Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VIII. Naples
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“Vorrei baciare i tuoi capelli neri,”
echoed in my ears as I lay in my bed listening to
the respiration of Mariuccia asleep on the other
side of the partition wall.
What had happened to me? Was I bewitched
by a strega? Had one of these girls poured some
drops of Don Bartolo’s filtro d’amore in my wine?
What had happened to all these people around
me? Were they all drunk with the new wine or
had they gone mad with lust in the very face of
Death?
Morto la coléra, evviva la gioia!
I was sitting at my usual table in the Osteria
half-asleep before my bottle of wine. It was
already past midnight, I thought I had better
wait where I was, to return home with Cesare
when he had finished his job. A boy ran up to my
table and handed me a piece of paper.
“Come,” was scribbled on the paper in almost
illegible letters.
Five minutes later we stopped before the huge
iron gates of the convent of the Sepolte Vive. I
was let in by an old nun who preceded me across
the cloister garden ringing a bell. We passed
along an immense, deserted corridor, another nun
held up a lantern to my face and opened the door
to a dimly-lit room. Doctor Villari was lying on
a mattress on the floor. I hardly recognized him
at first. Padre Anselmo was just giving him the
Last Sacraments. He was already in stadium
algidum, his body was quite cold but I could see
by his eyes that he was still conscious. I looked
at his face with a shudder, it was not my friend I
looked at, it was Death, terrible, repulsive Death.
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