The Revolution of the Moon

by Andrea Camilleri

  “You see, just before the uprising started, people in town were so hungry that the buttane—”

  “Buttane?” donna Eleonora interrupted her, not understanding the word, which she’d never heard before.

  “Putas. They no longer had any clients, poor things, and were dying of hunger and hardship. And some were even being raped and murdered. As is starting to happen again today. At any rate, about thirty of these women had taken refuge in the garden of our villa. And so I decided to feed them, at midday and in the evenings. I asked your Nonna Fabiana to help me, but she was afraid to. She didn’t want to have anything to do with them. Her confessor had convinced her that prostitutes had tails, like devils. But, after talking and talking to her, I managed to make her see that they were just like the rest of us women, and in the end she lent me a hand.”

  Donna Eleonora remained pensive for a moment, then said:

  “Yes, I have seen mucha prostitución.”

  “And there’s more with each passing day. My son-in-law told me that nowadays they find old whores dead of starvation in the middle of the road, like dog carcasses. But the worst of it is that nobody wants to see it. A lot of women from good families are forced to sell themselves, but they do it in secret. Ah, the things I could do for these poor girls if were still young! I say this to you because you’re a woman, and you understand.”

  At that moment donna Eleonora understood why the princess had called on her.

  * * *

  Bishop Turro Mendoza, too nervous to keep still, paced back and forth in the room, exhaling smoke from his nostrils like an enraged bull in the arena and waving in the air a letter consisting of a single line.

  All the other Councillors had received the same letter.

  The Holy Royal Council shall convene tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.

  Signed, the Viceroy, Eleonora de Guzmàn

  “Utter madness! Utter madness!” he kept repeating.

  “A deliberate provocation!” don Severino shouted.

  “As if we hadn’t told her again and again that we absolutely could not do it tomorrow!” don Alterio said indignantly.

  “Her purpose is clear,” the prince of Ficarazzi intervened. “It’s a test of strength.”

  “Meaning?” asked the bishop.

  “Meaning that if we don’t show up tomorrow morning, she will divest us of our functions.”

  “Ergo, we must show up,” said don Cono.

  “Ergo, my ass! Don’t jump to conclusions! We’re meeting here to think things over,” said the prince.

  “There isn’t much to think over,” don Arcangelo cut in. “We either go, or we don’t go. Tertium non datur.”1

  “In my opinion we should keep doing as we did this morning, all speak and act the same way,” the prince retorted.

  “To be honest, it’s not as if the results have been so great,” don Severino pointed out. “She took us by the hand and led us where she wanted. While we, all huddled together like sheep, we didn’t understand a thing and fell right into the trap.”

  “At any rate,” don Arcangelo said thoughtfully, “whether we show up tomorrow or not, sooner or later la señora marquesa is going to send us all packing just the same.”

  “And that could be a big mistake on her part, provided we remain united,” said the prince.

  “Explain,” said don Alterio.

  “There have been prior cases of a Councillor being replaced, but it’s never happened that a whole Council was dismissed. We have the strength of numbers on our side.”

  “I don’t understand,” said don Alterio, who seemed unconvinced.

  “Don’t six heads reason better than one? We six can always say that the woman is mad, or acts as though she is.”

  “But to whom will we say it?”

  “To His Majesty the King. As soon as she discharges us, we’ll write to the King. We’ll tell him that such a measure threatens to worsen an already grave situation and set all of Sicily ablaze. And, mark my words, His Majesty will call her immediately back to Spain. If we’re members of the Council it’s because we’re men worth our weight in gold. We’re hardly the bottom of the barrel, after all. It is we who uphold the Spanish monarchy here. Viceroys come and go, but we remain.”

  “You’ve almost convinced me,” said the bishop. “But there’s an immediate problem that must be resolved. What shall we do about the meeting convened for tomorrow? I have a suggestion.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “We should go tomorrow.”

  The Councillors froze.

  “What do you mean? We should throw in the towel?” don Severino asked feistily.

  “No. We’re not throwing in any towels. Listen carefully. Tomorrow we will enter the hall and sit down, and when she comes in, we will not rise, we will remain as still as statues. Without saying a word, without moving an inch during the entire session. Our bodies will be present, but our minds will not. And, you’ll see: if she wants to get the message, she’ll get it.”

  The Councillors, unable to restrain themselves, started clapping enthusiastically. The prince embraced them all.

  The next morning, at ten o’clock sharp, the Councillors took their seats, their buttocks seeking the most comfortable positions possible, since they would have to remain that way for a few hours.

  The protonotary and secretary took their places.

  Some ten minutes passed, but nothing happened. Why the delay? This had never happened before. Then the Chief of Ceremonies appeared, stopping one step inside the hall.

  “My lord Councillors,” he said.

  None of the Councillors made any move to turn and look at him. Their faces remained in profile. Only the protonotary and secretary were looking at him. This was not normal.

  “My lord Councillors,” the Chief of Ceremonies repeated.

