Desdemona, Tag Cavello [classic literature list TXT] 📗

sped forth, a cool breeze sped from the other direction, ringing doorstep chimes, and when I reached the circle a number of gathered leaves were disturbed skyward, so for just a few precious seconds it looked as if the fountain were spewing autumn. That is the clearest memory I have of the village. It was a beautiful place, but not without fault, oh no.

“Our mayor was a timid, skittish man. He had a bald head that used to gleam like cold water on a cloudy day. His mustache was always neatly trimmed, and his eyes were pedantic. The man knew so much yet so little. His love of peace and order had gotten him elected, though many years later I realized it wasn’t a love for peace, but a dread fear of violence. Not long previous the nearby city of Catania had been destroyed during its reclaiming from Mussolini. The aftermath absolutely terrified our poor mayor. Upon election his first act was to ban any and all firearms from Nascosto Villagio.”

Here Donati paused to send Dante an appreciative nod.

“Very wise, very wise. And it went well. No one in the village wanted anything to do with hurting another. Three months of utter peace followed. But then one warm July night a traveler to Misterbianco paused in our village for dinner and a sleepover. He never made it to bed. He ordered his meal at Luchi’s Tavern, finished it, and then decided to have a beer. One beer became two. Two became three. You understand the idea, I think.”

“He got drunk,” Dante put in.

“He did indeed. And then he picked a fight with one of our locals. And then he stabbed the local to death with a rusty pocket-knife.”

“Holy moly.”

“There was nothing holy about it. The man he killed happened to be a friend of my family. A carpenter, like my father. They should have been in competition, but instead became friends, perhaps because their love for the craft was stronger than money. At any rate, once the friend had died, our family’s income doubled, as did its workload. I have no brothers or sisters, so there was only me to help with the extra chores. No more time could be given for school, so I left classes. All play with my friends ceased. I spent nearly every waking hour in my father’s shop. It stood as part of our house on Via Cavello, the same street where a church choir used to practice three nights a week. I learned to cut wood and craft furniture. And as it happened, I learned to sing.”

“Because of the choir?” Dante asked.

“Because of the choir. One day we lost power in the village. I do not remember the reason. But I was forced to work late by gaslight in order to meet a deadline the following morning. So there I stood cutting in a mist of sawdust, my arms tired, my perspiration dense. And then I heard it: singing. Not for the first time, mind you. As I said, the choir practiced often on that street, using their little church which stood at the bend. But this night I noticed it more acutely, for I was exhausted, and the music seemed to soothe my aching bones.”

“What were they singing?”

“Ah!” Donati replied, raising his brow. “A very good question. Simple. Direct. And it has an answer: Alleluia Nativitas. An ancient song about the birth of Jesus. Hearing it, I put down my saw and walked to the church. Some of our neighbors had paused work as well. Their silhouettes hovered in candlelit windows. Passing by one house I heard the laughter of a baby.”

Donati stopped. He reached for his cup, found it was empty, put it back down. “From here I will cut this part of the story short,” he said, “for it’s already gone too long, and it bears no connection to our poor, delusional mayor. The choir took me in. It’s hard to say why, for I arrived at the nave looking shabby. My legs barely possessed the strength to stand. Yet they invited me to sing, which I accepted, and my voice must have sounded pleasant to them. Pleasant enough anyway. From that chance night my career in opera took wing.”

From here Donati’s story regained its initial course. He spoke of the village’s horror at what had happened in Luchi’s Tavern, horror which soon turned to outrage and disgust. A funeral for the victim took place. The victim’s obituary was written on a back alley wall, along with a drawing of his face. This practice, Donati explained, made up a dear piece of Sicilian tradition. “You will be a better person,” he told a wondering Dante, “if you think about death.”

“Yes, sir,” Dante replied.

It was the first time he called the opera singer by that title. A rather paradoxical consequence ensued. Donati rose to fetch Dante a second cappuccino, which he then insisted be consumed the Sicilian way—which was to say, quaffed. Dante could only do his best, which seemed to satisfy his host. From here the singer described what took place immediately after the funeral. Nascosto Villagio’s mayor made an official declaration: all knives and stabbing weapons small enough to hide were henceforth prohibited by law. Any resident or visitor who did not comply would be arrested. It was simple as that.

“You may imagine the public’s response,” Donati said gravely.

Dante thought he could. “They laughed. Then they went right on using their knives. Properly,” he added, seeing Donati’s eyes grow wide.

