Everyone had their contribution to make on the subject of zio Crocifisso, who was always bleating and groaning like Christ crucified between the thieves, and yet he had pots of money, because one day when the old man had been ill, la Zuppidda had seen a coffer under the bed as long as your arm.
La Longa felt the forty onze from the lupin debt weighing her down, and changed the subject, because even walls have ears, and you could hear zio Crocifisso talking nearby with don Giammaria, as they walked through the square, so that even la Zuppidda broke off the vituperations that she was casting in his direction, to greet him.
Don Silvestro was cackling away, and his way of laughing got on the chemist’s nerves, though in fact the chemist had never been endowed with much patience anyway, and he left that virtue to donkeys and people who were satisfied with the revolution as it stood.
‘Precisely, you’ve never had any patience, you wouldn’t know where to put it,’ don Giammaria shouted at him; and don Franco, who was a small man, would rise to the bait and address rough words to the priest, words which could be heard from one end of the square to the other, in the dark. Dumb-bell, hard as stone, was shrugging his shoulders, and took care to repeat guardedly that it didn’t matter a hoot to him, he minded his own business. ‘And don’t tell me it’s not your business if nobody pays a penny towards the Brotherhood of the Good Death,’ don Giammaria said to him. ‘When it’s a question of putting their hands into their pockets, people become a pack of heathen, worse than the chemist, and cross to the other side when they see the Brotherhood’s coffers!’
From his shop don Franco sniggered aloud, trying to imitate don Silvestro’s maddening laugh. But the chemist was one of Them, as everyone knew; and don Giammaria shouted to him from the square: ‘You’d find the money all right, if it were for schools and lamps!’
The chemist held his tongue, because his wife had appeared at the window; and when he was far enough away not to fear being overheard by don Silvestro, the town clerk, who also pocketted a bit of a salary as an elementary school teacher, zio Crocifisso said that it didn’t matter to him.
But in his day they hadn’t had all those lamps, nor all those schools; you didn’t force the horse to drink, and everyone was the better off for it.
‘You never went to school; but you can manage your business.’
‘And I know my catechism,’ added zio Crocifisso, to return the compliment.
In the heat of the dispute don Giammatria, missed his usual way across the square almost tripped and, God forgive him, let slip a bad word.
‘If only they’d light their precious light, at least!’
‘In this day and age you have to look after yourself,’ zio Crocifisso pronounced.
Don Giammaria tugged him by the sleeve of his jacket every time he wanted to say something disparaging about this person or that, in the middle of the square, there in the dark; about the lamplighter who stole the oil, about don Silvestro who turned a blind eye to it, about the catspaw of a mayor who let himself be led by the nose. Now that he worked for the municipality, mastro Cirino was a most unreliable sexton, ringing the angelus only when he had nothing else to do, and the communion wine he purchased was reminiscent of the kind which Jesus Christ had had on the cross, it was a real sacrilege. Dumb bell kept on nodding out of habit, though it was completely dark and they couldn’t see each other at all, and don Giammaria reviewed his victims one by one, saying that so and so was a thief, so and so a villain, so and so a fire-brand.
‘Have you heard Piedipapera talking with padron Malavoglia and padron Cipolla? He’s another of the gang, I tell you! A rabble-rouser, with that lame leg!’ And when he saw him hobbling across the square he gave him a wide berth, but followed him with a suspicious stare, to find out what he might be up to hobbling along like that. ‘He’s got the devil’s own foot,’ he would mutter. Zio Crocifisso shrugged his shoulders and repeated that he was a decent fellow, and wouldn’t be drawn. ‘Padron Cipolla, now there’s another idiot and a windbag! letting himself be swindled by Piedipapera… and padron ’Ntoni will be falling for it too, before long… you have to be prepared for anything in this day and age!’
Decent folk minded their own business, zio Crocifisso repeated. Meanwhile compare Tino was holding forth like a statesman seated on the steps of the church; ‘Now you listen to me: before the revolution it was quite another matter. Now the fish have got wise to things, let me tell you!’
