That Sunday the people of the Valtravaglia were gathered in church to hear mass, the well-heeled and better-off in their family pews, the others in any place they could find. It was nearly midday when the choir door was flung open and the Engineer entered gingerly; he took his place in a corner of the apse behind the group of choristers, of which I was a member. He was done up in a somewhat unconventional style: on his head he had a red fez from which a golden charm was suspended. He was wearing a kind of embroidered waistcoat, but from the shoulders down he was wrapped in a large, white-woollen cloak with dangling pendants. Beneath the cloak, the observer could make out a pair of short, Turkish-style, riding breeches … all that was lacking was the camel. He removed his fez and bowed ever so slightly. At first a deadly silence fell on the place, followed by subdued murmuring. Everyone was staring at that face with its solemn, absent expression on top of the clownish outfit, while at the same time peeping out of the corner of one eye for the reaction of Signora Sveva, her daughter and the lawyer. At the De profundis, the three bent over and, trying hard not to make themselves unduly noticed, made for the exit. The chorus fell silent for one moment. The Signora tripped and uttered a somewhat rude imprecation. The chorus started up again with a crescendo of great solemnity. The Engineer-caliph slipped out by the door which leads to the sacristy.
‘Gloriam Patris laudamus,’ the choir ended.
When mass was over, I returned to the sacristy with the other choristers. Each one of us busied himself, removing his white surplice and red soutane and hanging them up in the wardrobe. My peg was in the corridor which led to the bell-tower. The sacristan accosted me and asked me: ‘Dario, would you mind going up there a moment and finding out what has been going on? I think the bell ropes must have got twisted … the bells won’t ring any more!’
No sooner said than done. I climb up the staircase: three flights of stairs, three landings, and there I am at the turrets. As I emerge in between the clockwork, I stop in terror: there, stretched out on the bell’s crosspiece, is the Engineer wrapped in his caliph-bedouin cloak. ‘Is he dead?’ I wonder aloud. ‘No, not yet, thank you very much,’ he replies in a gentlemanly way, raising his hat. Then he recognises me and adds: ‘You’re the station-master’s son, aren’t you? I heard you sing, you’ve got a fine contralto timbre to your voice … the same part I used to have when I was a choirboy.’ I stutter out, awkwardly: ‘I’m glad to hear it. I was sent up because the bells won’t ring any more.’
‘I do apologise. It was me that got the ropes tangled up. I needed some sleep and with the racket these four bells make … you understand … but relax, I’ll get out of the way. I’ll untangle the bells and go down.’ So saying, he smiled at me and patted me on the head. It was the first time I had found in him an attitude of such cordiality.
From that day on, I often had occasion to see him. I would run into him by the lakeside, leaning over the railing at the quay or sitting on the harbour wall. Often I would catch sight of him on the Romanesque belfry of the main church in the town.
More than a month went by after the scandal at the Heremitage. Signora Sveva and her daughter Alfa began to get worried. The Engineer, who was in charge of technical operations at the glassworks, had walked off without asking for leave of absence, much less severance pay. The Signora went along to the works office to ask for some settlement, at least as regards salary: ‘Very sorry, Signora, but without the authorising signature of your husband, we cannot pay out a penny.’
Sveva Rosmini gave vent to a loud curse … in French of course. She then went over to the executive offices of the glassworks in the company of her daughter, and burst into her lover’s studio. ‘Are you going to tell me what we’re playing at here? They’ve got me on a cleft stick. The bank account’s blocked, the salary frozen … the whole village sniggers when they see me, and you won’t lift a finger to get me out of this mess!’
‘Well, there might be one way for you to get complete satisfaction … in fact more than one,’ said Colussi to calm her down. ‘If you kill him, everything would get a bit more tricky, so I’d suggest you settle down and wait. Considering the unhealthiness of the place where he is lodging, the dangerous company he’s keeping, the ruinous diet he’s eating … everything points to the likelihood that your husband won’t be troubling us much longer. However, the really sneaky solution would be to have him certified as insane, but to succeed you’d need to demonstrate he’s no longer capable of understanding or knowing what he wants.’
Signora Sveva and her daughter had already calmed down. All they had to do was wait patiently, but regrettably the Engineer, apart from taking to roosting in the occasional tree, turning up on the odd church tower, giving nods by way of greeting to the townspeople whom he passed and exhibiting himself in exotic clothes, gave no sign of obvious madness. In addition, the odd innocuous extravagance in a town of madmen like Porto Valtravaglia did not arouse any special surprise. However, a faint hope was dawning.
During the funeral of Jean Bartieux, founding father of the crystal works, a curious incident took place. Butrisa, the lead drummer, who for years had carried his bass drum on his back on the occasion of parades or processions, all of a sudden collapsed, keeling over with his drum. Several of the workers who had been with the firm since its foundation were there with members of their families following the hearse. The leader of the band turned to the bystanders for help. ‘Is there anyone who could give a hand and take his place?’ Without hesitation, the Engineer, in his caliph outfit, fez on head, pushed forward and, without so much as a by-your-leave, heaved the big bass drum onto his back. The drummer boy strapped him in. The Engineer took his place alongside the tambourines and the band took up where it had left off with the funeral march.
The following Sunday as they entered church, the people found the Engineer sitting on one of the choir stools. He was wearing a white lace surplice and one of those red soutanes which had been hanging in the wardrobe in the vestibule. So there he was, right next to me … and still with the fez on his head. The parish priest could not help noticing him as he came in, and stopped for a moment in bewilderment. The Count-choirboy gave him a peremptory nod whose meaning was: mind your own business and get on with the rituals!
The priest began celebrating mass. We in the choir began intoning the Nunc Dimittis Domine. The Engineer drew a long breath then joined decisively in the chant with a deep baritone descant. People craned their necks to get a better glimpse of the new singer. Some were even moved to applaud. Signora Sveva covered her eyes with her hands, whispering: ‘Go on, go on, you’re doing fine.’ Her daughter Alfa sobbed: ‘He’s doing it deliberately to mortify us, to fuck things up for us in front of everybody.’ The lawyer Colussi reproached her: ‘Watch your language, especially in front of your mother!’
‘I’m sorry, I forgot that “fuck up” comes from “fuck” and that certain allusions sound irreverent in this family.’ Her mother shut her up with a smart slap on the mouth. As the slap rang out, the whole church turned to stare. The choir launched into the Laudemus.
The sacristan, holding the pole for the collection, moved among the faithful, pushing the bag attached to it in front of their faces. The Engineer appeared on the far side, he too holding a pole with a collection bag attached: he sallied forth, lance at rest, inviting the faithful to be generous. With a circular movement, he banged the bag against Colussi’s nose. His first inclination was to protest, but he realised that in this situation, he’d better donate a few coins, and fast. The peremptory collecting technique did not stop there. When mass was over, the sacristan counted and recounted the cash, incredulously.