good old Santi recommended me warmly in the will he left his wife, it's also true that she could have ignored that.
"No, no," she repeats to me, "thank Santi, bless his soul, for at least having had the foresight to put aside this little bit of money that was yours for our old age. See? What you were incapable of doing, he did for you. Too bad he lacked courage, poor man!"
And so now, I, being sane, enjoy the meager fruit of the sanest of virtues: the foresight of one of my poor thieves, who was grateful and decent.
The Shrine
I
Having crawled into bed beside his wife, who was already asleep with her face turned towards the small bed where their two children lay side by side, Spatolino first said his usual prayers, then clasped his hands behind his neck. He blinked his eyes and — without thinking about what he was doing — began to whistle, as was his habit whenever a doubt or worry gnawed at his heart.
"Fififi... fififi... fififi..."
It wasn't exactly a whistle, but rather a soft hissing sound, gently formed on his lips, and always patterned on the same tune.
After a while his wife awoke.
"Oh! You're here? What happened to you?"
"Nothing. Go to sleep. Good night."
He pulled himself down beneath the covers, turned his back towards his wife and then he, too, curled up on his side to sleep. But how could he sleep?
"Fififi..-fififi... fififi..." At this point his wife reached over and struck him on the back with her clenched fist.
"Hey, will you stop that? Careful you don't wake up the little ones!"
"You're right. Keep quiet! I'll fall asleep."
He really tried to drive out of his mind that tormenting thought that now, as always, became a chirping cricket inside of him; but as soon as he thought he had driven it out:
"FififiL. fififi!... fififi!..."
This time he didn't even wait for his wife to deliver another punch, which surely would have been stronger than the first, but jumped out of bed, exasperated.
"What are you doing? Where are you going?" she asked him.
"I'm getting dressed again, damn it!" he replied. "I can't sleep. I'm going to go sit here in front of the door, on the street! Air! Air!"
"For heaven's sake," continued his wife, "will you tell me what the devil happened to you?"
"What? It's that scoundrel," burst out Spatolino then, making an effort to keep his voice down, "that rascal, that enemy of God..."
"Who? Who?"
"Ciancarella."
"The notary?"
"Yes, him. He's sent word that he wants me to come to his villa tomorrow."
"Well?"
"What can a man like him want from me, would you tell me that? He's a swine, even though he's been baptized! A swine, to say the least! Air! Air!"
So saying, he grabbed a chair, reopened the door, and shut it quietly behind him. Then he sat down in the sleepy little street and rested his shoulders against the wall of his cottage.
A streetlamp languidly flickered nearby, casting a yellowish light on a stagnant pool of water, if we can call what lay between the loose cobblestones of that worn-out pavement, covered here and there with bumps and depressions, water.
From within the tiny, shaded cottages there emanated a heavy stench of stables, and from time to time one could hear, breaking the silence, the stamping of some animal tormented by flies. A cat, creeping along the wall, stopped and watchfully turned sideways.
Spatolino began looking at the clusters of stars twinkling in the strip of sky above, and as he looked, he twisted the few hairs of his small reddish beard up to his mouth.
Small in stature, even though since childhood he had mixed clay and mortar, he had a somewhat gentlemanly appearance.
Suddenly his blue eyes, turned upward to the sky, were filled with tears. He shuddered as he sat there in his chair and, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, murmured in the silence of the night:
"Oh, help me, dear Jesus!"
II
Ever since the clerical faction in town had been defeated, and the new party, that of the excommunicated, had taken over
"No, no," she repeats to me, "thank Santi, bless his soul, for at least having had the foresight to put aside this little bit of money that was yours for our old age. See? What you were incapable of doing, he did for you. Too bad he lacked courage, poor man!"
And so now, I, being sane, enjoy the meager fruit of the sanest of virtues: the foresight of one of my poor thieves, who was grateful and decent.
The Shrine
I
Having crawled into bed beside his wife, who was already asleep with her face turned towards the small bed where their two children lay side by side, Spatolino first said his usual prayers, then clasped his hands behind his neck. He blinked his eyes and — without thinking about what he was doing — began to whistle, as was his habit whenever a doubt or worry gnawed at his heart.
"Fififi... fififi... fififi..."
It wasn't exactly a whistle, but rather a soft hissing sound, gently formed on his lips, and always patterned on the same tune.
After a while his wife awoke.
"Oh! You're here? What happened to you?"
"Nothing. Go to sleep. Good night."
He pulled himself down beneath the covers, turned his back towards his wife and then he, too, curled up on his side to sleep. But how could he sleep?
"Fififi..-fififi... fififi..." At this point his wife reached over and struck him on the back with her clenched fist.
"Hey, will you stop that? Careful you don't wake up the little ones!"
"You're right. Keep quiet! I'll fall asleep."
He really tried to drive out of his mind that tormenting thought that now, as always, became a chirping cricket inside of him; but as soon as he thought he had driven it out:
"FififiL. fififi!... fififi!..."
This time he didn't even wait for his wife to deliver another punch, which surely would have been stronger than the first, but jumped out of bed, exasperated.
"What are you doing? Where are you going?" she asked him.
"I'm getting dressed again, damn it!" he replied. "I can't sleep. I'm going to go sit here in front of the door, on the street! Air! Air!"
"For heaven's sake," continued his wife, "will you tell me what the devil happened to you?"
"What? It's that scoundrel," burst out Spatolino then, making an effort to keep his voice down, "that rascal, that enemy of God..."
"Who? Who?"
"Ciancarella."
"The notary?"
"Yes, him. He's sent word that he wants me to come to his villa tomorrow."
"Well?"
"What can a man like him want from me, would you tell me that? He's a swine, even though he's been baptized! A swine, to say the least! Air! Air!"
So saying, he grabbed a chair, reopened the door, and shut it quietly behind him. Then he sat down in the sleepy little street and rested his shoulders against the wall of his cottage.
A streetlamp languidly flickered nearby, casting a yellowish light on a stagnant pool of water, if we can call what lay between the loose cobblestones of that worn-out pavement, covered here and there with bumps and depressions, water.
From within the tiny, shaded cottages there emanated a heavy stench of stables, and from time to time one could hear, breaking the silence, the stamping of some animal tormented by flies. A cat, creeping along the wall, stopped and watchfully turned sideways.
Spatolino began looking at the clusters of stars twinkling in the strip of sky above, and as he looked, he twisted the few hairs of his small reddish beard up to his mouth.
Small in stature, even though since childhood he had mixed clay and mortar, he had a somewhat gentlemanly appearance.
Suddenly his blue eyes, turned upward to the sky, were filled with tears. He shuddered as he sat there in his chair and, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, murmured in the silence of the night:
"Oh, help me, dear Jesus!"
II
Ever since the clerical faction in town had been defeated, and the new party, that of the excommunicated, had taken over
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