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