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Prologue
The curious events in this account refer to the city of Casteddu in the year 198_. Objections may be raised
as
to the need for such a detailed report, since the incidents have already received ample attention in banner
headlines and newspaper articles throughout Europe and abroad. The narrator will moreover be accused of
seizing the reader's attention through no special merit of his own, making use of material which is by now
of public domain. For these reasons, he feels it necessary to give his credentials and to reveal his role as
that of
the anonymous informer whose black briefcase was delivered to the judicial authorities handling the case,
the
contents of which were responsible for bringing the scandal to public knowledge.
Before the scandal, tourists knew Casteddu only as the southern port of a Mediterranean island where the big
ferries from the continent dock each day across the street from the center of town. Seen from the sea, the
skyline is dominated by the old city, with its heavy walls, towers, and cupolas, while the rest of the city
nestles below it on lower hills. And though the city is well enough known on the Continent, it is not in
itself a prime tourist attraction; rather, it is here, in the port of Casteddu, that the tourist draws his
first breath of vacation, and it is here, on the deck of the ferry, that he feels again the comforting
twinges
of anxiety which permit him to return to his home.
Casteddu is the perfect doorkeeper of his vacation, mirroring without effort his expectations and delusions.
The palm trees, agave plants, and hedges of prickly pears are all festive signs of the holiday to come. Even
the pitifully dry flower beds with which the municipal authorities had hoped to embellish the city are a
solace to him and seem to promise weeks of harsh and healing sun.
The Bastion
Before leaving, the visitor will note that Casteddu is a big city, and it is, if only superficially. Those
who
remain longer may observe, beneath the convulsive traffic and latest fashions, certain similarities in
habits
and outlooks between Casteddaius and their fellow islanders of the interior which lend an old-world quality
to
the city. The geographic setting of the island and the difficult means of transportation to the Continent
have
long been used to excuse or explain this peculiarity and, doubtlessly, there is some truth to it. Longtime
residents tend to place the blame on the fact that two thirds of the inhabitants of the city are inlanders
who
have moved there over the last thirty years, abandoning their herds, olive and orange groves for the
relative
security of a vegetable stall at the market in Casteddu, or a place at the Ottanico Refinery on the
outskirts,
bringing with them an age-old hunger and diffidence for the ways of the world. And while these emigrants
have
changed the face of the city, they have not put down roots in it. Their roots are still fast in their inland
hometown. "Home" is there, a refuge against future and probable dangers, and it is there they return in hard
times, and to marry their daughters, celebrate their patron saint, and bury their dead. One is led to
believe
that they are present only physically in Casteddu, while their thoughts, hopes, and desires continue to
haunt
their hometowns. With all these new arrivals, Casteddu has become a large city, though more provincial
perhaps
than it was. It isn't surprising, then, that a slow and easy rhythm dominates the city. Each day, towards
two
in the afternoon and nine in the evening, for reasons mysterious to the foreigner, the crowds dissolve from
the streets. By common appointment, the entire city retires to eat and take its leisure. For the
uninitiated,
this severe rhythm lends a monstrous quality to Casteddu, as if a gigantic living creature, with one slow
breath, had sucked the population up into his gut, to spit it out again at regular intervals. But for the
Casteddaiu, this is the most precious of times, a private time of his own to use as he desires, one that he
would not barter for all the conveniences of modern living.
Nor is it surprising, given the circumstances, that the prevalent state of mind of the inhabitants is
boredom:
boredom weighs on them heavier than the sultry July heat and cuts their vitality more surely than the cold,
damp February wind. It is the small town boredom, that pleasant and universally remembered phenomenon which
gives flavor to the little things in life. The effect brought about by the scandal, which thrust the
sleeping
city from one day to the next onto the stage of the world's attention, is easy to imagine. The Casteddaius,
or, rather, the islanders, since the two are inexorably entwined, were precipitated by the events into
emotions of an intensity previously thought impossible. Their condemnation of the events and their
acceptance
of the unexpected notoriety were the source of a deep feeling of duplicity in them. For a moment, the
complacent provincial city on the confines of Africa awakened from its lonely lethargy.
The partiality and sensationalism with which the press reported the events led to considerable public
side-taking. While some qualified the "oneshot mass murderer", as the protagonist came to be called, with
adjectives reserved for common crime, others chose to see in his act a spontaneous heroism, an "explosion of
justice", as it was often called. To an eyewitness of the events, both of these points of view appeared
senselessly unilateral and overly simplified. The narrator's own dismay in the light of such contrasting
opinions led him to the decision to reelaborate and complete his already dusty notes on the events and to
give
them a semblance of literary form to facilitate further discussion. The present account, compiled with an
exacting and altruistic effort, is the result of this determination. It is the narrator's hope that his
effort
will not go unheeded by the Casteddaius and that it will serve as a permanent reminder of those tragic
events
- so they will not be absorbed and forgotten by the islanders' infinite capacity for pain and acceptance.
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