Tales of Madness (9 page)

Spatolino rushed out of the courtroom as if he had lost his mind. He felt crushed, not so much on account of the loss of the small fortune he had spent in the building of the shrine, and not so much for the expenses of the trial, which he was condemned to pay, but rather because of the collapse of his belief in divine justice.

"So then," he repeatedly asked himself, "so then, does God no longer exist?"

At Father Lagaipa's instigation, he appealed the verdict. It was his ruin. The day the news reached him that he had lost even in the court of appeal, Spatolino didn't so much as bat an eye. With the last coins remaining in his pocket, he bought a yard and a half of red cotton cloth and three old sacks, and then returned home.

"Make me a tunic," he told his wife, flinging the three sacks onto her lap.

His wife looked at him as if she didn't understand.

"What do you intend to do?"

"I told you: 'make me a tunic...' No? Then I'll make one myself."

In less than no time, he undid the bottoms of two of the sacks, and then sewed them together lengthwise. He made a slit down the front of the upper one, and two holes at the sides. With the third sack he made sleeves and sewed them around the two holes. Finally he sewed together the top edges of the upper sack a few inches on each side so that there would be an opening for his neck. He then rolled it all into a little bundle, picked up the red cotton cloth, and went off without saying goodbye to anyone.

About an hour later, the news spread around town that Spatolino, having gone mad, had placed himself like a statue of Christ at the Pillar, there in the new shrine on the highway, opposite Ciancarella's villa.

"Placed himself? What does that mean?"

"Why, yes, he, like Christ, there inside the shrine!"

"Are you speaking seriously?"

"Yes, indeed!"

Neither the pleas and later the curses of his wife, who had rushed over with the other ladies of the neighborhood, nor the weeping of his children, could make him budge from that spot. To put an end to the hullabaloo it took the intervention of two policemen, who forced open the shrine's little gate and arrested Spatolino.

"Leave me alone! Who's more of a Christ than I?" Spatolino began screaming, as he struggled to free himself. "Can't you see how they're mocking and insulting me? Who's more of a Christ than I? Leave me alone! This is my house! I built it myself with my money and my hands! I sweated blood to complete it! Leave me alone, you heathens!"

But those heathens wouldn't let him go until evening.

"Go home!" the police commissioner commanded him. "Go home, and I warn you, be sensible!"

"Yes, Mr. Pontius Pilate," answered Spatolino, bowing.

And quite stealthily he returned to the shrine. Once inside, he again dressed up like Christ. He spent the entire night there, and never budged from that spot again.

They tried to drive him out by starvation; they tried to drive him out by intimidation and ridicule, but all was in vain. Finally they left him in peace, as you would a poor harmless lunatic.

VI

There is someone now who brings him oil for his lamp and someone who brings him food and drink. Some old woman begins to quietly spread the word that he's a saint, and goes to beg him to pray for her and for her family; another brought him a new tunic made of finer material, and in exchange asked him for three numbers to play in the lottery.

But often some cricket, attracted by the light, springs upon him and makes him awaken with a start. He then resumes his prayers; but not infrequently, while praying, another cricket, that old chirping cricket, awakens again within him. Spatolino then removes from his forehead the crown of thorns to which he has already become accustomed, and scratching himself there where the thorns have left their mark, his eyes wandering here and there, again begins to whistle:

"Fififi... fififi... fififi.."

B
y golly!

Putting his hat back on (slowly, so as not to ruffle his well-combed hair), my friend turned around to gaze at me too. Why did he do that? He saw me standing in the middle of the square, and nodded with an embarrassed smile. I answered with another smile and with a lively gesture of the hand, as if to say: "Congratulations! Congratulations!"

And, after taking a few steps, I turned around again. It wasn't so much the sprightly, slender figure of his little bride-to-be, all excited as she was, that I liked, as the demeanor of my friend, my friend whom I had not seen for about three years. Hadn't he turned around to look at me a second time, too?

Could he be jealous? I wondered, setting out with my head bowed. After all, he would have reason to be! She's really pretty, by golly. But him, him!

