by Alaric DeArment
It was jarring the next morning to hear a loud knock at the bedroom door, as I had become accustomed to sleeping late.
“Buna desmun,” Amadeo greeted me in his Signoria suit as I opened the door, after hastily throwing on a bathrobe. “We have work today.”
A copy of La Gazzetta della Repubblica lay on the breakfast table as I ate and had my coffee, and I recognized Giuliano Darsa, donning full regalia, smiling and waving in the photo on the front page, below a headline stating he was “in pensione,” a phrase Amadeo said meant in retirement. When I picked it up, there was another photo below the fold with the caption “Amadeo Darsa, Il Rettore Provvisorio.”
“That is means ‘Provisional Rector,’” said Amadeo, standing over me. “Only until we can form a new government.”
After breakfast and a shower, I put on my Signoria suit, as Amadeo instructed. Because the Signoria palace still required cleaning from the previous day’s coup d’etat, the provisional government would meet at the Rector’s Palace of Ragusa, but we still had to follow formalities.
As we drove into the city, at first it seemed as if nothing had really changed. But then I noticed there were a lot more police officers about, as well as soldiers, and fewer civilians on the streets.
We stepped inside the palace’s wood-paneled conference room, hanging with richly woven tapestries of idyllic scenes and elaborate floral patterns. All of the people from the celebration the night before were in leather chairs at the large wooden table, in the same outfits as us, nursing cups of coffee and tea, while the same elderly bishop I had seen at the public burning in front of the church sat in the corner. They all stood and bowed their heads as Amadeo entered the room, intoning “Mio Signore” in unison, sitting back down as he let himself into the empty chair at the head of the table before the bishop led everyone in a prayer, in Greek. Raffaele told me to take the seat next to Ginevra’s, while he sat to Amadeo’s right.
“Well, you all know who this is,” Amadeo told everyone in English as he stood up, pointing toward me, the others all glancing toward me. “I have decided to make Mr. de Proculo Minister Without Portfolio. In that role he will work alongside Ginevra, who will be Minister of Information.”
I spent the next half hour pretending to listen as what was the new provisional government argued back and forth, sometimes heatedly, in a mix of Italian and Dalmatian. Ginevra must have noticed my boredom and addressed a question to Amadeo in English.
“What can we do about the families of Signoria members? They will have questions, I think. The other newspapers maybe will be curious as well,” she asked.
Amadeo glanced at me and then back at her as she spoke.
“It is an awkward situation, I understand,” he began. “We have plans in place for handling it, and I can assure you it is not a concern.”
They quickly all reverted back to Italian and Dalmatian, and it would be another hour before lunch.
“So sorry for today,” Amadeo finally piped up after 20 minutes of silence as we ate lunch at one of Ragusa’s charming cafes consisting of tables lining the walls of narrow alleyways – a rather bland meal of white fish, mashed fava beans and vegetables, for which Amadeo footed the bill. “You are very important to us and to this government, I hope you know.”
Under Stagnese law, my father’s birth in this country made me a citizen, but I had no documentation to prove it, so I spent the rest of day taking photos for my passport, official identification card and driver’s license. I would also receive a generous salary: 100,000 grossetti per year, along with a monthly expense account of 75,000 grossetti and 50 grossetti per day for meals. On top of all that, my family’s noble title would be restored. But Amadeo insisted that I continue living at Clemente’s mansion for security reasons.
That night, a dream about the massacre of the Signoria woke me up, and I got up to use the bathroom. But I had scarcely opened the door when I saw Amadeo in a black robe, seated on the sofa, an array of candles and a sigil in front of him similar to the one he used to empower my piece of eight coin to bring me here, as Raffaele and Ginevra, in identical black robes, flanked him. Also in front of Amadeo were photographs of several men, which one by one he picked up and smeared with blood from a cut he made in his hand before swallowing several of the same black pellets from before. I quietly closed the door and held it until the morning.
The next day was a Saturday, so while Amadeo and Raffaele went into the city, leaving a note about “urgent business,” I could sleep in, fix myself lunch and spend the day in the pool and lounging about. My documents also arrived via express mail, and I couldn’t stop admiring my passport, with its purple cover and gold coat of arms.
Where on other days the newspapers were always delivered early in the morning, today they didn’t arrive until the afternoon. When I picked up La Gazetta, the front page had what appeared to be a dramatic story, which continued below the fold and on several pages after the jump. As I thumbed through it, amid photographs of what looked like car wrecks and other accidents, there was one of a man whose picture Amadeo had smeared with blood in his ritual the night before, below which were a name and what looked like dates of birth and death.
When I turned on the TV, there was wall-to-wall coverage of multiple deaths throughout the country that had occurred overnight. The Dalmatian channel cut to a press conference in which Amadeo, wearing a black armband with his Signoria suit and looking mournful, made a short speech, ending with a call for a moment of silence.
I didn’t understand what the reporters were asking, but their tone was demanding, even angry, while Amadeo appeared to struggle to maintain composure as he fielded their questions. The broadcast quickly cut back to the TV anchors, who smiled nervously and quickly muttered something before going to commercial, followed by an unrelated segment.
