the seats of the town council, Spatolino felt as if he were in the middle of an enemy camp.
All his fellow workers had huddled behind the new leaders like so many sheep and now, forming a tightly-knit syndicate, were acting as if they owned the place.
With only a handful of workers who had remained faithful to Holy Mother Church, Spatolino had founded a Catholic Mutual Benefit Society among the Unworthy Sons of Our Lady of Sorrows.
But the battle was uneven. The jeering of his enemies (and even of his friends) and the anger he felt because of his helplessness, had made Spatolino see red.
He had gotten it into his head, as president of that Catholic Society, to promote processions, illuminations, and firework displays for all the religious holidays whose observance had previously been fostered by the former town council. While the opposition party whistled, shouted, and laughed, he had lost money on the expenses incurred for the feasts of St. Michael the Archangel, St. Francis of Paola, Good Friday, Corpus Christi, and, in brief, for all the other principal holidays of the church calendar.
Thus the small capital which up till then had permitted him to take a few jobs on contract had shrunk so much that he could see the day not too far off when, from being a master builder, he would be reduced to becoming a miserable day laborer.
His wife had long since lost all the respect and esteem she had had for him. She herself had begun providing for her own needs and for those of their children by washing clothes and sewing for others, and by doing all sorts of other domestic work.
As if he were unemployed for his own pleasure! What could he do if the consortium of those sons of bitches was picking up all the jobs? What did his wife expect him to do? Give up his faith, repudiate God, and sign up in the party of those others? He would rather have had his hands cut off!
Meanwhile, his forced leisure was tormenting him, making him increasingly more irritable and obstinate with each passing day, and embittering him against everyone.
Ciancarella, the notary, had never sided with anyone. Nonetheless, he was notorious for being an enemy of God, making that his profession ever since leaving public office. Once he had even dared to sic his dogs on a man of the cloth, Father Lagaipa, who had gone to visit him to intercede on behalf of some of the notary's poor relatives. These unfortunates were actually starving to death, while he, their relative, was living like a prince in the magnificent villa he had built at the edge of town, with all those riches he had accumulated — heaven only knows how! — and increased through years and years of usury.
Spatolino stayed out-of-doors all night long (fortunately it was summer), mulling over that mysterious invitation from Ciancarella [fififi... fififh.. fififi--. J. Part of the time he sat, the rest of it he spent strolling up and down the deserted little street.
Since he knew that Ciancarella usually got up early, and he could hear that his wife had gotten up at daybreak and was bustling about the house, he decided to start on his way. He left the old chair out there in the street, confident that no one would steal it.
III
Giancarella's villa was surrounded by a wall, like a fortress, and had a gate that opened onto the provincial highway.
The old man, who looked like an ugly toad all dressed up, was afflicted with an enormous cyst on the back of his neck, which forced him to keep his large, shaven head continuously bowed and bent to one side. He lived alone in the villa, except for one manservant. But he had a lot of countrymen at his command and they were all armed. He also had two mastiffs whose appearance alone incited fear.
Spatolino rang the bell. Immediately those two ugly beasts flung themselves furiously against the bars of the gate, and didn't quiet down, not even when the manservant showed up to encourage Spatolino to enter. But Spatolino would not step inside until the
All his fellow workers had huddled behind the new leaders like so many sheep and now, forming a tightly-knit syndicate, were acting as if they owned the place.
With only a handful of workers who had remained faithful to Holy Mother Church, Spatolino had founded a Catholic Mutual Benefit Society among the Unworthy Sons of Our Lady of Sorrows.
But the battle was uneven. The jeering of his enemies (and even of his friends) and the anger he felt because of his helplessness, had made Spatolino see red.
He had gotten it into his head, as president of that Catholic Society, to promote processions, illuminations, and firework displays for all the religious holidays whose observance had previously been fostered by the former town council. While the opposition party whistled, shouted, and laughed, he had lost money on the expenses incurred for the feasts of St. Michael the Archangel, St. Francis of Paola, Good Friday, Corpus Christi, and, in brief, for all the other principal holidays of the church calendar.
Thus the small capital which up till then had permitted him to take a few jobs on contract had shrunk so much that he could see the day not too far off when, from being a master builder, he would be reduced to becoming a miserable day laborer.
His wife had long since lost all the respect and esteem she had had for him. She herself had begun providing for her own needs and for those of their children by washing clothes and sewing for others, and by doing all sorts of other domestic work.
As if he were unemployed for his own pleasure! What could he do if the consortium of those sons of bitches was picking up all the jobs? What did his wife expect him to do? Give up his faith, repudiate God, and sign up in the party of those others? He would rather have had his hands cut off!
Meanwhile, his forced leisure was tormenting him, making him increasingly more irritable and obstinate with each passing day, and embittering him against everyone.
Ciancarella, the notary, had never sided with anyone. Nonetheless, he was notorious for being an enemy of God, making that his profession ever since leaving public office. Once he had even dared to sic his dogs on a man of the cloth, Father Lagaipa, who had gone to visit him to intercede on behalf of some of the notary's poor relatives. These unfortunates were actually starving to death, while he, their relative, was living like a prince in the magnificent villa he had built at the edge of town, with all those riches he had accumulated — heaven only knows how! — and increased through years and years of usury.
Spatolino stayed out-of-doors all night long (fortunately it was summer), mulling over that mysterious invitation from Ciancarella [fififi... fififh.. fififi--. J. Part of the time he sat, the rest of it he spent strolling up and down the deserted little street.
Since he knew that Ciancarella usually got up early, and he could hear that his wife had gotten up at daybreak and was bustling about the house, he decided to start on his way. He left the old chair out there in the street, confident that no one would steal it.
III
Giancarella's villa was surrounded by a wall, like a fortress, and had a gate that opened onto the provincial highway.
The old man, who looked like an ugly toad all dressed up, was afflicted with an enormous cyst on the back of his neck, which forced him to keep his large, shaven head continuously bowed and bent to one side. He lived alone in the villa, except for one manservant. But he had a lot of countrymen at his command and they were all armed. He also had two mastiffs whose appearance alone incited fear.
Spatolino rang the bell. Immediately those two ugly beasts flung themselves furiously against the bars of the gate, and didn't quiet down, not even when the manservant showed up to encourage Spatolino to enter. But Spatolino would not step inside until the
Similar Books
