The Maestrale Voice

IV

IV

The heat was unbelievable. The office of the Musumeci mill, created in a glass box office, was a furnace. The cleaning and threshing of wheat emanated a high degree of humidity that the summer stuffiness, reinforced by a strong sirocco wind that had been blowing for two days, culminated into a high temperature inside the factory.

Turi Musumeci had arrived early and sat at his desk. He had taken the two guns, utilized for hunting, from the rustic window. They were two excellent double-barreled Cockerill, made in Belgium. He rolled them over several times and looked proudly at the initials, TM, that the manufacturer had engraved in gold. He began to dismantle them, placing each piece carefully on the large walnut desk, and then began to wipe them with a cloth, greased with oil.

Someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” he growled. His son appeared.

“Did you want to talk, Father?”

“Sit down,” was the answer.

After a few minutes of silence, Turi gave Vincenzo a soaked cloth. “Help me clean the guns,” he said.

The passion for hunting was something he shared with his son, who usually took care of the weapons’ maintenance. Turi rarely attended the mill, except to strengthen its commitment to the feud. Eventually, Vincenzo put the guns into the window cabinet. The Baron looked at them again, pleased.

Always ready to warn the bad guys, he thought. Vincenzo returned to his seat on the other side of the desk, on one of the wicker chairs.

“When does Lena leave?” asked Turi.

“Next week, from Messina,” said Vincenzo.

“Yes, yes,” Turi made a gesture of assent with his hand. “It would be nice of you to go with her, and to not leave Peppone alone as well. He suffers from heartburn, but he wants to go anyway.”

“As you wish, father. I hope to be able to coordinate with work so I can leave for a few days,” said Vincenzo.

Turi Musumeci glared at his son and he was convinced that he would be willing to tell any lie to go to Messina. It was time for this to stop.

“Great story,” said the Baron. “This does not seem to be the first time you’ve taken an absence from work.”

Vincenzo flinched, but held his gaze as he tried to understand how angry he was.

“You must know that I have never called you back, since you were going to Mezzocannolo, which is also your property,” grunted Turi. Then, he burst into a laugh that echoed throughout the mill.

“Well, well... you know...” Vincenzo stammered, with a faint voice.

“And what did you think? That here they had forgotten who is the boss? No employee will hide anything from the one they risk losing their daily bread from. And you, despite pretending to be a young c**k, you're not yet the boss. I do not remember who said it, but here only one man reigns at a time,” said Turi, seriously.

Vincenzo was mortified, feeling ashamed.

“See, son,” Turi started to talk again, quietly. “Since your poor mom died giving birth to you," he felt his eyes getting moist, “I have always felt the absence of a family and a wife, who would wait for me at home. I always had refused a new proposal, because no woman could take your mom’s place. And you have no reason to suffer in solitude.”

The scowl of Turi Musumeci was lost in the maze of sadness, his thoughts with his companion of all those years. He was a lonely man, in spite of the many love affairs he had, earning the reputation of a great libertine. “Little Maddalena is an orphan without a mother like you. I love her very much and I had hoped the two of you could give birth to a strong and long lasting feeling. For this reason, I have never gotten in your way,” Turi looked up at Vincenzo, “knowing of your meetings and what you were doing. But you, Vincenzo, you're smart about business and not so much about topics of the heart.” He snorted in a distressed sigh.

Vincenzo wanted to respond, but he waited for the Baron to finish.

“I know that she loves you. But her job won’t allow her to become a mother and a cook. However, what a woman, and I like her so much!” Turi said. “In any case, since she won’t be your wife, I decided to adopt her. Peppone agreed. Someone will have to take care of Maddalena after his death, and this comforts him. What you need to know is that, from now on, you will need to take care of her as a sister. Did I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Dad,” Vincenzo nodded.

“Well. Now, you can get back to your work.”

While Vincenzo was in the doorway and about to leave, in the most natural way, his father said: “You will soon take a wife. The one I chose is a great match.”

The young man left the room, head down, and Turi Musumeci, Baron of Mezzocannolo, was left alone in the office. He relaxed back into the easy chair in which he was sitting and pulled out a Tuscan cigar. He was going to have two things: Lena would be part of the family and his son would go to the altar with another woman.

His red beard streaked with white veins made him look like a wise old lion.

On July 17th, 1907 the ship Leonardo da Vinci, in service on line 152 - Celere Tirreno - East Africa, dropped its moorings and left from Messina.

Maddalena of Ventimiglia, from the deck in first class, waved to Peppone on the quay. That would be the last memory of her father, who shortly thereafter died of a heart attack.

Vincenzo Musumeci had settled on the iron catwalk, which served as a ramp for access to the ferries, for the passengers transiting the Strait. He was at the bridge, where Lena struggled to say goodbye.

