The footmen moved among the guests carrying trayfuls of lemonade and acqua e zammù—water with a few drops of anise seed. It wouldn’t be long now before the procession of the Vara went past the palazzo. The approach of the procession was preannounced by a buzz of voices, at first far off in the distance and then gradually closer and higher-pitched: a blend of music, the shouts of the faithful—“Long live the Virgin Mary!”—and a psalmody that, murmured by hundreds of mouths, turned into a roar. Leading the procession was a line of twelve altar boys carrying the insignia of the Virgin Mary, followed by the confraternities and religious orders, both male and female, in two lines on either side of the street, as if they were flanking an invisible simulacrum. Between them walked the nuns and the female orphans of the Collegio di Maria, the boarding school that Agata and Carmela had been attending since the year before, when they were obliged to make do without the services of the English governess, Miss Wainwright. The din was something terrible. The faithful were crammed together on the sidewalks, in the front halls, in the doors of the shops, and in the narrow alleys. Two lines of altar boys, caparisoned in brocade vestments, marching shoulder to shoulder in compact rows, filled the street: the vanguard of Our Lady of the Assumption.
At the shout of “La Vara!” the guests poured out onto the balconies. Then silence fell. The tension was unmistakable. The façades of the aristocratic houses seemed to have been garlanded with the colorful dresses of the women on the balconies. The grated windows of the monasteries were all aglitter with dream-glazed eyes. The Vara would appear at the crossroads where it would make the only deviation from a straight line in the course of the entire procession: a ninety-degree turn. A thousand eyes were fixed on the intersection. Music, chants, and shouts of invocation grew to a deafening roar.
The first ones to appear around the corner were the men carrying bucketfuls of water: the “machine,” which had no wheels, rode, as if on a sledge, on a smooth wooden log, and it was their job to wet the pavement in order to make it slippery. They cast the water in all directions, as if sowing seed in an open field. Then silence fell. No music, no litanies, only the humming voices of the faithful. At the intersections, the haulers appeared, barefoot, pulling the cart by sheer force of forearms and faith. This was the moment of the procession’s greatest intensity. It was also the most dangerous moment. Rapidly the haulers took their places along the two ropes in accordance with an order that had been clearly established for centuries. Some of them went on pulling to keep the Vara from slowing to a halt. Others, clustering along their ropes, waited for the right moment to exert their strength. Others still waited in line, hands on the rope, ready to haul. Precise. Attentive. Synchronized. At that moment, even the buzzing died away: like a single body, the faithful held their breath. You could hear, faintly, the wailing of the little angels on the Vara. Rhythmic tugs, then one decisive yank from the cluster of haulers: the turn had been completed. As tall as a two-story building, shaped like a narrow pyramid, and immensely heavy, the Vara appeared at the corner. It was vibrating and tottering. For a second it seemed as if it was tipping over. Another yank and it went back to sliding along the wet pavement, solid, erect, accompanied by a gust of applause for the haulers, heroes of the day.
Ever since the late Middle Ages, the Messinese had been the uncontested masters of the whole island in the creation of those ephemeral constructions, unrivaled not only in terms of sheer beauty, but also in terms of mechanical technique: inside the “machine” there were manually operated gears that allowed a variety of movements. When the Vara moved forward, it was unstoppable. Every year, the decoration changed, but the structure and the chief elements remained the same: large circles at the base that grew progressively smaller, narrowing toward the top, upon which celestial bodies were poised, each with its own rotating movement. From each of the circles, wheels projected, also in movement. There was a time when all the characters were live people, and there were more than a hundred of them, but with the passing of the centuries, the adult figures–the Apostles that surrounded the coffin of the Virgin Mary at the base, the angels of the three circles, and Jesus Himself–had been replaced by brightly painted papier-mâché statues. The only remaining humans were the Virgin Mary, at the summit of the pyramid, and dozens of tiny angels, tied to the rays of the Sun and the Moon and to the wheels that spun at the side of each of the circles: these were infants or small children volunteered for the occasion by their families. The circles, wheels, and all the other contrivances would spin in alternating directions for the entire seven hours of the procession.
