The Maestrale Voice

II

II

On the other side of the railroad tracks, the castle of Granata had been built near the harbor, close to the sea. On the shoreline and at the two sides of the manor, the prince’s factories and warehouses extended. Its activities were sprawling, and his power immense. He took care of the land and the collection of ancient tariffs; he managed businesses and produced food; he fished tuna, and exported oil to America.

The building was immersed in a varied world of tropical plants. The rooms were huge and decorated with glitz. The circumferences of the crystal chandeliers were impressive. The towers were equipped with terraces for sunbathing and some others were sheltered by curtains, always wet, to stay cold in the hottest hours.

Your Excellency, tall and elegant, was looking at the sea from the west tower. He had just gotten up from the desk that, during spring, he moved to the terrace, and he was drinking coffee. He was unsatisfied. Business was good, but there were always problems caused by some new hotshot whose success was flourishing. He had made tempting offers to purchase the mill in Station Square and he was willing to spend much on it. Turi Musumeci, who became Baron and was the landowner, would have been able to sell the company without making a fuss. But no. The prince clenched his jaw, not because Musumeci was a Baron, but for the outrage that was continuously caused from his stubborn rival. Bread was his product, and into that broad coastal area between Bagheria and Finale, no one challenged that. The fact that Turi Musumeci, a citizen of Granata, had remained the only serious competitor made him furious. He even asked him to convert the establishment and transform it into a modern pasta factory. The pasta makers made a decent living after all. The more far-sighted industrials were building empires thanks to the pasta business and he left them in peace. After all, he could not work in all sectors. He was a senator and the majority of the middle class had to be on his side. No complaints could reach Rome and thus he had relationships with all the traders. He obtained grants and loans for entrepreneurs and then was able to, partly, steal from them. He paid a private army that helped him in this kind of financial transaction, acting on the frond between productive activities in the area.

He had been able to maintain what he had inherited, multiplying his capital, and he thought himself to be different from the Sicilian wimps, who were still plagued by inexplicable inner conflicts that had forsaken themselves to the fate of their old rulers. Once the Savoy family arrived he had received the notables of Turin with all the honors, and they found themselves dealing with a clever and unscrupulous partner, who had accepted immediately, unlike the others, the appointment of senator to the Kingdom of Italy, obtaining carte blanche for all the affairs of the coastal region. So things had continued the same way as always, the immutability of his power had been guaranteed and he could still rule as an absolute monarch.

“Your Excellency, Capizzi is outside,” Pietro Bellomo, overseer of the house of Granata and longtime hand of the prince, appeared on the west tower.

“What news does he bring?” asked the prince.

“Musumeci Turi’s grandson has been born.”

Prince Gioacchino of Granata turned slowly toward Don Pietro and looked at him. The prince remained silent, while the other waited. That birth would make the Baron of Mezzocannolo even more inflexible.

“Order to extend my best wishes,” he said, interrupting his own thoughts. “Indeed, you will take him a card.”

Pietro Bellomo waited for a little longer with his master. After about an hour he was knocking at the door of Corso Garibaldi. He brought an elegant envelope with the embossed coat of arms of Granata.

In the hall, he was welcomed with formality and detachment from Norina Musumeci. Ventimiglia Maddalena was also there, the stepdaughter of the Baron.

“Mrs. Norina, this is from Your Excellency,” he said.

“We are grateful for the kind thought.”

Don Pietro was standing at the entrance of the first floor. He was waiting for an invitation to enter that, however, was not to come. Therefore, he bowed and, putting his cap on his head, he returned to the road. Retrieving his horse from behind the building, he headed, trotting, in the direction of the castle on the sea.

“In this house, we don’t give coffee to the Mafia men,” Norina opened the envelope and read the stately message. “Ah, so this is what it’s going to be like. It’s better if my brother does not read this message,” she said, while concealing the document inside her dress. “The prince is a coward! He constantly has an attitude of superiority towards Turi. The ticket is addressed ‘To Mr. Musumeci of Granata.’ My brother is the Baron and he pretends like he doesn’t know this.”

