ã€ŠRed Scarã€‹


 Chapter 1: The New Priest

    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]</a> 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.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    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]</a> 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.

    <hr>

    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. >>

    <hr>

    [1]</a>The mascot, or Bouchon de radiateur, is a small statue that was placed on the grille of cars in the 1920s and 1960s for aesthetic and identification purposes.

    [2]</a>In particular, those who belong to religious orders and communities, congregations, confraternities, etc. are called brothers.

 Chapter 2: The white rabbit

    Something new and curious animated the new morning in Borgomale: rumor had it that a priest was fixing up the old parish church of ¡°Santa Azzurra della Laguna¡±.

    The news was surprising because the building, in addition to having been abandoned for 60 years, had also been deconsecrated. Therefore, technically speaking, they no longer had any religious value. Everyone wondered: who could be so foolish as to try to restore a place that not even the Holy See itself cared about anymore? A fool, obviously... even if from just one glance many had immediately understood that Don Walter was not to be considered as such.

    Word of the new arrival had spread like wildfire through whispers and word of mouth, and the most curious had gone to spy on him. They were amazed not only by his appearance but also by the strength he showed while cleaning the church, lifting and moving old furniture and heavy objects without effort. Those who had thought of robbing him changed their minds both because of that and because of the threatening look he gave them.

    ¡°What a strange man,¡± many thought similarly.

    But just as there was great interest in him, there was also the certainty that he would not last long. He was not the first person had tried to bring good to Borgomale and despite the intentions, in the end no one really managed to carry them out.

    << Oh, it''s about time. >> Mezzanotte exclaimed when he saw a large van arriving.

    The vehicle parked in the old adjacent yard that had become a kingdom of weeds, as well as a hiding place for lizards and cockroaches. The van had a slightly rounded shape and a roof with hexagonal segments, the bumpers were thick and covered most of the black wheels and the pipes that connected the engine to the whole vehicle were constantly puffing out hot steam. It looked a bit like a turtle, with the only difference that this one was ready to make a hasty escape at any moment.

    << Have you already brought everything I asked for? You are efficient. >>

    << No, provident. They told us not to go back to this hole a second time. >>

    Don Walter sighed, by now he had learned how deep the citizens'' mistrust towards Borgomale was.

    Mothers used it as a ¡°threat¡± to scare their disobedient children and the police often patrolled the entrances to the bridges to make sure no one entered or exited, other priests and even some locals tried to convince him to abandon whatever plans he had in mind.

    The couriers unloaded all the packages, stacking them randomly in the courtyard. They were almost all large wooden crates with ¡°fragile¡± or ¡°heavy¡± written on them, and each one had a piece of paper attached to it, indicating the contents.

    << Can you explain to me how I have to activate them? >>

    << It''s all written in the manual, just follow the instructions. We have to go now, we have other deliveries to make. >>

    << Hey, can you guarantee that these things work? Hey!>>

    The van sped away, ignoring the priest as he was intoxicated by the smog released by the muffler. He put his hands on his hips, in disbelief at the situation. Well, it wasn''t the first time he had been forced to fend for himself, many of the things he knew how to do he had learned without the help of necessity rather than following the guidance of a master.

    << God provides to those who work. >> he said to himself, motivating himself.

    He read the papers to understand which had priority and which he could leave closed, thus putting them together in order of importance. At that moment, he noticed some men in the distance who were watching him... or, rather, who were watching the boxes that had arrived with interest. It didn''t take a genius to understand that at the first opportunity they would try to steal them, sensing that the contents were somehow important, they had a much more bold attitude than that of other individuals who had kept an eye on him the whole time.

    He knew he had to be careful, after all Borgomale was a den of thieves, but he was not intimidated by those looks, nor by their intentions. He did not speak to them or even look at them badly, he chose to continue working as if nothing had happened. The boxes he did not need loaded onto his shoulders and carried them into the church so he could deal with them later, those whose contents he already needed he opened by unhinging one side with his hands, breaking the wood as if it were a breadstick which he then delicately threw aside.

    The men stood there gaping at him, in disbelief at his strength. They exchanged worried glances and then ran off, wisely deciding not to bother him.

    << It always works. >> the priest said, chuckling.

    <hr>

    Fontebianca enjoyed the attention the world reserved for it.

    The ¡°tide¡± of tourists was always viewed with great enthusiasm, as it meant publicity and lots of money.

    Given its proximity to the water, many urban details had been converted to reflect this element: for example, the street lamps were placed on open shells, many of the houses were painted in various shades of blue and light blue, and the new telephone booths resembled fishing nets with small fish and even crabs perched on top.

    As the city grew, efforts were made to improve local hospitality in order to make a good impression on visitors and encourage them to return and, above all, to spend their money in the taverns, hotels and shops. A notable detail that locals were proud of was the thick cast iron pipes that arched out of the ground, whose function was to bring heat into the structures, unraveling throughout the city like large snakes.

    Some clever entrepreneurs had managed to start a business in the ¡°San Nicola¡± and ¡°Gugliadoro¡± neighborhoods, some of the most popular places.

    The San Nicola neighborhood mainly included the port, the shipyards, and also some offices. It was a place dedicated more to work than to tourism, but hidden among the buildings and the streets that ran along narrow canals there were still old shops that had survived the modernity of the times and that foreigners found interesting. It was precisely in those places that the crooks found easy opportunities for "work", pickpocketing passers-by often without them realizing it. Pretending to ask for information, a seemingly mistaken shoulder push, an act of kindness... there were many ways to steal purses and coin purses, or even jewelry and watches, from bags and pockets. And if the robbery had not succeeded, the only thing left to do was to run away.

    Having good legs for running was as necessary as having a light hand for stealing.

    It was precisely on these aspects that one of the most notorious delinquents of Fontebianca, nicknamed the "White Rabbit", was relying on after being noticed by a policeman stealing a tourist''s wallet. The whistle of the guard attracted the attention of the people and other colleagues who intervened at the call to lend a hand, distinguishing themselves with their dark blue uniforms with black and red inserts, as well as the glittering emblems of their military corps, sewn on the hats that could fly away at any moment while running. The individual was not worried about the number of pursuers, on the contrary; he considered it yet another challenge against himself to prove that he would be able to get away with it again. He slipped through the narrowest streets, climbing over obstacles and even dodging speeding cars, he hindered his pursuers by throwing garbage cans or fruit or fish crates on the street. ¡°Cops and Robbers¡± was a game that never bored him because it was always different every time¡­ and because he always won.

    ¡°Oh damn, I¡¯m late.¡± He thought at one point, hearing the church bell ringing the hour.

    Reluctantly he stopped the game, leaving behind the policemen with an athletic leap that allowed him to quickly scale a wall as if he had wings on his feet, reaching the roofs of the houses partially covered by the smoke from the chimneys. In the street, with no way to reach him, the others were shouting in anger and some had even thrown their caps to the ground in frustration. They could not stand being humiliated by that individual anymore, sooner or later they would be able to arrest him and finally the streets of Fontebianca would be safer.

    Meanwhile the ¡°White Rabbit¡±, although no longer being chased, continued to run.

    He had an important appointment, and it would have been a big problem for him if he didn''t keep it. The last time he had been late, they hadn''t let him get away with it and when he thought about it, he could still feel his back twitching with pain from the "penance" he had suffered. Finally, taking various shortcuts and taking advantage of a free pass on one of the trams that crossed the city, he managed to get to Borgomale.

