ALSO BY
ANDREA CAMILLERI
The Revolution of the Moon
The Sacco Gang
Europa Editions
214 West 29th St.
New York NY 10001
[email protected]
www.europaeditions.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2011 by Sellerio Editore, Palermo
First publication 2019 by Europa Editions
Translation by Stephen Sartarelli
Original Title: La setta degli angeli
Translation copyright © 2019 by Europa Editions
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com
Cover image: Fauk74 / Alamy Stock Photo
ISBN 9781609455149
Andrea Camilleri
THE SECT OF ANGELS
Translated by Stephen Sartarelli
THE SECT OF ANGELS
CHAPTER I
THE MATTER OF THE MARBLES
Gentlemen! Members of the club! A moment of your attention, please!” said don Liborio Spartà, president of the Honor and Family Social Club. “I will now open the urn and begin counting the marbles.”
The buzz of voices in the drawing room gradually hushed to a relative silence. Relative, that is, because don Anselmo Buttafava had, as usual, fallen asleep in the damask armchair he’d sat in for the past thirty years and more, and was snoring so loud that the windowpanes giving onto the balcony in front of him were rattling lightly. Although the club had changed all the furniture some ten years earlier, they could do nothing about that armchair: they’d had to leave it in its place, for the exclusive use and enjoyment of don Anselmo.
“What’s that burning smell?” Commendatore Paladino asked aloud just as the president opened the urn.
“So you smell it, too?” retired Colonel Petrosillo asked the commendatore in turn.
“I do too!” said Professor Malatesta.
“It’s true!” said many of those present. “There’s something burning!”
As everyone was wrinkling his nose and looking around left and right, trying to determine where the burning smell was coming from, don Serafino Labianca cried out:
“There’s smoke coming from don Anselmo!”
They all turned to look at don Anselmo, who kept on snoring, head hanging down to his chest. And indeed they saw an ever so fine column of smoke rising up from the armchair towards the ceiling, which had been frescoed by Angelino Vasalicò, a carriage painter and local celebrity, and dubbed “better than the Sistine Chapel!” by the mayor, Nicolò Calandro.
The first to pinpoint the source of the smoke was don Stapino Vassallo, perhaps because he was the youngest member present and still had good eyesight, being only forty-two years of age, whereas the average age of the others was around sixty.
“The cigar!”
He ran up to the damask armchair.
Don Anselmo’s cigar had in fact slipped from his sleeping hand and fallen onto his trousers, in the very spot where the male pudenda are usually tucked away. The ember had already burnt through the dense English fabric of his trousers and was now attacking the thick wool of his underpants.
As don Stapino was dashing over to the president’s table to grab the pitcher of water on it, Colonel Petrosillo, a man of action, quickly crouched down between don Anselmo’s legs and with his left hand snatched up the cigar, throwing it to the floor, while with his right hand he began vigorously patting the areas in danger of catching fire.
Awakened by a sudden blow to his cojones, don Anselmo Buttafava, seeing the colonel between his legs, got the wrong idea. For some time now, nasty rumors had been circulating about town concerning the excessive fondness that Amasio Petrosillo, who had never married, seemed to have for a certain Ciccino, the twenty-year-old son of the colonel’s farm overseer. Instinctively, therefore, don Anselmo pushed the colonel’s face away brusquely, causing him to fall backwards, then got up and ran towards the president’s table yelling like a madman.
“I’ve always known that Petrosillo is a big pervert! Out of this club, now!”
President Spartà tried to clear things up.
“Don Anselmo, there’s been a mistake! The colonel, you see . . . ”
But don Anselmo, who by habit lit up like a match at the slightest provocation, was by this point extremely worked up and wouldn’t listen to reason.
“Either he goes or I go!”
“But, don Anselmo, if you would just listen to me for a second . . . ”
“Then I’ll go myself!”
