Hornby Simonetta Agnello

> We know next to nothing about her, and that's that. The fact is she was good at her job and liked being in charge, and that’s where everyone’s troubles began. Masters like having good workers, but they don't like being bossed around. If they had listened to her, they’d be richer still, but we always remain poor and slighted, even in death . This is how Don Paolino, former chauffeur to the Alfallipe family, sums up the fate of Maria Rosalia Inzerillo, known as the Mennulara, who died at the age of fifty-five. The novel opens with the woman’s death and slowly unravels the mystery of this «criata» (servant): born into utter poverty, she was forced from childhood to work harvesting almonds (hence her nickname); taken into service in the Alfallipe household, she became the shrewd administrator of an ailing estate; and ultimately took the helm of the family, ensuring its financial survival. This is how Orazio Alfallipe describes her, recalling the day he fell hopelessly in love with her. > I saw her, slender and petite. (...) She wore a pale slip, wet from splashes of water. I trained the binoculars on her, spellbound by the rhythmic sway of her body, her small, pointed breasts, and her youthful, harmonious arms. She was beautiful. (...) She watched me circumspectly, yet without fear. What is that?, she said, pointing to the binoculars. (...) Teach me how to look, she said. (...) A sense of wonder welled up in my chest, overwhelming me... The Mennulara’s death upends the small town of Roccacolomba, in a timeless Sicily: people pass judgment, often harshly critical, on the woman’s life, gossiping about the funeral and especially about the Alfallipes' conduct. The latter are convinced that the Mennulara harbored substantial hidden funds; they expect a rich inheritance, but find no such testamentary provisions. Growing increasingly exasperated, they fail to comply with the woman's directives regarding the obituary and the funeral. Yet even from the grave, she continues to direct the family, forcing them to do her bidding; in particular, she leaves precise instructions to retrieve ancient Greek ceramics and have them appraised by an expert. Because these artifacts had been purchased from grave robbers—and thus could not be legitimately traded—the Mennulara had commissioned copies, and it was these that were submitted for appraisal, securing a certificate of forgery that would allow the pieces to be taken abroad and sold. Blinded by greed and foolishness, the Alfallipes cannot conceive of so clever an expedient; their disdain for the Mennulara, a mere «criata», leads them to suspect some obscure deception. Yet hadn't she served them all her life, salvaging their estate? She was a servant, nonetheless. Upon reading the appraisal, they believe they have been duped; overwhelmed by rage and hatred for the woman, in a fury they shatter both the counterfeit copies and the authentic originals. Before the astonished and amused town, they divest themselves of their long-awaited inheritance and squander the last vestiges of their respectability. In devastating the ceramics, they also obliterate the «mute witness» to the relationship between Orazio and the Mennulara, and to their shared passion for art and history. Must the feelings of a «criata» be respected in a timeless Sicily? Certainly not. The question is whether the Mennulara is a positive figure, an engine of social change, or if her story is, once again, the testimony of a defeat, the acceptance of an inevitable and immutable destiny. Indeed, the Mennulara believed she could elevate herself («she had estranged herself from people of her own station») without altering social hierarchies; she renounced everything, endured a clandestine affair with her master, bore the contempt of the Alfallipes—for whom she was the cornerstone—and, in the end, failed to preserve her spiritual legacy, the collection of ceramics, the testament to an existence. The Mennulara is a defeated figure. But so too are the numerous characters of Roccacolomba: they gossip, at times they seem to rebel, at others they voice wise and benevolent reflections, yet they invariably yield to power and social immobility. This is the profound meaning of the novel, as well as of the figure of the Mennulara: there is no civic future for Sicily. The novel is nearly flawless up to page 152, up to the scene of the ceramics' destruction. Then, for reasons unknown, the author felt compelled to lay bare the Mennulara’s life, resorting to lengthy explanations rather than relying on the plot and the interplay of characters. It was needless, detrimental to the overall pacing of the narrative. It was a pity, as it drained the tension from the story. Why read it? It is enjoyable, engaging, «a majestic entertainment» (Aldo Busi)