Because the cart was so dizzyingly high, the Padellanis’ guests who hadn’t been able to find a place to stand on the balconies still had a full view of the upper circles and of the Virgin Mary. Therefore everyone, including the footmen and chambermaids, was looking outside. Agata had hung back. As soon as she heard the sound of footsteps on the wet pavement and the creaking of the machine sliding along, she ran downstairs at top speed to the stables, which were empty at that time of day. That was where Giacomo was waiting for her. Declarations of undying love, tears, and the good news: Senator Lepre, moved by the sincerity of the two young people’s love, had offered to request Agata’s hand in marriage to his grandson, in his son’s stead. There was no more time to talk; when the coachman gave the agreed-upon signal, the two lovers were forced to take their leave.
Agata raced upstairs four steps at a time and elbowed her way silently back among her sisters at the very moment that the Vara passed in front of the balcony. The third circle, the one with the constellations, was barely a yard away, and it was revolving like the stars and the constellations. The Sun, as large as a dinner table, had eyes, a nose, a large smiling mouth, and twelve rays. At the tip of each of those rays, a baby no more than six months old, with gilded wings fastened to its shoulders, was confined in a cage that enclosed its body while leaving arms, legs, and head free. Each baby’s head was covered by a bonnet with curls that were also gilded. The rays spun in alternating directions: at that very moment, they changed direction and stopped right in front of the balcony. Less than a yard away, Agata found herself face to face with an array of screaming little angels, their faces deformed by terror; then the wheel began turning again and the noise of the procession drowned out the wails of the babies.
“Blessed angels of Our Lady of the Assumption!” “Little beauties!” “Holy souls!” commented the women.
“May the Lord bless them every one,” whispered Annuzza as she crossed herself. And then, speaking to Carmela: “See how pretty they are!” The heat of the afternoon sun had become an intolerable flame. Agata could feel herself going into a swoon; she shut her eyes and gripped the railing with all her might. Even the railing was hot; she clamped her fingers down hard, then harder, until she’d hurt herself. When she opened her eyes again, the Vara and the ravaged children were no longer there. Like a torrent in spring spate, the crowd thronging the street had closed ranks behind the sacred cart. The shouts of “Long live the Virgin Mary!” were deafening—to the faithful, that was the moment of utmost pride and religious exaltation.
Meanwhile, the Padellanis’ guests already were buzzing around the sherbets.
After the procession with the Vara had passed by the house, it was customary for the field marshal, with the Marescialla on his arm, to lead all his guests to witness the end of the procession in the cathedral square. Followed by the officers from the garrison and the other guests, they created a smaller private procession within the larger one. Donna Gesuela slowed her pace to make it easier on her husband, who suffered from gout; she also took advantage of this opportunity to sashay and pivot voluptuously, scattering smiles in all directions. This gave the footservants a chance to straighten up back at the house, in preparation for the final refreshments. Moreover, it was the Marescialla’s opinion that their guests, with the flavor of the sweets still in their mouths, would be less spiteful in the comments they might offer on the party to the people they chanced
to meet on the street than they were likely to be the following day. After a good night’s sleep, their guests were likely to make a special effort to come up with some detail to complain about. She knew her guests were always afraid that they’d be taken for unsophisticated bumpkins if they couldn’t find some detail to criticize.
Agata did her best to break away from the festive group without arousing suspicion. She pushed upstream through the crowd and turned into a narrow alley where cobblers and knife sharpeners plied their trade. Not a living soul was around. The fourth door on the right had been left ajar.
They didn’t exchange a word of greeting. Keenly aware that they were alone, they were afraid of themselves and each other. A feeble checkered light filtered down through the grated transom over the door; aside from that glimmering light, the little shop was shrouded in darkness. Agata looked around. The filthy walls were studded with hooks, from which hung pieces of leather of every imaginable shape, goat hides, tattered rags stained variously with wax and pitch, lasts for boots and shoes, and all of the cobbler’s tools and equipment.
Giacomo reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. They had danced together once before, and she remembered the way she’d shivered when their bodies—arms and hands—had touched, as well as the exquisite trembling of their alternating breaths. It was a game they played: she inhaled the air that he had exhaled, and he did the same in reverse, until they felt as if they had become one. This time, though, when he touched her through the layers of her muslin dress and undergarment, it was different. She felt naked. And that’s how she felt to him. He fiddled with her lace shawl. She blushed hotly. He delicately tickled her neck, touching her with his thumb and index finger. Her skin grew moist.
“I want you to be my bride.” Giacomo broke the silence. “My grandfather will do as he’s promised and my parents, once our engagement is official, will give in. But before anything else I want you to make me a promise: I’m a jealous man, I want you to swear that you’ll always be faithful to me.” Agata nodded, and placed her hand on his. He took her finger and brought it up to his throat, laying it across his jugular. Together, they felt the heartbeat. Their bodies thrilled. Giacomo was pulling her toward him with imperceptible movements, without haste. In a swelling crescendo of pleasure. His panting breath and his handsome mouth were on her together. Giacomo unsealed his lips as she opened hers. Suddenly, Agata pulled away. “Remember that a woman who takes certain things in her mouth or other places is fallen.” Annuzza had said those words to her older sisters when she was just little, but she still remembered it clearly because Amalia, her favorite sister, had burst into tears. “No, no, that isn’t right . . . ” Agata protested, and looked at him with fright, worried that she’d offended him.
“Let’s embrace once, tightly, and then you can go.” As he spoke these words, Giacomo slid his fingers down from her neck to her shoulders, running them under the muslin of her dress and her undergarment, where he brushed the bare flesh of her back. Quickly, Giacomo then wrapped his other arm around her waist and tugged her close to him. Agata threw back her head to avoid his mouth, but she allowed him to shower her throat and shoulders with a rain of tiny, delicious kisses. Giacomo’s hand began sliding down her back. Agata didn’t struggle. Suddenly, he shoved her forward, powerfully, and pressed himself hard against her lower belly.
The aroma of the cobbler’s glue—dense, pungent, inebriating—stunned them both.
Agata wandered through the crowd in a daze. She felt a piercing gaze upon her: the Cavaliere d’Anna, one of the guests and a well known libertine, was following close behind her, hobbling along on his rickety legs. When he managed to draw even with her, he flashed her a drooling smile with his pendulous lips. Agata pretended not to have seen him. She despised him, because at her parents’ parties he always managed to rub up against her when it was impossible for her to put him in his place; she heard the shouts of the crowd surging around the cart of Our Lady of the Assumption and turned her steps in that direction. The Cavaliere smirked and veered over toward a knot of women who were bending over to help an old woman who had slipped and fallen on the pavement. As they struggled to help the woman up, he circled around them, his gaze fixed on their bosoms, then he rubbed up against the vast and impressive derriere of one of them, and scurried off before the unfortunate woman could straighten up and turn around.
The shouts intensified: the men were dismantling the Vara. It was time to take down the little angels, and their mothers—the poorest of a generally poor populace—came rushing to crowd around. After seven hours of constant twirling motion, devoured by the harsh sunlight, starving and parched, the poor little things were half-dead. Some of them wailed bitterly, others whimpered like stray mutts, a few seemed to be lost in a trance. Two were motionless, their heads lolling to one side. The men on the cart were pulling them out of their cages and passing them down in buckets to other men atop tall ladders who called out from on high: “Who’s the owner of this one?” And then they’d hand them down the line, until they were turned over to the mothers. The mothers, cursing and shoving themselves forward, were wrestling to lay their hands on their own child or, more simply, to lay hands on any live child—the ravaged faces were in some cases quite unrecognizable. The laments of the most sorrowful mothers mingled with the crowing shouts of the victorious ones, the deafening jeers of the spectators, and the shrill whistles of the rabble. One mother clutched her comatose child and consoled herself by crooning that the Virgin Mary had decided to take her boy with Her to heaven.