    Among the dark streets of the neighborhood he had to slow down his pace, even if almost everyone knew each other it was always better to move cautiously, especially to avoid attracting the attention of certain unfriendly neighbors who were best to stay away from.

    << You''ve finally arrived. >> say a serious-looking man who was waiting for him outside an old, three-story gray building.

    He was wearing a suit that could have been described as elegant, but the frayed edges and faded fabric emphasized its poor, worn quality.

    << Hey, I''m on time this time. >> the pickpocket told him.

    << Did you bring that thing? >>

    << Sure. Just before coming here. >>

    The thief showed a large package that he was holding carefully with both hands, the contents were very delicate and he had taken more than one precaution to preserve it.

    The other man peered inside to make sure the product was intact; woe betide him if it was otherwise. Sure that everything was in order, he nodded satisfied, and opened the door of the building, signaling him to enter.

    There were high-pitched screams inside the building that, despite its old appearance, tried to appear neat and clean with almost new furniture and a few plants placed around. There were many people inside who passed from one room to another of the building, some with tired faces and others still energetic, probably after a second or third dose of coffee. He had been there so many times that he remembered by heart the names of the people, the inside of each room, and what was on each of the floors. He did not consider it a place of work, but he often found himself visiting it to satisfy the demanding requests of its occupants.

    << I''m glad you were able to come. Today more than ever we needed you, especially after the news they gave us yesterday. >>

    << It doesn''t surprise me, it''s a big change after a long time without any requests. >>

    << Yeah, so be extra careful, they''re nervous today. >>

    << How much? >>

    << I heard them talking about the crazy horse. >>

    When the last door opened, the two men were hit by the shrill cries of the fifteen children who were playing inside. Boys and girls were chasing each other or fighting each other, hitting each other with the pillows of their beds. On some of these, large cardboard boxes had been placed on which were drawn castle towers, rampant dragons, and trees with thick foliage. Some groups pretended to be fearless knights or defenseless princesses. In one corner of the room, on a pair of tables, lay the crumbled or half-eaten remains of various sweet and savory treats, the smells of which still lingered in the air. On the edges, instead, was attached a small banner on which was written in blue paint ¡°Congratulations Luigi¡±.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    One of the children noticed the presence of the two men and immediately pointed his finger at the thief, shouting his name at the top of his lungs with the enthusiasm typical of childhood. Immediately, like a sort of domino effect, the rest of the group imitated him and surrounded him in a single happy chorus.

    << So? How is our guest of honor? >> he asked one of the boys in the group, the only one wearing a little crown made of yellow paper.

    << I''m super happy! This is the most super beautiful day of my life! >> shouted the child with a smile who was missing an incisor.

    << Good! This is exactly what I wanted to hear! But it seems to me that this party is still missing something¡­ >>

    The children, intrigued by the man''s words, looked at him, repeating "what?" in a tone of voice that resembled the chirping of a chick. It was then that he opened the box he had with him, revealing a chocolate cake whose frosting was perfectly smooth and shiny, with the edges decorated with biscuit crumbs and a tuft of cream crowning it in the center. It was a simple cake both in taste and appearance, but for those children it was the most splendid thing they had ever seen, especially for the young boy.

    << Congratulations on your adoption Luigi. >>

    << Thanks Vinny! >>

    The White Rabbit''s real name was Vinicio Castelli, or simply ¡°Vinny¡±.

    Vinicio was a tall, slim man with an angel face that exuded something shrewd and whose big blue eyes, unruly blond curls and kind smile would have allowed him to pass for a rich gentleman of the village, rather than a criminal. Vinicio stood out from the crowd, yes, for his appearance, but not in the normal sense. He suffered from a form of vitiligo[1]</a>segmental located mainly on the left side of the face, covering the eye area and part of the forehead, and on most of the left arm. There were still many who kept their distance thinking that his condition was contagious, but he had not care for it for many years.

    As a resident of Borgomale, he fell into that percentage of residents who grew up stealing and cheating the wealthy people of Fontebianca. He was good at it; he was probably the best among all his ¡°colleagues¡± working in the neighborhood. He would have been commendable for his skills, if it hadn¡¯t been for something that was against the law. Vinicio knew that stealing was wrong, but at the end of the day he considered it a job like any other, necessary for survival. In addition to being athletic, he was also quick-witted, there weren¡¯t many guys as smart and cunning in those parts¡­ and those who were, on the other hand; didn¡¯t have certain scruples that he, on the contrary; held on to very tightly. For example, Vinicio was keen to help the children of the ¡°Piccolo Angelo della Pace¡± orphanage where he was a close-knit volunteer. He donated part of his ¡°savings¡± to the volunteers to pay for the numerous expenses, he always offered a hand for any repairs and, above all; he didn''t think twice about keeping company with the children who were crazy about him.

    He never tired of playing with them, telling them stories or simply keeping them company when they were sick¡­ and one appointment he never missed was when they were finally adopted.

    << This is the fourth adoption this year¡­ we''ve never had so many before. >> said the man next to him, the old Director Gallo.

    << I don''t remember the last time I heard so much happy laughter in this old place¡­ if I were to die now, I would go away happy. >>

    << It''ll take a while for you to kick the bucket. With the tough skin you''ve got, you''ll live even longer than me. >>

    << That''s for sure if you persist in encouraging the police. Sooner or later they will catch you, and as soon as they throw you in prison, they will kill you. >>

    << Pessimistic as usual. They''ll never catch me. >>

    << Vinny, please. Listen to me once and for all. >> The director''s voice became anxious.

    He grabbed Vinicio''s shoulder and shook it firmly. He looked away, trying to feign boredom, when in reality it was a cowardly way of avoiding having to address a sentimental topic.

    << Get out of this place. My brother still has a job available in his factory, in Notera. The pay is great, the city is quiet¡­ you can start a new life there, honest and dignified. >>

    << Good God, Antonio, this story again? How many more times are you going to have to tell me this? I don''t care. >>

    << Why not? Damn, at least have the decency to tell me! >>

    Vinicio swallowed a piece of the cake that the birthday boy had given him, trying to sweeten the bitter taste that was forming in the back of his throat. He stared at each participant in the little party, their smiles still innocent of their age and their eyes full of dreams and hopes not yet shattered.

    << Because as long as I''m here doing the dirty work, they have a chance to get their act together. >> He replied, after a long silence.

    Suddenly one of the employees interrupted the conversation, informing that there was someone on the phone for Vinicio.

    Suddenly the cake lost all its good flavor; it already knew who it was.

    << Hello? >> he asked, after placing the telephone receiver to his ear.

    In the background he heard the tune of an old classical song, a symphony that made him instinctively roll his eyes, nauseated by all the times he had heard it.

    << I finally found you, you wretch. What the hell are you doing? >> replied a hoarse, annoyed voice, followed by a series of loud coughs.

    << I''m at a party, what''s up? >>

    << I knew you were back with those brats. The thing is, unlike you, I work, you lazy bum. I''ve been waiting for you here at the Seagull''s house for an hour... You remember that he called us for a job offer, right? >>

    << I don''t know. Maybe? >>

    The Interlocutor let off steam in a long series of unrepeatable insults, Vinicio had to put the receiver away so as not to be deafened.

