My First Seven Years (Plus a Few More)

CHAPTER 14. The Engineer-Count

Glass-blowers, fishers, mechanics and smugglers were not the only inhabitants of the Valtravaglia; families of wealthy people lived there too and they had villas, gardens and woodland which snuggled close to the mountain, and palaces which lined the coast from Caldè to Magadino.

A nobleman, Count Mangelli, whom everyone in his firm addressed as ‘Engineer’, could often be seen around the streets of Porto.

He always moved with elegance, body upright, looking people straight in the face even if he gave the impression of not really seeing them. He responded with a nod of the head to anyone who greeted him but never stopped, not even when people called out to him or asked after his health. He was badly shaven, did not look exactly dirty but wore a shirt of indefinite colour under an old jacket. The melancholy of his expression was deeply affecting.

The tragedy which had reduced him to this state had occurred at the Heremitage Hotel, the most celebrated and luxurious of the whole coastline. Everyone who was anyone in the valley had gathered for one of the customary receptions in honour of someone or other. There were beautiful women there, but none more so than Sveva Rosmini, the Engineer’s wife. Everyone in those circles knew about the affair between Signora Sveva and Signor Colussi, a lawyer who was also managing director of FIVEC (International Glass and Crystal Company). In the course of the party, Signora Sveva got up from her table, and, hips swaying like a model, made her way resolutely towards the back of the hall, where her lover was seated.

The young, highly attractive, dark-skinned daughter of Dr Grillo, the local general practitioner, was at the same table, and it was clear to everyone that Colussi was courting her without subtlety or concealment. For the whole evening, young Grillo had demonstrated by a laughter which resembled the clucking of an excited hen her contented delight at the lawyer’s repeated fondling of her backside. Signora Sveva had put up with this throughout the whole dinner, from the entrée to the main course, but when the fish was produced, she marched up to the table of the flirtatious twosome, picked up from the platter a large boiled trout garnished with mayonnaise, and swung it in the air before bringing it smartly down on the face of the terrified, still clucking, young lady. The trout itself broke in two but Signora Sveva, brandishing the body of the fish by the tail, rammed it with a masterly flourish into the open mouth of the faithless lawyer. Mayhem ensued. The recently-fondled young lady fainted, face-down, on a delicately cooked perch. The lawyer, after a moment’s initial hesitation, gave the Signora a slap. She responded by throwing herself into his arms. A voice rang out, ‘Musica, maestro!’ and in an instant the orchestra struck up a festive polka. The dancefloor filled with dancing couples, and even the lawyer and his mistress took to the floor, but from the movement of their bodies it was clear that their refrain was ‘You, rascal you.’ At the termination of a whirl, he seized her by the hem of her dress, ripping it neatly apart. The Signora, resplendent in knickers and suspender belt, let out a scream, to general applause and appreciation for those beguiling thighs and heaving breasts. Signora Sveva desnuda jumped onto the lawyer at about the level of his kidneys: ‘Tally ho, stallion, show me what you’re made of!’ Although no one had noticed, Signora Sveva’s husband, the Engineer, had come on the scene a few moments previously. Some of the more giddy diners gave him a slap on the back as a sign of jovial fellow feeling.

All of sudden, everyone froze. The horsewoman stopped in her tracks for one moment, then: ‘What are you doing there, my dear? Don’t look so aghast! Get a filly and do a lap yourself.’ So saying, she dug her knees into her lover’s kidneys and off she galloped, shrieking like a horserider from the Maremma. Other excited ladies jumped onto the backs of their own cavaliers. At that moment, the daughter, still under the weather, came in, leaning on her father. The Engineer remained stock-still, as though he were somewhere else.

Only when the great gallop was over did people notice that the Count had exited. For two days there was no trace of him. ‘He’ll have gone to Milan, or to his brother’s in Switzerland,’ was the relaxed comment of his wife. But no one had seen him get on a train or buy a ticket. ‘He’s not touched the car,’ observed their daughter, ‘it’s still there in the garage.’ Each one had his own conjectures: ‘He couldn’t have thrown himself into the lake, maybe from one of the high rocks?’ ‘The water in these parts is too cold for his tastes. Anyway, he’s got no head for heights.’

