Accabadora Page 7

  Vicar of Soreni for the last twenty-one years, Don Frantziscu Pisu had a round belly over which the buttons of his cassock strained mightily every time he took a deep breath. This embarrassing embonpoint contrasted strongly with the rest of his physique which was dry and almost spindly, so that in profile he looked like a lizard that had swallowed an egg, entirely spoiling the austere elegance of his well-worn cassock. At Soreni, everyone smiled at his nervous tic of constantly passing his hands over his belly to smooth down his cassock in an attempt to minimize what he considered his only visible reason for shame. Even the most good-natured people had taken to mangling his name to Pisittu or Pussycat, perhaps because this obsessive action reminded them of the patient licking of a cat smoothing its fur. But some, less charitably inclined, called him Tzicu, which was not only a diminutive form of his name but also meant “little drop”, hinting at alcoholic origins for his swollen stomach. He was familiar with both nicknames, but with the patient superiority of one who for more than twenty years had conducted every funeral, even of the disrespectful, he had never taken too much notice. Probably such thoughts were not a million miles from his mind when he knocked on the front door of the Bastíus, a family of men who had most certainly never risked breaking a bone by stumbling up the steps into the church. Even so, he was not entirely amazed when Giannina Bastíu asked him to call on her eldest son, because it would not have been the first time that some self-styled priest-eater had been exposed as God-fearing in extremis. When they face crucifixion, all thieves become good men.

  “How are you, Nicola?” Don Frantziscu said, entering the bed-room with the furtive encouragement of Giannina, who was careful to keep out of range of any predictable darts from her son.

  Nicola moved his eyes from the window and fixed them on the door with the instinctive gesture of a hunter. It took him an instant to focus on the identity of his visitor, but he was not put out.

  “Well, well, so they’ve sent in the priest. Then I must be dying, though I already thought I was crippled for life because I’ve never learnt to read or write.”

  “The fact is, you’re not dying, and the doctors will certainly have made that clear to you. I’ve only come to say hello.”

  The young man did not invite the priest to sit down, nor did the older exploit his seniority by sitting down uninvited. Perhaps it was not even the right sort of interview for sitting down, after all.

  “What a surprise. I don’t think you’ve ever come to see me before?”

  Don Frantziscu showed no embarrassment at the question. With a slow gesture he removed his blue woollen skullcap from his white hair, ignoring Nicola’s grimace of annoyance.

  “You’ve never needed me to.”

  “What makes you think I need you now? If it was my mother who said so, she was wasting your time.”

  “I don’t need anyone to tell me; priests do these things on their own initiative, it’s their duty.”

  “Yes of course, meddling in other people’s troubles. A fine duty, which will certainly ensure you a place in paradise. But don’t hope, Don Frantzí, that just because I’ve lost a leg I must need a crutch.”

  The old priest well remembered that impudence, that restless intelligence. He searched the eyes of the young man before him, pushing aside his vivid memory of a different Nicola Bastíu, a hostile little boy in short trousers who once grazed his knees on the concrete behind the church. It was easy to recognize the root, seeing the fruit that had grown from it. He sighed quietly.

  “I only came to have a word with you, Nicola.”

  “To have a word with me? About what, the sex of the angels? Or how to organize the festival of the Maddalena? There’s nothing we can’t talk about, is there? After all, I’ve got all the time in the world now.”

  “I’ve come to talk about what happened to you.”

  Nicola’s response was as scornful as a whiplash:

  “You know nothing about what happened to me.”

  “You’re wrong, at Soreni even the dogs know, just as they know that recklessness cost you your leg.”

  “Good, then they have something new to discuss in the bar, not just who their wives might be sleeping with. As for you, if you must bless me, get on with it, then go away. Having time to waste doesn’t mean I want to waste it with you.”

  The priest did not move, standing still beside the door, cap in hand like a beggar. Nicola stared at him, waiting.

  “I haven’t come to bless you. Blessings are never forced on anyone.”

  “Then what? No need to curse me either, as you can see for yourself.”

  “Don’t blaspheme, your life isn’t a curse, even if you have lost a leg. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  Nicola’s eyes were like fire and his face was paler and even angrier than his mother had ever seen it in recent days.

  “You want to talk to me about my life? Well, priest, and what can you know about that? Are you by any chance living without a limb?” He smiled scornfully, lowering his gaze to Don Frantziscu’s level. “Of course, I know you’re short of a limb in one sense, or at least you took a vow to make do without it. It’s easy to say ‘I’m a cripple by vocation’, when what’s not being used is still there in case you change your mind.” Nicola stretched forward a little from his pillows, and for a moment the old priest was relieved that he could not get out of bed. “But I’m in no position to change my mind. And I assure you, you haven’t the least idea what I’m talking about.”

