Di Blasi walked over to study the miniature more closely, then came back and looked down at the living copy. He bent to kiss its throat, its shoulders; his hand ran lightly over the smooth, warm body, pausing at every soft articulation, every curve, as if molding some rare and yielding material.
“Perfect,” he said.
“This isn’t in the painting,” she protested, but she turned to him; her lips were parted and her breasts were full, fuller and heavier certainly than those of Mlle O’Murphy. Then together again on the dormeuse. Re-emerging into the red and gold light, she asked, “The artist, what is the artist’s name?”
“Boucher, I think, François Boucher.” He stood looking down at her as she lay on her back, no longer in the graceful pose of the painting but relaxed now, sated and languid. François Boucher, he thought, boucher, boucherie, butcher. Butcher. What mysteries every language contained. For a Frenchman, the paintings of this artist, which are so luminous, so sensual, which bespeak such delight, may perhaps have a nuance, just a nuance, of butchery. I know French, and here am I thinking such a thing, although until this moment the name Boucher has always meant for me enchantment, desire...
He turned to dress. She watched him from between half-closed eyes, lazily amused; there is something ridiculous about a man getting into his clothes; too many hooks, too many buttons, and then the buckles, and then the sword.
“Do you know what I’m reading? A Thousand and One Nights. It’s marvelous... a bit boring now and then, but marvelous... Have you read it?” the Countess said.
“No, not yet.”
“I’ll lend it to you. Those Moslems are extraordinary, you know. It’s all a dream, they live as if they were in a dream. What a delicious city Palermo must have been when they were here—”
“But a woman like you, blond, light-skinned, blue-eyed – you’d have been no better than a slave.”
“Don’t say such silly things... I’d love to know more about them, about what the Arabs did in Sicily, in Palermo; what their houses were like, and their gardens and their women.”
“Don Giuseppe Vella—”
“Oh, by the way, you know him, don’t you? You’re a good friend of his?”
“Do you want to meet him? He’s an interesting man... A little, what shall I say, closed, a little mysterious... Interesting, in a word.”
“Don’t say such silly things. No one interests me except you... No, I meant... Well, my husband is rather concerned. He says there’s something in the Council of Sicily about our estates; I don’t know what exactly, perhaps just mention of the name, perhaps something about a census... But he is worried that in the Council of Egypt more may come out...”
“Some mention, for example, of the estates’ having once belonged to the Crown, with the implication that your husband’s title to them is based on an early usurpation?”
“I believe so. I mean, I believe that that is what is worrying my husband... You couldn’t, well, speak to Vella, find out—”
“I can find out.” Di Blasi smiled.
“Only find out?” She frowned prettily; it was at once a threat and a promise.
“This is a matter of historical documents, my sweet, of history. A work that demands honesty and scruple. But” – this in a tone of jesting gallantry – “I shall tell Don Giuseppe Vella that a very lovely lady lives in fear and trembling that the Council of Egypt may strip her” – he caressed the naked body and bent to kiss it – “may strip her of her estates and all her revenues...”
Chapter X
Don Gioacchino Requesens stood between Monsignor Airoldi and Don Giuseppe Vella listening to the wonders of the Council of Sicily.
“And I want to read you something that will please you,” Monsignor said. “If I’m not mistaken, in your family you have the title Count di Racalmuto?”
“It comes to us from the Del Carrettos,” Don Gioacchino said. “One of the Del Carretto women married into our family—”
“I must read it to you,” Monsignor said. “I must read it to you.”
He rose and from the pile of notebooks on the table, after a moment’s search, selected one. He returned to his chair and sat down, smiling with the satisfaction of someone about to provide a pleasant surprise.
“Now, I want to read you... here it is:
“‘O my Master, most Great One, the servant of your Honor kneels before you, he bows to touch the earth before you, he kisses your hand, and he begs to inform you that the Emir of Giurgenta has commanded that I should count the population of Rahal-Almut, and that I should then write this letter, and send it to Your Honor in Palermo. I have counted every person, and I have found there to be four hundred and forty-six men, six hundred and fifty-six women, four hundred and ninety-two male and five hundred and two female children. All these children, Moslem and Christian alike, are under their fifteenth year. Saying which, prostrate, I kiss your hands and sign myself thus: Aabd Aluhar, Governor of Rahal-Almut, by the Grace of God, servant of Emir Elihir of Sicily.’
“And then there’s the date, see? ‘This twenty-fourth day of Muharram, in the Year of the Prophet 385.’ That would be January 24, 998. What do you say to that, eh?”
“Interesting,” Don Gioacchino said coldly.
There was a moment of embarrassed silence; Monsignor was clearly taken aback by Don Gioacchino’s manner.
“This is in the Council of Sicily?” Don Gioacchino asked then.
“In the Council of Sicily, yes,” Monsignor replied testily.
“And in the Council of Egypt?” Don Gioacchino continued.
“In the Council of Egypt, what?” The Bishop’s irritation was rising.
But Don Giuseppe had grasped the situation: Don Gioacchino was preoccupied, and rightly so, about what might come out of the Council of Egypt with regard to the County of Racalmuto. Indeed, Don Giuseppe Vella’s new enterprise was aimed directly at such preoccupations.
“I’m saying, is there something more in the Council of Egypt with regard to this County or other lands that belong to my family?”
“I don’t know,” Monsignor said, and he turned inquiringly to Don Giuseppe.
“To this point, I myself do not know,” Don Giuseppe said. “I have just started to work on it,” but this he said in a tone that gave Don Gioacchino clearly to understand that in the Council of Egypt there might well be enough and more than enough – as Don Gioacchino phrased it mentally – to make the Requesens family “cover its arse with its hand” – in a word, they stood to lose their shirts.
“Oh, I see!” Understanding dawned on the Bishop, and he turned to Don Giuseppe to explain. “You see, our Don Gioacchino is worried that some document may turn up that concerns some of their holdings or estates and that might suggest they had been acquired by an early usurpation.”
“Oh,” Don Giuseppe said, all surprise, all innocence.
“I am not worried in the slightest,” Don Gioacchino said. “I am sure that no shadow of suspicion will fall on the possessions of my family. But you know how it is – a quid pro quo—”
“No such danger,” Monsignor assured him.
“Absolutely none,” Don Giuseppe echoed.
“I understand,” Don Gioacchino said.
He supposed that he was first among the nobles of Palermo to recognize the peril that the Council of Egypt and the astute man who was translating it represented – especially given the way the wind was blowing out of Naples and what with that lunatic Viceroy Caracciolo. In point of fact, many many others were already alerted; a veritable procession bearing gifts had begun to wind its way to Don Giuseppe’s house: lambs bleated in his garden; a big chicken coop was already so crowded that the fowl could scarcely move; smoked meats, cheeses, and sweets were heaped high in every corner of the house... Not to mention the tribute in the form of onzas and the invitations to dinner that snowed down upon him from every side.
Chapter XI
“The Countess Di Regalpetra is in a state,” Di Blasi said to Don Giuseppe, �
�and it’s all your fault.”
“Mine? But I scarcely know who she—”
“She’s afraid something will turn up in the Council of Egypt that will wreak havoc with her revenues, and she begged me to ask you about it.”
“Do you care?”
“About the Countess, at the moment, yes. About the question of her income, somewhat less.”
“I will see, and let you know. But I think she has nothing to fear.” He spoke with an understanding, an even conspiratorial, smile, as if to add “thanks to your recommendation and my friendship for you.”
At that instant, from Don Giuseppe’s words and from his smile, Di Blasi had the impression that here was a man prepared to sacrifice a passage in the Council of Egypt, to tamper with a historical fact, with a historical document, for the sake of friendship. It was a fleeting impression, a tiny doubt as to Don Giuseppe’s professional probity. For that matter, most Sicilians place friendship above all else; it would not be strange if Don Giuseppe shared that attitude. Later, much later, when Di Blasi thought back, the meaning of that little episode became clearer: What Don Giuseppe was prepared to sacrifice to friendship was not historical data but potential blackmail; the fact, the human and consoling fact, still remained that such a man would place disinterested affection above fraud and blackmail, that he would renounce personal satisfaction and profit in the name of friendship.
Now, however, Di Blasi was mildly disturbed, and he was about to explain to Don Giuseppe that he had only been joking when he spoke of the anxiety of the Countess – let come what must, whether good or evil and for whomever, from the Council of Egypt – but at that moment, the Prince di Partanna, joyous as a dog that has found its master, came bounding toward Don Giuseppe: “My dear Abbot Vella, happy are these eyes that look upon you again! Where have you disappeared to? You haven’t come to see me for a week—”
“My work,” Don Giuseppe said, “my work.”
“That blessed Council of Egypt, I know, I know... but a man must take a little rest... Do you know, I find you a bit thinner, just a trifle worn?... You must take care of yourself, my dear friend, get some rest, allow yourself a bit of vacation. Come stay at my home, with me... You know the saying, ‘Better a live donkey than a dead doctor.’ What do you want to do, kill yourself over the Council of Egypt?”
“If I had not been working, I should not be able to tell you now that I have found an illustrious ancestor of yours in the Council of Egypt: Benedetto Grifeo, which in Arabic is pronounced ‘Krifah’; ambassador from the Court of Sicily to Cairo...”
“Really? But this is a pleasant surprise!” He took Vella’s arm and drew him aside. “You deserve all my gratitude, my own and my family’s.”
“I merely translate what is in the codex.”
“Which is to say, you are deserving of a great deal, believe me... By the way, did you receive a small cadeau from me?”
“Forty onzas,” Don Giuseppe specified; the tone was chill.
“A mere nothing... I intend to do more, and so have the honor of sharing in your glorious, your truly glorious task, to contribute—”
“Mine is very humble work; it is your patronage that makes it not only possible but worthy—”
“Don’t speak such foolishness! You—”
“May I have the honor of bidding you good evening?” The Marquis di Geraci placed one hand on the shoulder of Don Giuseppe and the other on the shoulder of the Prince; he stood between them, smiling, affectionate.
“I was just thinking of you,” Don Giuseppe said. “Because, as I was remarking to the Prince, I have read in the Council of Egypt that an ancestor of his, one Benedetto Grifeo, was the first Norman ambassador to Cairo... And do you know who succeeded him after his death?”
“An ancestor of mine, I wager,” the Marquis said.
“Just so. A Ventimiglia, which the Arabs pronounced ‘Vingintimill.’ For the moment, I don’t know exactly whether this Ventimiglia is the same – Giovanni by name – who took as wife one Eleusa, the widow of a nephew of Count Ruggero; Sarlone was her family name. The passage is a bit involved, and I am still working on it. I will have it all straight in a few days.”
“You are a great man, my dear Abbot, a great man,” Ventimiglia said. (By then everyone was calling him Abbot, and so we shall begin to call him Abbot also.)
What is written is written, the Prince di Partanna was thinking, but something tells me I made a mistake to send him only forty onzas. A blood relationship with Count Ruggero cannot be worth less than a hundred. Ventimiglia was sharper than I am.
Passing by with his wife on his arm, the Duke di Villafiorita waved cordially, but his smile was directed particularly at Abbot Vella, who had provided him with an ancestor in the Norman Royal Council.
Yes, yes, they thought a world of the Abbot, these nobles did; this evening gala, held at Santa Cecilia to bid farewell to Caracciolo, who was finally leaving, seemed to turn into a gala in his honor. Abbot Vella, however, was inflexible: he accepted their cadeaux, he was flattered by their affability, but he stood prepared to assign important posts and grand family ties only to ancestors of those who showed themselves more generous. As for granting them titles to their estates, nothing doing: he was working for the Crown; it was from the Crown that he was expecting in recompense an abbacy or other benefice sine cura; just as he had already obtained a chair at the Academy and a grant of a thousand onzas to travel to Morocco for study, a project that he was just then readying himself for. And for their part, the nobles were seemingly content with the appointments and honors that Abbot Vella was distributing among their forebears, much as they yearned to have for themselves a cross or a commendation or a ribbon from their King, from the Pope, or from any other potentate.
In reality, they were calculating that despite all the uproar over how the Council of Egypt would deal their baronial privileges a rude blow, some exceptions there would have to be; that an appointment as ambassador or councillor must constitute the premise to the exception. And Abbot Vella allowed them to hope in this way.
Ordinarily they all greeted him, complimented him, but this evening they did so ostentatiously to show Caracciolo, the guest of honor for the evening, how little they thought of him. The party had been arranged over great opposition and only because Grassellini, Judge of the High Civil Court and a Caracciolo man, had insisted: Tu, Grassellini, mulus Caraccioli.
The nobles were bidding their real farewell to the departing Viceroy with sonnets and epigrams of scathing invective, rhymed satires, anecdotes, and nicknames that pilloried Caracciolo’s lack of piety, his libertine tastes, and his maladministration. One of the sonnets making the rounds had Santa Rosalia, mindful of how Caracciolo had tried to undermine her fame, raising a paean of joy to heaven; Meli recited it to a small circle of listeners, with his habitual flourishes and winks, but swore that the sonnet came from another’s pen; it had been sent to him anonymously. And this was true.
The Viceroy was sitting in the center box, surrounded by the highest-ranking dignitaries of the Kingdom. He appeared to be asleep. His heavy, sagging features betrayed evident age and fatigue, but now and again an ironic smile or a sharp glance animated his face. Watching him from the parquet, Di Blasi thought that he could discern behind the fleeting expressions of boredom and irony the man’s profound melancholy. Awareness of defeat, of imminent death, must be acute in such a man, the young lawyer was thinking: Sicily and the Court had inflicted public defeat on him, and his own body was surrendering to death. He had had twenty years in Paris, had hoped to stay there for whatever years of life remained to him. He was already old, yet they had sent him, at sixty-seven, as Viceroy to Palermo; from the citadel of reason to the hic sunt leones, to a desert where the sands of an irrational tradition bury the trail of any forward-moving spirit. But he had a vigorous mind and a character that drew energy and determination from opposition and obstacles; he had immediately launched an attack against the centuries-old edifice of Sicilian feudalism. He had had t
o contend with the open resistance of a nobility jealous of its privileges to the point of blindness and with the now open, now covert, opposition of the Court in Naples, where the Sicilian Marquis della Sambuca held the post of Minister for Sicilian Affairs. What he had managed to achieve under such conditions established the bases for revolution in Sicilian history. He had singled out and exposed the sore spots, the paralyzed ganglia of Sicilian life: even if he had not succeeded in healing or amputating them, he had left a clear diagnosis for those few people who were genuinely concerned and sincerely eager that in their country law should replace caprice, that a government based on order and civil justice should supplant baronial privilege and anarchy, and ecclesiastical privilege too.
He had done what lay in his power to do; at times he had perhaps exceeded his authority. And yet, Di Blasi reflected, such a man could not but feel defeated. What he left of enduring achievement was entrusted to the conscience of the future, to history: tomorrow the stroke of a pen would be enough to re-establish the privileges he had worked to demolish, to restore the injustices he had been able to correct; an adultery at Court, a royal favor, a servile intrigue, any one of them would suffice.
The dramatic performance was over and now they were waiting for the curtain to rise on the farewell pantomime.
“A farewell party?” the Prince di Pietraperzia was saying. “I’d gladly give him a farewell party – whistles and catcalls from the Royal Palace to the port!” The eight months he had spent in prison still rankled.
“Grassellini, that cuckold!” Don Francesco Spuches snorted.
“But at least he’s not enjoying himself,” Don Gaspare Palermo said. “Look at him, he looks like a moulting cuckoo.”
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