The only time he doesn’t hear is when massaro Filippo goes to tell his beads with Santuzza, and he’s a sterling guard, better than if you put a handkerchief over his eyes.’
Hearing one hour after sunset strike, Maruzza had rushed homewards to lay the table; gradually the neighbours had thinned out, and as the village itself was gradually falling asleep, you could hear the sea snoring nearby, at the bottom of the little street, and every so often it heaved a sigh, like someone turning over in his bed. Only down at the wine shop did the din continue, and you could hear the bawling of Rocco Spatu, who treated every day as if it were a Sunday.
‘Compare Rocco is a happy soul,’ said Alfio Mosca from the window of his house after a while, when it had seemed as though no one were there.
‘Oh, are you still there, compare Alfio?’ said Mena, who had stayed out on the balcony waiting for her grandfather.
‘Yes, I’m here, comare Mena; I’m eating my soup here, because when I see you all at table, with the lamp, I don’t feel so alone, and loneliness takes away your appetite.’
‘You’re not a happy soul, then?’
‘You need a lot of things to make you happy.’
Mena said nothing, and after another pause Alfio added: ‘To-morrow I’m going into town with a load of salt.’
‘Will you be going to the All Souls’ Day fair as well?’
‘I’m not sure; this year those few walnuts that I have are rotten.’
‘Compare Alfio is going to town to look for a wife,’ said Nunziata from the door opposite.
‘Is that true? asked Mena.
‘Well, comare Mena, if that was all there was to it I’d be glad to take a girl from my own village, without having to go anywhere else to look for one.’
‘Look at all those stars winking up there,’ said Mena after a bit. ‘They say that they are souls from Purgatory, on their way to Paradise.’
‘Listen,’ said Alfio to her after they had looked at the stars for a bit too; ‘you’re Saint Agatha — if you happen to dream a lucky number in the state lottery, tell me, and I’ll put my shirt on it, and then I’ll be able to think about taking a wife.’
‘Good night,’ said Mena.
The stars winked harder than ever, as if they were catching fire, and the Three Kings shone over the rocks with their arms folded, like St. Andrew’s Cross. The sea snored quietly away at the bottom of the little street, and every so often you heard the noise of the odd cart passing by in the darkness, jolting over the cobbles, and going about the world which is so big that if you were to walk and walk for ever, day and night, you’d never get there, and there were actually people who were going around the world at that hour, and who knew nothing about compare Alfio, or the Provvidenza at sea, or the All Souls fair; as Mena thought on the balcony as she waited for her grandfather.
Before shutting the door, her grandfather went out on to the balcony another couple of times, to look at the stars which were twinkling so unnecessarily brightly, and then he muttered: ‘Salt sea, salt tears.’
Rocco Spatu was singing himself hoarse at the door of the wine shop, in front of the little light. ‘Happy souls are always singing,’ concluded padron ’Ntoni.
After midnight the wind began to raise merry hell, as if all the cats in the village were on the roof, shaking the shutters. You could hear the sea lowing around the tall rocks so that it seemed as if the cattle from the Sant’ Alfio market were gathered there, and day broke as black as a traitor’s soul. A bad September Sunday, in short, that sort of treacherous September day which suddenly throws up a storm, like a rifle shot among the prickly pears. The village boats were drawn up on the beach, and well-moored to the boulders below the wash-place; and the local children were amusing themselves shouting and whistling whenever they saw the odd tattered sail pass by in the distance, in all that wind and mist, as though they were being driven along by the devil himself; but the women crossed themselves, as if they could clearly see the poor folk who were in those boats.
Maruzza la Longa said nothing, as was only right, but she couldn’t be still for a moment, and kept going hither and thither though the house and the courtyard, like a hen when it is about to lay an egg. The men were at the wine shop, or in Pizzuto’s barber’s shop, or under the butcher’s awning, pensively watching it pour down. The only people on the beach were padron ’Ntoni, because of that load of lupins he had at sea, along with the Provvidenza and his son Bastianazzo to boot, and la Locca’s son, though he had nothing to lose, and all he had in the boat with the lupins was his brother Menico. Padron Fortunato Cipolla, while he was being shaved in Pizzuto’s barber’s shop, said that he didn’t give two brass farthings for Bastianazzo and the load of lupins.
‘Now they all want to play the dealer and get rich quick,’ he said, shrugging; ‘and they try to shut the stable door after the horse has gone.’
