It was his ruin. The day the news reached him that he had lost even in the court of appeal, Spatolino didn't so much as bat an eye. With the last coins remaining in his pocket, he bought a yard and a half of red cotton cloth and three old sacks, and then returned home.

"Make me a tunic," he told his wife, flinging the three sacks onto her lap.

His wife looked at him as if she didn't understand.

"What do you intend to do?"

"I told you: 'make me a tunic...' No? Then I'll make one myself."

In less than no time, he undid the bottoms of two of the sacks, and then sewed them together lengthwise. He made a slit down the front of the upper one, and two holes at the sides. With the third sack he made sleeves and sewed them around the two holes. Finally he sewed together the top edges of the upper sack a few inches on each side so that there would be an opening for his neck. He then rolled it all into a little bundle, picked up the red cotton cloth, and went off without saying goodbye to anyone.

About an hour later, the news spread around town that Spatolino, having gone mad, had placed himself like a statue of Christ at the Pillar, there in the new shrine on the highway, opposite Ciancarella's villa.

"Placed himself? What does that mean?"

"Why, yes, he, like Christ, there inside the shrine!"

"Are you speaking seriously?"

"Yes, indeed!"

A great crowd rushed over to see him there inside the shrine, behind the gate. He was standing there wrapped in that tunic with the grocer's labels still imprinted on it, the red cotton cloth thrown across his shoulders like a cloak. He had a crown of thorns on his head and a reed in his hand.

He kept his head bowed and inclined to one side, and his eyes fixed on the ground. He didn't lose his composure the slightest bit, despite the laughter, whistles, and dreadful shouts of a crowd that grew continuously larger. Several youngsters threw fruit peels at him, and quite a number of spectators at close range flung extremely cruel insults at him. But he remained there, staunch and motionless like a real statue, except for an occasional blink from his eyes.

Neither the pleas and later the curses of his wife, who had rushed over with the other ladies of the neighborhood, nor the weeping of his children, could make him budge from that spot. To put an end to the hullabaloo it took the intervention of two policemen, who forced open the shrine's little gate and arrested Spatolino.

"Leave me alone! Who's more of a Christ than I?" Spatolino began screaming, as he struggled to free himself. "Can't you see how they're mocking and insulting me? Who's more of a Christ than I? Leave me alone! This is my house! I built it myself with my money and my hands! I sweated blood to complete it! Leave me alone, you heathens!"

But those heathens wouldn't let him go until evening.

"Go home!" the police commissioner commanded him. "Go home, and I warn you, be sensible!"

"Yes, Mr. Pontius Pilate," answered Spatolino, bowing.

And quite stealthily he returned to the shrine. Once inside, he again dressed up like Christ. He spent the entire night there, and never budged from that spot again.

They tried to drive him out by starvation; they tried to drive him out by intimidation and ridicule, but all was in vain. Finally they left him in peace, as you would a poor harmless lunatic.

 

VI

There is someone now who brings him oil for his lamp and someone who brings him food and drink. Some old woman begins to quietly spread the word that he's a saint, and goes to beg him to pray for her and for her family; another brought him a new tunic made of finer material, and in exchange asked him for three numbers to play in the lottery.

Cart drivers passing along the highway during the night have become accustomed to that little lamp burning in the shrine, and delight in seeing it from afar. They stop for a while in front of it to chat with the poor Christ, who benevolently smiles at their occasional jokes. Then they set out again. Gradually the noise of the carts fades away in the silence, and the poor Christ falls asleep again or goes off to relieve himself behind the wall, not bothering to consider that at that moment he is dressed up like Christ with the sackcloth tunic and the cloak of red cotton cloth.

But often some cricket, attracted by the light, springs upon him and makes him awaken with a start. He then resumes his prayers; but not infrequently, while praying, another cricket, that old chirping cricket, awakens again within him. Spatolino then removes from his forehead the crown of thorns to which he has already become accustomed, and scratching himself there where the thorns have left their mark, his eyes wandering here and there, again begins to whistle:

"Fififi... fififi... fififi.."

Pitagora's Misfortune

By golly!

And, putting my hat back on, I turned around to gaze at that beautiful young bride-to-be between her fiancée and her elderly mother.

Dree, dree, dree... Oh how happily my friend's new shoes squeaked on the pavement of the sunny square that Sunday morning! And the bride-to-be, her spirit beaming charmingly from her restless, childlike blue eyes, from her rosy cheeks and her tiny gleaming teeth, fanned, fanned, and fanned herself under her gaudy red silk umbrella, as if to temper the bursts of joy and feelings of modesty that she was experiencing. For it was the first time she was appearing this way in public; she, a young lady, with that fine figure of a fiancée at her side — dree, dree, dree — who wore conspicuously new clothes, had not a hair out of place, and was perfumed and contented.

Putting his hat back on (slowly, so as not to ruffle his well-combed hair), my friend turned around to gaze at me too. Why did he do that? He saw me standing in the middle of the square, and nodded with an embarrassed smile.