Her children followed her, clinging to her skirts as though they were afraid that something might be stolen from them too. As they passed in front of the wine shop, all the customers came to the door amidst all the smoke, and fell silent as they watched her go by, as though she were already a curiosity.
‘Requiem aeternam,’ zio Santoro mumbled under his breath, ‘that poor Bastianazzo always gave me charity when padron ’Ntoni left him a penny in his pocket.’
The poor creature still didn’t realise that she was a widow, and kept calling stumblingly upon the Virgin to succour her.
A group of neighbourhood women were waiting for her in front of her balcony, chatting in low voices amongst themselves. When they saw her appear at the end of the street, comare Piedipapera and cousin Anna went towards her, their hands folded, without saying a word. Then she dug her nails into her hair with a desperate cry and ran to hide away in the house.
‘What a disaster,’ they were all saying on the street. ‘Boat, cargo and all. More than forty onze of lupins!’
The worst thing was that the lupins had been bought on credit, and zio Crocifisso said that fine words buttered no parsnips; and he was as ungiving as a dumb bell, which was how he got his name, because he became pig-headed and mulishly obstinate when anyone tried to repay him with chatter, and he would say that credit always led to trouble. He was a good enough fellow, and lived by lending money to his friends, and had no other job, and that was why he hung around all day long with his hands in his pockets, or leant up against the wall of the church, wearing that ragged jacket of his looking for all the world like a pauper; but he had money, and to spare, and if anyone went to ask him for twelve tari he would lend them immediately and with security; because ‘giving credit without a pledge, loses you friends, the goods and the edge,’ and it would be understood that the money would be repaid by Sunday, in good, hard money, and with one extra carlino, as was only fair, because ‘interest knows no friendship’. He would buy up all the catch at one go, at a discount, when the poor devil who had done the fishing needed the money fast; but they had to weigh it out on his scales, which were as false as Judas, according to certain habitual malcontents who said they had one arm longer than the other, like Saint Francis; and he would also advance the expense for the crew, if they wanted, and take back no more than the money advanced, and the price of a couple of pounds of bread per head, and a drop of wine, and he didn’t want anything more, because he was a good Christian and would have to account to God for his doings in this world. In a word he was a godsend to those in distress, and he also dreamed up a hundred ways of helping his neighbours out, and without being a seafaring man himself he had boats, and tackle, and everything, for people who didn’t have any, and he loaned them out, making do with a third of the catch, plus the share for the boat, which counted as a member of the crew, and for the tackle, if they wanted that loaned too, and in the end the boat ate up all the profit, so that people called it the devil’s boat. And when they asked him why he himself didn’t risk his skin like everyone else, but took the lion’s share of the catch without any danger to himself, he would reply: ‘Now just a minute: what if something were to happen to me at sea, God forbid — if I were to leave my carcass there, who would look after my business?’ He minded his own affairs, and would have loaned out the shirt on his back; but then he wanted to be paid, and without any shilly-shallying; and it was pointless to quibble, because he was deaf, and short of brain-power into the bargain, and all he could say was ‘what’s been agreed is fair indeed’ and ‘you will know the good payer on the promised day.’
Now his enemies were openly enjoying his discomfiture because of those lupins the devil had snatched away from him; and he even had to say the de profundis for Bastianazzo’s soul, when they held the funeral, along with the other members of the Confraternity of the Good Death, with that foolish hood on his head.
The windows of the little church glittered, and the sea was smooth and gleaming, so that it no longer seemed the same water which had stolen la Longa’s husband from her; and that was why the members were in a hurry to get it all over with, and each go off about their own business, now that the weather was set fair again.
This time the Malavoglia were there, squatting in front of the bier, the floor awash with all their weeping, crying as though the dead men were really between those four boards, clutching those lupins which zio Crocifisso had sold them on credit because he had always known padron ’Ntoni to be a decent man; but if they wanted to cheat him out of what was rightfully his, with the excuse that Bastianazzo had been drowned, then they were cheating Christ himself, as sure as God exists; because that credit was as sacred as the consecrated host, and he would hang those five hundred lire at the feet of Christ crucified; but by heaven, padron ’Ntoni would go to prison if necessary! The law is the law even in Trezza!
