The Manuscript Found in Saragossa (12 page)

Emina, who noticed my perplexity, asked me what had caused it. I replied that the story of Zoto's father reminded me of the words that
a certain hermit had uttered to me two days earlier, namely that there were surer foundations for virtue than a sense of honour.

‘Dear Alphonse,' Emina replied, ‘respect the hermit, believe what he has told you. You are going to encounter him more than once in your lifetime.'

Then the two sisters rose and withdrew with the negresses into the inner recesses of their apartment, or rather that part of the subterranean dwelling which had been set aside for them. They came back for supper and then everyone went to bed.

When all was quiet in the caves I saw Emina come into my room, holding a lamp in one hand like Psyche, and leading her younger sister, who was more beautiful than love itself, by the other. The shape of my bed allowed them both to sit down.

Emina then said to me, ‘Dear Alphonse, I have told you that we are yours. May the great sheikh forgive us if we anticipate his permission somewhat.'

‘Fair Emina,' I replied, ‘forgive me in turn, for if this is another test of my virtue, I don't think I shall come out of it very well, I'm afraid.'

‘That has already been foreseen,' the African girl replied. She took my hand, put it on her hip and made me feel a belt which, although it owed much to the art and skill of Vulcan, Venus's husband, owed nothing to Venus herself. The belt was secured by a lock whose key was not in my cousins' possession, or that at least is what they said.

With modesty's innermost sanctum thus protected, the sisters did not dream of denying me access to their more accessible charms. Zubeida recalled what she did when she acted the part of the beloved with her sister. Emina saw her sister, once the object of her feigned passion, in my arms, and indulged in the sensual delights of such sweet contemplation. Her younger sister was supple, lively, ardent; her discreet skills consumed me and her caresses transfixed me. We filled our time together in the most charming manner, talking about plans which were never worked out in detail, in that sweet converse which young people indulge in between the memories of recent joy and the hope of future happiness.

At last, sleep weighed down the pretty eyelids of my cousins and they went back to their own apartments. When I was alone, the
thought struck me that it would be very unpleasant to wake up under the gallows again. I laughed this thought away but it still occupied my mind till the moment I fell asleep.

The chief of the
sbiri
was particularly attentive to us during our incarceration and even shortened its term. On her release, my mother was well received by the women living immediately nearby and by the whole neighbourhood, for in southern Italy bandits are popular heroes, much as smugglers are in Spain. We also had our share of public esteem, and I more than my brothers was considered the prince of the urchins of our street.

At about this time Monaldi was killed in a skirmish and my father took over the command of the band. As he wanted to begin with a brilliant action, he lay in wait on the road to Salerno for the consignment of money being sent by the viceroy of Sicily. The ambush came off but my father was wounded by a musket shot in the back, which soon put an end to his career. The moment of parting from the band was extraordinarily moving. It is even said that some
of the bandits wept. I would find this difficult to believe if I had not once in my life wept after having stabbed my mistress to death, as you will discover in due course.

The band soon dispersed. Some of its stalwarts went to Tuscany, where they got themselves hanged. Others went to join Testalunga, who was then gaining a reputation for himself in Sicily.
¹
My father himself crossed the straits and went to Messina, where he sought asylum in the Monastery of the Augustinians del Monte. He placed his savings in the hands of the fathers, did public penance and settled down under the portals of their church, where he lived a very pleasant life with the freedom to wander in the gardens and courtyards of the monastery. The monks gave him soup and he sent out to a nearby chop-house for a cooked dish or two. The lay brother of the order even dressed his wounds into the bargain.

I suppose that my father used to send us large sums of money, for we had more than we needed for our household. My mother took part in the carnival, and during Lent she had a
presepe
, or crib, made up of little dolls, sugar castles and similar childish things which are very much in fashion in the kingdom of Naples and are luxuries indulged in by the citizens. My aunt, Signora Lunardo, would also have a
presepe
, but not nearly as fine as ours.

From what I can remember of my mother, she seemed to me to be very tender-hearted and we often saw her weep when she thought of the dangers to which her husband was exposed. But a few triumphs over her sister or her neighbours soon dried her tears. The satisfaction she obtained from her splendid crib was the last such pleasure she was able to enjoy. I don't know how, but she caught pleurisy, from which she died a few days later.

