39 STAB WOUNDS
Sicily, first half of the 19th century. A woman, belonging to the Princes under the Volcano, the British merchants which owned much of the riches of the island at the time, is murdered. Butchered in her own villa.
A Sicilian girl, lover to the victim’s husband and tutoress of their children, is accused of the murder. At the same time, the victim’s daughter declares herself guilty of having killed her mother.
A young attorney starts to investigate what will become, for him, a descent into hell.
from IL CORRIERE DELLA SERA
(Ermanno Paccagnini)
Sicilian passion. A play of crime and literary genres… Battiato is eager to dive into plots involving loneliness, love – death, unhappiness, and suffering… and, most of all, how the end of love transforms into hate. A page-turner with intelligent writing and well-turned dialogue.
from LA REPUBBLICA
(Salvatore Ferlita)
This novel by Giacomo Battiato is made of descriptions that, in the readers’ eye, transform into three-dimensional images, bodies in action, pulsating flesh, and dazzling light…
from MANGIALIBRI
(Francesco Scarcella)
This is the third novel by the eclectic director Giacomo Battiato. An intense book full of charm, history, landscapes, and tormented, impotent love. The novel starts quietly, like many noirs. A brutal murder, a judge who serves as an investigator, damning evidence, and family intrigue. The case seems trivial, as if it could be solved in a day. But then, one twist after another creates a unique paradox: time seems to pass more slowly during the first night of investigation than in the following months. When the case is finally solved, it is unexpected and devastating because it becomes clear only after a series of ordeals. Psychological repression will play a decisive role in the ending.
from VANITY FAIR
(Irene Bignardi)
A full-fledged mystery that, however, is outside of the box in its thinking. Giacomo Battiato, the author of two novels, is also a director of sumptuous historical dramas for cinema and television. His ability to recreate the past is also evident in the novel “39 Stab Wounds”.
Two excerpts
High up and isolated on a cliff between Trapani and Marsala, a fort hewn in unfinished stone walls overlooks a stretch of vineyards. It belongs to a wealthy English family, the Ashbys, who have transformed it into a splendid estate. To the West, beyond the white salt marshes, the sea is the horizon. Countless times, that sea has been tinged red with the blood of tuna, but mostly with the blood of men because Sicily, for thousands of years, has lived under an ancient curse that has condemned it so that whenever it rids itself of one master, it only finds itself serving under another.
Today, however, Saturday the thirteenth of August 1836, that sea is a limpid turquoise, a joyful brilliance, just barely rippled from the scirocco blowing up gently from the island of Mozia.
It’s dawn, just a few minutes past five in the morning. The cicadas have not begun to sing, and it is still too early for the seagulls’ caw. A suspended silence of waiting surrounds the walls of the Ashby’s baglio. The first rays of the sun cut across roofs, crawl up the stone walls, sparkle in the dust in the air, and pierce a prickly pear muscularly reaching against the wall of the secluded courtyard. A silvery waxy green laden with bloody fruits, it has grown abnormally large, like one of those plants in a fairy tale that magically climb until they pierce the clouds. A yellow flower, the only one that survived the summer, crowns its highest pad.
In the courtyard, a sudden gust of wind blows a scarf of sheer white silk up from the ground. Writhing, it gracefully floats along the walls. It is about to fly across and away over the vineyard when it gets tangled in the prickly pear’s needles. With a sudden twist, it wraps around the yellow flower as it seems to be trying to wrest itself free. It is in vain. More needles pierce it, imprisoning it. In the center of the scarf, a blood stain, still wet.
It was almost as if the walls spoke, but Emma’s nerves had the miraculous ability to perceive a betrayer. She insulted Angelica whenever she met her, not caring who was present. Her favorite insult was, “I can’t stand your stink, whore!” She set a torment in motion. A nightmare that none of the three actors wanted to escape. Despite the harassment, the insults, and Signora Ashby’s madness, despite the fact that Angelica realized there were no plans or hope for anything between Robert and her, despite they had never exchanged any promises nor talked of their souls and destiny, Angelica weathered the torment and was happy to do so, despite everything. She never questioned whether Robert was worthy of such intense amorous dedication; all she needed was to feel that when he was near her, he was free from his malignant melancholy. Was that all? Yes, she only needed that. And she refused to feel guilty for their relationship. Guilty perhaps in form but not in substance.
In one of the rare dinners where the entire family was present, Mary had just brought dessert to the table, a Charlotte Russe, cold from the ice room and covered with zabaglione. Emma served herself first, then Angelica, who, with a smile, passed the plate to Robert. Taking the plate, his hand brushed against hers. Emma noticed her smile and his gesture. She sweetly turned to Angelica: “You love my children, don’t you?”
Angelica, surprised: “Of course. Very much so.”
“I mean to say, what you do, you don’t only do because you are paid to?
Almost under his breath, Robert says: “Emma, please…”
Angelica answered calmly and gently: “Your children are wonderful. Caring for them is not work; it is the most lovely thing that could ever happen to me. I couldn’t ask more from life.”
Juliet, annoyed by her mother, ostentatiously took Angelica’s hand and kissed it.
Emma asked with apparent patience: “Have you ever been in love?”
Angelica shook her head no.
Emma pressed her: “Why haven’t you ever been in love?”
“Because I don’t want to be in love.”
“No one can deprive you of the right to love.”
“In fact, I love your children.”
“As if they were your own?”
Angelica had been observing Emma’s look, and then she smiled at the children: “As if they were mine. But I never forget – nor should they forget – that you are their mother.”
“Don’t you dream of having your own family, your own man?”
“I am happy as I am.”
Emma’s tone was derisive: “Happy?” And then she added: “I’ll tell you what you are! You’re fake. Fake, crafty, and evil. Nothing but a brain. And a cunt. No heart, no gut.” Robert swallowed his dessert without tasting it and finally said something: “That’s enough now!”
It was as if Emma didn’t hear: “In any case, you’ve had lovers. I mean to say you’ve known carnal love? Or don’t you like that?”
Little Willie was licking the mascarpone off his plate. The other children had stopped eating, and their eyes shuttled back and forth between their mother and Angelica. Instead of answering, Angelica put a forkful of desert into her mouth and chewed.
“Well, do you like it or don’t you?”
Robert blurted out: “Signorina, in the contract that we signed, my wife does not eat with the children. From now on, I beg you to keep to that agreement!”
Swallowing, Angelica nodded.
Emma turned politely to Angelica: “Signorina, tell my husband that it is not right to stomp on others’ feelings. He knows how to do that very well; it’s his main source of entertainment after making money. Teach him to behave decently! But what am I saying? How could you, you filthy whore, teach him decency?!?”
Angelica stood up from her chair.
Emma was not finished yet: “What does my husband say to you? That he has a wife, but he prefers your company, your attention, and your….?” With a smile, she indicated Angelica’s body: “What does handsome Robert tell you? That his children have a mother, but he would rather entrust them to you, so young and so sweet? That he holds more trust in your experience, your dedication, your judgment, your sweetness? Huh? Is that what he tells you?”
Robert was mute, a stone. Even when Emma pressed him: “What does she say to you when she sucks you off? That I’m not young enough for you, that I’ve become too ugly, too ridiculous, too whiney, too boring? You know what she’ll become? One of those heavy Sicilians with greasy skin, crass, an animal you’d be ashamed to walk around with even if she were on a leash.”
Angelica turns to the children: “Let’s go.”
Willie, with his childish language of truncated words, cried out: “Dessert, I want my dessert!
Angelica grabbed the plate and took the boy by the hand: “I’ll bring it upstairs for you.” Then, to the others: “Bring your plates upstairs.”
Emma wouldn’t leave her be: You know, when I was falling in love with Robert, I was certain that he’d make me very unhappy. I also knew that no other unhappiness would be sweeter.”
Juliet, by standing up, dropped her plate on purpose. Bertha imitated her. The shatter of porcelain only caused Emma to blink as she kept speaking: “Did you know, children, what is the most passionate manifestation of hate? The hate between husband and wife. It’s part of the tradition. Don’t be frightened. Look at your mother and father and learn! So, when your time comes, you’ll be ready to face the most unbearable part of your life!”
Robert’s expression as he looked at his wife was, in fact, a look of hate. He stood still, silent, a wine glass clutched in his hand.
Emma stared at him: “The true mystery is that I desire you, and I’ve uttered thousands of words of love to you. And I still do. Why?”
Calm and resolute, Angelica said, “The children and I are going now.” She started off with the children, but Emma jumped to her feet and held her back by her dress: “When a woman is evil, she lets off an awful smell. And there is no perfume strong enough to hide the stench. What did you put on? It’s a French smell. Where did you find the money to pay for Guerlain perfume?”
“Don’t touch me!”
Emma lets her go: “Whatever rights you think you have to have acquired by your dealings with the father of your charges, I will not tolerate that you incite my children against me, their mother!”
Angelica ushered the girls and boys toward the door: “I don’t incite anyone against anyone. I educated your children as you and your husband requested.”
Emma followed her, raising her voice: “My husband, yes. I love my husband. Remember that. You don’t know that love. I am him. I am a woman and a man. I am inside his skin. I feel his organs, even those I don’t have! Even those he uses with you! Don’t delude yourself; they are not rightfully yours!” and having said that, she spat in her face. Angelica stared at Emma. She did not say anything. She did not wipe the spit off. She pushed the children out and closed the door behind her.
Robert was holding the crystal glass so tightly that it shattered. He cut himself. Blood and wine stained the tablecloth.
“There will come a day…” Emma told him, “…where you will ask me to forgive you. It might be too late. I might not want to anymore. I might not be able to anymore.” She slowly drank the entire glass of wine to the last drop. Then she shattered her glass against the corner of the table and, arming herself with a large shard that had remained in her hand, concluded: “You have to kick her out before I rape her with this! Fire the whore, then we’ll part. She smiled an ugly black smile. Then, suddenly, she fainted, collapsing to the floor.