And with a violent sweep of the arm he swatted the urn, which fell to the floor and, having already been opened, sent all the marbles rolling across the room, as don Anselmo ran into the privy, cursing like a Turk, and locked the door.
Between one thing and another—with the colonel shouting and bleeding from the nose after don Anselmo’s shove, the president wanting to resign immediately, and the secretary scrambling about trying to pick the marbles up off the floor—a squabble arose between those who thought don Anselmo was in the right and those who thought he was in the wrong. It took a good half an hour to settle things down again.
“We must all recast our votes. The gentlemen members must vote whether or not to admit Attorney Matteo Teresi to the club. A black marble means no, a white marble means yes. There are twenty-nine members present, since Baron Lo Mascolo sent word that he couldn’t take part, and Doctor Bellanca did the same, and don Anselmo Buttafava is now—”
“—is now present. And so there are thirty members voting,” said don Anselmo, appearing in a secondary doorway in the salon.
Colonel Petrosillo, still holding a wet handkerchief over his nose, stood up and said:
“I man the peak.”
Everyone fell silent in bewilderment, wondering what bizarre military fantasy the colonel might have of sending a garrison to some unnamed mountaintop. The only person to grasp the situation was, as usual, don Stapino Vassallo.
“Colonel, please be so kind as to lower your handkerchief and repeat your statement.”
The colonel complied.
“I demand to speak.”
“Please go ahead,” said the president.
“I hereby publicly declare that don Anselmo should consider himself slapped by me, and therefore challenged to a duel. So, for my seconds I should like to name—”
“Can’t we talk about this later?” asked the president.
“All right,” said the colonel.
They cast their votes.
When the urn was reopened, out came twenty-nine black marbles, signifying twenty-nine “no” votes, and one white marble, signifying one “yes.” Since the vote had not been unanimous, the matter had to be raised again for discussion and then voted on a second time, as every decision concerning a potential new member had to be unanimous.
Don Liborio Spartà decided to intervene.
“Gentlemen. Since today is Sunday, the midday Mass will be starting in half an hour. And we must all go. I therefore propose a waiver of the rule concerning abbreviations of procedure. Are you all in agreement?”
“Yes, yes,” said many voices.
“As we know, gentlemen, every new candidate for membership must, according to the rules, be presented by two associates of the club with more than five years’ membership. In the present case, those sponsoring the candidacy of Attorney Matteo Teresi were Baron Lo Mascolo, absent, and M
arquis don Filadelfo Cammarata, here present. Clearly, the white marble could only have been put in the urn by my lord Marquis Cammarata, to whom I politely request—”
“Clearly, my arse!” said the angry marquis.
Don Filadelfo Cammarata was about fifty, skinny as a rail, married and the father of eight daughters, all fine churchgoing young ladies, and he was always upset about something, always arguing with someone and quick to resort to vulgar language. Even when alone, he could often be seen gesticulating animatedly—arguing with himself.
“My good marquis, simple logic leads me to—”
“Simple logic leads you up your own anus,” the marquis retorted, standing up. “And I’m saying that, both the first and the second time, the vote I cast was a black marble!”
Everyone looked bewildered.
“What?” they said. “But it was you who presented him for membership!”
“And then I changed my mind, all right? Is a man not free to change his mind?”
“I can tell you why you changed your mind!” don Serafino Labianca said with an insinuating smile from the far end of the room.
It was well known that the two men were not fond of each other. Don Serafino was a liberal and a Freemason, the marquis was a Papist and man of the Church, and they were also at odds over a lawsuit more than twenty years old concerning the disputed ownership of a cherry tree.
All at once the marquis’s face, already red, turned green. Traffic lights did not exist at the time, otherwise the similarity would have been striking.
“And just what are you, Serafino by name but a horned devil in fact, trying to insinuate?”
“Please, gentlemen, for pity’s sake!” the president beseeched them.
Don Serafino took no offense.
