Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part two, chapter 5

Blasco da Castiglione was bored: his days were spent in a hollow and perspectiveless idleness, which worn out his restless spirit and vague of adventures and emotions.

His hope of finding a suitable occupation in Palermo for his character and habits had, due to a pile of circumstances, disappeared. Father Bonaventura had only found him with the Duke of Motta, more as a protector or a parasite, than as an employee; and however, in that house, in the service of a woman Gabriella, whose life was governed by the small needs of a great lady, had found a series of occupations that, new to him, although insignificant, had entertained him. But he had come out of it - and he did not regret it, - and even those frivolous occupations and more beautiful than from soul like his, were finished.

To enter the company of the royal guards of the Prince of Villafranca was no longer to be discussed. As long as he had been the protector of the Duke of Motta, and more than the Duchess, who imposed it almost on society, he could find faces that for convenience welcomed him kindly, knowing to please Gabriella woman; but after the break, Blasco saw himself surrounded by so flaunted coldness, that he esteemed more decorous to separate himself and also to slice a deep contempt for that infullite society, in which he had overlooked.

The prince of Iraki had for his part increased and unbroken the antipathy and hostility, representing Blasco as an adventurer rained who knows from where: a kind of squire or a good boy, to whom it was enough to throw a shield to draw the sword. These quacks and the buts thrown in time, which left the adito open to the most unfailing conjectures, had closed all the doors in the face of the young man, barred the way, dug a great abyss around him. He had noticed it, but he had brought bitterness within himself, thinking that until that time he did not need anyone.

But he was bored; and more than boredom the thought of that truly fraternal hospitality demanded by him for a few days - according to his 'idea - but which extended, without seeing the end, and seemed to him now an abuse, of which he was blushing.

One morning he went to the convent of St. Francis to talk to Father Bonaventura; he wanted to get out of that dead gora in which he felt drowned and thought that the good friar would give him a helping hand.

But the friar shook in his shoulders, grieved his face, with the particular expression of those who do not know or can do nothing.

"We are in difficult times, my son; the interdict forbids me to have relations with the government. I'd go into excommunication... Be patient: we hope that things will be fixed... although it seems to me that the principle is not seen... So it certainly can't last. Don't you see what's going on? The persecutions are already beginning, and I myself am with the threat on the boss, of an exile or of a prisoner... If you need some money in the meantime..."

"Thank you, Father."

He refused out of pride, out of spite, even though he no longer possessed a grain.

He added a little later: "You, on the other hand, could do me a favor..."

"Go ahead."

"Give me some of his letter of recommendation for the guardian father of the convent of Castiglione... Is there a house of his Order in Castiglione?..."

"No, there's no house of ours... What are you gonna do?..."

"Nothing. Here I have less to do: I want to visit the places of my childhood..."

"No, there is no house of ours," said the friar; "there is in Randazzo..."

"Do the same. I know Randazzo. So you're gonna give me this letter? I'll pick her up tomorrow."

What he intended to do, what was the precise purpose of that journey, he himself did not know: perhaps it was his temper, that pushed him to wander, or a dark and indefinite feeling that he would find something interesting. On the same day he spoke to Coriolano about Floresta. He also asked a favor.

"I'm at your command."

"Tomorrow or tomorrow I'd like to leave..."

"Start? Where to?"

"It's no secret. For Randazzo, Castiglione."

"Forgive me if I am indiscreet, but attribute my question to the interest that inspires all your things. Tell me what you need from me."

"A good horse capable of making this journey."

"It's not much. You'll get it."

"I don't know how much time I'll be missing; but you can assume I won't smash the animal."

"Even if you had to let him die, if that could come in handy, I wouldn't give it to myself."

"Thank you, I am more and more obliged to you. I will keep you informed of my steps and everything that will happen to me."

"You will do me a real pleasure."

Blasco breathed in full lungs, like one who comes out of a closed place outdoors and feels the fresh air of the countryside in his face; and that afternoon he really wanted to go out into the countryside, on foot, alone, outside Porta Termini, starting for the road that leads to the river Oreto.

He had no fixed goal: he also went ahead and crossed the bridge of the Admiral and set out towards the villages. He was so immersed in his ideas that he did not realize the path.

