The devil's lid

Di Franco Antonucci

Romance of adventures inspired by the love of nature and the simple life of the past. It marks the debut of the author who, suddenly struck by a hemiparesis on the left, has had to suspend the concert activity and has entrusted himself as physiotherapy to the exercise of the qwerty keyboard and as psychotherapy to the wings of a fantasy inserted in a precise context historical-environmental pre and post Risorgimento represented in a vivid reality almost as if transported by a phantasmagorical machine of time. The protagonist, Gasparone, exhumed from the famous writings of the "memories of Gasbaroni, famous leader of the province of Frosinone" by Pietro Masi, more than a brigand, is an unconventional hero who after winning ten, one hundred battles, finally loses the war, but not the humanity that has always distinguished it

• Lingua: Italiano
• Editore: Youcanprint
• Data di uscita: 23 mar 2018
• ISBN: 9788827815755

Anteprima del libro

life.

Chapter 1

April 1858 Civitavecchia

He finally arrived in Italy. How long had he wanted to return to limestone that sacred soil of artists, poets and inventors, but also of ... brigands.

He had just landed on the pier, but he knew where to go. One of the on-board officers had been so kind to explain to him the place he was looking for and now he was heading in the sparkling air of Italian spring, towards the Aurelia, the great Roman consular road. But in comparison to the Russian climate he had left, here it seemed full summer already. The dazzling sun reflected on the large, tuffaceous, walled walls. They were lined tall over the wide street but, without offering a minimum of freshness, they reverberated the heat in the air and only eventually he found shelter in the shade of a large door. On the side a sentry-box with a Sardinian grenadier stiffened in his musket, later a desk with a kind of bank office with two employees, one busy writing and reading papers, the other staring at him with a questioning air:

What do you want sir?

I would like to visit a detainee

Give me the name

I am Alexandre Dumas

Not yours,but of the detainee

He pulled out the agenda where he had annotated that name one night, more than ten years ago, in one of those boring Parisian lounges, by poor Marie-Henri Beyle, just before of his death, a poor man, and that he had long gone on the gesture of this famous brigand whose name was ...

Antonio ... Gasparone or Gasperoni

Ah! Maybe Antonio Gasbarrone. You're a lucky man. They all come to him and only he can receive overtime visits. Director's Order. Fill this form with its signature on the lime.

As he retired the paper, the clerk entrusted to a guard the visitor, who immediately began to walk quickly, followed by his bare footprints, already tired

by the previous walk and the prominent belly, as a result of the numerous banquets of the embassies. At the bottom of the third, at the end corridor, Dumas collapsed into a chair leaning against the corner of the gray barrier gate, which the second man was opening with his huge keys and that at every turn emitted a terrible noise.

After finishing the turns, it was the time of the long snooping, caused by the opening of the gate.

It resonated deep in the silence of those gray walls, twisting twice into the grave. When the gate was over, the jailer, after a few steps, left the guest to close the previously opened gate.

It is the regulation, he replied to his silent question.

Then he opened the peephole of the door at the end of the corridor and shouted, tuckiing his nose between the bars:

«Visits, Gasparò»

Who is it? He said after a while with a deep voice.

An foreign, a certain Alessandre Dumasse

Alescsondr Diumà the visitor clarified.

Oh well, a competitor. Wait a moment to get him in, Orlà', who first settled at this slaughterhouse

Please, come in, he said after five minutes of waiting.

I'm Alexandre Dumas the ...

... famous writer ... The three Musketeers, Count of Monte Cristo, Twenty years later, The Viscount of Bragelonne. have I read them all, do you know?

He was expecting an old man who was sixty-five years old. Instead, with great amazement, a middle-aged man was standing in front of him, dotted, very tall, with no belly and loose and elastic movements.

I thought he was illiterate

I've been up to twenty years ago, but now I read and very much. There's a lot time here and I'm gonna get it by reading and doing gymnastics.

He was wearing the suit of the detainees and a gray woolen half-sleeveless wool knit, revealing the swollen biceps when he put his hands on the armrests of his chair when he sat down, where he probably absorbed his readings. It had not been for long white hair and gray beard, its appearance could look like a young 20-year-old.

