Fontebianca appeared at the bow of the ferry at five
in the afternoon as scheduled. As they approached, the warm colors of the
stately buildings became more and more evident, as did the white marble of the
domes and the gold that decorated them. The port displayed a motley collection
of fish-shaped steamboats that moved on the water as if they were gliding over
it, some that went out to sea, others that instead entered large or small
canals branching into the city.
Three long trumpet blasts announced to the passengers
the imminent approach to the lagoon city, accompanied by the captain's voice
who reminded the passengers on board not to forget any luggage. Even though
there was still some time before the official disembarkation, many already went
down to the decks in an orderly line; those who knew they were not in a hurry
leaned over the parapet to watch the ritual of entering the port, famous in the
country for being characterized by a wall of iron and coral guarded by
mechanical statues of tritons and mermaids always on the alert. The robots did
not have a stunning appearance, in fact; you could say they were ugly, but the
tourists liked them and the municipality saw no reason to change them unless
they stopped working or fell to pieces.
The wall, whose facade was decorated with stylized
waves, was already open when the ferry passed through it. Access to the lagoon
had been authorized by radio, otherwise, the patrol boats of the security
forces roaming the body of water like silver sharks would have immediately
intervened to stop the unauthorized entry. Everyone knew that access to the
city, both by sea and by land, was rigid and even counted, a political choice
to ensure that only the "right" people visited the town.
Don Walter knew that with that term they were
referring to people with a high social status.
He grunted in annoyance; he found it absurd that
someone could pretend to make a city habitable by only one type of individual.
He looked again at the letter that had been sent to him by the cardinal of the
Cathedral of the “Madonna of the Sea”, wondering if it was not, in reality, a
sort of invitation to become part of that limited category of the elect.
Don Walter Mezzanotte was not a priest like the
others… indeed; one could say that no other priest was like him.
The cassock didn't really match his tough look, more
similar to that of a convict than a man of the church, especially with his
thick, bristly beard and dark hair that was always messy, not to mention his
tall, massive build that would have been more appropriate for, for example,
being on the edge of a wrestling ring. At any moment it seemed that his big
arms could tear the fabric of the robe that was visibly tight in many places,
the same goes for the white collar that gave the impression of being able to fly
away with every swelling of his neck. And yet; behind that tough face, with his
small eyes apparently locked in a constant frown, there was a man very
dedicated to his faith. He knew what other people thought of him and honestly,
it wasn't something that mattered to him much, that was his face and he liked
it. What really mattered was how he could bring faith into the lives of others
and how he could help them.
His work gave him a lot of satisfaction, but even in
the house of God, there were problems. In his case, it concerned being called
to Fontebianca.
He had tried until the very end not to go there,
besides the fact that he didn't like big cities with their noise, smog, etc.;
he didn't want to have anything to do with the individuals of the local church.
Everyone in his environment knew it; that they were huge big heads full of themself.
They boasted of being a sort of elite just because their church had been
recognized by the General Headquarters as one of the most important points of
reference that represented the greatness of the Lord, of being the greatest
disseminators of the good news, and of always being on the side of the
unfortunate... all excuses to have the pretext of feeling a step above the
others, in short.
Even worse, many people believed that nonsense.
They claimed to follow the basic precepts of humility,
but he had seen them strutting around at receptions, flaunting their sort of
“nobility.” If it hadn’t been for the fact that their power was too great, he
would have had no qualms about telling them what he thought of them. Maybe one
day he would, but sadly not today. They had called him because they needed him
and he knew that, at least in this case, it had to be something serious and
truly important. And that, he had to admit, intrigued him a lot.
<< Don Walter? >> a man asked approaching
him as soon as he left the port.
He was wearing a chauffeur uniform and behind him was
parked a dark blue four-wheeled motorized carriage with silver trim that gave
it a somewhat sumptuous touch, the mascot[1] located on the front edge of the car was a small
silver cross.
<< Welcome to Fontebianca, sir. I hope the
journey was uneventful. >>
<< It went well. >>
<< I was instructed to come and get you from
Cardinal Della Rosa. His Holiness asked me to take you to him as soon as you
arrived unless, of course, you are not tired and prefer to go to the hotel
instead. >>
<< Take me to him. Let's not keep him waiting.
>>
The driver was undoubtedly diligent, it's just a shame
that his driving was a little too reckless.
The braking and sharp turns tested his composure, and
with his large hands, he gripped the edge of the leather seat to better hold
himself up despite the seat belt, worried that he might be thrown off. With the
speed at which the man was driving, he didn't have the chance to admire the
city and get a feel for the place, to understand how close it was to his
impressions or whether he was wrong. But first, he had to hope to survive that
trap.