It was the last of March; a warm and rosy afternoon, as there is only in Sicily, and all the green countryside and white almonds; in the air a smell of unknown things that instilled in the blood a softness, a kind of lassitude full of desires, a sweet and dreaming melancholy.

The souls who live in solitude feel in these spring days the horror of the emptiness that It surrounds, and they feel in their hearts a happiness to receive impressions and to open up to emotion and tenderness.

Blasco felt like this. He was a conscience too straight to regret having broken every relationship with woman Gabriella, but he certainly could not think without melancholy of that woman, whose image had infiltrated him into the flesh. She didn't feel she loved her, nor did she love her: but she knew that she was beautiful and pleasing and that her lips had shuddered and spased.

He had not passed the ancient church of S. Giovanni dei Lebbrosi, that a sound of rattles, a crack of whips, a chirping of Argentine voices, shook him from his meditations; he looked at: a theory of litters, carried by shaved and feathered mules, came at his turn. They were perhaps about twenty, big enough to contain, a little tight and pressed, four people, each led by two litterers, who snapped the whip and with their voice incited the beasts.

Blasco stopped to see them pass.

The beds were full of educators of whom he knew only the dress: girls from eight to sixteen years old, fresh, lively and graceful in their monacal dress. There were three for each litter, guarded by a professed nun, who did not seem to give much awe, because those nested, swinging at the pass of the mules, filled the air of their julive cries. Blasco first looked with curiosity, then with interest and amazement; all those unknown faces, on which he smiled in spring, turned towards him with a curiosity and almost impertinent, as marveled to see a knight, young and beautiful, in that country lane, standing at their passage. The larger ones looked at him with long eyes, veiled by the mysterious shadow of the eyelashes.

As they passed by, Blasco counted the litters: at the fifteenth, a maiden, seeing him, sent a little cry of surprise, as if she had recognized him; and the cry in turn surprised Blasco, who did not remember having ever seen that maiden. She had probably fallen into the misunderstanding of a resemblance but meanwhile had set the attention of the young man above herself and their looks had met with greater intensity.

Blasco followed with his gaze the litter without paying attention to the others and saw the face of the maiden, and then another and finally that of the nun. No doubt that he was the object of their curiosity, and that the first girl had spoken of him to her litter companions.

Blasco stood still and thoughtful, following with his eyes that litter, until it was confused among the others, and all, moving away, formed a more indistinct mass, and disappeared.

Then he resumed the journey, thoughtful, with the face of that maiden before his eyes, wondering who she was; then suddenly he went back to the junction formed by the road of Brancaccio, where there was an inn and stood there, wondering why he had never returned.

"Look at what an idiot I am! Did I want to follow the litters? To do what? But I'm curious who that monachella is."

In front of the tavern were two small tables stained with wine, with sbilenche benches. Blasco sat on one of those benches, where a large elm stretched out its verdant arms.

The host looked out at the noise, and when he saw a knight, he slept respectfully with one: "Your Excellency commands me? There's some Ciaculli, but there's some superfine!..."

Blasco made a gesture of absenteeism, and the host brought him a glass and one of those glazed terracotta mugs that now become a rarity of the small provincial countries. He mescè and waited for Blasco to taste to judge and praise; but Blasco had put his elbows on the table and with his head between the palm trees looked before him. Then there were no houses that can be seen now; the road ran between open fields and gardens, to the sea, and the eye could range for a long and vast stretch of the Riviera and see the beautiful promontory of Capo Saffron, at that time swimming in a wave of pink and purple for the last rays of the sunset. That show seemed to attract the spirit of Blasco, but in reality he followed many other thoughts so that he remained so much to enjoy the magnificent show that he offered himself before him.

The host waited a minute, then made a motorbike with his shoulders and came back slowly; but it was enough that his shadow came out of Blasco's field of vision, so that he would collect. He took the glass, looked at it through the light and centered that clear and fragrant vintage, which he had in those days so renowned as to be immortalized by John Meli.

A chat that came from the inside of the dive, bringing him a few words, suddenly called his attention. He held his ear. They were three male voices, whose language was mixed with strange and incomprehensible words.

