The Dawn Of Sin

"If you want to rest, I can come back later."

"No. You're keeping me company after all. So, what about that day? It certainly wasn't me. I never thought I'd behave like this. My life is prayer. I pray a lot, you know? I pray all day and think about the church. I spend my life for it, and only for it: Holy Mother Church. And… wait. Before we go

any further, I'd like to know one thing. What do the doctors say? Will I get well soon?"

"Of course you will, don't worry. In fact, I'm sure you'll be home in a few days."

"But they still have me tied up on the cot. The straps pull a bit at my wrists. But it's better that way. "If I get excited, my wounds will open up again."

(The interviewer does not actually have any wounds.)

"There was a lot of death, and we need to figure out what happened that night."

"I… I don't know. If I speak, I will condemn my apostolate forever. The truth will drive me from the cathedral."

"Rest assured. No one will send you away."

"Sure, and… morphine, you say? Do I really get morphine? But you're not hallucinating?"

"I don't know. I think she is."

(He's not on morphine, even though he thinks he is).

"Can you confirm what you said at the church?"

"When the rescuers found me, you say? Those angels were good, you know? I was in a pool of blood. But I was conscious, and I told them everything."

"Could you tell me again? Do you feel up to it?"

"I don't feel like it, but I feel like I have to testify, even if no one will believe me. I think God saw what is hatching under the ashes of our poor country. There is a dark plan, and he knows it. But he can't let men make it right. We need you to intervene. There is an urgent need for his mercy."

"Please tell us a few facts, possibly without trying to interpret them."

"But these are the facts. Then there are the details. And then, don’t be so polite with me."

"Okay. We'll be on a first-name basis. Go on…"

"As you know, I live in the sacristy of the cathedral, which gives me a chance to, you know, live the church. Because I live and feel the church. I have an intense, I would say

physical, relationship with the cathedral. The vaults, the naves, the gilded coffered ceiling, Lotto's painting, because the Madonna and Child is by Lorenzo Lotto, the stuccoes and the frescoes, all things that make faith something material, to touch and venerate. Sometimes, when the church is closed, I pray in front of the altar. I have been suffering from insomnia for years, and that night, I believe around 3:00 a.m., I was on my knees, my hands reaching out to recite a Pater Noster, when I heard a crash coming from the street. Right in front of the church."

"Yes, I remember that terrible accident."

"A person died that night. But I didn't know until later. When I heard the crash, I ran to see what had happened, but I couldn't get out. I tried but… but… but… well, now it's getting hard to go on…"

"Make an effort and try to explain what happened."

"It isn’t easy, boy. The horror of living it is a wound that never heals. However, the door that led from the church to the sacristy had suddenly closed. A squeak, and then a squeak, as if someone had slammed it. I thought it was a joke. Then the other doors closed. Then I was frightened. I was no longer thinking of a joke, but of thieves. If some crook comes into the church, there's stuff to steal, and it's all valuable stuff, you know? I thought it was Alberto, a drug addict who lives in the neighbourhood. He often comes in to steal alms. Anyway, all the doors were locked. The one under the aisles leading to the exit, the one to the crypt, where the saint's remains are. And right there, underground, something happened."

(pause, due to the nurse's entrance. I hide the recorder again. None of the staff in the psychiatry department know I'm here for an interview. The nurse leaves. (I'll resume with questions)

"What happened underground?"

"Something that made me think no more of a joke or Alberto the Larvone. I heard thudding. Deaf and gloomy thumps that froze me, while outside the church I heard the screams, the crackling of the fire, the stench of burning car smoke.

Outside, I could feel the terror of the people in the neighbourhood. But inside… inside the church I could hear those thumps coming from underneath. The pews were moving and jumping and crawling on the marble floor. I thought it was the earthquake again, but it wasn't until later that I heard that there was no tremor.

I had the feeling that what was happening was, like, a license from earthly things. The manifestation of an invisible will. I don't know why, but I realized it must have been something evil. Something far from God. Is the recorder working? Are you always recording everything?"

