Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part two, chapter 10

Italiano

English

In the anteroom a lackey told Blasco that Mr. Knight of Floresta had to go home because he had suddenly felt bad, and to not disturb him he had left without telling him anything. Blasco threw his hood on his shoulders and went out. Midnight was played; along the road of Lungarini, in the next square from the Correria (Cattolica time), it was an endless row of carriers and carriages, next to which they walked or slumbered staffieri and flyers. A few flashlights lit and fixed to a wall spread so much light, enough not to bump and not to stumble. Blasco didn't have anyone waiting for him; he didn't even have a carriage, nor a litter, nor a porter, nor servants with a flashlight or with a lantern, to illuminate his way. He crossed the entire line of these crews and started all alone towards St. Anna. It was a beautiful moon night: on the one hand the houses were gently illuminated and the road, spacious, shaded halfway. He crossed the square, passed over the church thinking of that singular melodrama, with which the poet seemed to have overshadowed the small comedy that took place between him, the Duchess and the prince of Iraci. The façade of the church of S. Anna was immersed in the shade, and the shadow was projected for more than half of the square.

Blasco was so busy with his thoughts that he did not even look at some men, who slept wrapped in garments on the steps of the church. On the other hand that view would have had nothing new and strange; the steps of the churches, the stalls of the shops, then of stone and protruding a good stretch outside the shut-down, at night turned into beds for a crowd of miserables, of which during the day the great number would not have been supposed. Scattered through the city, drowned among the multitude, unnoticed between the splendour of the nobility and the ostentatious welfare of the civil class, it seemed that they emerged in the night from the bowels of the earth; sorrowful army, which contended with the dogs the leftovers accumulated in the garbage and was thrown behind the doors of the churches, on the threshold of the gates, under the pedestals of the statues, to seek rest, or to conceal his loves.

The provinces sent the largest contribution to the capital: peasants stripped by the barons, old people unable to work, women left alone in the most squalid poverty, enticed by the mirage of finding a piece of bread for charity in Palermo, they came on foot, they came semi-naked, hungry, with all the instincts in revolt; they became thieves and prostitutes, they lived like beasts, without today, without tomorrow.

Nobody took care of it: Only in times of famine, not infrequent, a ban kicked them out of Palermo, where they returned a few months later, more numerous and hungry.

Blasco, therefore, did not even look at those black masses curled up in the shadows, between the clogs of the columns and continued his way rethinking the face of the prince of Iraki, with an evil pleasure. He had arrived in Lattarini, an alleyway district and chiassuoli that cross and snake, like an inextricable labyrinth. At the time of the Arabs it was a grocery market, which sounds the name, it still kept something of the ancient traffic, and it welcomed, as it welcomes, the inns frequented by the provincials. Blasco threw a quick look into the streets immersed in the shadows, more out of instinct than out of concern, and pulled ahead: But he didn't take three or four steps, and he felt a violent punch on his shoulder, and at the same time he heard a voice screaming at him: "Move, dog!" At the sudden and violent blow Blasco staggered, and was there to fall, but quickly recovered balance, he turned in a flash, drawing his sword. And four men with short swords stood before him, and they were about to cast themselves upon him: They were so close, that he could hardly use the sword; he knew in flight that an instant of uncertainty would be his death; glorious death and revenge. Tighten the sword by the blade he threw at the nearest one, causing the tip to flash between his eyes, with a flash of lightning that the assailant to the unexpected counterattack had to give back. This was enough for Blasco to acquire some space to warn; but he had in front of his flanks four opponents and the helpless shoulders: Also, a strong burning on his right shoulder wrinkled his arm. Nevertheless, one of the attackers came out of combat, but at the same time he felt his sight blurred, his legs bent, the person fainted and fell on the ground with a groan, at the same time as his opponent.

With a triumphant cry the three threw themselves over to finish it, but at that same point two gunshots rumble in the silence of the night. One of the attackers overthrew on the ground without a whisper; the others were appalled looking around, not knowing whence that sudden threat had struck them; but they had not yet recovered, that they saw themselves attacked by half a dozen black men with an unrecognizable face, armed with daggers and guns. They found no escape but to flee, abandoning their companions on the ground, who were horribly groaning.

Those men approached Blasco who looked at that inexplicable scene with almost off eyes. One of them opened a blind lantern and lit it:

"The bad guys," he said, "did it. We're too late. Come on, let's get him out of here!"

They raised Blasco, who watched them more and more amazed, unable to move, grieving for the wound that had ripped his shoulder apart. One of them, soaked a handkerchief in the water, passed it over his forehead and the chill seemed to revive him; he sent a groan of anguish.

"God damn it!" he murmured; "I think they've got me... Take it easy... take it easy..."

But as soon as he said these words, he reclined his head over his shoulder and fainted.

How long did he spend? He couldn't or couldn't say. It could have been an hour like an hour, like a year. He opened his eyes in a place that seemed completely unknown to him, no matter how almost dark he was wrapped up, allowing him to perceive and seemed to see wandering in that strange darkness black larvae, silent and light, as ghosts. He himself did not have the consciousness of reality and perhaps believed to dream: In fact, he closed his eyes and fell into a hibernation. There was a confused hearing of a voice that said:

"Let him rest, it will do him good."

Then he heard nothing, until the sun came out. When he got up, looking at the room and the bed with curiosity and amazement, he tried to get up, but a bitter pain nailed him on the bed. One voice admonished her:

"Your Excellency, do not move..."

He turned around; at a song of the bed there was a sharp old woman, clean, dressed in black, with a white handkerchief on her chest and with a face that looked like wax. She would have been called a nun if she hadn't had white hair long and twisted in braids on the back of her head. Where was he? Who was that woman? So he had not dreamed? It was an airy room, whose windows were in a garden; it had Celestine walls, few common furniture and a large wrought-iron double bed, as tall as a throne, on which he lay. He remembered the aggression, the wound, the sudden rescue, the mysterious men and the words of one of them: "We're too late!" What did he mean? What about that old lady? He looked at her astounded and not without a certain pleasure: She was sitting there doing her stocking, smiling slightly in a motherly air.

After a minute of contemplation, she asked her:

"Who are you, good woman, and who brought me here?" The old woman didn't answer him, she got up, fixed his tucking of the sheet, and asked him:

"Your Excellency, how do you feel? Good? Praise be to Our Lady of Carmine! But don't move, because it might spoil the bandage."

He now noticed that he was bandaged. Who bandaged him? A doctor certainly: Who called him? Maybe that old lady? He said to her:

"I won't move, but tell me who you are, and where am I?"

"As you can see, it's in my house: and I am a poor woman; Aunt Nora, Belshazzar's mother... Who does not know him, Your Excellency, Belshazzar?"

Blasco the fordava stunned; with all those indications he knew less than before. Who was that Baldassare? He had never heard that name among his acquaintances. Meanwhile, he was cared for and assisted. But he felt like an air of mystery around him. He began to think. It was necessary to warn Coriolano della Floresta of what had happened to him: Of course, his friend must have been worried not to see him come back. Who knows what he was gonna say?

"Look, Aunt Nora, I'd like to see your son..."

"Baldassare? But... he's working..."

"Where do you work?"

"At the oratory of St. Cita, with master Giacomo Serpotta..."

"And when will he come back? I need him; I want to send someone home..."

"Don't think about it, because it's been done."

"Okay? How? And did they know who I am and where I live?"

"They knew, Your Excellency."

Blasco went from one wonder to another. And the words that were heard came to his mind again, when he had fallen: "We're too late!" So that rescue wasn't sent by the case: Those mysterious saviors knew that something was being plotted against him. How did they know? And why did they come to save him? What interest could he have in leading people unknown to expose their lives by facing evildoers?

All these ideas swirled in Blasco's brain and he was lost there; nor did his attempts to get the old lady out of her mouth worth a word. The old lady either knew nothing, or she was smart and pretended she didn't know and didn't understand. She never responded to him in tone, and was misleading the speech when Blasco asked her questions.

It was the venture that, at that point, Coriolano della Floresta arrived.

The knight entered without haste, or revealing a great emotion, while showing a thoughtful interest in his face.

"Well, my poor friend, what's going on with you?" he said, gently taking his hand.

"Do you see him?" answered Blasco with a smile. Coriolano looked at the old lady who had approached the bed and said:

"What about this good woman?"

"I'm Aunt Nora, Baldassare's mother, the stuccoer..."

"I don't know him," said Coriolano; "is that young man who came to warn me?"

"Excellency yes."

"It was good... He told me he picked you up on the corner of the street of Lattarini, wounded..."

"If he picked me up, I don't know," said Blasco, "I know he wasn't alone and that... there's some mystery, my friend..."

Coriolano looked around and said to the old woman:

"Has the doctor been there?"

"Excellency yes."

"Will he come back?"

"At noon..."

"Give me the pleasure, Aunt Nora, to go and call him now; I'd like to talk to him... I'll wait here..."

"Now, Your Excellency."

The old lady took a shawl and went out. Coriolano closed the door and approached a chair to the bed and said:

"We're alone now. Tell me, then, how it happened."

Blasco told him everything by thread and by sign.

"You understand," he said, "what's here about the mystery..."

"What mystery?"

"Let's start with the attack... Those people may have followed me, or been lurking; I don't think he mistaken me for another..."

"I would also be of the same opinion." "Who could have been the authorising officer?"

"Don't you think they acted on their own?"

"Bah! The ignoble people, the plebs... I've never had anything to do with them... unless they're Beati Paoli's hit men..."

"Oh! oh!... And where are you arguing about it?"

"They always threatened Don Raimondo of Motta and I was his friend..."

"Ah! the Beati Paoli never strike the friends of their enemies; and then, be sure that they already know that you no longer have relations with the Duke of Motta..."

"So?... See, then, that the mystery grows..."

"It can be..."

"Then there's that sudden help."

"Uhm! That good people save a man from the hands of evildoers, I don't think he has mystery..."

"And those words: "We're too late"?"

"But it's very natural. They were sorry they didn't find themselves passing by earlier, to prevent even the wound..."

"And as they knew That was me?"

"You're not an unknown by now. You were always seeing Mrs. Duchess... Someone has certainly recognized you..."

"And did you know that I'm staying in your house?"

"He could have been a neighbor..."

"Excuse me, why were these saviors disguised?..."

"But! it is not new, at night, to go with the mask, not to be recognized... There are many reasons..."

"You find everything very natural and to me, instead, there seems to be some mystery..."

"Why do you think of that?..."

"Because I want to know who I owe my life to..."

"But to these good people who welcome you, apparently..."

"They are also mysterious characters..."

"Uhm! You always see the mystery around you! Let go... Let's talk about something else. You cannot imagine the remorse that I have felt and that I still feel, for what has happened to you!..."

"What do you have to do with it?"

"Bitch! If I hadn't left, if I had stayed with you, surely they wouldn't have hurt you..."

"They wounded me behind my back, betrayed me, and they would have done the same. You have nothing to do with it, Coriolano..."

"It may be, but I shouldn't have left you alone; all the more so since Lungarini was in the house there was the prince of Iraki."

"What? Would you believe?..."

"Didn't I tell you once that you had signed a bill to the prince and the duchess, and that they would make you pay for it?"

"With such a cowardly murder? Oh, no, no: I don't want to believe it!..."

Coriolano shook his shoulders.

"Who could have been interested in suppressing you?..."

Blasco closed his eyes; his face expressed the repugnance to believe that a lord like the prince of Iraki, and more a lady so beautiful and graceful as the Duchess could plot a murder: But Coriolano's words had a tone of confidence, that the effort he made to reject it remained as overwhelmed and overwhelmed.

Soon afterward came the surgeon, an old man dressed in black. Coriolano asked him:

"Do you think the wounded can be transported to my house?"

The surgeon bowed respectfully and said: "Save the opinion of your Excellency, I would say no; at least for four or five days... the wound is not fatal, but it is serious. The blow was given too high, and the tip slipped down the bone, which cut off its fury and prevented it from penetrating more deeply..."

"You have escaped beautiful!.. Thank you, Mr. Surgeon."

When the man of art, looking at the bands, went away, Coriolano dismissed himself:

"Be of good mind," he said to Blasco, "I will come and see you later; if you want anything, some book... to spend time better..."

"Thank you, as you think... But, I'm sorry, take away a doubt. If these people knew me, why didn't they take me to your house?"

Coriolano seemed impressed by that simple question, but immediately resumed his slight smile and his serene appearance.

"What do you want me to say? Those are things you think about later. They thought I might be scared. Who knows? Why else do you want to be tormented? The important thing is that you heal soon; then together we will try to clarify what you believe to be a mystery. Goodbye."