  Nothing doing. It was like talking to six statues.

  The Chief of Ceremonies thought about this for a moment, then went ahead and said what he had to say.

  “The señora marquesa sends her apologies, but she has no choice but to delay the start of the session by half an hour.”

  He waited for a reaction that never came. And so he exited and rushed to inform donna Eleonora of how the Councillors were acting.

  The marquesa smiled.

  Half an hour passed and nothing happened. Then, another fifteen minutes later, the Chief of Ceremonies returned.

  “The señora marquesa begs the pardon of my lord Councillors, but for reasons beyond her control, she has no choice but to postpone the session until this evening, at sunset.”

  Five Councillors remained stock-still. Only one, don Alterio, shot to his feet to protest.

  “No, no, no! I have an engagement this evening which I cannot possibly cancel!”

  The unity desired by the Grand Captain had been broken. It had to be immediately re-established, otherwise it would become like a leak in a ship that might eventually cause it to sink. The prince turned to the Chief of Ceremonies and said:

  “Report to the marquesa that the entire Council is unavailable for this evening.”

  As soon as the Chief of Ceremonies went out, the Councillors were finally able to take a break. The prince cleaned his nose, don Severino went to take a piss, the bishop scratched his itchy bottom, don Cono and don Alterio went for a little walk to stretch their legs.

  The Chief of Ceremonies returned a short while later.

  “The señora marquesa says that, given that it was her fault the session had to be cancelled, she would like their Excellencies of the Council to decide when they should next convene. I shall return shortly for your reply.”

  The Grand Captain asked the protonotary please to step out of the hall so that the Councillors could confer in private.

  Finding themselves alone, with no outsiders present, the Councill
ors indulged in a revel of embraces and kisses and handshakes and pats on the back.

  “We won! We won!” the bishop explained.

  “Didn’t I say that unity is strength?” the Grand Captain boasted proudly.

  Don Alterio rubbed his hands together, happy as a lark, and said:

  “I guess la señora has worked out who it is that gives the orders around here!”

  “So, what day will it be?” asked don Severino.

  “I,” said the prince, “am of the opinion that things should remain as they are. That is, that the Council should continue to meet every Wednesday. Are you in agreement?”

  The other Councillors were in agreement, and so the prince let the protonotary and secretary back inside.

  Then the Chief of Ceremonies returned.

  “Please inform the señora marquesa that the Councillors have decided that the next Council will be held next Wednesday at ten o’clock. Then return with her answer.”

  The Chief of Ceremonies came back almost immediately.

  “The señora marquesa agrees to your terms.”

  The Concillors looked at one another in satsifaction. The marquesa had surrendered; the victory was total, on all fronts.

  “Who will close the session?” asked the prince.

  “Nobody,” said the protonotary, “because this session was never opened.”

  * * *

  At nightfall, the blazonless carriage of the house of Batticani pulled up, like two nights earlier, in front of the outlying palazzetto, and don Alterio told the coachman to come back and get him some three hours later.

  Don Simone opened the front door for him with a smile on his face.

  “My lord duke, you are always welcome here.”

  Don Alterio went inside, and the door closed behind him. The place was as quiet as the last time.

  “I’ve heard the viceroy’s widow is making things unpleasant for you.”

  “Yes, yes,” don Alterio said, sighing.

  He had no desire to talk or waste any time. He wanted only to dive between Cilistina’s legs as soon as possible and stay there.

  The previous night had been a terrible ordeal for him. He’d been unable to fall asleep, so great was his desire for her. Instead of blood running through his veins, what he felt was live fire. He’d tossed and turned for so long that at a certain point his wife had asked him what was wrong.

  “I’m having trouble digesting the partridge.”

  And he’d kept on tossing and turning until donna Matilde finally got fed up and threw him out of bed. He paced back and forth through the house until dawn.

  “Would you do me the honor of coming into my office for a moment?” don Simone asked him.

  He couldn’t refuse. So he followed him.

  The office was a stuffy little room full of papers, with a tiny window.

  “This is where I keep all the institution’s accounts,” said don Simone. “Unfortunately there’s never enough money. The girls are still girls and have hearty appetites.”

  He sighed and then asked:

  “Would you like a nice little glass of rosolio that the monks of Santo Spirito bring me from time to time? Friar Giovanni, the abbot, often comes to see the girls and give them comfort.”

  Why was don Simone wasting his time? What was the point of all this ceremony? Why was he drawing it all out? Perhaps it was best to accept the little glass and try to end the preambles as quickly as possible.

  “Why, yes, thank you,” he said.

  The rosolio was foul. As he was drinking it, one drop at a time, don Simone grabbed a sheet of paper and showed it to him.

  “Here,” he said, “we have an early list of girls judged eligible to join our refuge. There are about twenty of them. And I can assure you that three or four are far better than those you’ve already seen.”

  “On what basis do you select them?”