"It's working, and I'm recording. So the doors were closed. And you could hear these shots."

"That's right. I got scared to death and started praying. As an old Christian I did it in Latin. Agnus Dei, qui toleris peccata mundi, miserere nobis. But recommending me to God seemed to do no good. It was then that an unusual anger arose in me. You see, boy, I presume to call myself a quiet man, a mild-mannered, shy man, that's why I'm ashamed to remember what I did afterwards…"

(There is a pause, it is clearly confusing. He resumes his speech as soon as he regains some clarity.)

"I mean, the point is, why wasn't I in my right mind? Why did I feel crazy? The merciful Lord knows that madness is the thing I pray for day and night. Insanity is a wound of God's will, a wound of thought, and far from the soul, that soul so dear to our God. Madness is not an expression of the evil one. Therefore, if I have to choose, I would like to be insane and nothing else. Do you know what I mean?"

(I nod without comment)

"All right. Let's pretend I'm not crazy. Then, I, the undersigned Simone Pietrangeli, sacristan, man who lives in the fear of God, that night felt obliged to do horrible things. I don't know how to explain it to you…"

"I know you hurt yourself."

"Yes. But the pain, however unbearable, was nothing. It was the humiliating actions I had done before I was scourged, the actions that offended God, that tore me apart."

"Can you go into details?"

"I… I… I can't."

"I'll help you get to the point. On the file, on page 12, and excuse my bluntness, you're talking about masturbation. We're all adults here. We know everyone does it. Men, women, old men, boys and, why not, even sacristan like you. There's nothing bad or so sinful about it."

"Nothing bad? You don't understand. I'm not just a sacristan. I'm a hasty priest. A former priest who masturbates in church, in front of the altar, and you don't see anything wrong with that? A Christian who pulls out his penis and enjoys soiling his sacred vestments with semen. I think that's evil. Outside the church people were dying, I could hear the screams, you know? What about me? What was I doing? I was enjoying it! Enjoying and laughing like crazy. I was the devil who was scarring the house of God. And then I did other things. Unspeakable things…"

(cries)

"Let's look at this from a secular perspective. We have the results of the blood tests. You had a blood alcohol level four times normal. A very high concentration of ethanol. You know what that means, don't you?"

"I beg you, don't put me in front of my responsibilities so brutally."

"Being an alcoholic is not a fault."

"I see where you're going with this. All right, I'll drink. I have a problem with alcohol, all right. But that night, I could

really feel the blows. It was coming from the crypt. They were getting louder and louder. It sounded like the marble floor was splintering.

I remember after I did those disgusting things, I dragged myself to the lectern and read some passages from the Bible."

"Do you remember which ones?"

"I recited a passage from the Apocalypse of the Apostle John. What it says: "And when those thousand years are fulfilled, Satan will be released from his prison and will come out to seduce the nations that are in the four corners of the earth. Then I think I have… God forgive me. I believe I have urinated on the Holy Scriptures. That's when I tried to rebel."

"You spoke of scourging."

"That's right. I used the silver crucifix. I took it from the altar before I started hitting myself. I stabbed myself over and over again. I wanted to get the evil, the sin out of my body. Blood was pouring out from under my torn clothes. I don't know how many times I stabbed my right kidney, turning the crucifix stick into it. The more I hurt myself, the louder the thumps in the crypt got louder. I could hear them getting darker and deafer. This is the last thing I remember."

(He is clearly proven at this moment. A nurse came and waved me out. I stop asking questions.)

"Thanks for everything, Simone. But I'll let you rest now. I'll come back to see you soon, I promise."

"Look, I care, boy. I have a lot of things to tell you. Oh… before you go, let me bring you some chamomile tea."

End of recording.

5

Sandra Magnoli only smoked six cigarettes a day and none at work, although her colleagues usually did.

She was a second level employee at the immigration office of the municipality of Castelmuso, and was involved in family reunions, seasonal work, and conversion of residence permits.