  Don Frantziscu did not interrupt and gave no sign of wanting to. He had learned long ago that even the least appeal may bring success to a petitioner who expects nothing, and in any case Nicola did not seem to expect any reaction to what had been a clear invitation to end the interview. So he was astonished when the old man, so far from leaving, spoke again:

  “Well then, if I’ve got it right, you’ve decided to blame everyone who still has two legs, quite apart from demanding sympathy so long as the Lord allows you the breath to feel sorry for yourself.” He scratched his head with a distracted air as if reflecting. “It’s quite normal, Nicola. Many react like this, and they are usually people who lack the comfort of faith, or reject it.”

  “Don Frantziscu, say no more,” Nicola’s voice was calm now, submissive. “Don’t take advantage of the fact that you’re a guest in my father’s house.”

  The priest was unruffled by this scarcely veiled threat, his eyes fixed on the young man in the middle of the bed. He went on talking in a patient tone, articulating his words as clearly as if talking to a child.

  “It is written that one should speak at convenient moments but also when it is not convenient, so I shall speak; and after I’ve gone you will have plenty of time to reflect on your suffering and what it means. A suffering that to some extent, and don’t forget this, you have after all brought on yourself by causing distress to others, but which nevertheless it has not been granted to you to change, except by accepting suffering like Christ our Saviour himself, who suffered unjustly on the cross . . .”

  “Get out!”

  A angry shout, instantly backed up by a pillow not aimed straight enough to find its mark. Nicola Bastíu was beside himself with fury.

  “Calm down, my son . . .”

  “I’m not your son, at least I hope not, you swollen cassock! I don’t need to listen to your mockery. Just go away! Get out!”

  A moment later Giannina Bastíu arrived in response to the cries of her son, just in time to see the priest calmly replacing his skullcap on his head.

  “Take Don Tzicu to the door, Mamma. He’s in a hurry and has to get away.”

  Pretending not to have come specially in response to the disturbance, the mother made a point of showing embarrassed good manners.

  “Don Frantziscu, must you go so soon? I haven’t even offered you anything.”

  “Don’t worry, Giannina, in any case it’s nearly time for me to say Mass.”

  Nicola kept silent while his mother and the old priest lef
t the room. He made no effort to hear whatever they may have said to one another in the corridor, closing his eyes as he searched for some simulacrum of sleep to dampen his rage even if only for an hour.

  CHAPTER TEN

  WORKING TOGETHER, GIANNINA BASTÍU’S HANDS RAN over the limp skin of Nicola’s right thigh with hypnotic regularity. In the courtyard behind the house, the weak October sun drew attention to the final flowering of the hydrangeas, while the chrysan-themums budding along the wall stood erect like promises still to come true.

  Having just eaten, in the warmest hour of the day, an indifferent Nicola allowed his mother to apply the medicinal massage necessary to keep him free of sores and help his healing. The months of convalescence had gone better than could have been expected, and the suture on his amputated stump had healed without complications. Like a change of seasons, Nicola’s attitude seemed to have changed too after the first weeks of blind rage. He no longer cursed and had stopped insulting everyone who came to see him, and there were fewer and fewer moments of fury when he threw objects at random. But he did not speak. He had not grown dumb; it was just that he no longer said anything that was not strictly necessary, and had suddenly stopped reacting to the circumstances round him. Every day his father and brother lifted him out of bed, sat him in a chair and carried him out to the courtyard, without his even having to try to support himself on his good leg. It was only when Bonaria Urrai came to see him that he seemed to shake himself out of his unhealthy torpor, fixing the elderly seamstress with two black eyes like extinguished stars. During these visits he seemed less unreachable, but still had little to say. Bonaria came every day, but she never tried to draw him into any conversation, restricting herself to exchanging a little chatter with Giannina, and looking now and then at Nicola. If she was sure she would find Andría at home, Maria would sometimes go with Bonaria on these visits, but would avoid being left with Nicola, overcome by an unconquerable distaste for that suffering that was no longer even pain. She had sometimes argued with the old woman not to have to go there, because she could see no sense in these forced visits; on the one hand Nicola never gave her any reason to think they were welcome, and on the other Maria preferred spending her afternoons at home, sewing clothes from the paper patterns that arrived by way of business each month, or going to Maestra Luciana’s house to ask if she could borrow a book to read in the evening. On this particular afternoon she had clearly not had the best of it: in fact she was sitting beside Bonaria with badly hidden impatience, firmly determined not to let her eyes rest on Giannina’s delicate work on Nicola.

  “Look what lovely weather, son . . . soon it’ll be a little cooler, and we’ll go and harvest the grapes and you’ll be able to taste the new wine.”

  Giannina Bastíu seemed inexplicably to have been born again since the operation on her son. Overcoming her initial shame, she had adjusted the rhythms of the household around the new demands made by having an invalid to attend to, and had set herself regular tasks for each hour, regardless of the absence of any signs of gratitude from the patient. That afternoon too, Nicola did not react at all at the mention of the vintage. Bonaria on the other hand smiled, encouraging the conversation with obvious interest, while Giannina dried her hands on a rag and carefully replaced the covers over Nicola’s leg.

