Foucault's pendulum - Umberto Eco [294]
Silence. Mongo spoke in a hoarse voice, barely audible. He said: “Citizens, friends. After so many painful sacrifices... here we are. Glory to those who have fallen for freedom.”
And that was it. He went back inside.
The crowd yelled, and the partisans raised their submachine guns, their Stens, their shotguns, their ‘91s, and fired festive volleys. With shell cases falling on all sides, the kids slipped between the legs of the armed men and civilians, because they’d never be able to add to their collections like this again, not with the war looking like it would end in a month, worst luck.
But there had been some casualties: two men killed. By a grim coincidence, both were from San Davide, a little village above ***, and the families asked permission to bury the victims in the local cemetery.
The partisan command decided that there should be a solemn funeral: companies in formation, decorated hearses, the village band, the provost of the cathedral—and the parish hall band.
Don Tico accepted immediately. Because, he said, he had always harbored anti-Fascist sentiments. And because, as the musicians murmured, for a year he had been making them practice two funeral marches, and he had to have them performed sooner or later. Also because, the sharp tongues of the village said, he wanted to make up for “Giovinezza.”
The “Giovinezza” story went like this:
Months earlier, before the arrival of the partisans, Don Tico’s band had gone out for some saint’s feast or other, and they were stopped by the Black Brigades. “Play ‘Giovinezza,’ Reverend,” the captain ordered, drumming his fingers on the barrel of his submachine gun. What could Don Tico do? He said, “Boys, let’s try it; you only have one skin.” He beat time with his pitch pipe, and horrible clattering cacophony drifted over ***. Only someone desperate to save his skin would have agreed that the sounds heard were “Giovinezza.” Shameful for everyone. Shameful for having consented, Don Tico said afterward, but even more shameful for having played like dogs. Priest he was, and anti-Fascist, but, above all, damn it, he was an artist.
Jacopo had been absent on that day. He had tonsillitis. On the bombardons there were only Annibale Cantalamessa and Pio Bo, and their presence, without Jacopo, must have made a crucial contribution to the collapse of Nazism-Fascism. But this was not what troubled Belbo, at least at the time he was writing. He had missed’another opportunity to find out if he would have had the courage to say no. Perhaps that is why he died on the gallows of the Pendulum.
The funeral, anyway, was scheduled for Sunday morning. In the cathedral square everyone was present: Mongo with his troops, Uncle Carlo and other municipal dignitaries, with their Great War decorations—and it didn’t matter who had been a Fascist and who had not, it was a question of honoring heroes. The clergy were there, the town band in dark suits, and the hearses with the horses decked in trappings of cream, black, and gold. The Automedon was dressed like one of Napoleon’s marshals, cocked hat, short cape, and great cloak, in the same colors as the horses’ trappings. And there was the parish hall band, their visored caps, khaki tunics, and blue trousers, brasses shining, woodwinds severe black, cymbals and drums sparkling.
Between *** and San Davide were five or six kilometers of uphill curves. This road was taken, on Sunday afternoons, by the retired men; they would walk, playing bowls as they walked, take a rest, have some wine, play a second game, and so on until they reached the sanctuary at the top.
A few uphill kilometers are nothing for men who play bowls, and perhaps it’s nothing to cover them in formation,