There was a lot of bureaucracy in her work, but there was also the opportunity to do something practical for a mass of desperate people pushing the gates of the rich West. On his desk was a series of files, through which she had to decide the fate of an unknown number of Afghan refugees, Korean dissidents exhausted by a communist regime outside of history, and the relocation of migrants arriving from Lampedusa. In her office the miseries ignored the colour of the skin.

When the Freecorporation Media, the company that organized the Next Generation, sent her the tickets for the trip, Sandra thought to refuse, but the director wanted to gratify her by giving her a week's back vacation. For Daisy, her daughter, that would have been her first trip to Milan.

The two women boarded at Falconara airport and landed at Malpensa airport. On that day, due to a transport strike, mother and daughter did not find particularly convenient connections. However, Daisy and Sandra had the Freecorporation Media car, a champagne-coloured sedan with the TV programme logo printed on the sides.

A taciturn cameraman with a corporate cap over his eyes and a sticky author wearing a boring grey split, were at Daisy's beck and call.

The two women stayed at the Cosmopolitan Hotel, a stone's throw from La Scala theatre. The temple of great music was there, keeping a strict watch over the golden dreams of a sixteen-year-old girl. Within two days, Daisy was instructed on how she should perform on stage at the Millennium Arena. This was a tensile structure to the west of the Lombard capital, a fascinating monster made of cables, ropes and fibreglass. It could hold about 8,000 people.

Seen from the outside, the arena showed curved, light and harmonious shapes, and it was a pity that it was dismantled after each edition of Next Generation. The municipality of Milan owned the area where the Millennium was located. The contract provided that the twenty thousand square meters rented were occupied for no more than three months a year, at a cost of three hundred thousand euros per month. The Millennium was elegant and evanescent, an Arab phoenix made of tubes, Teflon and polyester, as it was defined by a theatre critic.

Now, inside that arena, and in front of millions of people, the finalists of one of Italy's most popular talent were about to perform.

Adriano watched the silvery, glittering reflections of the moon as it lay on the dark waters of the sea.

The treatment prescribed by Dr Salieri was a powerful cocktail of nortriline and flufenazine. His quality of life had definitely improved. He no longer stammered, the trembling of his hands had diminished and he walked without dawdling like a zombie.

Downstairs, the guests were waiting for the connection. The room was large and bright because of a huge window that took up the space of two walls. The modern, refined furnishings included a glass table, bar corner, cream-colored leather armchairs and sofas crammed with friends and family of the Magnoli family.

Chatter and laughter resounded from the stairwell. Adriano could hear the beers crackling, the clink of toasts, his aunt wheezing with honours, the baritone voice of Uncle Ambrogio urging his friends to eat hamburgers and salmon mousse canapés.

"Adry, it's about to start! Come on, get down, I can't understand a bat with Sky remote controls” shouted her cousin Annetta, looking out over the stairs.

Adriano came down into the living room appreciating the fact that he was moving, if not with ease, in any case with discreet confidence.

"Adriano, you're a phenomenon! Daisy is on television thanks to you, do you realize?" complimented Franco Leni called Franz, the bearded, light-skinned neighbour, beer-drinker's belly and German face.

Franz had brought his fat wife, his three children, and a considerable amount of barbecued sausages.

"If you hadn't written that piece, we wouldn't be here bothering you" exclaimed his uncle, a skinny, nervous guy who wore a grisaille for the occasion and was proud to wear it at a village party.

Everyone had noticed how much better Adriano was doing. The effect of the new medication would last for at least a couple of months. Then, because of the addiction, the hallucinations would begin again. At which point the psychiatrist would have to establish a new treatment.

The rotation of medicines was essential to allow the boy a dignified quality of life, but at the risk of dangerously poisoning certain organs.

The liver, of course, was the most at risk. But his young age, combined with a diet that did not include alcohol consumption, was a good antidote that would keep him safe from the side effects of medicines. And Adriano was feeling particularly well that night.

The program was about to begin. The uncles had sunk on the couch, alert and excited, and Annetta was shivering with tension. Franz was sitting next to his wife, but kept at arm's length from a row of beer bottles as the children came and went from the garden, noisy and involved in the festive atmosphere. Antonio Bruzzi, the other neighbour, was a retired marshal with a navy background. He had carefully sat in the armchair furthest from the television.