After her death we would not have known what to do if the
barigel
had not taken us in. We spent a few days in his house, after which we were entrusted to a muleteer who took us right across Calabria. On the fourteenth day we arrived at Messina. My father had already been told of the death of his wife. He welcomed us with great affection,
had bedding put down for us next to his and introduced us to the monks, who enrolled us as altar boys. We served at Mass, we snuffed candles and lit lamps, but apart from that we were the same shameless street urchins that we had been in Benevento. After we had eaten the monks' soup, my father gave each of us a tari with which we would buy chestnuts and cracknel, and we would then go down to play in the port until nightfall, when we would return. And we went on being happy ragamuffins until an event occurred which changed my life and which even now I cannot recall without feelings of rage.

One Sunday, shortly before vespers, I came back to the church gates laden with chestnuts, which I had bought for my brothers and myself. I was sharing them out when a splendid carriage drove up. It was drawn by six white horses and preceded by two other horses of the same colour which were not hitched to the carriage, a display of wealth I have only ever seen in Italy. The door of the carriage opened. First a
bracciere
²
emerged, who gave his arm to a beautiful lady. Next came a cleric and finally a boy of my age with a charming face, magnificently dressed in the Hungarian style, which then was not uncommon among children. His little winter coat was made of blue velvet embroidered with gold and trimmed with sable. It came down below his knees and even covered the top of his light brown morocco-leather boots. His cap, which was also trimmed with sable, was of the same blue velvet. At its peak there was a tassel of pearls which fell on to one shoulder. His belt was hung with gold tassels and cords and his miniature sabre was studded with jewels. Finally he had in his hand a prayer-book with gold mounts.

I was so amazed to see a boy of my age with such fine clothes that without thinking very much about what I was doing, I went up to him and presented two chestnuts to him which I had in my hand. But instead of responding to my gesture of kindness, the unworthy little wretch hit me in the face with his prayer-book with the full force of his arm. My left eye was badly bruised, and the clasp on the book caught my nostril and ripped it so that I was instantly covered in blood. It seems to me now that I then heard the lordling wailing
horribly, but I had more or less fainted. And when I came to my senses I found myself near the fountain in the garden, surrounded by my father and brothers, who were washing my face and trying to staunch the flow of blood.

In the meantime, while I was still bleeding profusely, the lordling came back, followed by the cleric, the gentleman from the coach and two footmen carrying a bundle of sticks. The gentleman tersely stated that Her Excellency the Princess de Rocca Fiorita demanded that I be beaten till I bled as a punishment for having frightened her darling son, the principino. The footmen at once began carrying out the sentence.

My father, who was afraid that he would lose his sanctuary, did not dare say anything at first, but seeing that I was being mercilessly flayed he could not contain himself any longer and, turning to the gentleman, said in a voice which betrayed his stifled rage, ‘Stop this at once, or remember that I have murdered men worth ten the likes of you!'

The gentleman saw the sense of these words and gave the order to stop beating me further. But while I was still face down on the ground the principino came up to me, kicked me in the face and said, ‘Managia la tua facia de banditu.'
³

This last insult drove me wild with rage. I can even say that at that moment my childhood came to an end, or at least that I ceased from then on to enjoy childhood's pleasures. And it was a long time before I could look at a richly dressed man and not lose my composure.

Vengeance must be the original sin of our country, for even though I was only eight years old at the time, night and day I thought of nothing else than of ways to punish the principino. I would wake up with a start from a dream in which I held him by the hair and rained down blows on him. By day I thought of how I could hurt him from a distance, for I suspected that I would not be allowed to get near to him and I intended to make good my escape, having done the deed. Eventually I decided to throw a stone in his face, this being an exercise in which I was adept. To perfect
my technique I chose a target on which I practised all day long.

My father once asked me what I was doing. I told him that it was my intention to smash the face of the principino, to make good my escape and then to turn bandit. My father gave the impression of not believing me but he smiled at me in a way which strengthened my resolve.

At last came the Sunday which was to be my day of vengeance. The carriage appeared, its occupants got out. I was very nervous but I brought myself under control. My little enemy caught sight of me in the crowd. He poked his tongue out at me. I threw the stone I was holding and he fell backwards. I ran off at once and did not stop until I reached the other end of town. There I met a young chimney sweep I knew, who asked me where I was going. I told him what I had done and he at once took me to his master, who was short of boys and did not know how to procure them for such an arduous job. He greeted my arrival with pleasure. He told me that no one would recognize me when my face was smeared with soot and that knowing how to climb chimneys was a useful talent. He was quite right about that. I have often owed my life to the skill I acquired then.

At first I found chimney dust and the smell of soot very unpleasant, but I got used to them for I was of an age when one can accustom oneself to anything. I had been working as a chimney sweep for six months when the adventure I am about to relate befell me.

I was on a roof listening to hear from which flue my master's voice would come out. I thought I heard him shouting out of the nearest chimney to me. I went down it but found that the flue separated into two just below the roof. I should have called out myself then but did not do so. Instead I decided rashly to take one of the flues at random. I slipped down it and found myself in a handsome drawing-room. The first thing I saw was the principino, wearing only a shirt, playing with a shuttlecock.

Although the little fool had probably seen chimney sweeps before, he took it into his head to take me for the devil. He fell to his knees, begging me not to carry him off and promising to be good. I might have been moved by his entreaties but I had my sweep's brush in my hand and the temptation to make use of it had grown too strong. Although I had avenged myself for the blow the principino had given
me with his prayer-book, and in part for the beating I had received, I still resented the kick in the face and the words ‘Managia la tua facia de banditu,' and when all is said and done, Neapolitans prefer to take a little more than a little less revenge.

I pulled a fistful of switches from my broom, ripped apart the principino's shirt and, when his back was exposed, I ripped that apart too, or at least gave it severe treatment. But the strangest part of it was that fear prevented him crying out.

When I thought I had done enough I wiped my face clean and said to him, ‘Ciucio maledetto, io no zuno lu diavolu, io zuno lu piciolu banditu delli Augustini.'
⁴
At that the principino recovered the use of his voice and started to yell for help. But I did not wait to see whether anyone came. I climbed back up the way I had come down.

When I reached the roof I could hear my master's voice calling me but thought it inadvisable to reply. I started to run from roof to roof until I came above the stables, in front of which stood a haywain. I jumped down from the roof on to the hay and from the hay to the ground. Then I ran all the way to the portal of the Augustinian monastery, where I told my father what had happened.

My father listened with great interest and then said to me, ‘Zoto, Zoto, già vegio che tu sarai banditu.'
⁵

Then, turning to a man who was standing beside him, he said, ‘Padron Lettereo, prendete lo chiutosto vui.'
⁶

Lettereo is a baptismal name peculiar to Messina. It comes from the letter which the Virgin is said to have written to the townspeople and which she is said to have dated in ‘the one thousand four hundred and fifty-second year from the birth of my Son'. The inhabitants of Messina venerate this letter as much as the Neapolitans venerate the blood of St Januarius.
⁷
I mention this detail because a year and a half
later I said what I thought would be the last prayer of my life to the Madonna della Lettera.

Now Padron Lettereo was the captain of an armed pink which was supposedly equipped for coral fishing but was actually used for smuggling and even piracy if a good opportunity arose, which was not very often because it carried no cannon and had to take ships by surprise off deserted beaches.

All this was' public knowledge in Messina; Lettereo smuggled on behalf of the city's leading merchants. The customs officers also had a share in it. Besides, Padron Lettereo had the reputation of being very free with the
coltellade
,
⁸
which made an impression on those who might have liked to make trouble for him. He was indeed an impressive figure of a man. His great chest and shoulders alone would have set him apart from others. But the rest of his appearance was so singular that timid souls could not look on him without feeling a surge of fear. His deeply bronzed face was made darker still by the scorch marks of gunpowder, which had left many small scars, and his sallow skin was decorated with many strange designs. Nearly all Mediterranean sailors have themselves tattooed on their arms and chests with letters, galleys, crosses and other such decorations. Lettereo had gone further. On one cheek he had the tattoo of a crucifix, on the other a madonna. Only the top of these images was visible, the bottom being hidden by a thick beard which no razor ever touched and which scissors alone kept within certain bounds. Add to this gold earrings, a red bonnet and belt, a sleeveless jerkin, sailor's trousers, bare arms and feet and pockets full of gold and you have an idea of what the padron looked like.

It was said that in his youth he had enjoyed the favours of ladies of the highest circles and that he was the darling of the women of his own class and the scourge of their husbands.

Finally, to complete this portrait of Lettereo, I should tell you that he had been the best friend of a man of true merit who has since acquired a reputation under the name of Captain Pepo. Pepo and Lettereo had both served with the corsairs of Malta, but whereas Pepo
had then entered the service of his king, Lettereo, who cared less for honour than for money, had decided to acquire wealth in any sort of way. At the same time he had become the sworn enemy of his former comrade.

As my father had nothing else to do in his sanctuary than to tend his wound, which he no longer expected to heal completely, he was glad to converse with heroes of his own kind. That is why he befriended Lettereo, and in recommending me to him he had grounds to believe that I would not be turned down. Nor was he mistaken. Lettereo was even quite touched by such a sign of trust. He promised my father that my apprenticeship would be less harsh than that of a ship's boy normally would be. And he assured him that as I had been a chimney sweep it would only take me two days to learn to climb the rigging.