Prince Ferdinando Licata rose to his full height. Jano came up to his chin. The prince was angrier than he was.
“Jano, I’m going to report you to the mayor! This man is one of my farmhands! You are forbidden to lay a hand on any of my laborers, do you understand?” he shouted in a commanding voice.
Meanwhile, Jano had been joined by the other four Black Shirts.
Nunzio, Manfredi’s son, appeared to be the most ruthless one. “Jano, let’s give him a little taste of our good old castor oil. Then we’ll see if he still feels like shouting.”
Licata wasn’t intimidated. “Nunzio, how dare you talk about me that way? You’re a disgrace to your family.”
Nunzio was about to hurl himself at Licata, but Jano stopped him. “Hold it, Nunzio. We can’t lay a finger on the prince. But on him, we can.” He pointed to Ciccio Vinciguerra, who had risen from the ground and still short of breath, was unable to speak. “He said that fascism has done more harm than good in Sicily. I heard it with my own ears. That’s called disfattismo: defeatism!”
“But we’re not at war. ‘Defeatism!’ ” Licata repeated scornfully. “Worry about maintaining public order and don’t go picking on some poor man.” Prince Licata finished undoing the knots, and then took Vinciguerra by the shoulders and helped him walk as they started toward his car. “I’ll take him home and pretend that none of this ever happened.”
“Hey, he can’t treat us that way!” This time it was Ginetto, the youngest of the gang, who spoke up.
The prince heard him and turned around. “Ginetto, grow up for once and go to work. Your parents are sick and tired of supporting you.”
“Calm down, boys, let’s all stay calm,” Jano said with authority. Then he shouted to the prince, who had now reached his car. “Prince Licata, there’s no room for mummies like you anymore.” The five of them laughed uproariously at the jibe. Nunzio gave Jano a slap on the back, satisfied with how he had resolved the dispute in their favor. Ginetto and the others also exchanged rowdy punches to underscore their victory.
At that time, it didn’t take much to make young troublemakers feel all-powerful.
Ferdinando Licata got in his Alfa Romeo and went back the way he had come, headed for Borgo Tafèle, where Rosario Losurdo’s farmstead was located. Ciccio Vinciguerra needed protection, so Licata thought he should be moved from the Dell’Orbo estate, belonging to Prince Moncada, to the Castellana lands, belonging to Losurdo.
When they reached the farm, he found Losurdo negotiating the sale of some horses with two brokers who’d come from Marsala, on Sicily’s west coast. Manfredi, his chief campiere, was helping Losurdo bargain. Seeing the prince arrive, Losurdo excused himself to his guests and went to meet him.
“Weren’t you supposed to go to Trapani?” he asked the prince, surmising that there had been some mishap. Then he turned to Vinciguerra, who seemed more dead than alive. “Ciccio. What are you doing in the car with the prince?”
“U patri saved my life,” the man said, getting out of the car.
“Ciccio never says a word, but when he does he gets in trouble,” the prince declared as he approached Rosario Losurdo.
“What happened?”
“Jano and his buddies took him,” the prince explained in a loud voice so that everyone around could hear him. “They tied him to their truck with a rope and made him run through the countryside of Salemi.” Manfredi had also approached the group, though he remained a few feet away. The prince saw him and went over to him. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your Nunzio was there as well.” The prince raised his voice, something he rarely did: “He disrespected me, do you understand? Me! He urged the others to give me castor oil! Nunzio, your son!” He tried to calm down. “I held Nunzio in my arms, didn’t I, Manfredi? What have these children of ours become! Who recognizes them anymore! They’ve lost all respect and dignity. And they make their fathers lose it as well.”
Manfredi was mortified. He would have liked to disappear beneath the clods of soil if he could. U patri was right. Nunzio had lost respect for his elders. It was those revolutionary new ideas that the fascists had put in his head.
“Who knows what Jano and those other degenerates made him think he could become?” The prince had promised Manfredi possession of a plot of land in the Madonnuzza. Manfredi hoped with all his heart that the prince would not change his mind after what had happened.