Meanwhile don Giammaria was hastily flicking the water sprinkler over the coffin, and mastro Cirino began to go around snuffing out the lights. The members of the Confraternity hastily leapt over the benches with their hands high, to take off their hoods, and zio Crocifisso went to give a pinch of snuff to padron ’Ntoni, to give him heart, because after all when you’re a decent fellow you leave a good name behind you and gain a place in paradise — this was what he had said to anyone who asked him about his lupins: ‘I’m all right with the Malavoglia because they’re decent folk and they don’t want to leave compare Bastianazzo in the devil’s hands’; padron ’Ntoni could see with his own eyes that things had been done without penny-pinching, in honour of the dead man; and the mass cost so much, so much for the candles, and so much for the funeral — he added it up on thick fingers stuffed into cotton gloves, and the children stared open-mouthed at those things for their father which cost so much: the coffin, the candles, the paper flowers; and seeing all the lights, and hearing the organ play, the baby began to gurgle cheerfully.
The house by the medlar tree was full of people; and as the proverb says, ‘Sad is that house which people visit because of the husband.’ And seeing those little Malavoglia on the door-step with their dirty faces and hands in their pockets, the passers by shook their heads and said: ‘Poor comare Maruzza! Now troubles are beginning for her and her family!’
All their friends brought something along, as is the custom, pasta, eggs, wine and all manner of good things, and you would have had a job to eat through it all, and even compare Alfio Mosca had come with a chicken in each hand. ‘Take them, gnà Mena,’ he said, ‘I would gladly have taken your father’s place, I swear. At least I wouldn’t have caused anyone any sorrow, and no one would have wept.’
Leaning against the kitchen door, with her face in her apron, Mena felt her heart beating so hard that it seemed about to fly out from her breast, like those poor creatures she held in her hand. St. Agatha’s dowry had gone down with the Provvidenza, and everyone who was visiting the house by the medlar tree believed that zio Crocifisso would sink his claws into it.
Some people had been perched on the high-backed chairs, and they went off again without so much as opening their mouths, like the real idiots they were; but anyone who could string two words together tried to hold a scrap of conversation, to ward off desolation, and somewhat distract those poor Malavoglia who had been crying like fountains for two days. Compare Cipolla was saying how the price of anchovies had gone up two tari a barrel, which might interest padron ’Ntoni, if he still had anchovies to sell; he himself had prudently kept back a hundred barrels or so; and they also spoke of compare Bastianazzo, God bless him, no one would ever have thought it, a man in the prime of life and bursting with health, poor fellow!
Then there was the mayor, mastro Croce Callà, also known as ‘Silkworm’ and ‘stooge,’ along with the town clerk don Silvestro; and he was sitting with his nose in the air, so that people said he was sniffing the wind to know which way to turn, and he turned his head from one person to another as they spoke, as if he really were looking for mulberry leaves, and wanted to eat their words, and when he saw the town clerk laughing, he would laugh too.
To amuse the company don Silvestro drew the conversation around to compar Bastianazzo’s death duty; and in this way he included a funny story he had heard from his lawyer, and which he had found so amusing, when it was thoroughly explained to him, that he never failed to drag it into conversation every time he was at a funeral visit.
‘At least you have the satisfaction of being related to Victor Emanuel, since you’ll have to give him his share too.’
Everyone split their sides with laughter, and indeed there is no funeral gathering without laughter, just as there is no wedding without tears.
The chemist’s wife looked down her nose at this uproar, and kept her gloved hands on her stomach, and put on a long face, as people do in the big cities in such circumstances, so that people fell silent at the mere sight of her, as though the dead man were there in person, and that was why she was known as ‘the Signora.’
Don Silvestro was flirting with the women, constantly on the move with the excuse of offering seats to new arrivals, to make his polished shoes squeak. ‘They ought to burn the lot of them, those tax people,’ grumbled comare Zuppidda, as yellow as if she’d eaten lemons, and she said it right in don Silvestro’s face, as though he were the tax man. She knew quite well what certain penpushers wanted, people with no socks inside their polished shoes, who tried to wheedle their way into people’s houses to gobble up the dowry along with the young lady: ‘I don’t want you, my beautiful, I want your money.’ That was why she had left her daughter Barbara at home.
