The Silent Duchess (22 page)

Hands reach out uncertainly towards the silver tray and close gently round the stems, as if a single touch of their rough fingers might make the glass explode; cautiously they bring the chalices to their mouths. Then they form another queue to kiss her hand but she sends them away to spare them this tedious obligation, and they go past her, holding their hats, bowing with eyes lowered.

"Take me down to the condemned prisoner, Don Pericle", writes Marianna impatiently, and Don Pericle, imperturbable as ever, gives her an arm draped in black perfumed cloth.

A long passage, a dark cupboard, a store room, the kitchen, a drying room, another passage, the gun room with shotguns stacked in their racks, large baskets scattered round the floor, two wooden ducks leaning against a chair. A strong smell of badly cured leather, of dust from gun-shot, of mutton fat ... then a small room where the flags and banners are kept: the standard of the House of Savoy rolled up clumsily in a corner, the white flag of the Inquisition, the sky-blue one of Philip Very, the red, white and silver one of

Elizabetta Farnese, the one with the Hapsburg eagle and the blue one with the gold fleur-de-lys of the Bourbons.

Marianna stops for a moment in the middle of the room, calling Don Pericle's attention to the rolled-up flags. She wants to tell him that all these bits of cloth, so carefully stitched, are useless and should be thrown away. All they reveal is the indifference to politics of her husband the Duke, who, doubting the stability of the reigning houses, kept them there, all at the ready. In 1713, like everyone else, he hoisted the flag of Savoy on the tower of Scannatura; in 1720 he put up the

Austrian flag of Charles VII of the Hapsburgs; in 1735, quite dispassionately, he hoisted that of Charles III, King of the Two Sicilies, without ever putting away the preceding ones, ready to bring them out as new in the event of a change of loyalty, as happened in the case of the Spaniards, who were thrown out of the island and came back thirty-five years later after a terrible war that caused more deaths than an epidemic of smallpox.

It was not just opportunism on the part of Duke Pietro, it was contempt for "those dogs who come and lord it over us". It would never have occurred to him to join with other malcontents in laying down conditions or resisting the high-handedness of foreigners. His wolf's footsteps led him to go where there was nothing to assault but a few solitary sheep. Politics were incomprehensible to him. Problems should be resolved on their own, face to face with one's own God, in that desolate and heroic place which was for him the conscience of a Sicilian nobleman.

Don Pericle, after having stood waiting for her to decide whether to continue the walk, becomes as restless as a mouse and gives an almost imperceptible tug at her sleeve. And she moves on ahead, proceeding down to the cellar faster than he does. It is probable that he is hungry: she suspects this from a slightly too insistent pressure of the hand that is guiding her.

XXVII

The steps disappear into the darkness. The damp makes her dress cling to her. Where does it come from, this heat that smells of rats and straw, and where

do they lead to, these steep steps of discoloured stone?

Marianna's feet refuse to budge, her face becomes distorted. She turns to Don Pericle, who looks at her uncomprehendingly. A sudden memory has come down like a storm-cloud: her father wearing a cassock with the hood raised, a boy with discharging eyes, the hangman who spits out pumpkin seeds. It is all there, dense and solid, and it only needs a finger to set in motion the mill-wheel that draws up the dirty water of the past.

Don Pericle is worried. He looks for something to hold on to in case the Duchess swoons into his arms; he weighs her up with his eyes and holds out his hands ready in front of him, planting his feet firmly on the ground. The priest's worried face makes Marianna smile, and now that the vision has disappeared she can balance herself again. She thanks Don Pericle with a nod and starts to go down the stairs. In the meantime someone else has come, also carrying a lighted torch. He holds it with his arm stretched upwards so as to light the steps.

From the shadow outlined on the wall, Marianna guesses that it is Saro. Her breathing becomes faster. Now she can see in front of them a heavy door of light oak tortured with great nails and bolts. Saro inserts the torch into an iron ring that juts out from the wall, puts out his hand for the key and moves gracefully towards the heavy padlock. With a few quick movements he opens the door, takes back the torch and makes way for the Duchess and the priest to enter the cell.