In fact, there was someone who knew in detail what was going on, but he said nothing. In any case, it never crossed anyone’s mind to ask him: he was Menghissu, a tramp with a constantly smiling expression. He had fought in the African war, and for more than a year had been a prisoner of the Abyssinians. He knew exactly the place where the Engineer had taken refuge, for the simple reason that he was a guest in one of his properties, a little construction with a door and one window, half-excavated in the rocks under the kilns. Unquestionably the Engineer, always perfectly mannered, would have asked Menghissu, the owner of that hovel for years even if he had never actually lived in it, for permission to take up residence.

That Sunday the people of the Valtravaglia were gathered in church to hear mass, the well-heeled and better-off in their family pews, the others in any place they could find. It was nearly midday when the choir door was flung open and the Engineer entered gingerly; he took his place in a corner of the apse behind the group of choristers, of which I was a member. He was done up in a somewhat unconventional style: on his head he had a red fez from which a golden charm was suspended. He was wearing a kind of embroidered waistcoat, but from the shoulders down he was wrapped in a large, white-woollen cloak with dangling pendants. Beneath the cloak, the observer could make out a pair of short, Turkish-style, riding breeches … all that was lacking was the camel. He removed his fez and bowed ever so slightly. At first a deadly silence fell on the place, followed by subdued murmuring. Everyone was staring at that face with its solemn, absent expression on top of the clownish outfit, while at the same time peeping out of the corner of one eye for the reaction of Signora Sveva, her daughter and the lawyer. At the De profundis, the three bent over and, trying hard not to make themselves unduly noticed, made for the exit. The chorus fell silent for one moment. The Signora tripped and uttered a somewhat rude imprecation. The chorus started up again with a crescendo of great solemnity. The Engineer-caliph slipped out by the door which leads to the sacristy.

‘Gloriam Patris laudamus,’ the choir ended.

When mass was over, I returned to the sacristy with the other choristers. Each one of us busied himself, removing his white surplice and red soutane and hanging them up in the wardrobe. My peg was in the corridor which led to the bell-tower. The sacristan accosted me and asked me: ‘Dario, would you mind going up there a moment and finding out what has been going on? I think the bell ropes must have got twisted … the bells won’t ring any more!’

No sooner said than done. I climb up the staircase: three flights of stairs, three landings, and there I am at the turrets. As I emerge in between the clockwork, I stop in terror: there, stretched out on the bell’s crosspiece, is the Engineer wrapped in his caliph-bedouin cloak. ‘Is he dead?’ I wonder aloud. ‘No, not yet, thank you very much,’ he replies in a gentlemanly way, raising his hat. Then he recognises me and adds: ‘You’re the station-master’s son, aren’t you? I heard you sing, you’ve got a fine contralto timbre to your voice … the same part I used to have when I was a choirboy.’ I stutter out, awkwardly: ‘I’m glad to hear it. I was sent up because the bells won’t ring any more.’

‘I do apologise. It was me that got the ropes tangled up. I needed some sleep and with the racket these four bells make … you understand … but relax, I’ll get out of the way. I’ll untangle the bells and go down.’ So saying, he smiled at me and patted me on the head. It was the first time I had found in him an attitude of such cordiality.

From that day on, I often had occasion to see him. I would run into him by the lakeside, leaning over the railing at the quay or sitting on the harbour wall. Often I would catch sight of him on the Romanesque belfry of the main church in the town.

More than a month went by after the scandal at the Heremitage. Signora Sveva and her daughter Alfa began to get worried. The Engineer, who was in charge of technical operations at the glassworks, had walked off without asking for leave of absence, much less severance pay. The Signora went along to the works office to ask for some settlement, at least as regards salary: ‘Very sorry, Signora, but without the authorising signature of your husband, we cannot pay out a penny.’

Sveva Rosmini gave vent to a loud curse … in French of course. She then went over to the executive offices of the glassworks in the company of her daughter, and burst into her lover’s studio. ‘Are you going to tell me what we’re playing at here? They’ve got me on a cleft stick. The bank account’s blocked, the salary frozen … the whole village sniggers when they see me, and you won’t lift a finger to get me out of this mess!’

