“Not on the open wounds,” the presiding judge said to the policeman who had offered to substitute for poor Di Martino, who at that moment, neglected by doctors and nurses, lay groaning in the Central Hospital on a straw mattress they had thrown down on the floor for him. Like a dog, worse than a dog. The policeman had volunteered because the torture was to be a matter of form, of preserving appearances; he hoped word of it would not get about, for then the already unbearable shame he endured for being a policeman would have added to it the infamy of being a torturer. He would take care not to make the prisoner suffer, so that in all conscience, seconded by the testimony of those present, he could say that he had volunteered precisely so as not to make him suffer, considering the fact that at the hands of someone else he would have suffered; and if one stops to reflect, this is the justification many people adduce for their vocation or profession as torturers. However that may be, he did work with a light hand. He held the receptacle, shaped somewhat like a coffeepot, high, so that the liquid would cool a little as it fell through the air; he tipped the pot slowly to make the oil fall drop by drop on the top of the foot, which was still without lesions and blisters.
Di Blasi was so conditioned to pain that he felt only a sensation like the prickings of a needle. And it did not last more than a minute. When the judge pronounced “That is enough,” for the judges his body stopped existing; they consigned the care of his soul to the Confraternity of the Whites.
He was escorted to the military district of San Giacomo, where there were three churches: the Maddalena, San Paolo, and San Giacomo; this last, being the principal one, was chosen for the comfort of the principal prisoner. Corporal Palumbo got San Paolo, Tenaglia and La Villa the Maddalena.
Acting for the Whites, Don Francesco Barlotta, Prince di San Giuseppe, was there to receive Di Blasi and comfort him in his last hours. The Prince was the ideal man for this office; after twenty-four hours spent in his company, one would come to view even death as a welcome release. Di Blasi, who knew the Prince well, was appalled by the prospect of having to discuss eternal verities with him; once they had exchanged the amenities, rather as if they had met on the promenade or in some drawing room, he said firmly that he had several things he wanted to write; he wished to record the emotions and resolutions that these last hours would dictate to him. Actually, he had nothing he wanted to write, but he did want to spend those few hours alone.
The Prince, who had all the arguments of spiritual solace on the tip of his tongue, felt cast down. He had prepared himself very diligently: he had read The Idiot, translated into Italian by the Prince di Butera; since it was the month of May, he had also provided himself with a fat volume of Hebdomanda Mariana; in dealing with a man who was so knowledgeable about books and so arrogant in his criminality, one would require arguments based on unimpeachable dogma and radiant truth; where better look for these than in the joyous, dolorous, glorious Mysteries of the Most Holy Mary? But with Di Blasi electing to write in solitude, nothing remained for the Prince to do but pray for him, so from another collection he had brought with him he set to reading prayers for mercy, a shriven death, and redemption.
Because he felt that he could not and should not write all the true and profound things that stirred within him, Di Blasi began to write verses. The concept of poetry then prevalent held that the poet is free to lie. Today the concept of poetry no longer permits this, although perhaps poetry itself allows it still.
Chapter XIX
“The Lord God, who sees into the heart of His every creature, sees and judges mine, and to this end I pray unto Him. But I pray above all that He long preserve the well-being of this Kingdom and that he also long preserve and bless Your Holy Royal Majesty, the Queen Consort, and the Family Royal...”
“The well-being of this Kingdom!” Abbot Vella sneered. He laid down his pen and scattered sand over the page. “There, it’s done at last. Now Monsignor Airoldi can rest easy.” He blew the sand off and arranged the pages in order. He reread them. The best part of the letter, he decided, was where he denied having falsified anything and at the same time covertly admitted that he had:
“One would have to agree that had I done nothing but guess or fantasticate, no one could have guessed more truly or conceived a more lively fantasy; the creator of such a remarkable work would, if I may say so, deserve far greater fame than the humble translator of two Arabic codices...”
In the distance, a scattering of bells began to toll. The Abbot crossed himself and prayed that eternal grace be granted Francesco Paolo Di Blasi. Soon he will be in the world of truth, he thought, and was struck with dismay at the sudden idea that the world of truth might be here and now, in the world of living men, of history, of books.
That same thought, but better rooted and more confident, was with Di Blasi as he stepped up onto the scaffold.
