Short Story (Eng): A Mayor (from A Mystic Vision and Other Stories)

Along the white road that ran down the valley of the Murgia, drawing a serpentine between the hills of ground and chianca, between the green and yellow brushwood and the outcropping rocks, the white dry stone walls covered with mold and under the sun at sunset… on a horse rode a gray and elegant silhouette with a hat.

The man kept his bridles loose and the horse went alone; the brown-stained cuffs of the ground and the hands furrowed by deep wrinkles, despite their not too old age, touched the horse's mane almost stroking it.

The Mayor that day followed that suburban road towards the nearby town, led to the farm of Don Ferdinando, a businessman and previous assessor of the Municipality he chaired.

The Mayor was anxious to go and talk with his old friend and colleague about some serious business.

The war, the demands of the laborers, the change that the whole state was taking, the political struggles within the Municipality, the transformism and the collusion of many of his colleagues with crime and above all with the cheerful criminal associationism operated by many local landlords.

A strong climate of tension in society was presaged, a disturbing jolting movement noticeable in a grinding of the laborer's teeth, in the severe attention and in the stiff chin of the cop, in the unavailability of many known criminals, which had been in hiding for several weeks.

The Mayor had a hint of what was happening, but he certainly could not decipher all the signs. He knew very well that things in his part had gone well in a way. But the disputes, personal conflicts, and above all the power struggles for possessions and political armchairs continued unabated, indeed they strengthened with the passage of time.

He knew he was unassailable from many points of view. He had only done good to that citizenship: he had expanded and developed the miserable city hospital, had inaugurated squares and streets and above all had facilitated city workers, supported artisans and always tried to manage the disputes between owners and laborers fairly, without dissatisfy neither one nor the other.

So much so that most of the people loved him. But he knew very well that – with his mild, discreet but fair work – he had dissatisfied many of those who would have liked to strengthen their status quo and perhaps increase it thanks to the usual flaws and deflected threads.

The external contingencies and the stormy past of that area always put the population there; every element of society was seen as a possible friend or as a possible enemy; one was always ready to see someone unsheathe their knife for a trifle or for passionate matters, or someone else to unsheathe their rifle for economic and hereditary matters.

In the city, the enriched laborer who became owner showed off the elegance and arrogance of the man who made it; the craftsman did his job in peace by lavishing bows and thanks for the Dons; the laborers came and went with misery in their heads and a knife always in their pockets. The priests incensed the church and blessed the brothers, who all knew each other, all loved each other and at the same time all hated each other, speaking bad of each other, meditating revenge and ambushes, against the infamous or against the whore.

The farmer's son had married his cousin, a cripple had been born, and had been given to a pair of childless laborers in exchange for two hens and four rabbits; the parish priest was in a hurry just in front of the church, and there are those who suspected that even the parents' little children were welcomed too tenderly in his arms; the farmer Capraro had seduced Don Onofrio's daughter, the two had run away, but while she slept in a barn, he hung from a tree, even paler than the moon that illuminated him; a brigand raped a laborer's daughter, the brothers tracked him down and burned him alive by putting him in an oven.

All these news and stories crowded the local newspapers and filled the eyes of the Mayor every morning.

But then you walked on foot, in the square or through the streets of the center, and everything seemed normal: the milkman bowed, the greengrocer greeted with a good-natured toothy smile, the parish priest blessed meekly, the farmer took off his hat and he happily shook the fellow villager's hand.

Everyone looked like little lambs under the public gaze of common morality.

II.

Thus, the Mayor that day at lunch was talking: “I allowed the railroad to pass in front of the cemetery. I gave the permits and everything. And now Don Michele doesn’t want see me, because I cut the property in two. And Don Raffaele sends me flowers and certificates of esteem, promising me wide support in the next campaign... "

"And you?" – his eighty-two-year-old mother went, her wrinkled sleepy but witty face wrapped in the knotted floral rag typical of country matrons.

"And I, my dear mother, have accepted the flowers, the certificates, and if you want to know the money too... Because I need money to support my politics, in this country of hungry wolves!... I need the protection of the rifles of the massari and if there is need, I also need the brigands, the cops and all the saints who are in heaven!"

"Shut your mouth, shameless!" – erupted the old woman – "If your father heard you!... Never a penny took he... He never compromised!"

"And I know!... Never compromise, and how!! I remember him when he killed a third of his laborers just because he didn’t want to give them an account!... A holy man, my father!"

The old woman looked at her son with a horrible look, first with anger, then seized herself, almost as a sign of shame, she lowered her eyes and left, picking up the soup-soaked bowls.

The bell of the Church of San Rocco sounded monotonous, reverberating the blows and driving the birds towards the sunset. Swallows flitted around the bell tower celebrating the mixing of orange with blue. A few blue-stained clouds stood out here and there on the white houses around the Castle. And the Mayor smoked peering at the horizon from the terrace.

His head had completely emptied, and he watched as bewildered the succession in the air of the spirals of smoke, the graceful whiteness of which went to melt into the clouds, then to the orange and blue.

And the clearest and intoxicating peace had taken possession of his brain, too oppressed by the thousand thoughts of the daily routine that belongs to a high office.