‘I don’t like those sort of faces.’
‘You’re telling me,’ exclaimed padron Cipolla; ‘they flay me alive like St. Bartholomew.’
‘By God,’ exclaimed mastro Turi Zuppiddo, clenching a threatening fist which resembled his great caulker’s mallet. ‘It’s going to end badly with these Italians.’
‘You be quiet,’ said comare Venera sharply, ‘you know nothing.’
‘I’m just repeating what you said, that they’d take the shirt off our backs,’ mumbled compare Turi, crestfallen. Then to cut things short Piedipapera said quietly to padron Cipolla: ‘You ought to take comare Barbara, to console yourself; in that way mother and daughter could both be put out of temptation’s way.’
‘It’s a dirty business,’ exclaimed donna Rosolina, the priest’s sister, red as a turkey cock and fanning herself with her handkerchief; she went on to complain about Garibaldi who was putting on taxes, and nowadays you could hardly live any more, and no one got married any longer. What did this matter to donna Rosolina, at this stage? whispered Piedipapera. And now donna Rosolina was telling don Silvestro about the weighty matters she had in hand: ten lengths of warp threads on the loom, vegetables to be dried for the winter, the tomato preserve to be made, and she had a secret all her own to keep it fresh all winter. A house without a woman was doomed to disaster; but that woman had to have practical good judgment, and not be one of those flippertijibbets who do nothing but preen themselves, with lots of hair and little brain, so that a poor husband might sink to the bottom, like compare Bastianazzo, god bless him. ‘Lucky man,’ sighed Santuzza, ‘he died on a holy day, the eve of the feast of the sorrows of Mary Virgin, and he is praying up there for us sinners, among the angels and saints in paradise.’ ‘The properer the man, the worse luck’, the proverb goes. He was a good man, the sort who mind their own business, and don’t waste time speaking ill of this person or that, and sinning against his neighbour, as so many do.
Then Maruzza, seated at the foot of the bed, pale and dishevelled as a rag that had been through the wash, so that she looked like Our Lady of Sorrows herself, began to cry all the harder, with her face in the pillow, and padron ’Ntoni bent in two and looking at least a hundred, gazed and gazed at her, shaking his head, and didn’t know what to say, because of the pain of Bastianazzo so sharp in his heart, as if a shark were gnawing at it.
‘Santuzzaa had a honeyed tongue,’ observed comare Grazia Piedipapera.
‘If you’re running an inn,’ replied Zuppidda, ‘you have to be like that. Those who don’t know their trade must shut up shop, and those who can’t swim must sink.’
La Zuppidda had had all she could take of Santuzza’s honeyed behaviour, which was such that even the Signora turned round to talk with her, with her pursed mouth, without taking any notice of the others, wearing those gloves of hers as if she were afraid of soiling her hands, with her nose all wrinkled, as though the others stank worse than sardines, while in fact the person who stank was Santuzza, of wine and all kinds of other filth, despite that scapular she was wearing, and the medal of the Daughter of Mary almost bouncing off her arrogant chest. Of course they understood one another because trade is a great bond, and they made money in the same way, by cheating their neighbour, and selling dirty water as if it were gold, and they neither of them gave a damn about taxes, oh dear no!
‘Now they’re probably going to tax salt too,’ added compare Mangiacarrubbe. ‘The chemist said so, it’s in the paper. So that will be the end of salt anchovies, and we may as well burn our boats in the fireplace.’
Mastro Turi the caulker was about to raise his fist and pitch in with a curse, but he looked at his wife and fell silent, biting back his words.
‘What with the bad season we’ve got ahead of us,’ added padron Cipolla, ‘with no rain since St Clare’s Day, if it hadn’t been for that last storm when the Provvidenza was lost, which was truly a godsend, you would have been able to cut hunger with a knife this winter!’
Everyone told their own troubles, partly to console the Malavoglia, who weren’t the only people to have problems.
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