    << Unless you prefer to have your ass swapped for your face, hurry up and come over here! Instead of wasting your time with those starving people, worry about doing the work you''re asked to do! >>

    << Oh, how boring you are. If it were up to you, there would never be any fun, there would always be only work. Enjoy life a little, sometimes. >>

    << The bunny is right, life should be enjoyed peacefully now and then. >>

    The voice he heard in the background gave him shivers.

    Vinicio described himself as a quiet person and few things made him nervous. On the contrary, there was something... or rather, someone that he just couldn''t stand even hearing the name.

    He called himself ¡°The Seagull,¡± and he was an asshole.

    He was the head of the most active criminal group there in Fontebianca, you could almost say that his organization was almost on par with a company because he had been able to achieve an impressive planning made of commissioned thefts, money laundering, and dangerous blackmail that kept some influential people in check. Thanks to this, that bastard could live a good life. Despite his fame, the lack of evidence and witnesses, who by lucky coincidences "disappeared" were also known to the police; allowed him to remain at liberty. Almost all the criminals of Borgomale worked for him and said that it was convenient to be employed by him given how much they could earn, Vinicio, on the other hand; did not want to have anything to do with him, aware of how rotten he was and how far he was able to go to satisfy his thirst for money and power.

    << Mr. Castelli, don''t worry about what your friend says. Stay at the party, there''s no need for you to come to my house. >>

    ¡°And who wanted to come?¡± thought Vinicio.

    << Actually, so as not to bother you later, we can talk about it on the phone. I''ll just take a few minutes, the time to present you with a job offer... >>

    << Thank you but I am already busy. I will be available for a collaboration maybe in one hundred years. >>

    << Come on, I''ll pay you well. I assure you it''s a very good offer. >>

    << And I assure you that I am not interested, thank you. >>

    Even though he couldn''t see it, from the sigh he heard on the receiver he understood that the Seagull was annoyed by the refusal.

    However, when he spoke again, he did not lose his composure and maintained a cordial tone.

    << I''m sorry to hear this, I would have liked it if he could work for me. Your skills are extraordinary, you are almost a superhero. >>

    << Sir, please. I love compliments, but they won''t change my mind. >>

    << I know, I know. But you see¡­ I can¡¯t think of anyone as capable as you to ask to enter the offices of the ¡°Fondazione delle Acque Benedette¡±. I have excellent employees under my command, but no one comes close to his level. >>

    Vinicio remained open-mouthed, incredulous at what he had just heard.

    << What? Are you nuts by any chance? >> he said to the Seagull, looking at the receiver in shock. << Do you want to hire me to enter the offices of the church? >>

    << Yes, because you see¡­ >>

    << Oh no! I''m not stupid! I''m a thief, yes, but I don''t take anything from the church! >>

    << I assure you that most of those people have intentions as noble as mine. >>

    << No shit, Sherlock. I know that. But it''s still wrong! So, no! Forget about me! >>

    There was silence on the phone again, but this time he didn''t sense the disappointment from before and honestly, it didn''t bode well.

    He heard the sound of paper being turned over, then the sound of a pen writing. Then the Seagull turned to the other man, Vinicio''s colleague, asking him if he had time to do him a favor in case they couldn''t agree.

    << Can I ask you a question? >>

    << No. >>

    << Do you know where ¡°Calle[2]</a> of the Wells¡± is? >>

    Vinicio stopped breathing; it was the street where the orphanage was located. Without letting him speak, the man made him understand that in those parts many accidents would happen if he did not do him that favor, guaranteeing the risk that the residents could be affected... and in particular the children, and a certain Mr. Gallo, would not be very happy about this.

    << You disgusts me. >> Vinicio dared to tell him, furious.

    << If you come by my house tonight I will explain in detail what you will have to do. Oh, I hope you are not allergic to cats, my dear cat Emo is not feeling well and needs company, so I am forced to take him everywhere. >>

    << I love animals¡­. >>

    << Good. See you tonight then, goodbye. >>

    As soon as the call ended, Vinicio threw away the receiver which remained dangling on the table with the short cord.

    ¡°Asshole! Asshole! Asshole!¡±  he repeated mentally, as he hit the wall.

    ¡°May God strike you down!¡±  he wished him.

    <hr>

    San Andrea Cemetery was like any other cemetery: sad, gloomy¡­ but unlike many others, particularly beautiful.

    There was no tombstone or chapel that did not have stone ornaments with reassuring angelic figures or elements of nature, sometimes even something that recalled a detail of the life of the deceased person. There was, for example; the chapel of the Costantini, an ancient family of gondoliers, whose roof itself recalled that of the felze[3]</a>; or the tomb of Judge Zennaro, a man who was highly respected in life for his contribution to enforcing the law, who in addition to having a touching epitaph in his memory, had the tombstone protected by the goddess of justice who held a gilded brass scale. For this reason, the municipality made sure to hire employees who knew how to keep it in good condition and clean, where their skills allowed. The most recent employees, however, had more interest in easy money, rather than in caring for the deceased.

    Unbeknownst to the authorities and the families who came to lay flowers on the graves, three new hires, a skinny black-haired man, a dwarf from the north-central part of the country and a one-eyed old man, had agreed to profit at the expense of the dead. When left unattended in the farewell chapels, they robbed them of the material goods left on them such as rings or bracelets, or unbeknownst to the relatives, they dug up the remains just after they were buried and resold the organs to customers who requested them for reasons they had the good sense not to ask about. For the one-eyed man, it was not the first time he had ¡°enjoyed¡± himself in this type of work, in fact, his attitude was cold and detached as he loaded the corpses onto a cart as if they were sacks of potatoes.

    << Did you hear? This time it wasn''t my imagination. >> said the dwarf, turning the lantern toward the inside of the cemetery.

    Maybe it was the impression his colleague gave him, maybe it was the atmosphere of the cemetery, but ever since they had started digging up bodies, he had felt very nervous.

    He wasn''t the suggestible type or one who feared death, but that night something wasn''t right and since he had started his shift, he had heard strange noises and something similar to furtive movements every time he turned his back on the cemetery, but his concerns fell on deaf ears to his colleagues.

    << Come on, you''re a pain tonight with this obsession with noises. >>

    << I''m telling you there''s something here¡­ we''re not alone tonight. >>

    << And of course we are not alone. We are in a cemetery. >>

    << Stop making fun of me! This is serious! >>

    << Both of you shut up. Save your breath for digging, rather than talking idly. We still have three graves to dig up, so get busy if you want us to get paid. >>

    The dwarf and the skinny one did as ordered, starting to dig up the earth from the grave we were disrespectfully standing on. They dug for five minutes before a dull rumble stopped them, making one of them laugh.

    << Seriously, you are hungry right now? In this place? >>

    << Look, it wasn''t my stomach. >>

    << Not mine either. What do you say instead, old man? >>

    The one-eyed man was gone, the skinny one and the dwarf were left alone with the cart from which hung a sack with a pale hand sticking out. The two men looked around confused, certain that they had neither seen him nor heard him go away. The absence of his low and constant grumbling amplified the silence of the cemetery had become darker, suddenly they felt at the mercy of the emptiness that hovered in that sad place and money no longer seemed a good excuse to stay in there.

    Before the need to escape reached their brains, something came to them from behind faster than thought. Cold, deadly, and terrifying.

 Chapter 3: Ghosts and Exorcisms

    There was a lot of excitement in Fontebianca that day. The annual gondola regatta, which took place in the last ten days of the month, was proving to be much more exciting than in previous years, thanks to the innovations promoted by the municipality and advertising.

    The Gran Regata was a kind of game where teams of gondoliers made up of four people, competed in this race on the water with their boats, crossing the large canals until they reached the lagoon, where the finish line was represented by two large buoys joined by a banner. The event had ancient origins and the locals were keen to commemorate it yearly.

    The rowers were all among the best in the industry, their arm muscles seemed to explode while rowing to the point that the boat seemed to fly; it is not for nothing that they trained all year round. Even the gondolas were taken into consideration, they were were specifically designed to be able to slide on the water with less resistance thanks to the use of a wise choice of materials, combined with more dynamic shapes.

    The participating groups played to represent their neighborhood, each distinguished by a color and a symbol that, every year on that occasion; they proudly boasted. In the race that day, 10 of the 15 rowers who had distinguished themselves in the first five days of selection had been eliminated, where previously they had formed a large group of 25 participants. Now, the last five remaining would find themselves in the final to compete for the title of champions of Fontebianca, which would take place in a few days.

    The following neighborhoods played for the title: two teams from Levantina, one from San Nicola, one from Porta Viva, one from Gugliadoro.

    Borgomale, for obvious reasons, was not among the participants.

    The queens of the regatta were considered the teams of Gugliadoro, the primary neighborhood of Fontebianca where the church''s base of operations was located; and Levantina, the so-called neighborhood of the rich. For many they were among the favorites to win, having already collected many victories in the past, on the other hand, the fans of the other neighborhoods joined forces to support the teams of the other two neighborhoods together. In the city it was common to hear enthusiastic fans discussing animatedly about the race from the bars scattered around, even in Borgomale the residents discussed who would go on the podium, even if in this last case the real reason was to collect as much money as possible on the bets in progress.

    In the future catechism classroom of the Church of Santa Azzurra, Don Walter paid no attention to the noise outside, focused on finishing his solitary game of ping-pong.

    He had spent the entire afternoon plastering the inside of the building to give it an orderly appearance, and he no longer smelled the musty stench that had tortured his nose since he arrived. Considering that he had been working non-stop for several days now, fighting among other things with the scoundrels who were trying to steal the carpenter robots, he had decided to spend the last hour playing.

    He would not have made it without the help of those walking irons that the Holy See had sent him to simplify the work that, although old and creaky, were still functional. The automatons had saved him a lot of hard work, but the day when he could deactivate them was still far away, the little church was not in good shape at all and it was surprising that it had remained standing for so long without appropriate restoration work. Now and then he had stopped to stare at the ceiling, worried by the noise of the creaking wood and the dust that was falling on him. Who knows if it was by luck or by divine miracle that nothing had fallen on his head up to that moment.

    He glanced out the window, with Borgomale showing itself in its gray daily life. Since his arrival in the neighborhood, he had not yet managed to have serious human contact with the residents, regardless of whether it was an attempt to introduce himself to the new neighbors or a polite greeting. Those people lived so badly that they did not even trust the priests, how could he solve the problem of their malaise with such hostility?

    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s the beard that makes me look too serious.¡± Don Walter thought innocently.

    ¡°I might try inviting someone over for a game of ping pong.¡± he wondered, looking at the colorful wooden paddle.

    Suddenly he heard some excited noises from outside the church.

    He rolled his eyes, wondering what the local thieves were trying to do to him now. The thugs had tried to steal his work equipment or his automatons several times, and despite the resounding lecture he gave them each time, they persisted in trying again.

    ¡°To err is human¡­ but to persevere is downright idiotic!¡± he thought.

    His little eyes widened in wonder as a crowd of people rushed into the church. Men, women, and children crossed the threshold of the door and dispersed into the large room still dirty with piles of rubble and with the scaffolding still underfoot. Some knelt on the floor and began to pray in front of the large wooden cross still erected on the tabernacle, many others instead began to talk among themselves anxiously.

    << Good God, what is happening? Has Christ, our Lord, risen? >> he asked confused.

    << What Christ! There are ghosts! >> someone exclaimed.

    Suddenly all those who were not praying flocked to him, it took a while before he understood the meaning of that chaos of words.

    There was a massive manifestation of ghosts. Someone had disturbed the sleep of the dead in one of the cemeteries of Fontebianca, causing their spirits to awaken.

    The cause was not yet known, the fact was that the demonstrations had already gone beyond the confines of the cemetery to begin to spread like a plague in the town center. The Holy See had sent the best priests to stem the problem by placing them in defense of the neighborhoods... but the inhabitants of Borgomale knew they did not enjoy the same privilege and turned pale at the prospect of seeing their homes infested by wrathful spirits.

    << Don''t be so pessimistic. >> said Don Walter trying to contain their fear. << If they sent priests into the field, it means they are good boys. >>

    << Oh, sure they''re good, but only if they do it for the other neighborhoods. >> someone grumbled.

    A woman with round hips, long black hair tied in a ponytail, and hazel eyes hidden behind dirty-rimmed glasses made her way through the crowd. She looked ¡°cleaner¡± than the others, her olive-green suit, though not well made, gave her a more orderly, almost schoolmarm-like air.

    << Whatever problem touches Borgomale, they wash their hands off it. High water, pigeon invasions, clogged sewers¡­ these are problems that only persist here, and the ghosts are no exception. >>

    << Isn''t this the first time a ghost infestation has appeared in the city? >>

    << Of course! It''s a problem that''s been going on for years. Everyone here knows about it. >>

    << Oh, really? >>

    Don Walter put his hands on his hips, at that moment he seemed to become even more imposing and intimidating and this did not go unnoticed by some.

    << How many times a year does this happen? And for how long, exactly? >> he asked the woman since she knew a lot about it.

    << At least once a year and for how long I can''t say, maybe sixty years. A very long time. >> She answered him, trying to emphasize the length of time with her hands.

    That was enough of an answer for Don Walter.

    With a long, heavy stride he entered his office/storage room and picked up a single bulky suitcase from the pile of luggage. He opened it and rummaged around inside without taking anything out, then closed it and headed for the exit, gripping the leather handles tightly. The crowd made room for him, intimidated by his gaze that seemed to have become somehow darker.

    << You, madam. What is your name? >> he asked the bespectacled woman.

    << Angela Mazzini. >> she replied.

    Don Walter handed her a very heavy bunch of keys, consisting of at least five pieces in total.

    << You seem the most trustworthy one here. I''ll leave the church in your care. >>

    Mrs. Angela tried to say something, surprised by the sudden assignment, but Don Walter went away slamming the door without waiting for her answer. After a couple of minutes, the door opened again, and his head emerged from the doorway. With a serious and thunderous voice, he said:

    << If when I return I find that something is missing or you have hurt the lady, I will be seriously angry. >>

    And then again, the door closed.

    <hr>

    When Don Walter arrived at the cemetery of San Andrea, the area had been cordoned off by the church''s special forces. The priests were praying in Latin and spreading incense with a very particular smell in the air, covering the entire external perimeter to prevent the spirits from leaving the sacred ground again. Much further away, a radio crew was broadcasting live minute by minute with an excessive emphasis more suitable for a football match than a religious intervention.

    At that moment the priest saw two things that he didn''t like: one was the radio commentators who were transforming the problem into a media event, and the other was the lack of effective intervention by the exorcists.