Of course, I also read other things. Everything that happens to me. Ah! I could have enjoyed before that wonder!

It's never too late!

He can never imagine what he had to give up for ever to depend on the reading of others. Luck I've always had with my trusted Professor. Here, too, is in the cell next to each other and occasionally we get to the peephole to talk.

Why did not he first learn to read?

Are you joking? I would not have had time. I really did try it when I was forced to bed by a wound, but after a while I did not have the patience to continue. I could not bear that everybody would change those hand-shakes in their own way.

Everyone has his own handwriting!

But it is not fair to make signs so different from books.

Over time, they will understand that they are nothing but subtle distinctions, which can only disorient the beginners.

Now yes! But then this trivial thing prevented me from finding better communication systems than a simple bonfire.

And then his ...activity, so to say, would it benefit?

No doubt. And I believe that only now I realize that reading amplifies every human activity: in fact, knowing to read is knowing and being able to read is and being able to read is Power.

But writing is synonymous with Creation.

From this, distinguished Master, I understand that you is on another level, but even we poor convicts are able to profit. I and Professor Pietro Masi of Patrica we have published my memoirs to dossiers that are selling well overseas, so as to give us nine to ten shields a month and, unlike yours, ours are real stories.

Yeah, about stories. Can you tell me yours one?

Already, her story: she had told her so many times that it seemed to he that all those things were only in his head and nobody really happened, and yet she had not only really happened had them, but had also painfully tried it.

Then he thought that all in all it could be good that such a well-known writer would light the spotlight on his story, now fallen into oblivion, and hurried to answer.

But of course, where do you want it to begin?

From the first important event.

Part one

south swears

Chapter 2

Sonnino Wednesday, November 16, 1803

It was November 16, 1803, and in less than a month, Ntoniuccio was accomplished 10 years old. It was Rocco his father to wake him with the usual technique, effective but not very delicate: he gave him some firm and insistent slaps on his cheek. The boy, immersed in a deep sleep, first tried to ignore them, but felt a movement of anger when they continued relentlessly. Then he remembered that he had to, indeed, wanted to get up, so he half-seated eyes sat down.

It's the four o clock, he announced to his father before leaving the room. That was the big day that Ntoniuccio would help Tata cut off the big oak, which delimited the clearing where they were now grazing their cows. It was autumn in the morning, and the morning light tended to filter through the darkness, but in the dim light, he glanced at Gennaro, his older brother, lying on the bed next to him, deeply asleep in fetal position. He had not heard him come back the night before, probably had angered his father again, who could not bear that his thirteen-year-old son had taken this habit of late in the evening. 'Ntoniuccio got off the bed.

He was wearing a winter pajamas, a full jacket and pants, since Sonnino's air was already pungent in that season. He took the night pot under the bed and took off the lid. As he pissing, he peered out of the window. He could not see anything other than the full darkness. There was still less to look at in the room. Space was enough for two cots, his and that of Gennaro, to approach an old trunk that smelled of mold and lavender. A small corridor led to the room of Santina and Loreta, her two fourteen and twelve year-old sisters, who slept in a bunk bed and, finally, in her parents' bedroom: Dad Rocco and Mom Faustina. 'Ntoniuccio wore his shirt over the woolen knit, which wore from September to all March, and that changed, as usual, if he did not sweat great once a month.

The shirt was the same as the day before; it was Wednesday and it would have changed, as usual, on Sunday when it would go to Mass.

He put on the new pair of long trousers: they were of a thick and waterproof velvet, called pelle'e'diavule, which, in dialect, means skin of the devil, so durable and suitable for rustic pastoral work. He pulled them up proudly, satisfied with the consistency of that man's fabric. He thrust the large leather belt and the booties inherited by Gennaro and left his room leading into the kitchen, the largest room of the four components throughout the house. Rocco was seated at the table, near the o fireplace, on which portraits of Pius VII and Francis I painted, almost to point out that their country, Sonnino, was at the borders of the two kingdoms: the Neapolitan and the Pontifical. However, both paintings were overshadowed by the image of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Mum Faustina poured the milk into the dairy on the cookers. He kissed lovingly 'Ntoniuccio on his forehead and said, How is my little spilungone? Ntoniuccio did not answer. That little man displeased him because, in fact, he wanted to be bigger and the term spilungone indicated those very tall men who do not shine for intelligence. He was not yet ten years old, but he was already taller than his mother and only a little lower than Rocco, becaus all of whom were considered it a Marcantonio. She went to the washbasin on the back. Immersed a tin pot in the water jug and, after washing his face and hands, emptied it into the hole of the sewer below. In the fireplace in the kitchen there was a tub tin on a tripod. It was used only on the evening of the bath, that is, on Saturday. He thought about things to do. First she had to go pasture and bring back their four cows to milk them, as always, in the yard. She knew them one by one and, being of different color, called her by name, and sometimes, when she was alone, she also talked to us.