‘No, no, the anchovies sense the north-easter twenty-four hours before it arrives,’ replied padron ’Ntoni; ‘that’s how it’s always been; the anchovy has more sense than the tunny. Now they are fishing them out in shoals beyond the Capo dei Mulini, with fine-meshed nets.’
‘I’ll tell you what the matter is,’ compare Fortunato suggested. ‘It’s those wretched steamers coming and going, and stirring up the water with their wheels. What can you expect, the fish take fright and move off. That’s what it is.’
La Locca’s son was listening open-mouthed, and scratched his head. ‘Well done,’ he said after a moment. ‘If that were true, the steamers would have scared the fish away at Syracuse too, or Messina. But they bring fish from there on the railway by the ton.’
‘Sort it out yourselves then,’ said padron Cipolla, nettled. ‘It’s not my problem, I couldn’t care less. I’ve got my smallholding and my vines to bring in my daily bread.’
And Piedipapera administered a firm clout to la Locca’s son, to teach him manners. ‘Blockhead! Hold your tongue when your elders are talking!’
The young lout went off bawling and hitting his head with his clenched fists, because everyone took him for a blockhead just on account of being la Locca’s son. Sniffing the air, padron ’Ntoni commented:
‘If the north-western doesn’t start up before midnight, the Provvidenza will be able to round the Cape.’
From the top of the belltower came the slow, sonorous tolling of the bell. ‘One hour after sunset,’ said padron Cipolla.
Padron ’Ntoni crossed himself and said:
‘Peace to the living and rest to the dead.’
‘Don Giammaria is having fried vermicelli for supper to-night,’ observed Piedipapera sniffing in the direction of the windows of the priest’s house. Don Giammaria, passing by on his way home, even condescended to greet him, because as things were going you had to humour those doubtful characters; and compare Tino, whose mouth was still watering, shouted after him:
‘Eh! fried vermicelli to-night, don Giammaria!’
‘Did you hear him? Right down to what I eat!’ grumbled don Giammaria between his teeth. ‘They even keep a tally on the number of mouthfuls eaten by God’s servants! all out of hatred for the church!’ and coming face to face with don Michele, the customs man, who went around with his pistol on his stomach and his trousers tucked into his boots, looking for smugglers: ‘But they don’t begrudge that lot their mouthfuls, oh dear no!’
‘I like that lot,’ said Dumb bell. ‘I like them mounting guard over decent folks’ possessions.’
‘The tiniest prompting, and he’d join the gang too,’ don Giammaria said to himself, knocking at his door. ‘Gang of thieves,’ and he carried on grumbling, with the knocker in his hand, listening warily to the footsteps of the sergeant as they died away in the darkness, in the direction of the wine shop, and brooding on what might take him towards the wine shop when he was mounting guard over decent folks’ interests!
But compare Tino knew why don Michele was going to guard decent folks’ interests over near the wine shop, because he had lost several nights’ sleep lying in wait behind the nearby elm to find out precisely that. ‘He goes there for a private chat with zio Santoro, Santuzza’s father,’ was his comment. ‘Those government idlers have to play the spy, and know everybody’s business, in Trezza and everywhere else, and zio Santoro, blind as he is, like a bat in the sunlight on the door of the wine shop, knows everything that goes on in the village, and could call us by name just from hearing our footsteps. The o
nly time he doesn’t hear is when massaro Filippo goes to tell his beads with Santuzza, and he’s a sterling guard, better than if you put a handkerchief over his eyes.’
Hearing one hour after sunset strike, Maruzza had rushed homewards to lay the table; gradually the neighbours had thinned out, and as the village itself was gradually falling asleep, you could hear the sea snoring nearby, at the bottom of the little street, and every so often it heaved a sigh, like someone turning over in his bed. Only down at the wine shop did the din continue, and you could hear the bawling of Rocco Spatu, who treated every day as if it were a Sunday.
‘Compare Rocco is a happy soul,’ said Alfio Mosca from the window of his house after a while, when it had seemed as though no one were there.
‘Oh, are you still there, compare Alfio?’ said Mena, who had stayed out on the balcony waiting for her grandfather.
‘Yes, I’m here, comare Mena; I’m eating my soup here, because when I see you all at table, with the lamp, I don’t feel so alone, and loneliness takes away your appetite.’