A pair of clergymen watched over the proceedings benevolently. The girl who was playing the part of Our Lady of the Assumption had left the cart. The glittering golden pedestal had reverted to painted papier-mâché and Agata prayed to the Virgin Mary to ask forgiveness for them, but not for herself.
3.
The earthquake and the illness of Field Marshal Padellani
It was a cool morning in early September. The two youngest Padellani daughters, accompanied by Annuzza and Nora—the Marescialla’s personal maid—were traveling by carriage to their sister Amalia’s country home, built high atop a hill not far from their brother-in-law Domenico Craxi’s silk mill: the road that ran out from Messina had been widened into a fine thoroughfare lined by mulberry trees, prickly pears, and pomegranates. Their parents and Anna Carolina would join them for lunch and they’d all spend a few days in the country visiting with Francesco Gallida, the nine-year-old son of Anna Lucia—eldest of the Padellani sisters, who had died tragically young in childbirth. Francesco was with his father and the family from his second marriage.
Once they’d passed through the villa’s ornate front gate, Don Totò reined in the team of horses. Here the road steepened and the carriage was bouncing and swaying around the hairpin curves. Carmela, already a spiteful harridan at the age of seven, was gossiping about the outfits she’d seen other little girls wearing at the feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Agata let her talk; she was looking out the window of the carriage, lost in thought. As the carriage climbed higher and higher, the landscape stretched out before their eyes. The Ionian Sea, beyond Messina, glittered with silver and lay flat as a table; under the lighthouse and off into the distance of Reggio Calabria, the surface of the Tyrrhenian Sea was dark blue and choppy. Beyond the lighthouse were the particolored villages and the steep mountains of the mainland–the “continent.” It was the season for catching swordfish–their migration brought them through the Sicilian seas just twice every year. The Strait of Messina was thronged with small vessels that had been jury-rigged and equipped for deep-sea fishing.
At the foot of the hill, monitoring the mouth of the bay, small formations of fishing dinghies rode at anchor, lashed together at the bow, empty of crew, oars, or yards. From them rose straight up a single exceedingly tall mainmast, and at its summit was a man, lashed to the mast, his feet perched on a wooden crossbeam. Motionless, his eyes swept the water: it was his task to spot the first swordfish and poi
nt the sailors in that direction. Other formations, each with its own lofty mainmast and lookout, roughly equidistant one from the next, spangled the seawaters from the Sicilian to the Calabrian coast. Each formation had a squadron of fisherman in highly maneuverable watercraft, each manned by four oarsmen, a harpooner, and a man astride a smaller yardarm. The instant the lookout spotted the prey, he signaled as much with a rapid movement of arms and torso, accompanied by high-pitched cries directed toward the lookout of the nearest boat. That lookout, equally noisy and just as prompt, issued orders to the crew, and the fishing boat shot out over the waves to the sound of the seamen’s chanteys. Standing erect in the bow of the boat, the man holding the harpoon scanned the surface of the sea—muscles taut, ears alert, eyes peeled. The fishing boats bounced along from crest to trough at furious speeds, forming curves and curlicues, halting and then coming about, slowing, crowding one another, and finally hurtling forward across the water until the harpoonist launched his harpoon. The hissing rush of the hull over the waves was drowned out by the rhythmic shouts of the oarsmen—slow, relentless, warlike—and by the cries of the lookouts—the one high atop the mainmast at the center of the dinghies fastened together in a platform shaped like the petals of a flower and the other lookout on the boat that was trailing after the faster launches of the fishermen—calling out to one another, and once they were out of earshot, gesticulating like madmen to communicate. Once the prey was within range, silence fell as everyone waited for the signal from the man with the harpoon, erect in the bow—half-naked, muscles swollen, stiff-armed, wide-legged—as if he’d been bolted to the wood.
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