She, while the steamer paraded in front of the piers of the scaffold, met the green eyes of Vincenzo and the torment bombarded her. She raised her hand holding her cap, and the wind almost blew it away. Nimbly, she picked it up and placed it over her chest, with both hands and with the bouquet of daisies that he had given her before she got on board.

The ship moved toward the open sea, turning the bow to the southeast, in the direction of Suez.

“Do not suffer. I'll never leave you,” she yelled.

Yet, she was leaving him and he could not hear her voice anymore. Then, he cried and she was not ashamed to show her own tears. He turned and looked forward; he tried but wasn’t able to stop thinking about following her. The scent of orange blossoms and the sour smell of freshly minced olives of Mezzocannolo accompanied her over the strip of Sicilian land, now blending with the horizon. She lifted her head and let the wind dry her tears. In front of her, the sunset became red and full of hope. She was filled by it.

With the rise of the moon, little by little, she calmed down. She thought about the seven-day journey that awaited her and tried to imagine Eritrea.

At seven o’clock in the evening, the sun began to set and the warmth was cooled down by the sea breeze. After the parade to honor the baby, the relatives left in a hurry. At the end of May, almost everyone was preparing for the holidays. The servants had yet to receive orders for departure. Mules, wagons and household goods would be at the village’s houses a few days in advance. The houses were open and airy. It was necessary to clean and tidy everything, like every year.

The Baron saluted them from the entrance of the building. The stick with the pearl’s handle was firm in his hand. Then, he walked into the street and climbed into the buggy. Capizzi, the driver, was waiting for him, motionless, in the sun that was close to sunset. Turi Musumeci nodded and the horse trotted fast.

“Come on, Capizzi. You’ll ruin the beast,” growled the Baron.

Capizzi drew the reins and let out a long whistle. The ears of the horse rolled and it slowed.

“Bravo, Capizzi.” Turi pointed at the sea. “Take me to the tuna boat. I want to smoke a cigar in peace.”

The horse went through the short tunnel under the train station and turned down the dusty road that led to Palermo.

Granata was growing up, thought Turi, but not as it should be, or as much as its neighbors. The pulse of the industry and commerce was strong but it could be better, as was the case of Termini Imerese, Palermo, and Bagheria. The difference was that these cities belonged to the bourgeoisie. The industry, in general, looked beyond their own personal interests. They were people whose work and tobacco were enough to be happy. The largest portion of their earnings had been reinvested in companies or in new productive activities. But it was different in Granata. The prince ran the economy and wanted everything for himself. He loved luxury, and its profits went to parties or to enrich the castle with exuberant details.

Capizzi had arrived at the walls of the castle of Granata; he skirted and pulled into the driveway on the right, leading down to the sea. Five hundred meters later he reached the small natural harbor on the white sand beach. He stopped the buggy and warned the horse with another whistle. Then, as Turi went down, he held back the four-legged creature, hopping around, annoyed.

“Bonu5, stay calm...”

The Baron started walking along the beach, walking on the wet side of it. After reaching the rock that jutted out into the water, which marked one side of the creek, he sat down. The waters of Granata’s bay were still red with the blood of the m******e, though it had ended a few hours before. Of course, even tuna fishing was an activity of the prince. The blood of tuna reddened the sea and began to disperse, while it seemed that the souls of the poor fish had remained there, silent and abandoned, and forced to look at the rows of harpoons cleaned and left to dry on the dock, ready for a new extermination.

Turi Musumeci noticed that the red blood was fading away, but it was the fiery reflections of the sun going down behind Mount Pellegrino. The good weather was announcing the arrival of a good season, and the moisture coming down from the slopes of the mountains, behind the coast, was beginning to turn into mist. The air was heavy, almost unbreathable. The Baron thought about Mezzocannolo, where summer took pity on the men and was less intense. And he saw himself on the plateau overlooking and intent to reach the sea, but without being able to see it over the thick blanket.

He got up from the rock and turned his gaze to the sky. The sun still lingered in the slow Sicilian twilight and a clove was still visible behind the mountain of Palermo, when the moon and the stars appeared: the signs of Mary. In the meantime, the sun and the shadows began to wrap the tuna boat of Granata. Then Turi Musumeci walked with dignity towards the buggy, holding his legendary stick like a shotgun. Suddenly, he looked back at the sea and prayed.

“Mother of God, I offer you my life. Protect my grandson.” He was surprised at his own feelings. However, the pellets of lead, that penetrated his body, didn’t surprise him at all. Turi Musumeci turned slowly, dropping to his knees in the sand. He saw Peter Bellomo passing the shotgun to Capizzi and then leave. Then all became a blur as the sky turned to night.