‘Well, there might be one way for you to get complete satisfaction … in fact more than one,’ said Colussi to calm her down. ‘If you kill him, everything would get a bit more tricky, so I’d suggest you settle down and wait. Considering the unhealthiness of the place where he is lodging, the dangerous company he’s keeping, the ruinous diet he’s eating … everything points to the likelihood that your husband won’t be troubling us much longer. However, the really sneaky solution would be to have him certified as insane, but to succeed you’d need to demonstrate he’s no longer capable of understanding or knowing what he wants.’

Signora Sveva and her daughter had already calmed down. All they had to do was wait patiently, but regrettably the Engineer, apart from taking to roosting in the occasional tree, turning up on the odd church tower, giving nods by way of greeting to the townspeople whom he passed and exhibiting himself in exotic clothes, gave no sign of obvious madness. In addition, the odd innocuous extravagance in a town of madmen like Porto Valtravaglia did not arouse any special surprise. However, a faint hope was dawning.

During the funeral of Jean Bartieux, founding father of the crystal works, a curious incident took place. Butrisa, the lead drummer, who for years had carried his bass drum on his back on the occasion of parades or processions, all of a sudden collapsed, keeling over with his drum. Several of the workers who had been with the firm since its foundation were there with members of their families following the hearse. The leader of the band turned to the bystanders for help. ‘Is there anyone who could give a hand and take his place?’ Without hesitation, the Engineer, in his caliph outfit, fez on head, pushed forward and, without so much as a by-your-leave, heaved the big bass drum onto his back. The drummer boy strapped him in. The Engineer took his place alongside the tambourines and the band took up where it had left off with the funeral march.

The following Sunday as they entered church, the people found the Engineer sitting on one of the choir stools. He was wearing a white lace surplice and one of those red soutanes which had been hanging in the wardrobe in the vestibule. So there he was, right next to me … and still with the fez on his head. The parish priest could not help noticing him as he came in, and stopped for a moment in bewilderment. The Count-choirboy gave him a peremptory nod whose meaning was: mind your own business and get on with the rituals!

The priest began celebrating mass. We in the choir began intoning the Nunc Dimittis Domine. The Engineer drew a long breath then joined decisively in the chant with a deep baritone descant. People craned their necks to get a better glimpse of the new singer. Some were even moved to applaud. Signora Sveva covered her eyes with her hands, whispering: ‘Go on, go on, you’re doing fine.’ Her daughter Alfa sobbed: ‘He’s doing it deliberately to mortify us, to fuck things up for us in front of everybody.’ The lawyer Colussi reproached her: ‘Watch your language, especially in front of your mother!’

‘I’m sorry, I forgot that “fuck up” comes from “fuck” and that certain allusions sound irreverent in this family.’ Her mother shut her up with a smart slap on the mouth. As the slap rang out, the whole church turned to stare. The choir launched into the Laudemus.

The sacristan, holding the pole for the collection, moved among the faithful, pushing the bag attached to it in front of their faces. The Engineer appeared on the far side, he too holding a pole with a collection bag attached: he sallied forth, lance at rest, inviting the faithful to be generous. With a circular movement, he banged the bag against Colussi’s nose. His first inclination was to protest, but he realised that in this situation, he’d better donate a few coins, and fast. The peremptory collecting technique did not stop there. When mass was over, the sacristan counted and recounted the cash, incredulously.

In her attempt to play the part of the despairing wife, Signora Sveva went that very evening to see Dr Ballarò, the general practitioner who also fulfilled the role of psychiatrist. It was his responsibility to issue the licence authorising the removal in the council’s van for the insane of those who had gone mad.

‘I’m worried about my husband,’ the Signora stuttered out, amid tears. ‘I’m at the end of my tether and I feel totally responsible for the crisis which has undone him. But something must be done. He’s getting worse day by day.’

‘I imagine that you want the Engineer to be taken to the asylum. Is that right, Signora?’

‘Obviously he can’t be allowed to wander around freely … have you heard? This morning he started singing in church.’

‘You’re quite right,’ nodded the doctor. ‘Singing during a sung mass … it’s both blasphemous and criminal. We must have him dragged off immediately in the vehicle for the criminally insane, and with him all the choirboys, the priest, the sacristan … and he was out of tune into the bargain.’