But he was mistaken. Ferdinando Licata decided to take advantage of the situation to save a little of his own dignity. In fact, he took him by the arm and drew him away from the others to say in a regretful, albeit falsely so, tone: “I made you a promise a few weeks ago. And I was going to honor it when I returned from Trapani. But this incident really offended me. You can’t be a benefactor to those who don’t respect you.”
“But patri, you know how loyal and grateful I am to you. Nunzio, unfortunately, has latched on to that Jano like a leech. Damn him for what he did to you.”
“Let me finish. I know you, and I know how loyal you are to me. But these presumptuous usurpers are our enemy, do you understand what I mean, Manfredi? I can’t stand by and allow them to eat my bread. Traitors must be kept at a distance. Them and those like them. I’m sorry Manfredi, but they’ve gone too far, enough is enough. Either your son falls back in line, or you and your family will have to clear out of Salemi.”
Those last words came crashing down on the poor man’s head with the force of a maul, making him stagger. Manfredi was not accustomed to begging and swallowed the ultimatum. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he listens to reason.”
“Good.” The prince left him and went over to Losurdo, who, though he stood aside, had overheard the entire conversation. “Our friend Vinciguerra will no longer go to the Dell’Orbo estate. He’ll stay here with you. Replace him with someone else. I don’t want what I saw today to happen to him again.”
Losurdo nodded, and Licata went back to his car. “Let’s see if I can manage to set off now.” He started the car, leaving everyone stunned. Losurdo and the others followed him with their eyes until the dust vanished behind the curve.
Manfredi had still not recovered from the prince’s outburst. As it gradually sank in that he would not be able to own that piece of land, his anger against his son Nunzio became more and more acute and his rage uncontrollable. Nunzio had to put an end to his dreams of power. Because of him, the hope of a lifetime had dissipated like fog in spring. But perhaps all wasn’t lost. The prince had made it clear that if he were to bring Nunzio back into the fold, he would reconsider his decision. No question about it: he absolutely had to force Nunzio to disown that group of fanatics.
He jumped onto the horse-drawn buggy and reached Salemi in time to see the truck arrive in town, back from its punitive mission against Ciccio Vinciguerra.
Manfredi stood up in the carriage, holding the reins of the mare taut. “Nunzio!” he shouted to his son as he was getting out of the truck. Jano was not with them because he had decided to go and hang around Mena’s farm. Nunzio recognized his father’s voice and turned around. “What do you want?” he said rudely.
Manfredi, despite his size, leaped from the buggy with uncommon agility. Still holding the whip in his hand, he approached his son and dealt him a sharp lash on the face, leaving a bloody mark on his cheek.
Nunzio’s three buddies immediately pinned the father’s arms, but the young man gestured for them to let him go, and they released their hold.
“That was to remind you of the manners I taught you. They tell me you don’t show respect to anyone anymore—you and your fine companions,” Manfredi said, trembling with rage.
“Listen, old man, watch what you say. Otherwise I’ll give you a taste of my wooden club.” It was Ginetto who spoke with such cockiness.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Manfredi had now softened his tones, hoping to get through to his son. “You’re not like that. You can’t fake a cynicism you never had.”
“You, what do y
ou know about me? I grew up under your strict rule, and you taught me to bow my head before everyone. Now it’s other people who have to bow down to me. Which do you think is better? Eh, Papa? You were raised like a mule who puts up with being beaten. But the future is ours now.” He laughed in his father’s face and began singing the fascist anthem “Giovinezza,” as his friends joined him.
“Because of you I can’t have the Madonnuzza farm.”
“The savings of a lifetime for a piece of land that even the lizards won’t go near. Do you realize what a miserable beggar you’ve been your whole life?”