    Prayers and incense were, yes, important steps to expel demons or re-establish harmony among spirits, but only for the first few minutes of the emergency, then the actual exorcism had to be performed immediately. He checked his pocket watch, on whose face was engraved a duck: since the emergency had started at night (from what he heard from reporters), too many hours had already passed since the spirits had awakened and this meant it would be more difficult to resolve the problem.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    << Well? What are you waiting for? For a miracle to happen by itself? >> Don Walter asked the group in general.

    A couple of them stopped and glared at him, one of them, a freckled man in his thirties with a shaved head, approached him enthusiastically.

    << You are Don Walter Mezzanotte, aren''t you? >> he asked, holding out his hand, a gesture the priest did not return.

    << His Excellency, Cardinal Della Rosa had warned us that you would come. >>

    << Of course he told you. He knew very well that I would come, that damned greased turkey. >>

    << Excuse me? >>

    << Are you the one in charge of these guys? Why haven''t you started the exorcism yet? It''s been more than ten hours since the beginning of the demonstrations. >>

    << We know, but we have decided to take a more cautious route. We are still considering the best method to operate. >>

    << Yes, I would have agreed with this idea if it had been implemented preventively. Not after ten hours. We are no longer in the zone of ¡°caution¡±, but of ¡°Get to work and kick some spiritual ass¡±. >>

    << W-what do you mean, sir? I don''t think I understand. >>

    << Open the gates. >>

    << How? >>

    << It seems to me that you have hearing problems, have your ears checked. I said open the gates; I''m going in. >>

    << Sir, it is not prudent! The Cardinal warned me of your abilities, but I think that you can also work from the outside¡­ >>

    Don Walter slapped the man on the back of the head. The blow made a loud crack.

    << If you didn''t want me to take any risks, you should have thought about it before. Now, to solve the problem, I must go straight to the source. So, shut up and do as I ask. >>

    The priest did not dare to contradict Don Walter again and told the brothers to hurry up.

    The priest stepped through the entrance without waiting for it to be fully opened. The gates closed behind him immediately with a metallic thud that echoed throughout the cemetery. He rolled up the sleeves of his tunic to his elbows and clapped his hands vigorously together until they fizzed, his ritual for energizing himself.

    Walter Mezzanotte was not only a priest, but he was also an expert exorcist.

    A person charged with casting out the devil and evil spirits wherever they have taken root in good souls to consume and corrupt them.

    There were two ways to become an exorcist: the first was to study a lot and practice (and prove suitable), and the second was to have what they called the "specific requirement", that is, the innate ability to perceive spirits and their energy. This part indeed said that may sound like something witchy, but that was actually what this kind of gift was called.

    In his case, at least as the church saw it, it was a gift that was hard to find in those days among those who embraced the faith of God. For his part, however; he considered it a great nuisance, if not, at times; a curse.

    Walter Mezzanotte would have preferred to be a simple priest, especially because that had been his choice. Becoming an exorcist, instead, had been a constraint and he hated being forced to do something he didn''t want to do.

    A weeping angel suddenly began to sing, Walter took a step back in surprise. What he had thought was a statue was instead a cleverly disguised robot, programmed to reproduce sacred chants for the modest price of a coin. The fake angel opened and closed its mouth pretending to sing for a few minutes before deactivating, bowing its head downwards. Then he began to hear them: the sinister whispers, the cold air that freezes your blood, the shadows that can only be seen out of the corner of your eye... typical signs of a classic infestation. The deeper he went into the cemetery, the stronger the spiritual energy became; all the hair on his body stood on end and even his beard seemed to swell. What worried him most was the tension in the air, a sign of the anger the "residents" were feeling.

    When he had to judge the restlessness of a ghost, he imagined it as a sturdy rope: the more frayed and worn it was, the closer they were to losing their patience. If that happened, it would be a tough sell for everyone.

    ¡°I must remember to ask the names of the morons who desecrated the graves.¡± thought the priest.

    Along the way he heard snippets of news on the radio about how the problem had started. If the keepers ever recovered from the trauma, he would give them another one himself.

    << Go back¡­! >>

    Don Walter was suddenly surrounded by a thick crowd of ghosts, whose bluish figures together formed an anomalous cold fog like that which formed in winter. A normal person would have already begun to scream in horror at that floating mass of glassy eyes, grim glances, and even decayed forms, but Don Walter, instead; remained impassive.

    << Go away¡­! Get back¡­! >> repeated a disembodied voice.

    He opened his briefcase and took out a metal crucifix and a large bottle with holy water floating in it. The ghosts continued to moan, threaten and get closer without moving their legs. The spirit of a grown man, perhaps a worker judging by the clothes he was wearing, approached quickly with a growing bloodcurdling scream and hands outstretched, one of which was missing half an index finger. Just before they could even touch Don Walter, he turned towards him and sprinkled a generous amount of holy water on him.

    The wraith made a sort of leap backward, suddenly its moans were more human, and even its appearance less disturbing. And so it was for the other spirits, who reacted to the splashes like touchy cats.

    << That''s enough! You''re such a pain in the ass. Give it a rest. >> said the priest, continuing to spray them.

    Where the fluid alone was not enough to calm them, he accompanied the unusual rite with the classic prayers which, however, were more than once alternated by his grumblings such as: "In the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit give yourself a damned calm down", or "Hail Mary, full of grace... give them a good dressing down because I''m losing my patience" ... and so on. Despite the unorthodox method, almost all the ghosts recovered lucidity, calming down as a result.

    << That''s enough people, you have every right to be angry that they exhumed your bodies without permission, but not to take it out on the living who had nothing to do with it. >> he said, at a moment when the moans stopped.

    There was still someone who continued to be angry despite the exorcism, more precisely a man who could have been his age and who was wearing an old police uniform. The man had large bullet holes from which one could assume that he had died on the job, the color of his soul, unlike the others, tended to a barely hinted pale pink, a bad sign that indicated that he risked transforming into an angry spirit that not even the word of the Lord would be enough to calm him down. He didn''t want it to get to that point, not when there was so little left until lunchtime.

    << Damn, you''re about to lose your patience. >> he muttered to himself.

    Don Walter tried to calm him down, but the former policeman ¡°answered¡± with screams that were almost inhuman and the few words he uttered were parrot-like repetitions of random words, perhaps related to his last moments of life or to what he had done in life. He wasn''t surprised, it was a state in which the soul was beginning to lose its humanity and consciousness.

    << Come on, try to remember how you were, instead of screaming. Don''t make me use strong methods to calm you down, okay? >>

    His question was met with yet another shout in response, as well as an attempted attack.

    The ghost tried to scratch him, and as a result, the air became very hot for a moment. Don Walter instinctively touched himself even though he hadn''t even been touched, he knew he had to be very careful.

    << Well, since I have no choice¡­ >>

    He opened his trusty briefcase once more, carefully placing down the tools he had been using until now. In their place he took a small jar containing a white powder with large grains, scooped up a generous handful and rubbed it vigorously on his hands, whitening them. Having completed that rite, without adding prayers or other unusual rituals, something in his gesture awakened in the ghost a faint forgotten sense of anxiety.

    Don Walter''s large hand, fully open and spread like a fan, crashed into his face.

    The policeman spun around like a top, even his eyes seemed to spin like marbles. He shook his head, regaining lucidity. Screaming like an animal he lunged at the priest, who however managed to dodge his attempts to scratch him with great ease. He moved with the agility of a boxer both to dodge and to strike. And what blows! Even if they were slaps, from the noise they made you could deduce how much they were hurting. Don Walter was strong, so much so that he managed to grab one of the ghost''s hands and force him to slap himself while he repeated in an authoritative, albeit monotonous, voice:

    << Give yourself a break. Give yourself a break. Give yourself a break. >>

    The treatment lasted almost a full minute, enough for the spirit to come to its senses. After a final, forceful slap, it was like waking up from a bad dream. Even though he was dead, his cheeks were red and even slightly swollen. He should have wondered how a person still alive might have been able to hit a ghost, but at that moment he had no intention of asking questions.

    << Have you calmed down? >> the priest asked him, looking him straight in the eye.

    The ghost nodded vigorously and without causing any further trouble returned to his eternal rest, apologizing for the inconvenience caused. The other ghosts, who had been watching until that moment, imitated him one after the other. Don Walter nodded satisfied; the atmosphere of the cemetery was much more peaceful now. Of course, he would have to go back again before he could dare to say that there would be no more manifestation, and that would mean doing double the work than was required.

    << So? Did everything go well? >> asked the priest, when he saw him come out.

    Don Walter gave him another hard slap.

    << Of course everything went well, but only because I arrived in time before the situation degenerated. When you have to do an exorcism, you must never procrastinate, otherwise it''s bad news. Understood? >>

    << O-Okay. Next time we''ll be more careful. >>

    << Rather, can you arrange a meeting with the Cardinal for me? I need to have a chat with him about this matter. >>

    << I think it''s possible¡­ maybe His Excellency can receive you in a month. You know, he''s very busy¡­ >>

    << I want to see it in a week. >>

    << But I just said¡­. >>

    << <u>One week.</u> >>

    << As you wish, sir! >>

    The priest ran off towards the nearest telephone booth, his hands shaking as he tried to reach his purse of coins.

    It was a matter of a week, but it would be hard for Don Walter to be patient until then, especially with all that unbridled desire to express his opinions to Cardinal Della Rosa. Now it was clear to him why they had called him to Fontebianca.

    Before leaving, he took one last look at the cemetery, observing through the bars of the gate the statues and tombs quiet again, at least for now. He realized that there was one of the "guests" who was watching him secretly, he didn''t see him, but he felt him, as well as his restless aura. As soon as he could return, he hoped to be able to help anyone who still needed comfort even after death.

    <hr>

    Vinny finished listening to the exorcism story on the newsagent''s radio. He crossed himself; he didn''t like hearing certain ghost stories; they made him anxious.

    A short and long whistle, produced by someone who quickly passed by him, caught his attention: it was the signal that he could move. Maintaining a normal attitude, he entered the usual alley behind Gianni''s fish shop, making sure that no one was following him. Well, who was supposed to follow him? There were only housewives shopping, at that moment there, in the market area.

    The street narrowed toward the end like a funnel, giving a strong sense of claustrophobia as the walls of the adjacent buildings narrowed inward. There was nothing in there except a couple of boxes that would be gone by the end of the day and a little secret hidden right there. Vinny counted to ten and a segment of the wall in front of him, a small window opened and a short man smoking a crooked cigarette looked out while he finished punching the keys of a mechanical calculator. He handed him a rectangular paper bag, patting it gently.

    << Well done, the Seagull liked the work. He gave you an extra dose of gratitude. >> said the little man, still holding the cigarette in his mouth.

    << Are you sure you don''t want to join the gang? We could use someone like you. >>

    Vinny responded to the proposal by giving him the middle finger.

    He was in a bad mood, ever since he had been forced to do that asshole''s bidding, he had been brooding over it all. Forcing him to steal from the church... what the hell was that madman thinking? Even though he hadn''t been caught, he felt like they might come for him at any moment. But then, the real question was: what the hell was he supposed to do with a reliquary?

 Chapter 4: breaking News

    A sign, a simple finger pointing at something, was enough to unleash the journalists'' hunger for news. The large crowd of reporters crowded at the entrance to the police station to try to photograph or interview the target for which they had waited five hours in front of the building: Claudio Boscolo, bank manager.

    Before the scandal, Boscolo''s reputation was impeccable. He had received honors, prestigious awards and even an honorary degree... all the recognition that could be given to a person of value, he had received. Precisely for this reason, the news of his fraud against taxpayers had taken everyone by surprise.

    The scandal had been making headlines nationwide since the investigation was first made official. Millions of Libres[1]</a> had been subtracted from taxpayers'' accounts, emptying them.

    There had been statements from anonymous witnesses who claimed false documents, traces of money sent abroad, and various illicit actions carried out over the years which, now that they were coming to light, demonstrated the clear guilt of the director. Boscolo and his collaborators had immediately affirmed their innocence, saying that there had been no appropriation, but the enraged savers did not want to hear explanations, they wanted their money back.

    Boscolo, from the prison where he had been immediately thrown away, had declared to a journalist who had interviewed him in his cell: << I refuse to leave prison until all the charges against me have been dropped. To this end, I will ensure that the police find the real culprits. >>

    Angela shook her head in disbelief, this was truly a shocking case.

    Her husband Tonino, with bitter irony, commented on the matter by saying that they would probably soon have new neighbors in Borgomale. She punched him in the leg, telling him that he couldn''t joke about other people''s misfortune. In turn, however, she knew that many small savers, would never get their money back and would probably end up on the street or in the neighborhood if they had a pinch of "luck."

    ¡°Yes, very lucky indeed¡­¡±Angela thought bitterly.

    This scandal was unnecessary, how much more bad luck was that damned city supposed to bring to its inhabitants?

    She sank into the armchair, her gaze wandering around the living room. Her house was not luxurious and didn¡¯t have any fine furniture, the paint on some walls was peeling and very often the hot water did not come on. Despite everything, the rent was high, as much as that of a house in excellent condition, and now she was afraid that it could increase. If new people were about to arrive in Borgomale, the local loan sharks were surely already rubbing their hands in satisfaction, knowing that they could soon exploit new desperate people. And then, where would they put them? Borgomale had reached an all-time high in overpopulation, there was no more room for more people.

    ¡°Everything will be fine. A way will be found.¡± She thought, trying to stay positive.

    Angela Mazzini was forty-five years old and a classic busy woman.

    She was a mother, a schoolteacher, and a member of the neighborhood council¡ªa very busy person, in short; one who rarely sat around doing nothing.

    When she worked, she always showed up in informal third-hand suits that she always managed to fix to give them a clean and almost new look, she was rarely seen disheveled, and she took great consideration especially of the state of her glasses. Angela''s name referred to the benevolent divine figures of heaven, but her character, especially when she got angry, was more decidedly more comparable to that of a devil, which is why many thought twice before bothering her.

    Other than that, Angela was a woman with a big heart of gold.

    She was one of those very few people in Borgomale who brought hope in being able to improve the fortunes of the neighborhood. She truly believed in this desire, even if everything around her said otherwise. Other people could criticize them, but it was not correct to say that all those who lived there were lazy, criminals, and cold-hearted.

    There were also many good people living there and they would have been very surprised if they had given them a chance to meet them.

    Of course, it would have been much easier to show the good side of Borgomale if there had been more collaboration from these very people. Unfortunately, many did not want to run the risk of exposing themselves because of the unjust reprisals that they often suffered from by the authorities themselves. And then there was the problem that arose from the underworld, from those who, thanks to the misfortune of others, took advantage of it for their ends... and the neighborhood was full of those individuals.

    << Come in, ladies and gentlemen! Come and admire the revolutionary new ghost scarer! >> shouted a man.

    That day, as it happens, there was a well-known swindler who was trying to earn his daily bread illicitly.

    << Just one drop of this miraculous water will keep away any evil spirit! Even your mother-in-law, if the gentlemens need it! >>

    Angela grumbled out loud, scammers were worse than cockroaches: you didn''t have time to get rid of them before they came right back.

    The guy always stood in the little square below hr house, punctually every Wednesday afternoon.

    She had seen him many times before, selling ¡°revolutionary¡± products, even if they were useless junk, like the new product that looked like dirty water. Any individual with a little common sense would have immediately noticed the deception, but evidently this ability was starting to fail many of her fellow citizens since a small, dangerously interested crowd had already formed.

    << But is it all genuine stuff? >> asked a very elderly lady, as if she were asking a greengrocer about the condition of fruit and vegetables.

    << Of course, beautiful lady! All good stuff that keeps ghosts, goblins and even vampires from coming near you or your home! Don''t you believe it? Look, I''ll show it to you! Inside there''s St. John''s wort, mint, lavender, and even a pinch of thyme.>>

    << Yeah, good job. Mix them together and make a nice minestrone for yourself. >> thundered another voice behind him, that of Don Walter.

    The salesman suddenly turned pale; evidently, the man''s fame had reached his ears too.

    Don Walter took the bottle of ¡°magic¡± water from his hand and looked him up and down while pulling his ear as punishment.

    << Throw away this rubbish before I make you swallow it and get out of here. Profiting from these things¡­. Shame on you. >>

    << Yes, yes. You''re right. My bad. >>

    With one red ear and no money in the till, the con man packed up his things and ran away, disappearing into one of the nearby streets. Angela couldn''t help but be amazed and laugh at the same time. Who had ever seen a priest behave like that?

    << This is the first time in years I''ve seen that guy leave without selling anything. >> she said, approaching Don Walter.

    << I have a feeling he''ll try again. Some people don''t learn their lesson right away. >> He replied, shaking his head.

    Then he turned to the small group of civilians.

    << And you too, don''t believe in this stuff. If this crap was effective, you certainly wouldn''t have constant problems with ghosts. Don''t you agree? >>

    The crowd nodded awkwardly, like a group of children who had just been scolded for a prank. Except for the old lady, who persisted in wondering if the product worked.

    Don Walter and Angela became good friends, one had made a good impression on the other and they had immediately become close. Since their first meeting, Angela had already invited him to her home a couple of times and introduced him to her family, she had spoken to him about her work and her goals with a newfound enthusiasm that she had not felt for a long time, given that he listened to her with great attention and interest.

    << Speaking of ghosts, have you been ¡°hunting¡± today too? >> Angela asked him, pointing to his leather bag.

    Don Walter let out a tired breath.

    << I know the city like the back of my hand by now. I''ve never done so many exorcisms in my life before... and I''ve never seen so many spirits in one place. >>

    << Perhaps it is because the major squares were once holy fields. There were many more churches in the city, before the Holy See decided to unite them into a single place of worship, consequently, many cemeteries were closed and the tombs moved. Or at least, that''s what we were taught. I wouldn''t be surprised if some "forgotten" coffins were found while digging. >>

    << Yes, I read this piece of history of the city in a book. The reason could be that, even if¡­ >>

    << What? >>

    << I find it a little too strange. >> Don Walter did not stop explaining why he had this impression.

    At that moment he didn''t want to think about his work, tired as he was.

    After the incident at the cemetery of San Andrea, the amount of work had increased: many residents had started coming to the church, reassured both by the fact that there was once again a place protected by the Lord, and that there was a person who knew how to deal with ghosts. This was good for the priest; it was a pretext to bring the community closer together. On the other hand, however, the infestations had not stopped at all, and the Holy See was continually calling him to manage the situation. Throughout Fontebianca various spectral entities had awakened: Poltergeist[2]</a>, Doppelganger[3]</a>¡­he had even had to deal with a couple of possessions, very dangerous stuff even for an experienced exorcist. To make a long story short, the spectral energy, instead of decreasing, had increased and this was not good. A thought woke him from the torpor of tiredness, he looked at the clock and realized he was going to be late.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    << Walter, where are you going? Aren''t you going to church to continue the repairs? >>

    << I''ll do it on my way back. Now I must go somewhere. >>

    << But are you there for the neighborhood meeting tonight? The other members want to meet you. >>

    << Don''t worry Angela, I won''t miss it. And when I get back, I''ll let you know how my appointment went. >>

    << Why should I know? >>

    << Because it is with the Cardinal della Rosa. >>

    <hr>

    When Cardinal Remondo was agitated, he tended to sweat a lot, really a lot.

    He soaked not only the clothes he wore but also the towels he used to clean himself. On his desk was a pile of soft towels in various pastel colors ready for use, in a wastebasket lay a used pile from which a faint stench of sweat was beginning to rise.

    ¡°Oh, if only life wasn''t so full of worries¡±, the man thought whenever something was wrong.

    He was the type of person who would fret over any problem that occurred in his life, no matter how serious it was. At least 80% of the time he would have to ask others for help in solving his problems, demonstrating an embarrassing inability to handle himself alone.

    It was surprising, then, how such a person had managed to become the head of one of the most important religious bodies in the country.

    At the Blessed Waters Foundation there was a great frenzy over the accumulation of work due to the ghost infestations, a problem that they had been promising to solve for years, but that in reality, they had always contained. It''s not that they hadn''t tried, they just couldn''t solve it. They had tried every type of exorcism to restore peace to the unfortunate souls of the dead, but every year they came back to square one, and consequently, punctually, they found themselves having to manage the inconveniences of the infestations, the protests of the citizens and the barbs of the press accusing them of incompetence. The bureaucratic part was what he hated most about his job, why couldn''t he limit himself to giving sermons and raising funds for the church? Was it asking too much to be able to limit himself to doing the bare minimum and enjoying the fruits of his efforts?

    The phone rang and he jumped. It, like everything in his office, was expensive, with the case decorated with roses entwined around the dial of numbers and two small statues of swans perched on top. He picked up the receiver and his secretary informed him that Don Walter had arrived to speak to him.

    << Tell him I''m not here! >> he said, frightened.

    He knew he had an appointment with him and had done everything he could to avoid it until the very end. Then, damn him, he had forgotten and now he had to find a way to get out.

    << Tell him I''ve already left... no, actually! That I went to a meeting with the mayor! >> he told her.

    The woman tried to tell him something, but he spoke over her without hearing. When the office door opened, it was too late for him to escape.

    << Good morning, Cardinal. >> said Don Walter, throwing open the door.

    Della Rosa let out a little cry, regaining his composure almost immediately.

    << W-what a pleasure to see you again! My s-secretary just let me know you were coming! >>

    << Are you going somewhere? >>

    << Me? No, I-I was just tidying up my d-documents. >>

    << Weren¡¯t you trying to leave to avoid me? >>

    << No! How could I? We had a meeting today, right? I always respect my commitments, and I could never¡­ >>

    << Then shut up and sit down. >>

    The Cardinal reluctantly obeyed.

    Even though he was a man with great power, it was of no use to him if he could not handle it with people who had a stronger will than his own, as in the case of Don Walter.

    He was just a priest, he should have bowed his head before him¡­ and instead, serious and threatening like a bear, he kept him at bay like a little dog.

    << You sure are a real sly dog. >> the man began to say, without taking his eyes off him.

    For a moment it looked like he wanted to call him something else, but maybe it was just his imagination.

    << When I saw how bad Borgomale is, I didn''t question his plea to lend a hand in getting it back on its feet, even though it seemed like a desperate undertaking. And I didn''t question his words even when he told me about the honest people who live there and the degradation they are forced to live in. >>

    << And for this reason I will never thank you enough¡­ >>

    << But that''s not why you called me. Oh no, Borgomale was just the bait. You wanted me for my exorcist skills.

    I should have known when he mentioned Santavila and Campovoli: these are towns where there have been serious ghost infestations that I have had to intervene in.

    And then, when the infestation broke out seven days ago, your guys took away all my doubts. >>

    Della Rosa remained silent the whole time, sweating guiltily.

    Walter punched the desk hard; all the objects flew into the air for a moment.

    << I don''t like being made fun of like this! >> Walter shouted. << Why didn''t you tell me the real reason right away? >>

    << I-I wasn''t sure you would accept! >> Della Rosa stammered. << Many of your colleagues refused, believing it impossible or dangerous to purify such a vast spiritual energy. You are considered the best of all; you were the last resort we could rely on! >>

    << Yes, I''ve had a taste of it these days, enough to make me indigest it. I still don''t understand how the hell you got to have a problem of this proportion. Christ, I wouldn''t be surprised if a portal to the afterlife opened up at any moment. >>

    << I d-don''t know either, it''s a problem that came suddenly. Even before I became a Cardinal. >>

    Don Walter grunted loudly, not knowing whether to believe that statement.

    << You are good¡­. You can solve the problem, right? You will stay here, right? >> he asked him, worried that he might leave the city.

    The priest glared at the Cardinal, reducing him to a trembling mouse again, for a moment intending to punch him. He approached him and pointed his finger at his face, in a low, threatening voice he said:

    << Unfortunately, I have to. But only because I want to keep my promise to help Borgomale. Because unlike you and everyone else in this town - and I understand that you don''t give a crap - I care about those poor souls.

    So, thank goodness that place exists, because otherwise, I would have washed my hands of its damn problems. >>

    With that, Don Walter started to leave the office, taking the door to close it behind him.

    Before it closed, he looked out one last time:

    << And anyway, if you want me to help you with the ghosts again, I expect a generous donation from you to cover the expenses. Monthly. >>

    << Monthly? I can''t afford it! >>

    << Do not forget the words of Christ, our Lord: ¡°It is more blessed to give than to receive.¡± >>

    And the door closed with a resounding thud.

    <hr>

    The Boscolo case was under the eyes of many eyes.

    Curious eyes.

    Gossipy eyes.

    Both good and bad eyes.

    Every glance, regardless of the intentions behind it, weighed like a millstone on the shoulders of those subjects to their attention. Even from prison, the former bank manager knew he was being watched by people who were not necessarily only those delegated to justice or by gossip, but also by those who had framed him for a crime he had not committed. Boscolo was not a fool, he knew he had enemies. When you handle money, it is inevitable to make a lot of them. The reason was not just to ruin his reputation or to take his place at the bank, that would have been too simple. Those who had framed him wanted to prevent him from speaking and to expose the corruption of Fontebianca. There were many things he wanted to tell the nation, even if now he only hoped to get out soon.

    He heard some inmates arguing and the door of a cell slamming loudly.

    Those sounds frightened him, so often violent and threatening. Even in his small cell he never felt safe, forced, among other things, to share it with a colony of cockroaches that appeared especially at night, when he went to sleep, and often woke him up hearing them crawling on him.

    He listened for a minute, before continuing to write for his wife who, unlike many of his relatives and friends, had not abandoned him. He promised her that everything would work out for the best, encouraged her to be strong and take care of their children¡­ to have hope, in short. He put down the pen as soon as he finished writing that he loved her, and as he reread it, he realized that the letter seemed more like a kind of last goodbye than a message of reassurance. He quickly added that he would return to her soon, so as not to make it seem like they would never see each other again.

    He jumped, suddenly feeling cold.

    He rubbed his arms, trying to warm himself. For a solid structure, the prison had a lot of cold drafts. He wondered if the guards would have given him an extra blanket if he had asked.

    <hr>

    << I can''t believe it! Is this the real reason? What an ass face! >>

    << Angela! You don''t talk about the cardinal like that! >>

    << Who cares! But did you understand that he only brought Walter here to scare away ghosts? Huh? Did you understand that the church doesn''t give a damn about us? >>

    Tonino tried to calm his wife down without much success. Don Walter tried to help him, but the woman was furious like a bull.

    Good for him that he had decided to tell only her about the meeting with the Cardinal, who knows what kind of reaction the other people in the place would have had if they had heard. With Angela, however; he had decided to be more honest, since she was trying so hard to help him.

    For a moment she had had the crazy idea of ??telling everyone about the Cardinal''s falsehood, but Don Walter had recommended her to keep quiet, if she didn''t want to be seen as both crazy and a criminal. Della Rosa was an idiot, but he was still the Cardinal.

    << You know what? To hell with those assholes! We can do it on our own! >> the woman exclaimed. << We''ll show them that we don''t need their "charity" to get our neighborhood back on its feet! >>

    << We actually need their funds. I can get by on some things myself, but those ¡°small changes¡± will come in handy for a lot of other jobs. Unfortunately, hard cash is the main tool I need. >> Walter replied.

    << Give me some time and I''ll be able to convince some people to help you out. You can''t do it all by yourself forever. >>

    << Thank you, Angela. But try not to force them, if they don''t want to. They have to decide to trust me on their own. >>

    Not everyone trusted Don Walter yet, not even Angela''s closest friends, as honest and sensible as she was. He couldn''t blame them, so many empty promises had been made in Borgomale, that no one believed in them anymore.

    At the neighborhood meeting, when he explained to the few attendees his intentions on how to fix the area and asked for their opinion, he only got ambiguous answers like "well, who knows" or "Maybe" or "I don''t know, let''s see". Not a very encouraging attitude.

    ¡°What the hell did these poor peoples have to go through to be so discouraged?¡± he wondered.

    There was something more behind the discomfort of Borgomale¡­ something that would have been better to start investigating if he wanted to better understand the history of that place and those people.

    << Let''s put aside the sorrows, as long as there is life there is hope. >> said Angela.

    << With a full stomach, one thinks better. >>

    Walter agreed very much with that point.

    There was nothing better after a long day than a good dinner, a chat with friends, and music on the radio. It was in moments like those that the sorrows seemed to disappear, and everything became more serene. Don Walter allowed himself that moment to relax, to forget for a moment the thousand commitments and even the role he covered, allowing himself to simply be Walter Mezzanotte. Suddenly the music was interrupted by the tune that introduced the radio news, followed almost immediately by the voice of the reporter who apologized for the interruption of the program to announce a piece of news for the special edition that evening.

    << The news has just reached our editorial office that former director Claudio Boscolo is dead. He was found hanged in his cell a few hours ago. >>

    <hr>