this afternoon.”

  Don Serafino felt as if he’d shot through the ceiling and was flying through the sky.

  “As you wish, my lady.”

  “Necesito hablar de nuevo con Usted. But don’t leave through the main door. There is a secret exit Estrella will show you. Use that one. I use it almost todos los días.”

  “You?” don Serafino asked in surprise.

  Donna Eleonora smiled slyly.

  “Yo conozco Palermo mejor que Usted.”

  “But how were you able to go unrecognized?”

  Donna Eleonora’s smile became slyer than ever.

  “I know how to be careful.”

  * * *

  “Serafì, what’s wrong? Tell your mama. Why aren’t you eating?” asked donna Sidora, the court physician’s mother.

  “Do you feel sick, Serafì?” asked Concittina, the doctor’s sister.

  But how could don Serafino have any appetite with donna Eleonora always in the forefront of his mind as though she were present in the flesh?

  On top of this, upon returning home he’d been immediately set upon by the two women, who wanted to know whether the viceroy’s widow was as beautiful as everyone said, how she was dressed, how she carried herself . . . It was sheer torture.

  He withdrew to his room, but couldn’t stand it. Though it was full of the books he loved so much, it looked as squalid
as a cave now.

  And so he locked himself in the privy, took off all his clothes and washed himself all over, to cool himself off. He was burning up, as if from a high fever.

  He changed clothes and went outside for a long walk. Two or three times he very nearly got squashed by a passing carriage. He wasn’t all there. At five he was outside the palace.

  He knocked on the small door in back, as Estrella, the chief chambermaid, had shown him, and a guard opened it. Estrella was waiting for him in the antechamber. The court physician asked her whether the marquesa had eaten. She had. A light broth and a little salad, after which she’d gone back to bed.

  When he entered the bedroom, he found donna Eleonora asleep. He sat down without making the slightest sound and stayed here, spellbound, gazing at her.

  All at once he noticed two big tears roll out of her eyes. He dried them for her.

  A short while later the marquesa re-opened her eyes, saw him, and smiled.

  Don Serafino noticed something strange. It was as though the bells of the cathedral had started ringing joyously in his head. He and the marquesa spoke for a long time, and then she told him she had to get up and dressed, because she was expecting some people.

  By the time he left, an hour after sunset, he’d answered a good hundred questions put to him by donna Eleonora.

  On his way home, for the first time in his life, he started singing. But softly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Donna Eleonora Presides over the Holy Royal Council

  to Everyone’s Displeasure

  And as don Serafino was returning home happy as a lark, an anonymous carriage, with no coat-of-arms, pulled up outside a small palazzo, freshly painted and three stories high, which stood a bit out of the way, along a secluded and poorly maintained road.

  The coachman, who’d been instructed not to wear his livery, hopped nimbly down from his seat and went to open the door.

  The duke of Batticani, don Alterio Pignato, got out, looking carefully around. He kept a handkerchief over his face as though he had a cold.

  “Should I wait for you, sir?” the coachman asked.

  The duke hesitated a moment, as though doubtful.

  “No, this may take a while. Let’s do this: come back to get me in two hours, and if I’m not done yet, wait for me.”

  After the carriage had gone, he knocked on the door, putting the handkerchief back over his face. The little door inside the big door was immediately opened by don Simone Trecca himself.

  “I heard you arrive and rushed to come and greet you.”

  “My dear marquis, as you can see, I have kept my word.”

  “And here I am, my lord duke, ready to welcome you with all the honors you deserve.”

  He stepped aside and don Alterio came in. Don Simone closed the door. All the candelabra were lit.

  “On the ground floor,” don Simone explained, “are the chapel, the refectory, the kitchen, two small water closets, an office, and the great room in which the poor orphan girls learn the art of sewing. Would you like to visit the rooms?”

  Don Alterio didn’t feel like it and pretended he hadn’t heard.

  “How old are they?”

  “Between sixteen and twenty. They’re all girls from good families, daughters of tradesmen, clerks, tailors, and barbers, who’ve had the bad luck to lose their parents and means of support.”

  “How many have you got here at the moment?”

  “Right now there are scarcely twenty-five, but with the generous donation you were so good as to win me from the Council, I should be able to house about forty.”

  So saying, he licked his lips.

  “And where do they sleep?”

  “There are twenty on the first floor, and five on the second, which is mostly empty. But the cells for new arrivals are ready.”

  “And who’s on the top floor?”

  “The two watchwomen, four chambermaids, and the master seamstress. And then there are the storerooms in which all the things necessary to the maintenance of the house and the girls are kept.”

  “Why is it so quiet?”

  Don Simone smiled.