  “Have you taken Chicchinu to sniff the air in the vineyard yet, or are you going to wait till the birds start eating the grapes this year too?”

  “They’ve taken him there once already, but it seems we need at least another two weeks. We have to hope the weather will hold. Maria, will you come and help us again this year?”

  Forced to distract herself from her constant search for distraction, Maria remained vague, because the idea of finding herself once more working beside her sisters did not particularly appeal to her.

  “I don’t know, Tzia Giannina, there’s so much to do, orders for Christmas clothes have already started coming in. I’m afraid even if I work every day it may be too much for me, just imagine if I fail!” She stood up and turned to Nicola. “In fact, I ought to get back to work now. A pleasure to see you, Nicola.”

  Nothing changed in Nicola’s expression, as if he had not even heard her taking her leave. His mother tried to compensate for this lack of manners with an embarrassed smile.

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s been a great pleasure for him too! But he’s tired . . . Sometimes having nothing to do can be more tiring than working all day in the fields, or that’s what they say. I’ll come with you to the door; anyway, I must go and make the coffee. But do have another cake before you go. Did you know they’re called gueffus, after some knights in the Middle Ages? Your mother told me that, apparently she read it somewhere, I can’t remember where.”

  Bonaria was not even ten minutes alone with Nicola, but he made full use of the time. As soon as he heard the door close, he seemed to wake so suddenly from his spell of impenetrability that it was as if he had been waiting for that very moment.

  “What have you decided?” he whispered anxiously, grabbing her arm like a drowning man.

  She firmly shook off his grasp, but spoke calmly.

  “There’s nothing to decide. What you’re asking for can’t be done.”

  “I can’t go on any longer like this. Have you no pity for my condition?” Nicola’s voice trembled with desperation, but Bonaria was unmoved.

  “We’ve already discussed it, Nicola. I won’t do it.”

  Nicola had prepared himself for her resistance with the same determination he would once have applied to setting traps for hares or erecting supports for rows of vines. When you have enough time you can control even your anger. So Bonaria was certain that this time there would be no scenes.

  “But you do it when others ask for it. Am I worth less than they are?”

  “You’ve never understood your own life, Nicola, and you’re certainly not in any position to understand mine. Just get it into your head that I can’t help you.”

  Nicola sighed as if resigned, then changed his tone.

  “What would you say if I wanted to marry Maria?” he asked bluntly, leaving her for a moment dumbfounded.

  “That would be for Maria to answer. How on earth could I ever decide such a thing?”

  Nicola deliberately made the cover slip from his lap to the floor. Supporting himself on the arms of the chair with his hands, he forced himself as far upright as he could. With this parody of standing to attention he seemed to be challenging Bonaria to look at his exposed stump, still red from the amputation.

  “Look at me, Tzia, look at my leg: why play games with reality? Maria would never marry me, nor would anyone else, because I’m a cripple. I’ll never be able to work or support a family, or do any of the things a woman needs from a man.” His voice, calm to begin with, gradually grew more tense. “It’s like I was already dead.”

  In recent months his body had lost weight and tone, but he was otherwise healthy and his will seemed as strong as ever. Perhaps that was the real problem. If his spirit had been broken, perhaps he could have resigned himself to his condition. Instead there was something obsessive about his determination; in every way he was the same as he had always been. Whether she liked it or not, Nicola Bastíu was one of the most vigorously alive creatures Bonaria had ever seen, though she did not admit this when she turned back to him.

  “You’re alive to your mother, and she wants the benefits of life for you.”

  “My mother’s only happy when she has someone to look after. She wants to see me as a child again, but that’s no reason for me to stay in this world.”

  “It would kill her, and your father too.”

  “They’ll die anyway, and who’ll care about me after that? Will my brother’s wife wipe my arse for me? And what woman will marry him when she realizes she’ll be inheriting the care of a cripple as well?”

  Bonaria closed her eyes. If Giannina Bastíu had come in at that moment she would have assumed the old woman had dozed off in the sun, bored with
Nicola’s lack of conversation. But she shook her head and opened her eyes again, ever vigilant.

  “Even if I wanted to do what you’re asking me, I could never do it without the consent of your family.”

  Nicola’s face lit up; it was as if he had sensed the vague shadow of a possibility. He relaxed from his tiring upright position and settled back comfortably again in his chair, leaving the cover on the ground. The indecent display of his stump, so inconsistent with his previous rejection of his mutilation, contained the calculated use of a psychological weapon. He could have been a marvellous soldier, Nicola, or a criminal of the highest class.

  “I’d never even ask for their consent, but if you were agreeable, there would be a way of avoiding having to ask them.”

  “There is no such way, and even if there were I’d have nothing to do with it.” Bonaria’s words were final, but her eyes seemed to be asking a question, and Nicola sensed encouragement.

  “The night of All Saints. When the door’s left open for the dinner for the dead souls, you’d be able to go in and out without anyone suspecting anything! In the morning they’ll find me dead in bed and think I’ve had an accident.”