At that affront, Manfredi was about to strike Nunzio’s face with his whip again, but this time the young man was prepared. Blocking his father’s arm with one hand as he was about to swing, he slapped him with his other hand. Manfredi staggered, more from shock than from the actual force of the blow. He would never have believed that his own son would hit him. He stepped back. “Nunzio, my curse on you and your seed for seven generations to come. You are dead to me, to your mother, and to your brother.” So saying, he climbed onto the buggy and rode away while the Black Shirts’ battle hymns resounded behind him, brazenly bellowed by Nunzio’s pals.
Nunzio, however, had fallen silent. He watched the buggy disappear down the lane, deeply disturbed by his father’s curse.
Chapter 17
– 1939 –
In small rural towns, where most social encounters took place at Sunday morning mass, rare family gatherings or religious feasts celebrating the patron saint, a movie in the piazza provided the occasion for young and old alike to experience an exciting collective dream.
The Fiat Balilla with the films and projector was due to arrive in Salemi in the early afternoon. During the winter, the projection was set up in the town hall, while in the summer months Piazza del Duomo served as an ideal setting, with the screen positioned where the Corso began. That day, however, it threatened to rain, so the town clerk decided to hold the screening in the municipal chamber.
Once the Fiat had parked in front of the town hall, a thousand arms volunteered to carry the sensitive equipment inside. Already half the town was gathered in the piazza to watch the ritual of mounting the screen and setting up the projector. To the kids, the cans of film, those curious round aluminum canisters with raised ribs, seemed like magic boxes. And the scraps of film that the projectionist sometimes had to cut to match the images to the sound were fought over by the children, occasionally setting off lengthy battles.
The movie screening had by now become a monthly highlight that few people in town wanted to miss. Many even came from neighboring villages, especially if the film was a love story. The movie announced for that afternoon was Casta Diva, a drama directed by Carmine Gallone and released several years earlier, starring Mártha Eggerth, a Hungarian actress well known for the numerous films she had made in Italy.
All the girls in the area had obtained their parents’ permission to watch the film, accompanied by a brother or a family friend. The movie was set in the nineteenth century and told the story of a great ill-fated love affair between the composer Vincenzo Bellini and a singer. The dramatic ending involved the death of the heroine, the chaste goddess of the title.
Mena Losurdo had managed to get her father’s permission to attend. She and her brothers, Michele and Donato, along with their mother, Rosita, had arrived in their buggy early so they could get the best seats. Of course, every viewer had to bring his own chair, otherwise he would have had to watch the movie standing in the back of the hall.
As soon as the room was set up and the doors opened, the crowd of villagers began to flow inside in an orderly manner, carrying chairs and benches, which were arranged in front of the sheet hanging from the ceiling on a long bamboo rod. Everyone who entered greeted friends and family, and the whole audience responded ironically to the greeting, like a chorus. The boys gave one another big slaps on the head and then hid behind their neighbors’ backs. Some threw spitballs in the air, which struck the heads of those in the front rows. Annachiara had also entered the hall with her daughter Ester and her son, Saro. The Black Shirts from the local fascist combat league, Ginetto, Nunzio, Prospero, and Quinto, also showed up, but nobody paid any attention to them. The magic of cinema was able to bring everyone together.
Jano arrived soon afterward. He had come without a chair; nevertheless, he found someone who reluctantly gave up his seat. His gaze wandered around the room until he finally spotted his prey: Mena was a few rows ahead and hadn’t yet noticed him. Jano sat down, and then the lights went out, and the cheerful hubbub died down. Whistling and hissing were heard, but when the screen lit up, a perfect silence immediately fell over the room.
At the end of the first half the lights came back on and everyone stood up to stretch their legs, stiff from remaining stock-still. It was then that Mena turned toward the audience behind her, glancing around for some friendly face.
The girl was wearing a close-fitting, dark pullover sweater that accentuated her appealing curves. For an instant, her clear, intense gaze met Saro’s, but she looked away immediately so as not to blush.
A few rows behind was someone who couldn’t take his eyes off her: Jano. The young man shifted so she could see him, and then smiled. “Ciao, Mena, enjoying it?”