  “They’re brought to my attention by village priests, parish priests, abbesses, nuns, friars . . . I only trust Church people in this; they really have an eye for women. And then I examine them one by one to see whether they have the . . . the necessary requirements.”

  He licked his lips, thinking of the examinations to which he’d subjected the girls.

  “Would you like to come upstairs, my lord duke?” he asked the other.

  “Yes.”

  Don Alterio found the stairs interminable, the corridor likewise. At last they came to Cilistina’s cell.

  “She’s waiting for you,” said don Simone.

  “The key,” said don Alterio, holding out a hand so shaky, it looked as if he had tertian fever.

  Don Simone looked at the bunch of keys on his belt, and a furrow appeared on his brow.

  “I can’t find it.”

  Don Alterio tapped his foot impatiently. It didn’t take much to set him off.

  “Look a little harder.”

  Don Simone examined them one by one. It took forever.

  “It’s not here. Where could I have put it?”

  Then he slapped himself in the forehead.

  “Ah! This morning, when . . . It must be in my office. I’ll go and fetch it. I’ll be right back.”

  Don Alterio couldn’t resist peering through the spy-hole.

  Cilistina was lying naked on the bed, legs spread, hands behind her head and smiling at him. He got so lost gazing at her that he had no idea how long it took don Simone to return.

  “I’m sorry, but for the moment I can’t find it,” he said with a sly grin on his face.

  “What do you mean, ‘for the moment’?”

  “It means that I’ll find it only when you’ve managed to have reinstated the donation that was canceled by donna Eleonora. Is that clear?”

  Don Alterio immediately felt like killing him with his own two hands, then and there. So the son-of-a-bitch had done that whole song and dance to stoke his yearning for Cilistina? But what could he do about it? Nothing.

  “Yes,” he said through clenched teeth.

  1There is no third way. (Latin)

  CHAPTER SIX

  The “Holy Refuge for Endangered Virgins”

  Having gone through a night even more wretched, bitter, and miserable than the previous one, don Alterio, after hours and hours lost ruminating over what to do until his head was about to burst, at dawn finally reached the only conclusion possible to avoid going completely insane or throwing himself out the window.

  The solution was to go at once and talk to donna Eleonora in person, and try to persuade her to change her mind. At all costs, even that of selling himself to her body and soul and abandoning his friends on the Council. His very life depended on the marquesa reconsidering the request for a biannual subsidy for don Simone’s refuge and giving a favorable response this time, retracting the cancellation that she herself had decreed.

  It wouldn’t be easy, that was more than certain, but there was nothing left for him to do. Or, at least, he could see no other way.

  But might it not be better—he thought at one point—to write her a letter?

  He gave this idea long and serious consideration but then decided that it was better not to. Written documents are always dangerous. How did the Romans put it? Verba volant scripta manent.

  No, he was only wasting his time.

  All he could do was summon courage from his desperation and call at the palace.

  But would he be able to stand donna Eleonora’s inquiring eyes? Would he succeed in telling her one lie after another while maintaining at all times an honest, loyal expression on his face?

  Whatever the case, it was a very risky move, one that might cost him dearly.

  For two reasons. The first was that he had no idea how donna Eleonora would react. She might have him thrown out of the palace with so many kicks in the pants. The second wa
s the manner in which the other Councillors would take the news were they ever to find out. They would surely deem it a betrayal. And they would be more than right. There was no getting around it: by going alone to see donna Eleonora, without their knowledge, he would betray the agreement that they should all act in concert, as one single person.

  But his lust for Cilistina, for her burning flesh, her velvety mouth, her silken thighs, her iron-hard breasts, was stronger than any misgivings.

  He got dressed and went out, but decided not to take his carriage, preferring to go on foot. The cool morning air would do him good.

  By nine o’clock he was inside the palace, telling the Chief of Ceremonies that he urgently needed to have an audience with donna Eleonora, adding that he should let her know that his request was personal in nature and had nothing to do with matters of the Council.

  The marquesa sent word that she would receive him in the sitting room in half an hour. Her curiosity had been aroused by this surprise visit, in the morning no less. She hadn’t expected it.

  Don Alterio was shown in and started reviewing in his mind everything he wanted to say and how he should say it.

  His heart was beating fast, and his head ached from lack of sleep.

  But when donna Eleonora stood before him, having just got out of bed, which was when her beauty shone brighter than the morning star, he lost all power of speech and managed only to eke out a sort of doglike whimper and bow so low that he almost lost his balance and risked falling headfirst into a great somersault.

  “I’m listening,” the marquesa said with a serious expression, sitting down and asking him to do the same.

  Don Alterio pulled himself together, lucidly aware that at that moment he was putting everything on the line. And suddenly, as if by miracle, the words started coming into his head, sure and precise, in perfect order.

  “Do you remember, my lady, that among the measures we passed on the morning our viceroy passed away, and which you later annulled, there was one concerning don Simone Trecca, the marquis of la Trigonella?”