Tales of Madness (8 page)

"Ah, Spatolino! Good!" said Ciancarella. "Sit there." And he pointed to one of the iron stools arranged in a circle inside the little arbor.

But Spatolino remained standing, his little hat caked with sand and plaster in his hands.

"You're an unworthy son, right?"

"Yes, sir, and I'm proud of it. An unworthy son of Our Lady of
Sorrows. What can I do for you?"

"Well," said Ciancarella, but instead of continuing, he brought
the cup to his lips and took three sips of coffee. "A shrine..." (And then another sip.)

"What did you say?"

"I would like you to build me a shrine." (Still another sip.)

"A shrine, your Lordship?"

Spatolino nodded several times with his eyes shut. Then, opening his eyes, he sighed and said:

"But your Lordship is joking, right?"

"Joking? Why do you say that?"

"I think your Lordship wants to joke. Forgive me, but how can I believe that your Lordship is ordering a shrine dedicated to the Ecce Homo?"

Ciancarella made an effort to raise his large, unshaven head a little. He held it with his hand and laughed in that particular and quite peculiar way of his that sounded as if he were whimpering, a result of the malady affecting the back of his neck.

"What! Am I perhaps not worthy of it, in your opinion?"

"No, no, sir, it's not that. Pardon me!" Spatolino hastened to answer, angered and becoming ever more inflamed. "Why should your Lordship commit a sacrilege like that, without any justification? Let me dissuade you, and forgive me for speaking frankly. Whom do you think you're fooling, your Lordship? Certainly not God. You can't fool God. God sees everything and won't allow your Lordship to fool him. People? But they can see too, and they know that your Lordship..."

"What do they know, imbecile?" the old man shouted, interrupting him. "And what do you know about God, you
wretch? Only what the priests told you! But God... Go on! Go on!
Is it possible that I have to sit here and argue with you, now... Have you had breakfast?"

"No, sir."

"Bad habit, my dear man! Am I supposed to offer you some now, huh?"

"No, sir. I don't want anything."

"Ah!" exclaimed Ciancarella with a yawn. "Ah! It's the priests, young man, the priests who have confounded your brain. They go about preaching that I don't believe in God, right? But do you know why? Because I don't give them anything to eat. So then, keep quiet; they'll get enough when they come to consecrate our shrine. I want it to be a splendid celebration, Spatolino. Why are you looking at me like that? Don't you believe me? Or do you want to know how the idea came to me? In a dream, my boy. I had a dream the other night. Of course, now the priests will say that God has touched my heart. Let them say what they wish, I couldn't care less! Now then, are we agreed, huh? Speak up... Snap out of it... Have you lost your wits?"

"Yes, sir," confessed Spatolino, extending his arms.

This time Ciancarella held his head with both hands so as to have a good long laugh.

"Fine," he then said. "You know how I do business. I don't
want any sort of trouble. I know you're a fine worker and you do
things properly and honestly. Handle it yourself, expenses and all, without bothering me. When you're finished we'll settle the account. As for the shrine... did you understand how I want it to be?"

"Yes, sir."

"When will you start the work?"

"As far as I'm concerned, even tomorrow."

"And when can it be completed?"

Spatolino hesitated a while to think.

"Well," he then said, "if it's to be as large as that, it'll take at least... what should I say?... a month."

"That's fine. Now let's go see the site together."

The land on the other side of the road also belonged to Ciancarella, who left it uncultivated and in a state of complete neglect. He had bought it so that he wouldn't be bothered by anyone who might want to live there in front of his villa. He allowed the shepherds to bring their small flocks to graze there, as if the land belonged to no one. Therefore it wasn't necessary to ask anyone's permission to build the shrine. As soon as the site had been established there, right in front of his gate, the old man went back into his villa, and Spatolino, left to himself,

began an interminable fififi
fififi— fififi... Then he set off. He

walked and walked and finally found himself, almost without knowing how, in front of the door of Father Lagaipa, who was his confessor. Only after he knocked, did he remember that the priest had been sick in bed for the past several days. He should not have disturbed him with that morning visit, but the matter was serious, so he entered.

His huge, fleshy nose, all covered with pockmarks like a sponge, seemed to have become even larger as a result of his recent illness. His dark, shiny eyes, one pointing in one direction, the other in another, as if out of fear of that nose, seemed to want to escape from that yellow, worn-out face.

"They're ruining me, Spatolino, ruining me! A short time ago my young farmhand, 'Baccala,' came by to tell me that my fields have become communal property. Why, of course, they belong to everybody! It's the socialists, understand? They're stealing my grapes while they're still green, my prickly pears, everything! What's yours is mine, understand? What's yours is mine! I'll send him this shotgun. 'Their legs!' I told him. 'Shoot them in the legs. The best medicine for them is lead! That's what they need!' (Rosina, you silly little goose, I told you to bring me some more vinegar and a clean rag.) What did you want to tell me, my son?"

