The Prince (17 page)

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 you 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.

– 1939 –

I
n 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.

Pietro Bellarato discovered his deviant nature as the years went by and, unable to vent his brutality on women, he turned to his favorite plaything: Tosco. The young man, pathologically attracted to his half brother whose position he would have liked to be in, could think of nothing better than to satisfy all his most shameful desires, which was the ruination of them both. At little more than twenty years of age, Marquis Pietro Bellarato had become a kind of satyr, always on the prowl for new, transgressive experiences. He made his half brother dress as a woman, in his mother's clothes, or had him wear a horse harness and rode him stark naked. But soon enough they exhausted the range of perversions, and the plaything began to bore him.

So one fine day Tosco was set aside, like an old whore, though he hadn't yet reached twenty.

For Tosco, being rejected by his adored Pietro was the most traumatic moment of his young life. Several times he thought of suicide, but then, as often happens in such situations, he threw himself into the arms of the first one to come along. And the youths in town were merciless: they passed him around from one to the other, as if he were the town slut. They took advantage of his state of mental confusion, and one night they subjected him to an exceptionally brutal ordeal. He found himself at the bottom of a slimy pit, completely naked, not even aware of what was happening, because the ghastly wine they'd made him guzzle had completely muddled him. Then, like a distant echo, he heard mocking laughter from the edge of the pit and felt warm jets of an acidic liquid stream over his face, mouth, nose, every inch of his body. And his persecutors did not stop at that revolting act of cruelty. In the uncertain light of the moon, he glimpsed someone at the edge of the pit who, still snickering, had lowered his pants. But a commanding voice put an end to those scornful laughs and the pack, having now had their fill of nasty games, backed down.