I don't know why, but he seemed even taller. Wonders of love!
Moreover, he was completely rejuvenated, especially his eyes. And his entire outward appearance seemed to have been caressed by certain tender cares that I would never have deemed him capable of, knowing him to be opposed to all those intimate and quite curious grooming engagements that every young man usually has with his own image for hours on end in front of a mirror. Wonders of love!

Oh, my dear fellow, I continued to think, you're certainly not a painter any longer.
Dree, dree, dree.
Your shoes squeak too much. I bet you've taken up some other occupation, that is, a much more remunerative one. I commend you for it, despite the fact that this new occupation has persuaded you to get married.

I saw him again two or three days later, almost at the same time, again with his bride-to-be and his future mother-in-law. Another exchange of greetings accompanied by smiles. Nodding slightly, yet ever so graciously, even the bride-to-be smiled at me this time.

From that smile I deduced that Tito certainly had spoken at length of me, of my famous spells of absent mindedness, and had also probably told her that Quirino Renzi, his brother-in-law, calls me Pitagora because I don't eat beans. No doubt, he had also explained to her why you can jokingly call a person Pitagora if he doesn't eat beans, etc., etc. Things that are so amusing.

I noticed that this business about the beans probably made the funniest impression, particularly on the mother-in-law. Meeting her again subsequently, I don't know how many times — the three of them always together — that old goose, after returning my greeting, would actually burst out laughing without even trying to hide her laughter, and she would also turn around to look at me as she continued to laugh.

I would have liked to take Tito aside one day and ask him, just between the two of us, if his present happiness didn't offer him, his bride-to-be, and his future mother-in-law, any other occasion for laughter than this. If this were the case, I would pity him; but I never had the opportunity to do so. I also wanted to get some news from him concerning Renzi and his wife.

But, one fine day, lo and behold, I receive this telegram from Forli: "A terrible jam, Pitagora. Will be in Rome day after tomorrow. Be at station 8:20 a.m. — Renzi."

What! I thought, he has his brother-in-law here, and wants me to meet him at the station? Concerning that "terrible jam," I ran through countless suppositions, the most reasonable of which seemed to me to be this: Tito was about to contract a horrible marriage and Renzi was coming to Rome to attempt to foil the plan. After about three months of greetings and smiles, I confess that I had already begun to feel an irresistible dislike for that dollish bride-to-be, and something worse for her mother.

"I've got poor Tito here with me," says Renzi, pointing compassionately to his brother-in-law.

That's Tito Bindi? How can it be? Whom then have I been
greeting for three months along the streets of Rome? There he is,
Tito... Oh, my God, what a state he has been reduced to!

"Tito, Tito... but how can it be?... you..." I stammer.

Tito throws his arms around my neck and bursts out crying
profusely. Dumbfounded, I look at Renzi. How can it be? Why? I
feel I am going mad. Renzi then points to his forehead, shuts his eyes, and sighs. (Who? He, I, or Tito? Which of us is the madman?)

"Come on now, Tito," Renzi exhorts his brother-in-law, "calm down!. Calm down! Wait here a moment. Keep an eye on these suitcases. I'm going with Pitagora to retrieve the trunk."

If I had not seen Tito reduced to that state with my own eyes, doubtlessly I would have believed that Renzi had wanted to play a joke on me, as he had so many times before. Feeling both
dizziness and pity, I then confess to him the mistake I had made,
that is, how until the previous day I had greeted Tito, the fiancée, on the streets of Rome. Renzi, despite his concern for his brother-in-law, is unable to keep from laughing.

"I assure you!" I tell him. "Exactly like him! Really him in
person! For three months we have been greeting and exchanging
smiles. We've become the
¹
best of friends! But now, yes, now I can see the difference. But it's because Tito, poor fellow, I must say, no longer looks like himself. Instead, every day I've been
greeting Tito as he was before going to Forli, three years ago. He
looks exactly like him, you know? Tito, Tito who looks, Tito who speaks, Tito who smiles, Tito who walks, Tito who recognizes and greets me... Exactly like him! Exactly like him! You can imagine how it struck me seeing him again like this, now, after having seen him yesterday around four o'clock, beaming with happiness in the company of his little bride-to-be."