The final destination was a large square complex
overlooking one of the large canals with a crenellated top, arranged on three
levels. On the ground floor, five large round arches closed a portico from
which one entered the interior. The second level was crossed by a long row of
mullioned windows, both single and double, which symmetrically corresponded to
the smaller quadrangular windows of the two floors above. A doorman invited Don
Walter to come in, before crossing the threshold he glanced at the emblem of
the church placed above the door, completely in gold, representing a cup with a
halo emerging from a curl of water.
He grunted again, he didn't like it.
He entered a large internal courtyard surrounded by
columns that supported a series of arches that defined the perimeter of the
symmetrically perfect courtyard; the ceiling was covered by a checkerboard
glass and steel structure from which the sun entered warmly without suffocating
the air. The people in there were almost all in cassocks like him or in an
office suit, in fact, the atmosphere that it gave him was exactly that, and
from the conversations he could overhear it seemed that they were talking about
bureaucratic matters.
What did the driver call that place? Oh yes, “The
Blessed Waters Foundation.”
<< Don Walter, welcome. We were anxiously
awaiting you. >>
The priest was welcomed by Cardinal Remondo Della Rosa
himself, the head of the local church.
The Cardinal was the venerable age of 85 and he
deserved to be complimented because he carried them quite well, looking at
least twenty years younger, it was also noticeable how well-fed he was and it
would not have surprised him if he had discovered that he was a good eater. He
had a good-natured smile and a long, pointed nose, ears that were just a little
bit protruding… not to be disrespectful but they gave him a silly look.
He wore a pair of old-fashioned glasses, with lenses
as thick as portholes that helped small eyes to see better, the brown color of
which clashed with the yellow and white cassock on which stood out a precious
gold rosary with a cross as big as his hand and embellished with a ruby.
But more than the individual before him, he was struck
by the room. It was incredibly sumptuous, furnished with antique furniture on
which were placed crystal ornaments, there were even two statues of angels from
the classical period placed on the sides of a bookcase, he looked in amazement
at the paintings of famous artists that adorned the walls and was almost
surprised not to find a fresco on the ceiling, given how incredibly
ostentatious the place was.
“Is this an art gallery or an office?” he wondered.
<< Your Grace. Honored to meet you. >> he
said, remembering to greet.
<< Come on, there's no need to be so formal.
Make yourself comfortable, I imagine you've had a long journey. Would you like
me to have something to drink or eat brought to you? >>
<< Thank you, I'm fine like this. >>
<< I am really glad that you accepted my
invitation, since I heard about you from some brothers[2] and the good work you have done in
the country, I was looking forward to meeting you. >>
<< It seems that my fame precedes me. >>
<< You should be proud of that. Men like you are
rare these days. >>
<< Forgive me if I am abrupt, but I would like
to know the reason why you wanted to summon me. Your letter was very vague on
the subject. >>
<< Right, right. That’s fair. >>
The man pushed toward the priest a map of the city
that featured a large circle in the eastern part.
<< You see… the reason why I summoned you is
called Borgomale. >> the Cardinal began to explain.
<< When I talk about Fontebianca, I always try
to highlight the beauty of its culture and its people. I am proud of having
been born in this city and of how it always tries to improve. However, when
they ask me if we have problems here too, I lie through gritted teeth and
answer no. In reality, we do have a dilemma, and it is the only big stain that
ruins our perfect city: Borgomale. >>
The Cardinal explained that it was the poorest and
most infamous neighborhood in the city, a dark den where women of easy virtue,
thieves and swindlers, drug dealers, and loan sharks could act without rules.
The authorities had no jurisdiction in that area,
attempts to bring order and justice had always failed due to violent riots by
residents who saw those interventions as a threat to their freedom, the only
one they knew in that world of dirt and disorder. For a long time, the
situation had remained at a standstill ... but in the last two years the level
of crime had dangerously increased and serious incidents had begun to occur
both inside and outside the neighborhood. Slowly, problems of crime began to be
reported in the rest of the city as well. With this information, they realized
that the problem could no longer be contained and had to be solved once and for
all.
<< And you want me to take care of it? >>
<< Exactly. I knew he would understand right
away. >>
<< Hold back your enthusiasm, Excellency. Do you
realize that you are asking me something absurd? And why me, by the way?
>>
<< Because you are the only one who can help us
in a case like this. I have heard wonders about how you travel the country and help
communities restore order in hopeless neighborhoods. Anyone else in your place
would have already given up, but not you. >>
<< I did it precisely because everyone else had
decided to give up without even trying to change the fate of those places.
>>
<< Of course, because you had the strength of
the Lord at your side. >>
<< It has nothing to do with vocation, I just
did what was right. >>
<< This does not take away the fact that you are
the only one who can help us. The references that were given to me by brothers
like Father Alberto di Santavila or Don Giustino from Campovoli have done
nothing but convince me that my choice is the right one. >>
<< You’re treating me like some kind of Superman.
