“But who could have such a deep-seated grudge against Vassallo?” Captain Costa purposely went on wondering.
“Vassallo has many friends who protect him, but just as many enemies who hate him. That outlaw has a pair of files filled with reports and accusations. Still, such savagery has never occurred around here.” Montalto thought for a long moment. “Yes, it’s very unusual. These are people who come from outside.” The chief brigadier was beginning to come closer to the truth.
“I have an idea, however,” Captain Costa offered, to lead Montalto onto the desired track. “I heard from an informer that not so long ago Rosario Losurdo, Prince Ferdinando Licata’s gabellotto, went to ask a favor of someone: guess who?”
“Vassallo?” Montalto deduced.
“The very one! And remember Marquis Bellarato, who was killed so atrociously in his palazzo that went up in flames?” The chief, all too aware of the incident, nodded. “Remember the charred body found in the palazzo, alongside the marquis?”
“Of course, I was the one who conducted the investigation. It was the corpse of Salvatore Turrisi,” Montalto said.
“Right. Naturally, you know that Turrisi was a member of Vassallo’s band and that he was there to perform the favor that Losurdo had asked of Vassallo, most certainly as ordered by Prince Licata.”
“In fact, the prince had a vested interest in the marquis’s death,” Montalto remarked.
“Because the marquis had gotten in the way of the purchase of a certain estate,” the captain went on. “The motive fits perfectly. At that point, Vassallo must have blackmailed the prince, and he decided to have Vassallo killed. Losurdo was sent to do the job. But when Vassallo escaped, he reacted ruthlessly against his family.”
Chief Brigadier Montalto shook his head. “I’m not convinced. Around here, we’re all farmers and laborers. This is the work of professional cutthroats. No one commits such a reckless act of butchery, unless he’s an outsider and a swine.”
Chapter 19
– 1939 –
That morning, the town clerk, Michele Fardella, himself brought Mayor Lorenzo Costa the notes he had found wedged under the knocker of the town hall door.
“Two more anonymous notes,” he told his former superior in the Royal Guard, placing the double-folded sheets on the desk.
Lorenzo Costa continued to leaf through the newspaper, Il Giornale di Sicilia, and didn’t pay any attention to the notes.
Every day, at least two or three anonymous messages arrived at the town hall, through the oddest channels. Sometimes people were unhappy with how things were going, other times someone was denounced for having stolen someone else’s animals, or, more prosaically, a betrayed lover exposed the duplicity of a woman who had dishonored him. All in all, the notes aptly represented the theater of everyday life in Salemi and the surrounding area.
“Do you have any orders for me this morning?” the trusted Fardella asked.
“No, Michele. You can go,” the mayor told him. “When you leave, turn on the radio.”
He tossed the newspaper on the desk and picked up the two notes. The first was carefully typed and signed “a group of employees.” “How conscientious,” the captain thought. Then, ensconced in his chair, he began reading.
“Your Excellency, We would like to inform you that Sicilian Insurance Company has fired all of its Jewish personnel, but ironically enough has kept its manager. The law should apply equally to everyone, especially fascist law, and we request that Your Excellency will take appropriate measures, since this is an abuse and contrary to the Duce’s wishes.
“The manager has always been a tyrant, and he is no longer wanted at this firm, otherwise we will alert the proper authorities. Our respects . . .”
“Bastards, another headache to deal with,” the mayor fumed, slamming the sheet of paper onto the desk. One way or another, the issue had to be resolved. But he would think about it tomorrow.
He opened the second anonymous note. This one was just a few lines written by hand, but when he finished reading it he straightened up in his chair, alarmed, and carefully read it again.
“Open Salvatore Turrisi’s coffin, and you will find a nice surprise. If you guess who the real corpse is, they’ll dub you a knight. A friend.”
* * *
The mayor ran to the window to try to call back Michele Fardella. But the town clerk had already disappeared from view.
He read the note one more time and then let his memory travel back nineteen years. He recalled the murder of Marquis Bellarato, which was the reason he’d been sent from Palermo to Salemi in 1920. He remembered finding a second charred body, that of Salvatore Turrisi. Lorenzo Costa cursed the Sicilians and their habit of hiding behind anonymous notes. His sixth sense told him that the matter was covering up something very serious.
What joke did fate have in store for him?
* * *
Jano had become obsessed with Mena. The girl was able to make him forget his animosities and smoldering rage, and her good humor, irony, and no-nonsense ways stirred feelings that he had never felt for anyone, not even his mother. Was that perhaps love? Her lovely face, the green eyes that contrasted with her long black hair, made him feel almost dizzy. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He absolutely had to have her as his wife.
Jano was musing on these sweet thoughts as he sat hunched beside the window of the truck that Nunzio was driving, headed toward Borgo Fazio. They had to pick up some furniture for the mayor there.
They hadn’t yet said a word since leaving Salemi. Nunzio was whistling a catchy little tune to keep himself company. Jano was studying the landscape in front of him when he saw a buggy pulled by an amber-colored mare appear around a curve, coming in the opposite direction. He recognized Mena immediately; there wasn’t a woman in Salemi who could handle the reins as capably as she could. In fact, as soon as the girl saw the truck coming toward her, in the center of the roadway, she slowed the mare’s pace and directed her to the side of the road.
“Slow down, slow down.” Jano shook Nunzio, who was lost in his own thoughts.
Nunzio braked and steered the truck to the edge of the road. “Stop. It’s Mena.”
Even before the truck came to a halt, after passing the buggy, Jano leaped to the ground and turned back to the young woman, who had stood up.
“Mena. What a surprise. I never thought I’d meet you here.” He walked over to the buggy, resting his hand on the iron handhold for climbing up.
“I brought lunch to my brothers,” she said coolly.
Without giving her a chance to react, Jano got into the carriage and took the reins from her hands. “I’ll take you home,” he said and then turned to Nunzio, who was watching from the window of the truck. “You go on, I’ll see you later.”
He was as happy as a child over that unexpected meeting. The truck drove off, and only then did Mena realize that she was left alone with Jano.
“We can’t ride together. If my father sees me, he’ll tear me limb from limb,” the girl said firmly.
But Jano had already whipped the mare, who, with a sudden jerk, started trotting briskly again, sensing a more authoritative hand guiding her. The buggy’s lurch made Mena fall against Jano, who smiled and put his arm around her waist.
“Hey, Mena, don’t get me all roused up, though.”
“Don’t touch me.” She made him move his hand. “You’re really determined to make me lose my honor today, aren’t you, Jano?”
He laughed heartily and cracked the whip, making the mare pick up her pace.
“Being here with you is a dream. Do you know you’ve bewitched me? I’m always distracted while I’m working, because I’m thinking about your eyes.” He tried to slow the horse’s trot now, not wanting that enchanted moment to end too soon.
“I didn’t know you worked,” the girl teased him. He fell for it. “I’m a big shot, what do you think? You won’t see me ending up like these yokels. A wife of mine will be looked up to and respected like a l
ady.” He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.
Mena, however, drew away from him and moved to the far end of the seat.
“Come on, don’t be like that.” Jano took both reins in one hand and, with his right hand, tried to pull the girl toward him. “My intentions are serious.” His eyes blazed with desire, and with a tug he managed to grab hold of her.
Mena became more adamant. “Listen, I don’t like this. Get out, now.” She realized that Jano was about to overstep his bounds.
Jano stopped the horse in the middle of the road and then turned to the girl, trying to take her by the shoulders and put his arms around her. “Mena, I’m crazy about you. I want to marry you. Please, don’t say no.” He tried to kiss her neck, but the girl twisted free.
“Jano, stop, for the love of God!” She struck him with her fists, but Jano, stirred by the contact with her soft skin, could no longer control himself.
“One kiss! Just one kiss! Mena, you’ll see, it will be beautiful. You need someone like me . . . You’ll like it.”
Mena tried to break away and get out of the buggy. She stood up from the seat, but Jano grabbed her by the wrist, forced her to sit down again and threw himself on her. Mena cried out frantically and clawed his face with her fingernails. He drew back, rubbing the scratches. Mena watched him, terrified, and began whimpering.
Jano stopped the bleeding with his hand and sat up, incredulous. “Forgive me! I beg you to forgive me! I told you: you drive me crazy. I don’t know what came over me. Mena, I beg you to forgive me.” Sincerely distraught, he took her hand and kissed it humbly, continuing to ask for her forgiveness.
Mena was truly frightened. She dabbed her hand with the edge of her blouse, wiping away the traces of blood left by Jano. Then in a faint voice she said, “Take me home now. My parents will be worried.”
Jano, without another word, took the reins and signaled the mare, who resumed her rhythmic trot. They did not speak the rest of the way.
Jano was trying to find a way to salvage the regrettable situation. With a handkerchief, he cleaned away the blood that had clotted over the scratches. In the distance he saw the houses of Borgo Tafèle.
Mena recognized the trees and clusters of prickly pear surrounding the farm before he did.
A few minutes later, they entered the courtyard of the farmstead. Nicola, one of Manfredi’s sons, left the cart he was using to transport cow dung out to the manure heap and ran to slow the horse, grabbing the mare by the bit. The figure of Rosita appeared at the kitchen window. Spotting Jano and seeing her daughter’s face, the woman realized that something distasteful had happened. She went to meet the two, while Rosario Losurdo hurried back to the farm from the toolshed, where he had seen Mena’s buggy returning, though driven by Jano.
Rosita was the first to reach the two young people. “Mountains never meet—” the woman said to Jano.
“—but sooner or later, people do,” the young man said, completing the proverb.
Rosita couldn’t help but notice the bloody scratches on his cheek. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“A branch along the way, nothing serious.”
Meanwhile, Rosario Losurdo joined them, worried as well about the unusual arrival. “Mena, did you get lost?”
The girl didn’t answer. Lowering her eyes, she went into the house, followed by Rosita. Nicola took the opportunity to lead the horse and buggy toward the barn.
His daughter’s silence alarmed Losurdo, who stiffened and took a step toward Jano.
“Jano, where’s your horse? Should I begin to worry?” Then he focused on the marks on the young man’s face. “What did you do to your cheek?”
Finally, Jano decided to speak: “You know how highly I regard you and how much I respect your entire family. I’ve seen how you raised your children. I am honored to be a friend of Michele and Donato.” He uttered the last lie with his gaze down, not to give himself away. Then he looked up and met Rosario Losurdo’s eyes. “I’m in love with Mena, and today I’m asking you formally for her hand. I have a good job, and I can support her in excellent style—”
“Wait, hold on, Jano. Don’t say another word,” Rosario interrupted him. He was still concerned. “Answer truthfully. Did something happen that can’t be rectified?”
“Not at all. I respect Mena. I want to marry her,” Jano replied brazenly.
Losurdo was relieved. “Well, I find it odd that my daughter hasn’t told you.”
Jano went on the defensive. “And what should she have told me?”
“Mena is already promised,” Losurdo lied.
That statement was like a blow to Jano—worse, an insult. “Already promised?” he stammered.
With that disclosure, Rosario Losurdo hoped to get rid of him forever. But Jano wouldn’t accept defeat. “It’s me Mena loves.”
“I don’t believe Mena would have led you on to that degree; otherwise I’ll have to straighten her out but good! A serious young man like you shouldn’t be teased.” By this time, Losurdo was enjoying himself, toying with him like a cat with a mouse.
On top of it, Jano had no sense of humor whatsoever, so he didn’t realize that Mena’s father was taunting him.
“I’m sorry, Jano, if for a moment or two you thought otherwise. But cheer up! A fine fellow like you must have a thousand young women eager to marry him.”
Jano was no longer listening to him. He was so struck by the revelation that he hadn’t yet recovered. “And who is he?” he asked.
“Who?” Losurdo repeated.
“Who’s the lucky man?” Jano asked again.
“The fiancé?” Losurdo asked. Now he was the one in difficulty.
“That’s right, who is he? Do I know him?” Jano persisted.
Losurdo didn’t know what to say. He scratched his head searching for a response. Then he remembered the boy who had cut his hair a few days ago; the one his daughter never missed a chance to look for at church or in town. “Saro. It’s Saro!” But the next instant he regretted saying the name. He’d gotten the boy tangled up in a mess that could have serious consequences.
“Saro . . .” Jano repeated the name as if hypnotized. His eyes betrayed an inner fury. He turned and left the farmyard, even forgetting to say good-bye to Rosario Losurdo.
Chapter 20
– 1939 –
When the gravedigger finally struck the wooden coffin with his shovel, he nodded to the people standing around the rim of the pit to let them know he’d found what they were looking for. He continued digging around the coffin and eventually managed to secure two ropes beneath it before climbing out of the pit.
The town crier, Ninì Trovato, and three other old men assigned to cemetery operations grabbed the four ends of the ropes and struggled to raise up the coffin. Each one pulled without paying any attention to the others, causing the casket to rise to the surface lopsided, and there was a moment when Ninì almost let the rope slip out of his hands. The coffin tilted alarmingly, so the gravedigger had to go and give him a hand. Marshal Mattia Montalto did likewise, helping the elderly man opposite Ninì. Finally, the coffin emerged from the hole and was deposited on the ground.
Curzio Turrisi, brother of the deceased, Salvatore, had also been invited to the macabre ceremony. Curzio was now a free man, having paid his debt to the law with eleven years of harsh imprisonment. Present as well was the public prosecutor Tommaso Amato, who had authorized the exhumation at the insistence of the mayor, Lorenzo Costa. Also in attendance were Jano, representing the mayor, and Michele Fardella, Salemi’s town clerk, who was to draft a report of the exhumation and was in fact armed with a fountain pen and paper. Dr. Bizzarri, who had taken over Dr. Peppino Ragusa’s medical post, had also been summoned.
The gravedigger took his crowbar and easily unhinged the lid. After some effort, and with Ninì Trovato’s help, he lifted the lid and gave a quick professional look inside before stepping away. The marshal was the first to approach, followed by Jano and then Curzio Turrisi.
&
nbsp; Although nineteen years had passed since the day of the fire, what remained of the corpse hadn’t rotted away, but seemed mummified. The blackened trunk of the body charred in the palazzo’s blaze could be glimpsed beneath the tattered clothing. The skull, with its jaw wide open, seemingly mocking those present, was covered by a black film similar to parchment.
Dr. Bizzarri, puffing like a locomotive with his 220-pound bulk, bent over the corpse. “Strange. Was he embalmed?” he asked, bewildered.
“No,” Ninì Trovato spoke up, “it’s a phenomenon of this terrain. I’ve found other mummified corpses like that in this cemetery. Dr. Ragusa said it’s a physiochemical phenomenon produced by microorganisms present in the soil here, which is composed of dry sand.”
Dr. Bizzarri listened to him, curious. He nodded and then straightened up from the casket. Finally, he ordered the gravediggers to transport the mummy to the cemetery’s chapel.
“But why this sacrilege?” Curzio asked Michele Fardella, who at that moment, as the mayor’s representative, was viewed as the highest-ranking figure among all those dignitaries. “Can’t you leave him in peace even in death?”
“It’s the law. We received a tip. It may not be your brother in the coffin,” Fardella told him.
“Who else could it be? And after so many years, who do you think will care?” Curzio persisted glumly, stepping aside while two gravediggers, having placed the body in a gunnysack, headed for the graveyard’s chapel.
“Actually, I have no basis of comparison to determine if the identity is truly that of the dead man,” Dr. Bizzarri said to cover himself.
The marshal spoke up: “We have Salvatore Turrisi’s file at the station. There should also be a passport-size photo. I’ll get it to you.”
“What I need is medical records and fingerprints, Chief. I can’t do anything with a passport photo, sorry to have to tell you.”
“I’ll make it available to you in any case,” said Marshal Montalto firmly.
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