Spatolino no longer knew where to start. As soon as he pronounced Ciancarella's name, he heard a torrent of angry curse words, and when he but mentioned the building of the shrine, he saw Father Lagaipa gaze in openmouthed surprise.

"A shrine?"

"Yes, Father, dedicated to the
Ecce Homo.
I would like to ask your advice, reverend Father, concerning whether I ought to build it for him."

"You're asking me? That stupid fool, what did you answer him?"

Spatolino repeated what he had said to Ciancarella and, carried away by the praises of the feisty priest, added other things he had not said.

"Very good! And he? That ugly dog!"

"He says he had a dream."

"That swindler! Don't believe him! That swindler! If God had really spoken to him in a dream, He would have suggested rather that he help the Lattugas, those poor souls. To think that he won't accept them as relatives because they are religious and loyal to us, while, on the other hand, he protects the Montoros — understand? — those socialistic atheists to whom he'll leave all his wealth! But enough of this! What do you want from me? Go ahead and build him a shrine. If you don't, somebody else will. Anyway, as far as we're concerned, it'll always be a good thing when a sinner the likes of him gives an indication of wanting somehow to make his peace with God. That swindler! That ugly dog!"

People passing along the dusty highway either on foot, on horseback, or with their carts, would stop to ask Spatolino what he was building.

"A shrine."

"Who ordered it?"

And pointing his finger to the sky, he would gloomily say:

"The Ecco
Homo."

He gave no other answer during the entire period of construction. People would laugh or shrug their shoulders.

But some of them, looking towards the gate of the villa, would
ask:

"Right here?"

It occurred to no one that the notary himself could have ordered the shrine. On the contrary, because no one was aware that that piece of land belonged to Ciancarella too, and they all thought that everyone was quite familiar with Spatolino's religious fanaticism, they believed that, either due to an order from the bishop or to some vow made by the Catholic Society, he was building the shrine right there to spite the old usurer. And they laughed about it.

Meanwhile, as if God actually resented the construction, every sort of misfortune befell Spatolino as he was doing his work. First of all, it took four whole days of digging before he found solid ground for the foundation. Then there were arguments up there at the quarry over the stone, arguments over the lime, arguments with the kiln man; and finally, when the center was being set up to construct the arch, it fell and only a miracle saved the mortar boy from being killed.

At the very end came the bombshell. On the very day Spatolino was to show him the shrine completely finished, Ciancarella suffered a stroke, one of those serious kinds, and within three hours was dead.

But he believed it when he called on the Montoros, the notary's heirs, to seek payment for his work, for he heard them answer that they knew nothing about it, and therefore would not acknowledge liability for a debt unsubstantiated by documentary proof.

"What!" exclaimed Spatolino. "And for whom do you think I built the shrine?"

"For the Ecce Homo."

"So it was my idea?"

"Why, of course..." they said to rid themselves of him. "We would feel that we were showing little respect for the memory of our uncle if we imagined even for one moment that he could actually have given you a job to do which was so contrary to his way of thinking and feeling. There's no proof of it. So what do you expect from us? Keep the shrine for yourself, and if that doesn't suit you, you can take legal action."

Spatolino took legal action immediately. Why, of course! Could he possibly lose the case? Could the judges seriously believe that it was all his idea to build a shrine? Moreover, there was the servant who would act as a witness, Ciancarella's very own servant who had summoned him on behalf of his master. And there was Father Lagaipa, to whom he had gone for advice that very day; then there was his wife, whom he had informed, and the laborers, who had worked with him the whole time. How could he lose the case?

He did lose it, he did lose it, yes sir! He lost it because Ciancarella's servant, who had now gone over to serve the Montoros, went to court to testify that he had indeed summoned Spatolino on behalf of his master — bless his soul — but certainly not because his master — bless his soul — intended to have him build a shrine on that site; no, it was rather because he had heard from the gardener, who was now dead (what a coincidence!) that Spatolino himself intended to build a shrine right there, in front of the gate, and he had wanted to warn him that the parcel of land on the other side of the road was his, and that he should therefore take great care in not erecting such an
idiotic
structure in that place. The servant added that one day he even told his master — bless his soul — that Spatolino, despite the prohibition, was over there digging with three laborers, and his master — bless his soul — had answered: "Oh, let him dig! Don't you know he's crazy? He's probably looking for treasure in order to complete St. Catherine's Church!" Father Lagaipa's testimony did him no good since it was well known that the priest had inspired Spatolino to commit so many other foolish acts. What is more, the laborers themselves testified that they had never seen Ciancarella and had always received their daily wages from the master builder.