“I’m not insinuating anything. You sued Father Raccuglia, claiming he’d taken possession of a piece of your land exactly the same way you’ve taken people’s cherry trees away, and so you turned to the lawyer Teresi, who eats priests for dinner, roasted, fried, or topped with tomato sauce . . . Is that true or not?”
“Yes, it’s true! So what? What the hell is your point? It doesn’t mean that when somebody turns to a lawyer he has to embrace his political ideas as well!”
“Let me finish. The lawyer agreed to sue on your behalf, but he also asked you to support his candidacy for membership in the club. Which you did.”
“I certainly couldn’t refuse a common courtesy such—”
“Courtesy, my eye! The lawyer told you that if you supported his candidacy he would handle your case free of charge. And you, despite your wealth, are as stingy as a dried-up riverbed, you couldn’t believe your ears!”
“So then why did I vote against him, can you tell me that?”
“Of course I can. The lawsuit had barely begun when Father Raccuglia let himself be persuaded, by someone acting on your behalf, that he should admit he was in the wrong. And so, just like that, no more lawsuit. So you, who had turned to Attorney Teresi—the only man in town with the cheek to sue a priest—immediately turned your back on him. Therefore, as you can see, I didn’t insinuate anything.”
“No, you are insinuating that I had someone act on my behalf! So, why don’t we start with you naming his name?”
“Oh, no you don’t! No names! That’s enough of that! Let’s end this! It’s getting late!” shouted a number of voices.
It was of utmost importance that the person’s name not be revealed. The arguments were starting to take a dangerous turn. And the name that mustn’t be mentioned was that of ’u zù Carmineddru, the town’s Mafia chieftain, a man of honor and consequence.
“In that case, gentlemen, after the marquis’s declaration, I have no choice but to address my words to the unknown member who . . . ”
“So how do you explain that two noblemen, Baron Lo Mascolo and Marquis Cammarata, turned to a lawyer like Teresi, who’s a known instigator?” asked don Serafino with his usual smile, taking advantage of the momentary silence to slip in a question that everyone, truth be told, had been asking themselves.
“I will break your bones, God help me!” exclaimed the marquis, jumping up from his chair and hurling himself at his adversary.
He never reached him, however, as three men managed to restrain him. Frothing at the mouth like an enraged bull, the marquis stormed out of the meeting.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! Let’s get this over with quick. The bell has already rung for the Mass. I therefore address myself to the unknown—”
“And when are we going to talk about the duel?” asked Colonel Petrosillo, whose nosebleed wouldn’t stop, enraging him further with every passing minute.
“Later, later,” they all said in a sort of chorus.
“Then I beg the unknown member who voted for admission please to explain to the rest of us—” the president began.
“There’s no damn need to beg,” said don Anselmo Buttafava. “I was the one who voted yes.”
“Why?” asked the president. “I believe you said several times in the past you never wanted to see Teresi in here, not even dead.”
“And in fact in the first round of voting I voted no.”
“So why did you change your mind?”
“Because if there’s a pervert like Colonel Petrosillo in this club I don’t see why we can’t admit a Bakuninist like the lawyer Teresi.”
“Good point,” commented don Serafino, who that Sunday morning seemed determined to get on the nerves of all of creation.
Colonel Petrosillo shot to his feet, as pale as a corpse.
“Consider yourself slapped likewise!” he said to don Serafino.
“I don’t consider myself anything at all. Come over here and slap me in person, if you’re man enough. And since your bum has already been thrashed, I’ll get to work on your face, just to finish what don Anselmo started.”
The colonel opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment a nervous twitch came over his face. He immediately stiffened, eyes rolling back into his head, and fell backwards. He suffered from occasional epileptic fits. A good fifteen minutes were lost in the efforts to revive him and accompany him to his carriage.
“May I have permission to speak, Mr. President, sir?” asked Giallonardo the notary.
“You may.”