‘Doctor, you’re not taking me seriously!’

‘Look here, Signora. If you want to get your husband away from the town and its surrounds, find another solution. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t be so obsessed with getting rid of him. I’ve had a long chat with the Engineer. I found him serene and relaxed. He has no resentment towards you or Colussi, no desire for revenge.’

‘Oh that’s wonderful, that is!’ guffawed the Signora. ‘No desire for revenge! You do not know my darling Count. His whole behaviour, every single outrageous thing he does, is conceived with the one intention of humiliating us, provoking us, driving us off our heads like him. Is there no one in this town who will apply the law in defence of the citizens?’

‘Stop right there, Signora,’ the doctor interrupted her. ‘I know exactly what laws you are referring to, the same ones you were pressing the police to use — an accusation followed by summary arrest. It is my duty to warn you of one difficulty: you in your turn run the risk of a charge of unwarranted harassment of a free citizen. What are you after, Signora? Your husband doesn’t get himself drunk, he’s not guilty of acts of obscenity in the presence of minors, he doesn’t use indecent language in a public place, doesn’t spit on the ground … he has a job, even if only an occasional one…’

‘A job! You’re well aware he has not shown up in the offices for over a month…’

‘I know. I’m talking of his new jobs.’

‘And what would they be? Singing in church, banging the drum, taking up the collection in church or lolling about at the top of bell-towers?’

‘No, no, those are only unpaid hobbies. I’m referring to his position with the sewage company.’

‘Do you mean in the sewers?’ She almost choked on her saliva.

‘Yes, the town council is responsible for around thirty cesspits scattered throughout the valley. Your husband volunteered to take charge of the cleansing operations and to see to the maintenance of the sewage pumps.’

‘So that’s where that stench that he always has comes from.’

‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asked, to take the heat out of the situation. ‘It’s freshly made.’

‘No, thank you. I am stuck with a sewage operator of a husband who puts on a stinking farce to cover me with shit in front of the whole town, and you lot are helping him out. You’re all in it together.’ She rose to her feet, issuing her parting shot as she exited. ‘Bunch of shits!’

A few days later, the word got about that her daughter Alfa had run away from home. Colussi, prompted by the girl’s mother, went in search of her. Good Friday was at hand. At that time, all the bells were tied up for the seven preceding days so that their ding-dong would not break the sacred silence. For the same reason, the clockwork mechanism which marked each hour with the ringing of the bells was switched off. The mascarat-de-dolo [the dolorous masks] roamed around the valley: these were groups of children who painted their faces red, dressed in black, waved rattles and swung bundles of ropes with which they mimed the action of scourging each other. At each crossroads, the mascarat-de-dolo stopped and issued warnings in the traditional manner:

‘Sem arrivà al primo quarto’

‘El Signor l’è bastonà’

‘Spudà’

‘E ghe fan turment’

‘Jesus basa i ogi e no’ fa lament’

‘Bative, bative!’

‘We have come to the first quarter’

‘The Lord has been struck’

‘Spat on’

‘They torment him’

‘Jesus, lower your eyes and make no lament’

‘Beat yourselves, beat yourselves!’

With the flagellation completed, they went on their way in silence to the next crossroads, but this year the mascarat-de-dolo inserted a variation into the journey. They continued towards the piazza facing the Mangelli Palace, and there they stood a moment in silence until the chief penitent gave a signal, whereupon they launched into a refrain freshly composed for the occasion.

‘Vergognanza e perdisiun’

‘Bative!’

‘Sbatiment de dona grama, el Signor a ve condana’

‘Fornigon’

‘Femena bramosa scelerà, i vergogn te saran brusà’

‘Tuti pecator smorbidi, dentra al fogo sarit rostidi!’

‘Pentive! Pentive!’

‘Shame and perdition’

‘Beat yourselves!’

‘Wretched woman’s embrace, the Lord will you condemn’

‘Fornicators’

‘Lustful, wicked woman, your loins will burn’

‘All evil sinners will roast in the fire!’

‘Repent! Repent!’

And off they went, miming flagellation and dancing like tarantulas on heat.