One said:

"So tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow" answered the other.

"Are we sure they didn't sing?"

"Very sure..."

"Look at Caifasso..."

"There are the apostles who keep banged."

"Be careful though..."

The voice became lower: Blasco heard for a moment the three voices whisper together; twice they became distinct, and he heard clearly a "who" and "duke of Motta." Then he leaned his head into the void of the gate, but his shadow seemed suspicious to the three confabulators, whom he did not see.

One of the voices, however, said:

"cube baccaglio."

And they mumbled. Blasco resumed his position, called the host, paid the bill and went away, but not so as to lose sight of the dive and spy on those who came in or out. He soon saw a head looking out and looking to the right and left and coming back: then they came out one after the other, with a slight interval, three men, who separated on the door; two of them set out on the path that led to Maredolce and St. Mary of Jesus, the other, at the opposite, took the street of the city.

Blasco let him pass, flaunting not to look at him, but in reality he observed him: he was a young twenty-year-old, quick and good looking, who looked like a craftsman. He passed by Blasco looking at him indifferently. Blasco wondered if those three who had gone out were just the ones he had heard.

He went back to the dive and pretended to look for something that had fallen and had a chance to take a look inside. There was no one.

And the shipwreck came and said unto him, Has Your Excellency lost anything?

"Yes... a ring... I don't know where I fell... I noticed now."

"God damn it! If he fell here we find him, there was no new adventurer..."

"There were old ones, but... three people, if I'm not mistaken..."

"Oh, they're gentlemen..."

"Do you know them? Is there any way to trust it?"

"If I know them! They're patrons."

Blasco didn't insist, so he didn't look like he was doing an interrogation on purpose. He greeted and resumed the road to the city, hastening to reach the young craftsman.

He saw him, from afar, and followed him. The hint to the Duke of Motta, that mysterious talk, had put him in suspicion and aroused his curiosity. The case, perhaps, had placed him on the trail of one of those mysterious conspiracies, of which Don Raimondo said he was a victim? He wanted to persuade me. Probably that young craftsman was a gregarious; but of those other two, one certainly had to be a leader; he felt himself in the tone of command. Who was it?

Prudence or cunning had advised him to follow the young man rather than the other two, but nevertheless the curiosity to know who that head was and to see face to face perhaps the mysterious man who was terrorizing the whole region, was very vivid and tantalized his adventure spirits.

Worrying about these new thoughts, he forgot the educator, forgot his journey, pressing him not to lose sight of the young craftsman, who in the meantime entered the Porta di Termini.

Then, and until 1852, the Gate was formed by a vaulted arch, which extended like an andite and on it stood a building, which was first a hospital, replaced in 1657 by the Oratory of the noble Society of Peace. The door, devoid of ornaments, small, dark, seemed like a covered passageway.

As a customs door, he had its keepers and gabeliers hanging. After the 1848 revolution, the royal government demolished the magnificent Oratory and the Gate for strategic reasons.

In that hour - already played the Avemaria - the gabelieri were sitting there, doing nothing, contenting themselves to guard the few citizens who returned from the nearby gardens to Palermo: the Gate could therefore be said to be clear and despite the darkness, it was not difficult to keep an eye on someone.

However, Blasco lengthened the passage; as soon as he passed the door, they began to branch out roads and alleys, where it was easy to get away. It was enough to scan at the first turn, to lose every trace of himself: it was therefore necessary to tighten the distance, what seemed possible in Blasco, having seen the young man stop to trade a few words with the gabelieri.

But before he had arrived before the door the young man had entered and when he entered, the other had already turned on the way to Montesanto.

Blasco came in two jumps, but no matter how he put his eyes into the two streets that stretched out in front of him dark and crooked, he saw no one.

"Beast!" he exclaimed in anger at himself; "beast! I let him get away. And yet I bet I'd have the key to that mystery... But let us not forget his appearance..."

And slowly, in a bad mood, he went home.

Coriolano of Floresta was not there but the servant told him that the horse was beautiful and ready in the stable, and that the Lord could leave, willingly, at dawn without any concern. Mr. Knight would have thought of giving him a good trip.