Since his wife's death, the retiree had been suffering from depression and found that at his age, everything made little sense.

He had accepted Sandra's invitation as a courtesy. But now that he was there, he had to admit to himself that he found the company of all those excited and cheerful people pleasant.

After a row of bombastic commercials sponsoring the event, the theme song for Next Generation began.

In the living room, there was a loud buzz. Daisy, their little Daisy, was about to make her talent show debut.

On stage, dazzled by powerful lasers, appeared the slender figure of a young woman.

"Here she is. It's her!" screamed Annetta as she leapt to her feet, her finger pointed at the screen like the barrel of a gun.

"That's the announcer. Don't make a mess and stay down” her husband told her, pulling her by a flap of his shirt and making her butt plunge back into the soft cushions of the sofa.

"But when do they frame her?" Franz's wife asked impatiently, holding her hands on her chest, her heart beating with a hammer.

"It's still early” explained Adriano's uncle, the only one who regularly watched all the episodes of the talent broadcast on Channel 104.

"The jury presents first. Actually, they are the stars of the show. At some point they will call the contestants one by

one. The guys will sing and dance for a minute. The good guys go on for a minute. The others go home."

Adriano observed the group gathered around the TV. He knew they were to be considered his bodyguards. His mother had invited them in order not to leave him alone. Sandra called from Milan to see if everything was all right. Her sister reassured her. A quick hello to her son, and everyone crossed their fingers.

Sandra stood backstage at the Millennium Arena, more stunned than excited. Lasers were cutting through the stage. The head-clacks at the foot of the bleachers sweated under the headphones and waved to cheer the audience on, but there was no need for that as the screams, energy and frenzy were completely spontaneous.

Rows of screaming boys raised banners wearing t-shirts with photos of their friends ready to take to the stage to sing.

The presenter, sheathed in a sequined dress, announced the arrival of the Next Generation jurors.

The four of them walked down the bleachers through the bleachers in a forest of arms waving like reeds in the wind.

The chairman of the jury was Sebastian Monroe, the format's author, a coarse New Zealand producer called Gold Nose – a nickname for his unerring nose for finding talent, but one that also referred to his nasal septum, which had been tried for years on cocaine.

Sebastian, impatient with the rules of show business, where everything had to be politically correct, was a misguided, indisposed, often drunk guy; he had no trouble getting a whisky on the air, or arguing with someone in the audience. The only prohibition was smoking: if he showed himself in public with a cigarette in his mouth, the sponsors would abandon the program. However, a certain quarrelling and a few vices in the protected band were tolerated, if not even encouraged, since they usually produced record peaks in the audience.

That evening, Sebastian showed up with an unkempt beard, a t-shirt greyed under his armpits with haloes of sweat and a bad mood. The other jurors were three parvenu of show business. Jenny Lio was an African singer who had sold two million records thanks to a song that had been at the top of the charts in fifteen countries for three weeks. It was catchy, childish. No big deal. Jenny Lio's artistic biography was like a layer of honey. It's a pity that in her curriculum vitae was omitted an arrest made in her youth: getting caught in Tripoli with a brick of hashish hidden in her suitcase wasn't the best for those who, like her, sang cartoon theme songs.

The other star of the jury was Isabella Larini, famous not so much for her singing qualities as for being the interpreter of a recent summer catchphrase. It was a song to dance to with stale spanking, hands between her tits and winking touches between her thighs. On the beaches and campsites the animators had imposed Isabella's Dance. By the time the autumn arrived, everyone had already forgotten about her.

The last juror was Alessandro Boni, aka Circe. A Drag Queen with an imposing physique and excessive makeup. A brilliant conversationalist, but without any particular artistic talent. They had built a sadomasochistic reputation around her, just to add some substance to the character.