Mena noticed him and waved back. “I’m afraid it’s going to end badly.”
“You’ll see, she’ll manage to get him to marry her.”
“Let’s hope so. Bellini was a real dolt,” she declared, referring to the character in the film.
Jano smiled at her characterization. Then the lights dimmed and went out altogether before the second half began.
When “The End” appeared on the white sheet, a lot of the women and girls tucked away the handkerchiefs they’d been using to wipe away tears over the protagonist’s death. Even after the lights came on again, everyone in the room kept silent, as if hoping that the film might keep going, presenting a more satisfying ending. But then a young man began clapping, and everyone chimed in with hearty applause. People began flowing out of the room. It was not an easy matter, considering all the chairs and benches that had to be carried out.
Jano took advantage of the confusion to approach Mena. “You were right: she dies at the end,” he said with a smile.
“All these movies end the same way,” she said, her eyes still shiny. “If life were that way, it would be a perpetual tragedy.”
“But you cried; tell the truth.”
“Don’t be silly. It takes more than that to move me,” the girl lied brazenly.
“Like what?” Jano challenged, blocking her way and forcing her to stop, as people continued to flow around them.
But Mena sidestepped him and went on walking. “Jano, what’s gotten into your head tonight?”
“Mena, I’d like—”
But he wasn’t able to finish the sentence because Rosita, a few steps ahead, turned around and called, “Mena, hurry up! It’s about to rain.”
“I’m coming, Mama!” she called back to her mother. Then she turned to Jano. “What did you want to tell me?”
He touched her arm and said, “You look beautiful tonight and—”
But the legs of a chair slid in between the two, forcing them to separate. Jano was irritated and smacked the chair heatedly. “Watch where you’re going, pipsqueak!” he shouted.
The boy who was holding the chair against his chest faltered, partly because he was carrying a second one balanced unsteadily on his head. “Oh, I didn’t see you,” Saro tried to apologize, throwing a mischievous glance at Mena.
Seeing his funny position, she burst out laughing. Then, leaving the two to face each other, she ran off to join her mother who was outside by now.
“You did that on purpose,” Jano hissed in his face.
Saro tossed it off as a joke, however. “But I really didn’t see you. Besides, Jano, you should get over your paranoia.” So saying, he continued on toward the door, leaving Jano standing in the
middle of the room, foaming with rage. Meanwhile, a steady drizzle began to fall.
The arrival of the movie in Salemi had brought all activities in the town to a standstill. Those who hadn’t gone to the town hall for the showing were few and far between: mainly the elderly, those in poor health, and individuals who seized the opportunity to attend to matters that they didn’t want anyone to know about. One of these was Nunzio, who had sunk into a deep depression after quarreling with his father. He needed to confide in someone who was very close; a friend—or something more than a friend. He took advantage of the film’s screening, when Salemi’s streets emptied for a few hours, to go and visit Tosco.
The former servant of Marquis Bellarato lived like a virtual recluse, in a beautiful, five-room house that had been a gift from the marquis at the beginning of their life together.
When he heard someone knock, Tosco felt his heart leap. No one ever came to his house. But deep down, he always hoped that Nunzio would remember him.
He opened the door, and when he saw the young man, he threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly. But Nunzio, as usual, brusquely pushed him away and went in, closing the door behind him.
“At last, you’ve come! It’s been a month. I can’t stand not being with you,” Tosco whined as his visitor entered the dining room. Nunzio didn’t answer him. He was silent, looking around at the antique furniture, the precious silver, the enameled watches, the ceramic knickknacks, the Liberty-style lamps: Tosco had filched them all from the marquis’s palazzo, considering them his own, given that he was the natural son of the marquis’s father.
The elder marquis had fathered him with one of his maids, who conceived while his wife was expecting Pietro. The two boys, nearly the same age, had grown up together. They’d played the same games, studied the same books. But although they were half brothers, Tosco became the servant and Pietro the marquis.
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