There was the docile Romanella, with a light brown shirt, which gave more than ten liters of milk to each milking, the lively Castagnola, black, brown and gray, which usually did not exceed one and a half liters. The wild Roscetta, with a rust-colored mantle, with chiaroscuro spots of the same tonality, sometimes five, sometimes six liters, and finally the affectionate Criscetta, with a light mantle, that stopped at five liters. But the best time of the day would have been when Rocco would allow him to help him, with the woodcutter saw, to cut the big bark, which would provide them the wood for the whole winter. The saw, which had borrowed from Thomas, was long-lasting and had grips at both ends. He considered a great promotion to be chosen instead of Gennaro, to help his father do a job that was necessarily done in two, without thinking he had to insist much to convince him and that probably Gennaro was more than happy to have avoided such a fatigue.

It was a time when Gennaro often disobeyed his father, who did not spare him knocking sound, and Ntoniuccio knew well how much they deserved. Obviously, during those quarrels, Ntoniuccio was hiding, but he often dwelt admired to observe the tremendous shots that Rocco and Gennaro exchanged, but always with loyalty, so much so that these discussions always closed with a handshake to which Gennaro recognized the paternal authority that he would no longer put, at least for a while, in question.

He returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table. His mom put a large cup of milk and barley coffee in front of him. He cut two slices from one of the huge loaves that she herself, every Friday night, baked in the oven and picked up a nice touch of butter from the pantry. Ntoniuccio with to his hands clasped and said. Thank you, Virgin Mary, for this food. Amen.. Then he drank a sip of coffee and milk beans and spread the butter on the bread. Rocco stared at him. Put some more jam on the bread. Today we will sweat, he said. Rocco had always done the vaccine and was nicknamed iu fort, that is, the strong. He was known in the country for his superhuman strength, thanks to which he was appointed during the days of the fair to head the country's team in the rope-racing competitions, where they were often caciots and turkeys, which very often embellished table of Gasbarrone's house. While Ntoniuccio was eating the second slice of bread with butter and jam, Santina came in with her unstitched dress, which Faustina's mom had to fix her. Ever since he was engaged with Angelo de Paolis, he always tragedies to dress. He was never satisfied with his wretched wardrobe, at least until every member of the family had reassured her that she was fine and that color gave her that. In fact Santina was really beautiful and Ntoniuccio had never fully understood the meaning of that expression. What could he ever give a color, he thought, and for what reason then?

In the meantime, he was stimulated.

I go out, he announced.

He left the door.

Going Out was a familiar euphemism: it meant going to the toilet, located at the bottom of the cart. It was a shack of dry stones, with its straw-and-shoot roof, built on a deep hole, dug into the ground with a seat above it. With three axes to door, you could only enter one at a time. The smell was disgusting, even though it was felt every day. As long as he was inside, Ntoniuccio always tried to hold his breath and when he came out he gasped in search of air. The hole was periodically emptied from the beetle when it was withdrawing the cattle manure. He had come to pay, with great astonishment at Ntoniuccio, fifty bays too: was that man who was not paying for money, but paid off half a shield for those scummy crap?

Gennaro told him that he probably was, but Rocco told him that the man's man was brought to Rome, where he would get at least two shields.

So why do not we take it to Rome? Replied Ntoniuccio.

Because it is not said that you are safe and safe in Rome, with all the brigands in Appia.

He returned home. 'Ntoniuccio took the lunch bundle with bread and companion, which Faustina had prepared for him and ran behind Rocco, who had already started up for the carriage.

Where do we go? He asked his father.