Circe had made the news for ruining the political career of a congressman who had fallen in love with her. Someone had filmed the congressman in a hotel room, completely naked, his ankles and wrists tied to the side of the bed. Circe was accused of kidnapping, harassment, and drug dealing. There was a trial, where the verdict finally spoke of ʺA sex games between consenting adultsʺ. The heads of the prosecution fell and Circe was acquitted in full. The result was one less congressman and one more TV personality.

Now, the four jurors, the souls scratched by human sins, were ready to judge the contestants in the race. The first artist was called Fernando Ramirez. He was a young

Mexican who entered the United States illegally before the Trump Administration allocated $2 billion to raise the walls along the border.

Fernando, once past the curtain, was caught robbing a gas station in a remote Texas desert town. ʺI had to eatʺ, he told the public.

Arrested and kicked out by the feds, penniless, he embarked on an adventurous journey that took him overseas. Now, for some years, he had been living in Rovigo, a guest of second generation uncles and cousins.

Fernando, with his olive skin and black, fiery eyes, after touching everyone with his story, began to sing. He had a rough and engaging voice, and the audience appreciated the performance by peeling their hands with a remote-controlled applause from the leader.

Three out of four judges found the performance convincing.

Sebastian Monroe voted against, explaining that in his opinion the boy was barely an amateur, a smartass who wanted to pity them with his sob story. The public booed outraged at that statement, and Sebastian responded with the middle finger. The web went wild. There was a hailstorm of insults on the socials, controversy raged and the share went up half a point.

Other competitors followed. Some were amazingly good, others were talentless, but eccentric enough to capture the public's attention. The authors of the program gave them a strategic location to raise the audience's attention.

They spent a few commercials inviting viewers to buy products that were voluptuous, but so seductive and captivating that they were indispensable.

After a flurry of dream cars, fine perfumes and designer clothes, the live broadcast could begin again.

The share was around eight per cent when Daisy Magnoli took the stage.

Her young, perfect, restless face, smiling, shrewd eyes, and short pastel-colour dress immediately attracted the jury's attention. ʺHere we are another creature who could lose his innocence behind the glittering world of show business, the judges thought, more or less, they knew they were looking at a potential character.

"Hey, everybody! Aren't you going to say anything? Isn't this little girl a beauty?" Sebastian Monroe exclaimed, addressing the audience who responded to his solicitation with a round of applause.

"Jenny, what do you think of this flower that suddenly blossomed on stage?" Sebastian insisted, repeating the lines on the monitor.

"A truly splendid lily, Sebastian. But I don't like your tone; it sounds like the hum of a bee hunting for pollen, if you know what I mean. And it's underage” Jenny remarked, scrolling through the lines written on the hunchback by the authors.

"Oh, come on, Jenny, you know you're the flower of my dreams” Sebastian replied with a resolution.

Circe didn't read any of the lines, preferring to go on the arm.

"Come on, dear Daisy. Why don't you tell us something about yourself?"

"Hello, everyone” smiled Daisy, who, in spite of her age and with some wonder, was not at all uncomfortable. Being the centre of attention always gave her a thrill of pleasure.

"My name is Daisy. Daisy Magnoli. I come from Castelmuso, a village of 15,000 inhabitants, not far from the Adriatic Sea…"

Daisy continued by reciting some other banality about her high school life, but without the liveliness demanded by the authors.

"Is that all?" Sebastian exclaimed, pretending to be disappointed. "I hope that shyness hides a great talent,

otherwise…" Sebastian spread his arms, as if to say: ʺWhat did you come to do? To disappoint all these people? ʺ

Daisy knew that the program's set list included a few mandatory steps: the jury would start with compliments, so to boost the share they would provoke her into trouble. All she had to do was stand up to the jurors' assaults.

It was all planned.

Now all she had to do was sing I’m Roseand she would become a celebrity.

6

Guido felt a chill running down his shoulder blades. Daisy was about to perform in front of millions of Italians.

"That asshole Sebastian! Did you see how the hell he treated her? Who does he think he is?" Manuel Pianesi was so angry that he spilled the beer on the sofa cushions, making Guido swear.