Sitting on a small heap of straw is a man with white hair, so dirty that it seems yellow, a worn doublet of wool on his naked chest, a pair of patched breeches, his bare feet scarred and swollen. Saro lifts the torch above the prisoner, who looks at them with astonishment, blinking his eyes. He smiles and nods respectfully at the sight of the Duchess's sumptuous clothes.

"Ask him why he is shut up in here", writes Marianna, resting the sheet of paper on her knee. In her haste she has forgotten to bring the little table.

"The guard has already said, for insolvency." "I want to hear it from him."

Don Pericle patiently goes over to the man and talks to him. The man thinks it over for a little while and then answers. Don Pericle writes down the man's words, leaning the paper against the wall, holding himself well away from it so as not to spill ink on himself, and bending down every few seconds or so to dip the pen in the little bottle placed on the floor.

"Debts with the gabelloto not paid for a year. They took away the three mules he had. Waited till the next year for their 25 per cent. The following year debt had risen to 30 onze and he defaulted, so they put him in prison."

"But why was he in debt to the gabelloto?" "Harvest insufficient for him to pay."

"If the gabelloto knew he was unable to pay why ask again?"

"There wasn't enough to eat."

"Idiot, how on earth could the gabelloto have enough when this man didn't?"

There is no reply. The man looks thoughtfully at the great lady who traces mysterious black signs so rapidly on small sheets of white paper, using a pen that looks just as if it had been plucked from a hen's backside.

Marianna insists, tapping her fingers on the paper and thrusting it under the priest's nose. He starts to question the peasant once more. Finally he answers and Don Pericle writes, this time resting the page against Saro's back. He is considerate enough to bend forward, turning himself into a writing-table.

"Gabelloto leases Your Excellency's land from you. Then rents it out under an agricultural tenancy to the peasant who cultivates it and takes a quarter of crop. Out of this he has to pay the gabelloto a quantity of seed better than the gabelloto provided. He must also pay protection money, and if harvest poor and there are implements to be repaired he has to go back to gabelloto for help. At this point guard arrives on horseback with gun and takes him to prison for insolvency. Does Your Excellency understand?"

"And how much longer does he have to stay down here?"

"Another year."

"Let him out", writes Marianna and puts

her signature beneath it almost like a state judge. And in effect, so far as this house and this estate are concerned, the landowner does have sovereign powers. This man, like Fila in her turn, has been "given" to Mariano by uncle husband, who had in his turn been made a present of him by his uncle Antonio Scebarr@as, who in his turn. ...

It is not anywhere written down that this old man with yellowing hair "belongs" to the Ucr@ia family, but in fact they can do whatever they want with him, keep him in a cellar until he rots or send him home and just have him whipped. No one would find it anything to make a fuss about. He is a debtor who cannot pay and therefore he must to all intents and purposes answer for his debt with his body.

"From the time of Philip II the Sicilian barons obtained sovereign rights over their lands in exchange for their acquiescence and inaction in the Senate. Thus they themselves became the sole administrators of justice." Where had she read this? Her father the Duke had called it "justified injustice" and his own magnanimity always prevented him from profiting by it.

The peasant guards have simply done whatever the Ucr@ias with their own white unsullied hands needed doing but would not dare to do themselves: lining up those devilish peasants, inflicting blows, threatening them with thrashings and incarcerating them in dungeons. It is not hard to understand: it is all written down in these sheets of paper in Don Pericle's sprawling handwriting. From honesty or from laziness he has reported the old man's words as he would have reported those of a monsignor or a father of the Holy Office. Now he is here watching, his hands folded over his prominent belly, which protrudes from under his cassock, trying to understand what this crazy duchess is all about. She has arrived here out of the blue and wants to know things that people of her sort generally pretend not to know and which it is certainly not appropriate for a well-brought-up lady to know.

A load of foolish fantasies and silly whims ... a wavering of the spirit. ... Marianna is aware of the priest's thoughts going round and round as he stands next to her. Whims of a great lady who today uses her intelligence to be compassionate, but tomorrow the very same intelligence will be theorising about the use of whips or hatpins.