That night a man in gray had appeared to him in a dream, looking him straight in the eyes and then disappearing in a large yellow circle in a midst of complete darkness. He thought it was a symptom of stress, or just one of the many nightmares he had faced for months at night, when loneliness and fear have the upper hand and when all daytime worries materialize in terrible night ghosts.

"Who made me do it?" – the only thought that crossed his mind at that moment. Then an ironic smile: "I'm just a fool..."

And the cigarette fell slowly from the balcony onto the deserted street.

“I don't think I made a wrong move. The people love me... I only did good to this community. How could they hate me? "

And he went back into the house, opening the green-stained window which was gradually breaking away.

It was dark inside. The revolver lay on the table, as if waiting for him. He took it, checked the charge, released the safety. Then he looked at himself. He looked in the mirror. He seemed more thoughtful than usual.

He slipped the revolver into his pocket and went out.

III.

The white dirt road continued to descend among the chianche rocks. On the left the large green and white hill and on the right a small hollow of uncultivated land; and in the distance a large white spot, accompanied by two other small ones a little further east: the three towns of the High Murgia. The serpentine among the yellow brushwood was sprayed by the scarlet light of the sunset, which smeared the blood-colored patch. And the Mayor's horse went, went alone, almost knowing by heart the road that led to the farm of the old and dear friend Don Ferdinando.

The Mayor looked forward, almost dozing, with the gray hat with wide outstretched eyes. His wrinkled hand continued to caress the horse, and for a moment his gaze rested on the black and reddish blackberries that adorned the bush that concealed the outlet of the curve.

So, once past the curve, a few steps from the turn, almost at the entrance of a cart, right under a large oak tree, the Mayor distinguished something unusual: three people waiting.

One of them looked at the road right in the direction of the Mayor, the other, the tallest, fumbled with reins and flasks on the horse and the third there pissing on the oak.

The Mayor's horse slowly started to approach the three characters, so that gradually he could distinguish their features: the avant-garde man had a large, stocky brown hat, a thick black beard, an aquiline nose, a leather shoulder bag; the guy who fumbled with water bottles appeared to be the tallest, an elegant gray notable suit and an equally gray bowler hat on his head; the third guy, as soon as he turned around after urination, had the face of a young peasant.

By now the Mayor was a few meters away from the three: the wrinkled hand stopped its continuous motion towards the mane of the horse and remained suspended; the other hand pushed the hat up for a better look, then went down to curl a mustache.

An expression of curiosity revived his face.

The three looked at him.

Then the tall gray notable stepped forward, smiling with open arms: "Dearest Excellency, what an honor to meet you here!"

The Mayor observed that the notable was particularly tall and slender. He seemed to be little more than forty years old: crooked mouth, well shaved, brown, black eyebrows, one higher than the other, but above all the thing that struck him was that instead of his left eye he had a fake yellow eye, maybe a yellow stone.

"Who do I have the honor to talk to?"

"My name is Arcangelo Sisto, Most Illustrious! ... Just arrived in the countryside to assist the work of your egregious lands with the help of my workers... Pirrocco!... Gianvito!... Greet His Excellency the Mayor!"

The two peasants smiled, highlighting the disastrous yellowish teeth full of blackish holes, then bowed.

The Mayor looked at them suspiciously for a moment. That same hand that stroked the horse now stroked the revolver in his jacket pocket. Then the hand, almost instinctively, climbed the fabric and went to flip with two fingers inside.

The Mayor felt the smooth surface of the gun butt between his fingertips.

The Archangel, staring into his eyes, at that moment became gloomy: with his black glove he held out his hand to the Mayor, and in a dry voice he said: "I would like to leave you my credentials, Your Excellency!"

Thus, from inside the jacket, he took out his weapon, pointed it… and shot.

The stream of blood spurted into the air, smearing the hanging branches of the oak. Just for a moment the Mayor's hand rose towards the horse's mane. He stroked it for one last time, then fell backwards, and finally collapsed on the ground, falling stiffly with a thud.

The Assassin Archangel stared at his victim, dying on the pavement, while the drops of blood dripped from the branches, filling the concave top of his hat.

The two peasants approaching with rolled eyes pulled out two long knives, one from the bag, the other from the jacket, and ended up finishing the Mayor, with repeated stab wounds on the chest and abdomen. They pierced him with ferocity, as if he had done them a grave and unforgivable wrong. They stuck the knife into the body until it pierced it and each stab wound was accompanied by a cry of ferocity and a panting of hungry beast. The blood splashed on their faces and the hairy and wiry hand rose repeatedly in the sky to then inflict itself on the torn body, now lifeless.

The notable, on the contrary, from above continued to stare at the scene, with his working eye no less impassive than the fake one.

That yellow sphere in the murderer's eye socket stared at the bloody carnage with satisfaction and a grin, a hint of Leonardo's smile, appeared on his thin lips to express his satisfaction.

And the screams continued and the beasts continued to pierce the corpse, while silence seemed to reign all around. And nobody noticed anything, nothing was noticed by the neighboring massari… Although at least four farms were located only a few hundred meters from the crime scene.