‘You’re not a happy soul, then?’
‘You need a lot of things to make you happy.’
Mena said nothing, and after another pause Alfio added: ‘To-morrow I’m going into town with a load of salt.’
‘Will you be going to the All Souls’ Day fair as well?’
‘I’m not sure; this year those few walnuts that I have are rotten.’
‘Compare Alfio is going to town to look for a wife,’ said Nunziata from the door opposite.
‘Is that true? asked Mena.
‘Well, comare Mena, if that was all there was to it I’d be glad to take a girl from my own village, without having to go anywhere else to look for one.’
‘Look at all those stars winking up there,’ said Mena after a bit. ‘They say that they are souls from Purgatory, on their way to Paradise.’
‘Listen,’ said Alfio to her after they had looked at the stars for a bit too; ‘you’re Saint Agatha — if you happen to dream a lucky number in the state lottery, tell me, and I’ll put my shirt on it, and then I’ll be able to think about taking a wife.’
‘Good night,’ said Mena.
The stars winked harder than ever, as if they were catching fire, and the Three Kings shone over the rocks with their arms folded, like St. Andrew’s Cross. The sea snored quietly away at the bottom of the little street, and every so often you heard the noise of the odd cart passing by in the darkness, jolting over the cobbles, and going about the world which is so big that if you were to walk and walk for ever, day and night, you’d never get there, and there were actually people who were going around the world at that hour, and who knew nothing about compare Alfio, or the Provvidenza at sea, or the All Souls fair; as Mena thought on the balcony as she waited for her grandfather.
Before shutting the door, her grandfather went out on to the balcony another couple of times, to look at the stars which were twinkling so unnecessarily brightly, and then he muttered: ‘Salt sea, salt tears.’
Rocco Spatu was singing himself hoarse at the door of the wine shop, in front of the little light. ‘Happy souls are always singing,’ concluded padron ’Ntoni.
CHAPTER III
After midnight the wind began to raise merry hell, as if all the cats in the village were on the roof, shaking the shutters. You could hear the sea lowing around the tall rocks so that it seemed as if the cattle from the Sant’ Alfio market were gathered there, and day broke as black as a traitor’s soul. A bad September Sunday, in short, that sort of treacherous September day which suddenly throws up a storm, like a rifle shot among the prickly pears. The village boats were drawn up on the beach, and well-moored to the boulders below the wash-place; and the local children were amusing themselves shouting and whistling whenever they saw the odd tattered sail pass by in the distance, in all that wind and mist, as though they were being driven along by the devil himself; but the women crossed themselves, as if they could clearly see the poor folk who were in those boats.
Maruzza la Longa said nothing, as was only right, but she couldn’t be still for a moment, and kept going hither and thither though the house and the courtyard, like a hen when it is about to lay an egg. The men were at the wine shop, or in Pizzuto’s barber’s shop, or under the butcher’s awning, pensively watching it pour down. The only people on the beach were padron ’Ntoni, because of that load of lupins he had at sea, along with the Provvidenza and his son Bastianazzo to boot, and la Locca’s son, though he had nothing to lose, and all he had in the boat with the lupins was his brother Menico. Padron Fortunato Cipolla, while he was being shaved in Pizzuto’s barber’s shop, said that he didn’t give two brass farthings for Bastianazzo and the load of lupins.
‘Now they all want to play the dealer and get rich quick,’ he said, shrugging; ‘and they try to shut the stable door after the horse has gone.’
There was a crowd in Santuzza’s wine shop: there was that drunkard Rocco Spatu, who was bawling and spitting fit for ten, compare Tino Piedipapera, mastro Turi Zuppiddo, compare Mangiacarrubbe, don Michele the customs man, with his trousers tucked into his boots and his pistol slung across his stomach, as though he were likely to go looking for smugglers in that weather, and compare Mariano Cinghialenta. That mammoth mastro Turi was jokingly dealing his friends punches that would have brought an ox to its knees, as though he still had his caulker’s mallet in his hands, and them compare Cinghialenta started shouting and swearing, to show that he was a true red-blooded carter.
Zio Santoro, crouched under that bit of shelter, in front of the doorway, waited with his outstretched hand for someone to pass, so that he could ask for alms.
‘Between the two of them, father and daughter,’ said compare Turi Zuppiddo, ‘they must be making a fine living, on a day like this, when so many people come to the wine shop.’
‘Bastianazzo Malavoglia is worse off than he is, at this moment,’ replied Piedipapera, ‘and mastro Cirino can ring the bell for mass as hard as he pleases, the Malavoglia won’t be going to church to-day; they’re turning their backs on God, because of that cargo of lupins they’ve got at sea.’
The wind sent skirts and dry leaves swirling, so that Vanni Pizzuto, razor poised, would hold whoever he was shaving casually by the nose, to turn to look at the passers-by, and put his hand on his hips, with his hair all curly and shiny as silk; and the chemist stood at the door of his shop, wearing that awful great hat which gave the impression of acting as an umbrella, and pretending to have a serious discussion with don Silvestro the town clerk, so that his wife couldn’t order him into church by force; and he snickered at this ruse, winking at the girls who were tripping along through the puddles.
‘To-day,’ Piedipapera was saying, ‘padron ’Ntoni wants to play the heathen, like don Franco the chemist.’
‘If you so much as turn your head to look at that impudent don Silvestro, I’ll give you a slap right here where we stand,’ muttered la Zuppidda to her daughter, as they were crossing the square. ‘I don’t like that man.’
At the last toll of the bell, Santuzza had put the wine shop into her father’s care and had gone into church, bringing the customers behind her. Zio Santoro, poor man, was blind, and it was no sin for him not to go to mass; that way no time was wasted in the wine shop, and he could keep an eye on the counter from the doorway, even though he couldn’t see, because he knew the customers one by one just by their footsteps, when they came to drink a glass of wine.
‘Santuzza’s stockings,’ observed Piedipapera, as Santuzza was picking her way past on tiptoe, dainty as a kitten, ‘come rain or shine, Sntuzza’s stockings have been seen only by massaro Filippo the greengrocer; and that’s the truth.’
‘There are little devils abroad to-day,’ said Santuzza crossing herself with holy water. ‘It’s enought to drive you to sin.’
Nearby, la Zuppidda was gabbling Hail Maries, squatting on her heels and darting poisonous glances hither and thither as though she were in a fury with the wh
ole village, and telling anyone who would listen: ‘Comare la Longa isn’t coming to church, even though her husband is at sea in this storm! Small wonder the good Lord is punishing us!’ Menico’s mother was there too, even though all she was good for was watching the flies go by!
‘We should pray for sinners as well,’ said Santuzza. ‘That’s what pure souls are for.’
‘Yes, like the Mangiacarrubbe girl is doing, all pious behind her shawl, and goodness knows what vile sins she causes young men to commit.’
Santuzza shook her head, and said that when you’re in church you shouldn’t speak ill of your neighbour. ‘The host has to smile at all comers,’ replied la Zuppidda, and then, in la Vespa’s ear: ‘Santuzza is concerned that people are saying that she sells water for wine; but she would do better to think about not causing Filippo the greengrocer to commit a mortal sin, because he has a wife and children.’
‘Myself,’ replied la Vespa, ‘I’ve told don Giammaria that I don’t want to carry on in the Daughters of Mary, if they keep Santuzza on as leader.’
‘Does that mean you’ve found a husband?’ asked la Zuppidda.
‘I have not found a husband,’ snapped back la Vespa waspishly. ‘I’m not one of those women who bring a string of men after them right into church, with polished shoes, or big paunches.’
The one with the paunch was Brasi, padron Cipolla’s son, who was the darling of mothers and daughters alike, because he owned vines and olive groves.
‘Go and see if the boat is properly moored,’ his father said to him, making the sign of the cross.
No one could help thinking that that wind and rain were pure gold for the Cipolla family; that is how things go in this world, and once reassured that their boat was well-moored, they were rubbing their hands in glee at the storm; while the Malavoglia had turned quite white and were tearing their hair, because of that cargo of lupins they had bought on credit from zio Crocifisso Dumb bell.
I Malavoglia Page 4