I don't think I'm worthy of that much trust. >>
<< Don Walter, I beg you. You are our last hope
to make Borgomale normal again. Do it for the poor people who live there,
unaware that there is a better world outside those walls without violence or
evil. Think about it. >>
Don Walter ran his hands nervously through his hair,
incredulous at the proposal.
It was a big responsibility. He wasn't the type to
back down when people were in trouble, in fact, he usually had no qualms about
intervening to help them and was usually already at work before anyone even
officially asked for help, but this time his gut told him to be careful and it
was rarely wrong.
“But if there are some poor souls in pain, I certainly
can’t abandon them.” He
thought undecidedly.
He looked at the map, precisely on the circled area
that indicated the location of the neighborhood. The paper was much darker in
that part, it almost seemed like he could see the remains of a scribble that
had now been erased and whose furrows were left imprinted like scratches.
“Borgomale” … what kind of imagination had they had to give a nickname like
that, he considered it excessive. Even if the Cardinal’s description could have
a truthful basis, he did not want to start with prejudices that perhaps would
have turned out to be wrong. When he asked the Cardinal how to reach the
neighborhood, the man’s eyes lit up.
<< I'm just going to take a look in person. That
doesn't mean I'm accepting. >> He was quick to point out.
Fontebianca was peculiar not only for being a lagoon
city but also for how it was developed. Overall it formed a large populous
center, studying it more carefully, however, one could discover that it was
divided into sestieri, or six parts that foreigners more conveniently called
"quarters". Each of the six sectors was divided by one or more canals
of the lagoon and only bridges united them together like a solid handshake,
otherwise you could only reach them by boat. Borgomale was the smallest of the
sestieri, located in the westernmost part of the territory, with a shape that
resembled a tear.
To get there, Don Walter had to be accompanied by
Della Rosa's driver, because no one else dared to approach those parts.
He had to admit that the first impression was not the
best: the degradation was impressive. The buildings were ruins in which you
could hear heated arguments accompanied by the noise of things breaking, the
streets were dirty and had piles of garbage accumulated, and people walked in
the streets with no desire to live, begging for a few pennies or a crust of
bread, or drinking and cursing each other. The driver had said with a note of
malice that the residents had a reputation for being noisy and uncivilized, as
a pretext to make him change his mind and not go there. But Don Walter had to
see with his own eyes what made Borgomale worthy of its name and form his own
opinion.
He had visited many similar places during his career
as a priest and it always shocked him to see how society could be reduced or
how it tried to hide its most degraded side. He walked slowly, examining every
detail of that place that abounded in broken clocks on many buildings, remains
of robots abandoned in front of closed shops, and broken streetlamps. He did
not pay attention to the threatening glances that some residents gave him full
of malice, too concentrated on the mental discussion with himself whether to
accept the plea of Cardinal Della Rosa or follow his instinct and go home.
“It’s strange that my belly tells me to go away. They need
a hand here.” he thought to
himself, trying to better understand what he was feeling.
His sixth sense had never failed him and had pulled
him out of the woodwork so many times; so it was strange that he was not so
clear in his intentions. Was old age perhaps starting to make him lose his
touch? He was so focused that he didn't even notice the mugger who stood in
front of him with a knife to rob him, overcoming him with a shoulder.
<< Hey fatso! I'm talking to you! I said I want
your money! >> The man yelled at him, almost offended at being ignored.
Don Walter only listened to him then, annoyed by the
insult he had addressed. His eyes narrowed as the criminal continued to
threaten him, only at the umpteenth reference to his size did he decide to
throw him into a garbage bin with a perfect basket. Those who witnessed the
scene were left speechless.
<< I'm not fat, okay? >> he told him in a
firm voice.
Among the few things that made him lose his temper, at
the top of the list was any reference to his “size.”
<< Hey, is there a phone around here? >>
asked Don Walter to.
He heard him mutter from inside the dumpster something
like “around the corner” and a few meters away he found a ruined but still
functioning telephone booth. The disk on which the numbers were drawn emitted a
sort of creaking sound similar to a chirp at every movement, while from the
receiver there was a slight annoying whistle that accompanied him even during
the call with Della Rosa.
<< Don Walter? Is everything okay? Where are you
calling me from? >>
<< From Borgomale. Listen to me carefully, I'll
tell you loud and clear: the situation here is a disaster. >>
<< I know… as I told you before the place
is…>>
<< You should be ashamed. It is not by passing
the buck to others that problems are solved as the leader of the local church you
should be the first to set the example. >>
<< I tried but it's not that simple… >>
<< Of course it's not easy. If it hadn't been,
this place certainly wouldn't have become a hovel. And you had to make sure
that didn't happen. But with good old elbow grease and a little cooperation,
maybe this neighborhood too can rise again like the son of the Lord. >>
<< Do you mean… >>
<< That I accept the assignment. But only if you
are willing to comply with my requests. >>
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento