Beautiful Antonio by Vitaliano Brancati Page A

‘baron’ with such respect!”
    â€œYou’re never satisfied with anything!” retorted the notary sharply, suddenly aware that the person he was talking to was a skinny eighteen-year-old, the son of a tenant of his, a tenant who some day or other would find his belongings out in the street, for non-payment of rent.
    â€œJust see what’s come of it!” continued the petulant voice. “Down there, look, near the tram.”
    At the spot indicated by the young man, they observed the Prefect cramming his otter-skin hat violently onto his head, turning his back and stalking away, followed by five or six other persons.
    â€œThis is very vexing!” exclaimed the notary, “very vexing indeed… Antonio, what do you advise me to do?”
    â€œNothing,” said Antonio.
    â€œDo you not think we may suffer some unpleasant consequences?”
    â€œWe have sunk very low,” said Antonio, “but not to thepoint of having anything to fear from a paltry pen-pusher in Catania, when we have friends in Rome.”
    This because at that particular moment he was undergoing one of those sudden bouts of euphoria to which he had been subject since becoming engaged to Barbara.
    â€œOh, heavens!” he thought. “If I’d wanted… How silly to be afraid of…”
    Then and there all his recollections of Rome, in his memory as frigid and stiff as geometrical figures on a blackboard, were flooded with light, with colour, even with pungent odours, ranging from that of the dried fruits which in December pervades the alleyways around the Trevi fountain, to the sharp stench of the foxes in the zoo.
    â€œWhy,” he asked himself, “does Barbara’s hand resting on my arm affect me so much every time it draws free of the grip of my left hand? It makes my blood hammer in my temples… And when she blushes, if I am not mistaken, the odour of her skin is enhanced…”
    Attended by this happiness he reviewed his years in Rome. Now, he could aim defiant looks straight in the faces of those before whom he had previously lowered his eyes; and he was mentally in the act of perpetrating a highly brutal act upon the person of the Countess K, when he realized that the orator, his voice hoarse, his beard streaming with tears, was bidding the last adieux to the coffin already mounted on the hearse. The cortège dispersed. Barbara was packed off home as were the in-laws, while the notary and Antonio climbed into an open carriage to accompany the baron all the way to the cemetery.
    Need we say that in the course of this journey, while the walls of the cemetery of Acquicella came looming above the black plumes of the pair of horses, Antonio was the happiest of all Sicilians under thirty years of age. From time to time he cast a glance at the austere notary seated beside him, and thinking that that austerity, translated into shyness, chastity and innocence, bestowed upon the beauty of Barbara the warmthof an August sun, stimulating as it was to all the wonderful happy-go-luckiness and derring-do which drift through the dreameries of an afternoon nap, he gave thanks to God for creating not only blackguards but men of honour, and not only your wives of Count Ks and your Luisa Drehers, but the daughters of notaries. Had his father-in-law not been a man most respectful of legality, and above politics, Antonio would instantly, out of gratitude, have embraced the notary’s political party, so greatly did opinions, solemn oaths, and the motives for which one either went to gaol or was licensed to rob and steal with impunity, seem unimportant compared to a certain feeling firmly implanted in his heart.
    The old baron descended into the family vault beneath the eyes, sparkling with happiness, of this handsomest of “grandchildren” who never once, as the coffin vanished into the dark chamber, gave a thought to the fact that there was a man in that box.
    The notary gave