“Just now you said that the sponsors of Attorney Teresi’s candidacy were Marquis don Filadelfo Cammarata and Baron Lo Mascolo, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Then, since don Filadelfo admitted to having twice cast a black marble vote, the fact of having repeated the same gesture would serve to invalidate, essentially, his prior sponsorship—indeed annul it entirely. Therefore, things being so, Attorney Teresi’s candidacy can be considered to have been advanced by only one signature, that of Baron Lo Mascolo. Now, according to the rules, only one sponsor is not enough. Ergo, it is as if Attorney Teresi never made any request for admission.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! Brilliant!” don Stapino Vassallo said in admiration.
“Seems to make perfect sense to me,” said the president. “Are the gentlemen members in agreement that . . . ?”
“Yes! Yes!”
The chorus was unanimous.
“Then the session is adjourned,” said the president.
There was a mad dash for the door, legs flying, arms pushing, as the members of the club ran to catch the last Mass in their respective churches.
*
A town of seven thousand inhabitants located right in the middle of the great latifondi estates, Palizzolo, in the year 1901, could boast of having two marquis, four barons, a one-hundred-and-two-year-old duke who no longer set foot outside his castle, and an anti-Bourbon martyr, attorney Ruggero Colapane, hanged in the public square for having supported the Parthenopean Republic.1
But its greatest source of pride was its eight c
hurches, each endowed with a bell tower and bells so powerful that when they rang all together in unison, it felt just like an earthquake inside people’s houses.
Seven of these eight churches had been divvied up between the nobility and landowners on the basis of mutual antipathies and sympathies, familial relations acknowledged or denied, longstanding resentments and quarrels dating back to the times of Carlos Quinto, and civil suits hailing from the age of Frederick II of Swabia and carried on even after the Unification of Italy, as well as undying hatreds and changing attachments.
And so, for example, you would never have seen, say, someone like don Stapino Vassallo and someone like don Filadelfo Cammarata attending Mass together at the church of Our Lady of Sorrows, whose parish priest was Patre Don Angelo Marrafà.
In 1514, an ancestor of don Stapino—more specifically the beautiful young Attanasia—had been married at age sixteen to an ancestor of the Marquis Cammarata, a forty-year-old by the name of Adalgiso. After two years of a marriage ratified but never consummated, owing to a case of impotentia coeundi on the husband’s part, Attanasia could no longer stand living like a cloistered nun despite being married, so she started looking around. And soon, by dint of looking, she found herself impregnated, apparently by a stable hand. Adalgiso sent his wife back to her parents, calling her a trollop. Attanasia riposted by saying that her husband couldn’t perform his husbandly duties, because his thingy was as soft as ricotta cheese. This gave rise to lawsuits, trials, and litigations, the result of which was that the two families not only ceased greeting each other in public but indeed never missed an opportunity to do one another a bad turn.
The eighth church, the Church of the Most Holy Crucifix, with the seventy-year-old Don Mariano Dalli Cardillo as its priest, was attended neither by nobles nor by landowners, and not even by the bourgeoisie. It was the church of the peasants and the poor, of those who lived on bread and air.
*
“Beloved children,” said Don Alessio Terranova, priest of the parish of San Giovanni, opening his Gospel sermon. “I find myself obliged today to talk to you about a serious matter. A petty newssheet edited and paid for by a local lawyer whose name I won’t mention, since it would sully my tongue, and distributed here and in nearby towns, featured an article in this morning’s edition in which, on top of the customary insults hurled at the Holy Mother Church and at those of us who represent her in all our unworthiness, the writer mocks the sacrament of holy matrimony and the virginity of maidens and ridicules modesty, chastity, and feminine virtue . . . And so I exhort you, my beloved children—especially my beloved daughters—not to listen to such iniquities, which are clearly inspired by the devil. Virginity is the noblest gift a young bride can give to her legitimate spouse; it is in every way comparable to a flower, which . . . ”
The Sect of Angels Page 1