I'm going to tell you to give him a cleansing around and you go to the cows, take them down, bring them down and then bring them back. We'll see you at about eleven.

'Ntoniuccio already knew by heart and by the way what he should have done and he headed for the cows. He found Romanella, Castagnola, Roscetta, and Criscetta quiet in the clearing, now embedded in the place where he had let them ruminate the night before. By now Rocco relied more and more on him to graze and he was proud of him. Spinning in the air without banging them, they gathered them together and made them go home. It was just an alloy, but with the placid cow's progress, it would have put us at least half an hour.

When he came home he found Gennaro in the yard, who had just left the latrine and went home to have breakfast.

He placed himself on the stool with all the copper buckets around, one full of water, with which he cleansed his hands well, as Romanella approached, anxious to get milkHe put an empty bucket under his breast, washed it and began to wring as he had taught her dad Rocco. When he was alone during this operation, he often spoke with the beasts, but now he was silent, not to be derided by Gennaro.

Soon he filled the entire ten-liters bucket, but this time Romanella had to have eaten a lot of fresh herbs, because he still had swollen breasts and needed a second bucket, which filled for almost to a third. Then he touched to Castagnola, who barely filled the bucket up to half. He then brought the stool and the bucket under Criscetta, filling it up to the brim. Finally, as the unruly Roscetta did not want to know how to approach the buckets, she took it for the horns and with great effort made her stop over a third bucket, which filled in half. He calculated that even that day he would have reached the fifty liters that he did on average every day, since he always had twice: at dawn and sunset.

he wore milk every morning for about forty customers in the country, paying for a baiocco per liter, succeeding in getting the forty or fifty baiocchi daily to maintain the family without the need, as it was sometimes necessary to do, to add too much water to milk, what as happened when production dropped in winter due to hay or summer due to drought, to forty or even thirty liters.

Then he was comforted by saying that at least the Gasbarrone put the clean water in the milk! Not like the milkman, their competitor, called iu Panundu, who did not know from where to pick it up!

Then he took the pots and poured the twenty-five liters of milk that by the milking of the previous evening became the fifty that he would hand over to the alleyways of the country, as fast as he was going to the houses and supplying the forty customers of milk family.

From a couple of years, Gennaro worked less and less for family work, and Ntoniuccio was happy to become Rocco's first collaborator and did not understand why Gennaro had become so lazy and indolent and at the same time constant in retiring late in the evening.

He had begun to attend bad friendships at the tavern, Rocco said, and he aspired to easy life, which only the aristocrats and the high prelates could carry right; what, however, was not at all right, he thought of Ntoniuccio as he headed for the big oak..

He had already walked ten miles that morning, not to mention milking and everything else.

He came to the notice that they were not yet ten, and Rocco, who was waiting for the eleveno clock, was still clearing the ground from the brothers around the big oak to facilitate the cutting operation. 'Ntoniuccio did not imagine that he wanted a license to cut the tree, but Rocco knew and was pretty nervous about the illegal operation they were preparing to do.

'Ntoniuccio helped his father deface and clean up the clearing, then Rocco pulled out the saw of Thomas, wrapped in an old cloth, and began to cut the big trunk.

They pulled themselves, each with their own grip, and the teeth of the blade sank immediately into the thick bark and, one shot after another, sank more and more into the book, then into the furnace and the hardness until they reached the marrow. Ntoniuccio was afraid of failing to argue with his father's strong shot, and he pledged to spasm, without ever surrendering a shot.

He sensed the lungs to contract into a foul air search and their mouth was dry for the intensity of the breath, but the forces still supported him, while sweat dripping from his forehead and burning in his eyes. At one point Rocco said, leaving his grip on the ground:

Now stop. It's almost noon, let's eat. Without the counterweight, the bungling ninetech stepped back with the saw and fell to the ground, all stretched out as it was in the effort to collaborate without disappointing his father, when suddenly a crash darkened the sky with a crack of branches and one flicker of leaves. While exhausted, on the floor, she wiped her forehead, Ntoniuccio realized that something had changed; the portion of sky escorted just before had increased. There was more light around it.

The big oak was no longer in his place and it must have fallen. His father was not seen.

Dad! He called with a choked cry; no reply.

Then a faint voice, almost a