The square was almost deserted; there were only the few faithful souls who would rush forward the instant the execution was over and the corpses removed, to snatch a length of rope or some other reliquary of the “justice” they had just enjoyed; this would become their homeopathic amulet against the hanging they suspected might very likely be awaiting them. Among the few clusters of these obscene, ragged people, the well-dressed, well-brushed, rosy-cheeked Dr. Hager was prominently visible. They want to know everything, see everything, Di Blasi thought, but they fail to see the essentials, the things that really count... And he will write in his diary about my beheading, but he will not write one word about the reasons why they are beheading me. He remembered the spring day when he had accompanied Goethe to Monreale; there was a man who was moved by a potsherd from Hellenic Selinus or by a coin from Syracuse, but who had stood, impassive and almost repelled, before the world-renowned mosaics in the Cathedral.
The scaffold was draped in black; black candles were on hand; presently they would be lighted and set around his dead body. Death had been duly decked out in deference to his station. A servant wearing the mourning livery of the Di Blasis held in his hand the silver basin into which his master’s head would fall. He was the youngest servant in the household; Di Blasi wondered by what trick of persuasion or pressure the others had contrived to saddle him with this sad duty; the boy’s eyes were filled with tears and he was shaking as if he had a chill. Not even my mother understood me, not even she was able to read my heart, if now she sends me this wretched liveried boy and a silver basin and black candles.
He walked over to the servant and put a hand on his shoulder. “When the time comes,” he said, “shut your eyes.”
The boy nodded. Di Blasi turned away, feeling suddenly that he was about to burst into helpless tears.
The executioner stood before him: he was a strapping man, but now he seemed shrunken into himself, uneasy and intimidated. His name was Calogero Gagliano, and he was a goatherd from Girgenti; he had killed a man, and he saw nothing wrong in killing one more, certainly not when it was done in the name of justice and he would thereby obtain an amnesty for the sixteen years he had still to serve. He paid no mind whatever to the others whom he had to hang, but he did feel a twinge of fear at having to cut off a gentleman’s head, a lawyer’s head. And so he had come up to Di Blasi to stammer, “Your Worship’ll forgive me.”
“Think of your freedom,” the condemned man said, to hearten him.
The Prince di San Giuseppe held out the white silk handkerchief; under his white hood, he began to murmur prayers almost in counterpart with the Chaplain’s tenor. Di Blasi looked around the square for the last time; he saw Dr. Hager again; the man stood watching attentively, as if he were deciphering a page from the Codex of San Martino. The spectators crossed themselves; the executioner crossed himself, and began to pray. He prayed to his God, the God of goats and of the malocchio, that he give him a steady hand to cut the rope, that the axe fall true.
And his prayer was heard.
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About Leonardo Sciascia
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About Leonardo Sciascia
LEONARDO SCIASCIA (1921–1983) was a novelist and politician whose works were often set in his troubled, mafia-blighted homeland of Sicily. He hailed from Racalmuto in the south-west of the island and lived there for much of his life.
About the Introducer
Michael Schmidt is a critic and poet and editorial and managing director of Carcanet Press. His books include Lives of the Poets, several collections of poems, two novels, critical books, and anthologies.
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Gaspar van Wittel (1653–1736), A Panoramic view of Messina, Sicily, 18th century. Oil on canvas. Gaspar van Wittel, also known as Gaspare Vanvitelli, was a Dutch painter who made his career in Rome, and spent most of his life in Italy. One of the principal painters of topographical views known as vedute, van Wittel is credited with turning topography into a painterly specialism in Italian art.
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The Apollo list reflects in various ways the extremity of our time, and the ways in which novelists responded to the vertiginous changes that the world went through as the great empires declined, relations between men and women were transformed and formerly subject peoples found their voice.
Selected by the distinguished critic, poet and editor Michael Schmidt, in conjunction with Neil Belton, editorial director at Head of Zeus, Apollo makes great forgotten works of fiction available to a new generation of readers. Apollo will challenge the established canon and surprise and move readers with its choice of books.
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First published in Italy as Il Consiglio d’Egitto in 1963 by Giulio Einaudi editore.
First published in English in 1966.
This paperback edition published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by Apollo, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd.
Copyright © Giulio Einaudi editore S.p.A. 1963
Introduction © Michael Schmidt, 2016
The moral right of Leonardo Sciascia to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (PB) 9781784978037
ISBN (E) 9781784978020
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The Council of Egypt Page 15