“Calm down, Aunt,” said Maddalena of Ventimiglia, with an affectionate tone. “There is no point in getting angry.” Lena, this was her nickname, was a doctor and a missionary in the colony of Eritrea. She had returned three months prior to attend a course at the Laboratory of Hygiene and Prophylaxis of Rome. Then, before leaving for Africa, she had stopped in Sicily. She wanted to celebrate the birth of Vincenzo’s son.

“The congratulations of the illustrious prince just arrived,” Norina said aloud, returning to the living room.

Everyone nodded, recognizing the respect that Musumeci’s family enjoyed. Only Lena, like Aunt Norina, in her heart disapproved of the attitude of the family. The prince was the sworn enemy of Turi and in her still lived the memory of a summer a few years ago.

She was in Mezzocannolo when Don Pietro Bellomo arrived on his horse and asked for the Baron. Turi and Calorio Bonsignore, the overseer of the feud, had received him and had secluded themselves for a discussion. Distancing themselves, something in their movements aroused the curiosity of Lena, who was studying them from under the porch. Bellomo was, in fact, under the pull of the revolver that Calorio held against him. Concerned, she followed them from a distance. She was running towards them without being seen. She reached the field where, behind a barrier of prickly pear, a wild olive tree stood alone. Calorio had already made Pietro Bellomo jump off the horse and had tied his feet with a rope and, while Turi remained still, wrapped a rope around a branch and hung the poor man upside down from the tree.

“Baron, let me go. You will pay for this,” Don Pietro screamed, struggling.

“Be quiet, Bellomo. I don’t want to kill you.”

Don Pietro was able to take the rope from between his feet and stood up. Then he sucked up phlegm from his lungs and aimed a greenish spit in the face of the Baron. Turi Musumeci dismounted from the horse, and with a handkerchief wiped the crap off his face. His face was flaming and Calorio looked at him puzzled, while shoving the rope, bringing down the prince’s man. Lena thought she was about to witness a murder. Turi could not bear insults and feared no one. Not even the Mafia man in front of him could frighten him.

“Killing you would be a wonderful gift to mankind,” said the Baron, approaching Bellomo.

The man was now silent. Evidently he believed that threat to be real, and pissed himself with fear. A large stain of liquid spread over his light shirt and soaked it. Then the urine fell down his neck and bathed his face.

“I do not fear someone who pisses on himself,” Turi Musumeci growled. “And not even your boss.”

The whip of rhinoceros skin, one of Turi’s weird Oriental objects, began to strike Bellomo.

The Baron whipped the delinquent, methodically and with a heavy hand. The shirt, wet with piss, became stained with blood. Turi struck until Pietro Bellomo no longer had the strength to scream. Then he ordered Calorio to untie the rope, and the thug fell to the ground with a thud, dull and chilling.

“Calorio, put this man on his horse and send him home,” said the Baron.

The overseer of Mezzocannolo helped Don Pietro get up and walked him, hobbling, toward the tied animal. He gave him a drink of fresh water, quenching his thirst. Then the man mounted the horse and walked towards the barrier of prickly pear, right where Lena was hiding.

She cowered in the bush and felt the prick of thorns through her dress, when suddenly Pietro Bellomo turned his steed, making it tower on its hind legs.

“You will die, you bastards!” he cried and turned back, throwing the animal into a gallop. He jumped over the prickly pears, almost hitting her head, and disappeared.

The story had traveled around the village, because despite the warnings of Turi Musumeci, Calorio could not contain his enthusiasm and keep his mouth shut. It was the first time someone challenged the nobles and their minions without getting killed. He recounted the incident to all, enriching it with fantasies and ridiculing the figure of Don Pietro. But it was not as simple as he thought. One day, six months later, Calorio disappeared and nobody heard from him again.

Remembering that old story, Lena shivered. The prince was a cold and calculating man, and if he still had not punished the Baron, there was a reason. Maybe he thought, frightened by the disappearance of Calorio, Turi would finally gave the mill to him.

The Baron of Mezzocannolo, however, was not so pitiful. He provided everything the widow and her children needed, and had even allowed bakers to make purchases on credit. The flour of Musumeci could be paid thirty days after delivery, and in no time the factory began to operate even on Sunday afternoons, but even still they were not able to keep up with all the eager customers.