In her house, Signora Sveva put her hands over her ears, let out a scream and exploded in rage. She threw open the terrace window, came out brandishing a twin-bore hunting rifle, which she fired at the group of penitents. Two tremendous broadsides. General stampede. Two or three children rolled down the staircase, pierced by pellets from the gun.

In those years, the Stations of the Cross were still erected on the night of Good Friday. Each village was responsible for preparing one scene from The Passion of Christ, and the parishioners of Porto had the task of staging the so-called ‘Prologue to the Passion’, that is the scene featuring Herod slavering for the love of Salomè, and the subsequent beheading of Saint John the Baptist. I too was a member of the troupe, and was assigned a wonderful part — that of the slave with the fan. My job was to stand at the back and wave the huge fan so as to cool down the tyrant, his lover Herodias and the splendid Salomè, the solo dancer.

The moment the procession arrived at the town hall portico which served as the stage, four searchlights were switched on and Herod appeared embracing his lover. Herodias was played by a boy, Stralusc (which means ‘arrow’ in the local dialect), who, with all the necessary apparel of wig and breasts, had been dressed up as a woman. The processors took their stance around the portico, and many people came to the windows of the houses and palaces surrounding the piazza. Signora Sveva herself appeared on the terrace of the Mangelli residence.

Under the portico, the king and his concubine rolled about in a strange mime which looked more like a Graeco-Roman wrestling contest than any loving embrace. Preceded by a roll of drums, Saint John made his entrance, accusing forefinger pointed at the fornicators, to bawl out his anathema: ‘Shame on your carnal lusts! Damned be the harlot!’

At this point, the guards intervened to seize hold of the recalcitrant saint and bind him to a pillar. Herodias, overcome by a hysterical crisis, smashed the plates and crystal vases (obviously all rejects from the prize-winning glassworks) noisily to the ground. Coup de scène. Appearance of Salomè, the dancer-daughter. The mother bursts into tears, and implores Herod: ‘I beg you, cut off the head of that bastard, Saint John. He has insulted me!’

‘Not on your life!’ replies Herod. ‘Next thing, Jesus will come along and lay on me a curse which will bugger me for all eternity.’ He stops a moment, peers at the lovely Salomè and promises: ‘Yeah, I will remove his head if your daughter will do a dance for me.’

Salomè is ready and willing: ‘All right, I’ll go along with you, but first of all, you take an oath by the Lord that as soon as the dance is over you will give the order for the saint’s head to be chopped off.’

‘Yes, I swear, but in return you’ll have to take off all seven veils.’

‘Let’s make it five.’

‘No, all or nothing.’

‘All,’ shout the guests at Herod’s table, clapping their hands as they cry out.

Cue the orchestra: two accordions, one saxophone, two trumpets and the double-bass. A quiet number for starters. They strike up a languid tango. The lovely Salomè (now substituted by a girl with a stupendous body) begins her dance, all rhythmically writhing thighs and buttocks. She bends so far back that her falling hair almost scrapes along the floor. At intervals, she pulls off a veil which she tosses in the face of Saint John, who is still there, bound hand and foot.

At the third veil, Herod rises to his feet, goes over to the girl and, like an overexcited lecher, seizes hold of Salomè and hoists her onto his back. Herodias, the infuriated mother, rushes over brandishing an enormous fish by the tail. All the faithful had by now grasped the allegory and were guffawing wildly. Some scattered applause was heard, and many people turned towards the Mangelli palace to see the reaction of the lady of the house.

A few days later, Signora Sveva packed her bags and left town in a car loaded with an improbable quantity of suitcases, followed by an articulated lorry piled high with objects.

The Sunday after the great escape, the parishioners filled their church for mass as usual. We choirboys processed down the apse in our white embroidered lace surplices and red soutanes. From the foot of the nave, the Engineer made his way forward. He was dressed in jacket, neatly ironed trousers, white shirt and the usual cravat round his neck. As he passed by, one or two worshippers sniffed at him: not the remotest trace of the sewage stench. He took his seat in the family pew, smiled at the priest who returned the greeting and made a sign to us in the choir to start up with the Te Deum Laudamus. We began our chant, loudly: a solemn tone, which managed also to be somewhat lively, almost festive. Most of the congregation joined in what became a jubilant piece fit for any grand finale.