There was a crowd in Santuzza’s wine shop: there was that drunkard Rocco Spatu, who was bawling and spitting fit for ten, compare Tino Piedipapera, mastro Turi Zuppiddo, compare Mangiacarrubbe, don Michele the customs man, with his trousers tucked into his boots and his pistol slung across his stomach, as though he were likely to go looking for smugglers in that weather, and compare Mariano Cinghialenta. That mammoth mastro Turi was jokingly dealing his friends punches that would have brought an ox to its knees, as though he still had his caulker’s mallet in his hands, and them compare Cinghialenta started shouting and swearing, to show that he was a true red-blooded carter.
Zio Santoro, crouched under that bit of shelter, in front of the doorway, waited with his outstretched hand for someone to pass, so that he could ask for alms.
‘Between the two of them, father and daughter,’ said compare Turi Zuppiddo, ‘they must be making a fine living, on a day like this, when so many people come to the wine shop.’
‘Bastianazzo Malavoglia is worse off than he is, at this moment,’ replied Piedipapera, ‘and mastro Cirino can ring the bell for mass as hard as he pleases, the Malavoglia won’t be going to church to-day; they’re turning their backs on God, because of that cargo of lupins they’ve got at sea.’
The wind sent skirts and dry leaves swirling, so that Vanni Pizzuto, razor poised, would hold whoever he was shaving casually by the nose, to turn to look at the passers-by, and put his hand on his hips, with his hair all curly and shiny as silk; and the chemist stood at the door of his shop, wearing that awful great hat which gave the impression of acting as an umbrella, and pretending to have a serious discussion with don Silvestro the town clerk, so that his wife couldn’t order him into church by force; and he snickered at this ruse, winking at the girls who were tripping along through the puddles.
‘To-day,’ Piedipapera was saying, ‘padron ’Ntoni wants to play the heathen, like don Franco the chemist.’
‘If you so much as turn your head to look at that impudent don Silvestro, I’ll give you a slap right here where we stand,’ muttered la Zuppidda to her daughter, as they were crossing the square. ‘I don’t like that man.’
At the last toll of the bell, Santuzza had put the wine shop into her father’s care and had gone into church, bringing the customers behind her. Zio Santoro, poor man, was blind, and it was no sin for him not to go to mass; that way no time was wasted in the wine shop, and he could keep an eye on the counter from the doorway, even though he couldn’t see, because he knew the customers one by one just by their footsteps, when they came to drink a glass of wine.
‘Santuzza’s stockings,’ observed Piedipapera, as Santuzza was picking her way past on tiptoe, dainty as a kitten, ‘come rain or shine, Sntuzza’s stockings have been seen only by massaro Filippo the greengrocer; and that’s the truth.’
‘There are little devils abroad to-day,’ said Santuzza crossing herself with holy water. ‘It’s enought to drive you to sin.’
Nearby, la Zuppidda was gabbling Hail Maries, squatting on her heels and darting poisonous glances hither and thither as though she were in a fury with the whole village, and telling anyone who would listen: ‘Comare la Longa isn’t coming to church, even though her husband is at sea in this storm! Small wonder the good Lord is punishing us!’ Menico’s mother was there too, even though all she was good for was watching the flies go by!
‘We should pray for sinners as well,’ said Santuzza. ‘That’s what pure souls are for.’
‘Yes, like the Mangiacarrubbe girl is doing, all pious behind her shawl, and goodness knows what vile sins she causes young men to commit.’
Santuzza shook her head, and said that when you’re in church you shouldn’t speak ill of your neighbour. ‘The host has to smile at all comers,’ replied la Zuppidda, and then, in la Vespa’s ear: ‘Santuzza is concerned that people are saying that she sells water for wine; but she would do better to think about not causing Filippo the greengrocer to commit a mortal sin, because he has a wife and children.’
‘Myself,’ replied la Vespa, ‘I’ve told don Giammaria that I don’t want to carry on in the Daughters of Mary, if they keep Santuzza on as leader.’
‘Does that mean you’ve found a husband?’ asked la Zuppidda.
‘I have not found a husband,’ snapped back la Vespa waspishly. ‘I’m not one of those women who bring a string of men after them right into church, with polished shoes, or big paunches.’
The one with the paunch was Brasi, padron Cipolla’s son, who was the darling of mothers and daughters alike, because he owned vines and olive groves.
‘Go and see if the boat is properly moored,’ his father said to him, making the sign of the cross.