But the villagers hadn’t laughed—not right away. They made every effort to uphold the new law, abandoning steak knives for butter knives, and other such measures. Then one night Donati’s father broke his thumb pounding a nail for a birdhouse. The local doctor set and taped it. That doctor also served as village barber, and it was just bad luck the mayor happened to be getting a trim (with hedge-clippers, since scissors were banned) when the elder Donati arrived for emergency treatment. One look at the bloodied mass of his thumb sent the mayor into hysterics. Screaming, he jumped from the doctor’s chair and demanded the name of Donati’s assailant. The carpenter began to explain in as patient a manner he could. It only made things worse. By the end of the month all hammers were banned from the village, forcing Donati and son to make do with less than suitable substitutes.

Presently the opera singer grew sad. Dante watched his fat cheeks turn pale, and his eyebrows flood together like two pools of spilt ink. “The quality of our work suffered, as I was forced many times to pound nails with broken blocks of concrete, or sometimes a stale loaf of my mother’s bread. Customers complained when their tables squeaked, or their chairs came apart, dumping them onto the floor. Nothing could be done about it. My father and I, we…” he tapered off, closing his eyes in effort to make peace with the dusty memories. “We did the best we could,” was what came next. “We did…the best…we could.”

“And then?” Dante broke in.

Donati shrugged. “I stayed for another two years. By that time a number of other crimes and accidents had occurred, for which the mayor had no tolerance. He had banned mops, dogs, cats, frying pans, floor cleaner, bar soap, and even ladies’ hairpins, this last because the local poetess managed to repel an attacker by stabbing his eye out with one of the things.” Now the singer’s face was red with fury. “I tell you that man was insane. I needed to heal my family’s sudden financial ailment, so I accepted an offer to travel to Rome and sing before Pope Pius XII. He listened to our choir perform the rendition of Alleluia Nativitas we’d been working on for months. It was a success. I’ve been singing professionally ever since. Would you care for another brioche?”

Dante looked at his empty plate. The lemon-flavored treat he’d eaten for breakfast had been delicious, but he didn’t want to impose on Donati’s already overflowing kindness. After politely declining the offer, he asked what eventually became of Nascosto Villagio.

“By the end of the mayor’s term,” Donati answered, “he had no one left to govern. The people had grown fed up and left. The houses were all empty, the streets, once filled with laughter and music, barren. Even the church fell into disrepair. What priest can preach to an empty nave? No. It was gone. Everyone gone.”

“Your family?”

“Moved to Naples, once funds were efficient. But the sadness of that once beautiful village remains heavy in my heart. Many years later I returned to Sicily. Nascosto Villagio is still deserted. And in utter ruin. All due to the foolishness of one man. Remember,” he continued, leaning closer to Dante, “cosa c’`e da guadagnare senza rischi? What risks we take by not taking risks. Eh?”

Dante felt his warm hand give a playful tap to his shoulder. But what would happen if he continued his pursuit of Sunny Desdemona? He thought again of holding the door for her. She had stopped and waited for him to do that very thing. With green eyes all but burning through his skull, she had stopped and waited.

“There used to be a boy who lived across the street from me,” Dante said, “in a house even bigger than my dad’s. It’s Greek revival, like this one, only the columns are curved around a huge porch you had to walk across to get to the front door. Inside there are all these dark, spooky rooms. Great for little kids to explore and make up stories about. This friend of mine, he used to think a witch lived in that house before him. A real witch. He said the realtor told his mom about it.”

“I very much doubt a realtor would say such a thing,” Donati answered, “but the idea is interesting nonetheless. Did thinking of Sunny remind you of this witch?”

“It did,” Dante admitted. “And about taking chances, like you said. We played in that house almost every day. It had a library, a music room, two fireplaces. The staircase was grand, but we hardly ever used it. We preferred the servant’s stairs. They were hidden behind a doorway off the kitchen, which we thought was cool. Hidden stairs. We used them all the time to get up to the attic, which was full of toys. Hundreds of toys. There were two Japanese pinball machines up there. A whole city of action figures. Trucks and airplanes. Crazy costumes left over from about a dozen Halloweens. And that’s just the tip of it. I tell you, Mr. Donati, this kid had more than he knew what to do with.”

“How lucky he was,” Donati said, smiling, “to have a friend like you help him play with it all.”

“You’re more right than you know. I think I was his only friend. Without me those toys would have gathered dust. Because without me he would have had to go up there alone to play, which…” Dante paused to shake his head. “No. No way would he have done that.”

“The witch frightened him.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be real. She was just a fun story. Until one day this friend and I went to the attic to play the pinball machines. They had this slot in back where you dropped marbles. I was doing that—dropping marbles into the slot—while he worked the piston. And way over by the stairs there was this antique folding frame, the kind that ladies used to use for changing clothes. Do you know what I mean?”

“Shoji screens,” Donati said. “That is the Japanese term for them anyway.”

Dante nodded. “This had to be a shoji screen then. It had oriental decorations on it. Anyway, we were right in the middle of playing when the screen started to shake. I mean really shake. Violently. It was like someone had hold of it and wanted to tear it apart.”

“That must have given the two of