  “According to house rules, the girls eat at sunset, and afterwards they go into the chapel to pray, and then straight to bed. Wake-up time is four o’clock in the morning. After prayer, they all get down to work. Would you like to go upstairs?”

  Don Alterio felt a little disappointed. According to the rumors he’d been hearing from various quarters, this was not how it was supposed to be.

  “Well, if they’re already asleep . . . ”

  “It’s still worth a visit, believe me.”

  Don Alterio climbed the stairs behind don Simone.

  He found himself in a dimly lit corridor that looked exactly like a convent. There were twenty-two doors, eleven on each side. At the far end was another staircase, leading to the floor above.

  “Would you like to look inside the cells?”

  “But you would have to open the doors . . . ”

  “Every door has a spy-hole, and the girls are required to keep a candle always lit inside their cells. Have a look: it’s quite a sight.”

  Don Alterio brought his eye up to the spy-hole of the first door. The candle produced sufficient light.

  It was a spartan cell, with a cot, a nightstand, a prie-dieu, a basin on a stand, a jug with water for washing oneself, a bucket for dirty water, a chair, and a clothing rack on the wall.

  A girl of about eighteen was sleeping on top of her sheets, given the intense heat. Her nightgown was hiked up to just below her belly, revealing a pair of thighs that made one immediately want to stroke them.

  Next don Alterio thrilled at the sight of a twenty-year-old bottom, a pair of white tits as solid as marble, and a Mons Veneris whose thicket looked like velvet . . .

  He would have kept on peering into all twenty cells, and even into the privies, had don Simone not said:

  “Let’s go upstairs.”

  Climbing the stairs, he turned round to announce:

  “Now you’ll meet the five most beautiful ones.”

  Here the cells were each illuminated by three candles. Inside the first was a slightly plump blonde, followed by three vacant cells, and in the fifth was a redhead whose flesh seemed made of iron ore. After three more vacant cells, there was . . . a miracle of God.

  Don Alterio stared at her, spellbound.

  She was about eighteen, tall, with long black hair falling over her shoulders, interminable legs, and standing in the middle of the room with her thighs spread. Realizing that there was someone outside looking at her, she slowly raised her nightgown, stripping naked and then running her hands over her hips. In defiance.

  “Would you like to see the last two?”

  “No.”

  “Do you like this one?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s one of the ones you can ask to do anything. She makes no fuss and never says no.”

  “So much the better. Am I supposed to pay her?”

  Don Simone seemed shocked.

  “But what are you thinking? Are you joking? What do take her for, a whore? She’s a poor orphan girl, the daughter of a major-domo of the prince of Lampedusa. Her name is Cilistina Anzillotta. I had her taken in here after she was brought to my attention by the baron—”

  “Fine, fine,” don Alterio cut him off.

  “Well, here’s the key to her door. But be sure that when you’ve finished, you lock her back in. That girl’s a devil, she’s liable to run away. I’m going to go and spend a little time with the blonde. When you’re done, take a peek into the spy-hole. If I’m still inside, knock and I’ll come out. If I’m not there, I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”

  Two hours later, don Alterio came out of the cell, locking the door behind him. He was short of b
reath. The girl had worn him out. Don Simone was not in the blonde’s cell. Don Alterio found him waiting for him downstairs.

  “All’s well?”

  “All’s well.”

  “Do you need anything else?”

  “No, thanks. But I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Speak.”

  “Could I come back the day after tomorrow?”

  He would have gladly spent the whole night with Cilistina. She’d gotten under his skin. But he absolutely couldn’t. His wife Matilde was waiting for him at home and would raise the roof if he didn’t return.

  “My dear duke, you are free to do as you please here. I will remind you only that the sooner I receive the donation, the better it is for everyone.”

  During the same hours in which don Alterio Pignato, to his great satisfaction, was visiting don Simone Trecca’s charitable institution, five Councillors were meeting at the home of the prince of Ficarazzi, the Grand Captain of Justice.

  Unexpectedly summoned by the prince, they’d come in secret, without being noticed, on foot, their hats pulled down over their eyes and their cloak collars raised up over their mouths.

  The only one missing was don Alterio, whom nobody could find.

  “I’ll get straight to the point, so as not to take up your time,” said the prince. “I’ve summoned you here because last night I spent a long time thinking about what happened yesterday at the Holy Royal Council, and I’ve come to a few conclusions.”

  Everyone immediately thought that the prince wanted to rehash the question of don Angel’s testament. But since there was nothing more to be done at this point . . .

  “You must realize, prince,” the bishop began, “that the late viceroy, in expressing his will that—”

  “That’s not what I wanted to discuss. For me, it’s water under the bridge,” the Grand Captain interrupted him.

  “Then what are you referring to?” asked don Severino Lomascio.

  “The drunkenness,” said the prince.

  The Councillors looked at one another in bewilderment.