No one could help thinking that that wind and rain were pure gold for the Cipolla family; that is how things go in this world, and once reassured that their boat was well-moored, they were rubbing their hands in glee at the storm; while the Malavoglia had turned quite white and were tearing their hair, because of that cargo of lupins they had bought on credit from zio Crocifisso Dumb bell.
‘Shall we face facts?’ snapped la Vespa. ‘The really unlucky man is zio Crocifisso, who sold the lupins on credit.’
‘If you give credit without a pledge, you’ll lose your friend, the goods and the edge.’
Zio Crocifisso was kneeling at the foot of the altar of Our Lady of Sorrows, with plenty of beads to hand, and intoning the little verses in a nasal whine which would have melted the heart of Satan himself. Between Hail Maries there was talk of the lupin deal, and the Provvidenza which was on the high seas, and la Longa who had five children to look after.
‘In this day and age,’ said padron Cipolla, shrugging, ‘nobody is content with their lot, and everybody wants to take heaven by storm.’
‘The fact is,’ concluded compare Zuppiddo, ‘that this is a bad day for the Malavoglia.’
‘Myself,’ added Piedipapera, ‘I wouldn’t like to be in compare Bastianazzo’s shoes.’
Dusk fell cold and gloomy; occasionally there was a gust of north wind, which brought down a little burst of fine, silent rain; it was one of those evenings when, if your boat was in harbour with its belly in the dry sand, you could enjoy seeing the pot steaming in front of you, with your child between your knees, listening to the woman padding about the house behind you. Layabouts preferred to spend that Sunday in the wine shop, and it looked as if Sunday was going to run into Monday, too, in the wine shop, and even the doorposts were warmed by the flames from the fire, so much so that zio Santoro, posted out there with his hand outstretched and chin on his knees, had drawn in a bit, to warm his old back up a little.
‘He’s better off than compare Bastianazzo, at this moment,’ repeated Rocco Spatu, lighting his pipe at the door.
And without any more ado he put his hand into his pocket, and splashed out to the tune of two centesimos of alms.
‘You’re wasting your money thanking God you’re safe at home,’ Piedipapera told him. ‘There’s small danger that you’ll end up like Bastianazzo.’
Everyone showed their appreciation of this sally, and then they looked from the doorway down to the sea, as black as the sciara, without saying another word.
Padron ’Ntoni had wandered around aimlessly all day, as though he had St. Vitus’ dance, and the chemist asked him if he were taking an iron cure, or just going for an idle stroll in that bad weather. ‘Some providence, eh, padron ’Ntoni?’ But the chemist was godless, everyone knew that.
La Locca’s son was outside there with his hands in his pockets because he hadn’t got a penny to his name, and he said:
‘Zio Crocifisso has gone to look for padron ’Ntoni with Piedipapera, to get him to say that he bought the lupins on credit in front of witnesses.’
‘That means he thinks they’re in danger, along with the Provvidenza.’
‘My brother Menico is with compare Bastianazzo on the Provvidenza too.’
‘Well done — what we were saying was that if your brother doesn’t come back, you will be head of the household.’
‘He went because zio Crocifisso would only pay him half wages too, when he sent him out with the fishing boat, whereas the Malavoglia are paying him in full.’ And when the others sniggered, he just stood their slack-jawed.
At dusk Maruzza had gone to wait on the sciara with her younger children, because you could see quite a large stretch of sea from there, and she shuddered and scratched her head without a word when she heard it roar like that. The baby was crying and the poor creatures looked like lost souls, all alone on the sciara, at that hour. The baby’s crying gave her a pang, poor woman, it struck her as a bad omen; and she couldn’t think what to come up with to quieten her, and sang her little songs in an unsteady voice which had a quiver of tears about it too.
On their way from the wine shop with their oil pitchers or wine flasks, the neighbours stopped to have a word with la Longa as though nothing were wrong, and the odd friend of her husband Bastianazzo, compare Cipolla, for instance, or compare Mangiacarrubbe, coming over to the sciara to take a look at the sea and find out what sort of mood the old moaner was falling asleep in, asked la Longa about her husband, and stayed with her a bit to keep her company; smoking their pipes in silence right under her nose, or talking among themselves in low voices. Frightened by these unaccustomed attentions, the poor creature gazed at them in distress and clutched her child to her, as though they wanted to steal it away. At last the toughest or most compassionate of them took her by the arm and led her home. She let herself be led, calling desperately upon the holy Virgin in a vain attempt at consolation.
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