Marianna turns towards Don

Pericle with her eyes blazing, but he sits there in a respectful attitude, quiet and discreet --for what reason could he be reprimanded?

This poor dumb woman, forty years old, with such soft white flesh ... Heaven knows what state of confusion there is inside her head ... forever reading books ... always skulking behind the written word. There's something quite ridiculous in this obsession with having to understand everything, always asking questions about the point of a fork, the tip of a nose, the meaning of a chair. ... These present-day aristocrats don't know how to enjoy life ... they meddle in everything ... they have no conception of humility, they'd rather have libraries than litanies. ... A dumb duchess, just imagine it! Yet there is something that shines in her face ... poor soul ... she needs sympathy ... she's in a sad state ... all head and no body. ... If only she read books that were edifying. But I've seen what she carries about with her ... books in English, in French, filthy rubbish ... all modern stuff. If only she'd make up her mind to go back upstairs ... the heat down here is suffocating, and then the pangs of hunger are beginning to gnaw. ... At least today there'll be something good to eat ... when their lordships arrive titbits arrive with them. As for the old man, all this sentimentality is right out of place ... the law is the law and everyone is entitled to his own. ...

"Curb your thoughts!" writes Marianna to Don Pericle. He reads it with amazement, at a loss how to make sense of the reproof. He raises conciliatory eyes to the Duchess, who nods to him with a little mischievous smile and goes up the stairs in front of him. Saro rushes forward to light the way. She hastens along the dusty carpets and reaches the dining-room, laughing at the priest and at herself. Her daughters are already seated at the table, Felice wearing an elegant habit and a shining sapphire cross, Manina in black and yellow, Giuseppa in white with a blue silk scarf thrown over her shoulders. They are waiting for her and Don Pericle before they begin to eat.

Marianna kisses her daughters but does not sit down at the table. The idea of being at the mercy of Don Pericle's thoughts daunts her. Better to eat alone in her room. At least she

can read in peace there. Meanwhile she writes a note to ensure that the old prisoner will be set free immediately and that his debt will be paid out of her own money.

On the stairs she is joined by Saro, who gallantly offers her his arm. But she refuses and hurries in front of him, leaping up the stairs two at a time. When she reaches her room she shuts the door in his face. She has hardly turned the key in the lock when she regrets not having leaned on his arm, not having at least signalled her thanks. She goes to the window to watch him cross the courtyard with his buoyant stride. Indeed, here he is, coming out of the door at the foot of the stairs. She sees him stop by the stables, raise his head and look for her window.

Marianna is about to try to conceal herself behind the curtain, but realises that if she did this she would be seen to be playing a game, so she stays in front of the window, her eyes staring at him, severe and thoughtful. Saro's face dissolves into a smile of such seductive sweetness that for a moment she is caught by it and finds herself smiling without meaning to.

XXVIII

The hair-brush, dampened with a little orange-flower water, slides into her smooth hair, lightly scenting it with the fragrance of orange peel and brushing out the dust. Marianna tucks her hair behind her aching neck. The orange-flower water is finished; she must have another jug of it prepared for her. Her pot of rice powder is almost empty too, she must order some from her usual Venetian perfumer. Only in Venice do they prepare face powders that are almost transparent, light and scented like flowers. The essence of bergamot, however, comes from Mazara and she has it sent to her from the perfumer Mastro Turrisi in boxes with Chinese motifs that she will later use to hold the notes she receives from her family.

In the mirror something odd happens: a shadow comes into the right-hand top corner and then dissolves. In the wink of an eye a hand spreads out against the closed window. Marianna stops, her arms raised, the brush between her fingers, her eyebrows wrinkled in a frown. That hand is pressed against the

window as if the intensity of its desire could miraculously fling it wide open. Marianna is on the point of getting up from her seat; her body is already there at the window, her hands sliding towards the shutters. But an inert will keeps her nailed to the chair. Now you will get up, says a silent voice within her, you will go to the window and draw the curtains. Then you will put out the candle and go to sleep.