He jerks the wheel again.
These Afro-Sicilians always blocking traffic. Cagnotto leans on the horn.
The Afro-Sicilian at the wheel sticks his Rasta head out the window.
Cagnotto gives him a chilling grin.
Turi Pirrotta’s liver is on fire—his liver, not the goose liver on offer at the buffet—if only he could handle that, he’d gladly eat Wanda’s liver too, that goose he had married when he was a kid, and who thank God seemed to have found herself a boyfriend recently because she was busting his balls much less than usual.
At home, that is.
Because on official occasions, ball-buster that she is, she loves to show up with her dear husband at her side, revered, adored, respected, and admired.
Only that just now the mayor of Siracusa had pretended not to see him and the president of the fucking province of Siracusa had chatted with him for a millisecond and then headed off with some excuse, and the commissioner for public works of Pozzallo had given him the smart-ass treatment, and Bad Luck Wanda had that look on her face that said she was about to start torturing him right here in public.
Her eyes were burning with the acid question that her lips were posing: Isn’t there something you should be telling me?
There’s absolutely fuck-all I should be telling you, Turi Pirrotta’s fixed smile continued to reply.
But the fact is that word has been spreading, this is the kind of news you can’t keep secret. His business rival, Alfio Turrisi, privately known as Alfio Dickhead Turrisi, that moron who has people calling him “Mister” Turrisi, has been gobbling up all the real estate between Rosolini and Ispica, where it is pretty clear by now that drillers have struck oil.
An American company had gotten the natural gas rights but the documents spoke of “liquid extraction rights” and down at the regional assembly environmentalists, engineers, and commissioners, all of whom were intent on their own interests, were squabbling over whether those “liquids” included petroleum.
Meanwhile, however, it was to be expected that someone would grab the titles to those properties, and Turrisi, with his alluring liquidity, his favorable pound-euro exchange rate (for he was well introduced among London banks), and his perfect dick of a face … well, everyone knows that the guy with the dick-face always manages to screw his neighbor.
London!
Hey, Turi Pirrotta himself could have gone into business in London if it hadn’t been for that disaster of a wife of his who in his younger days had kept him on a leash shorter than a pit bull’s. And if it hadn’t been for that double disaster of a daughter of his, Betty, who for all the paternal goodwill in the world had turned out to be a supreme ball-breaker, with a cherry so well chiseled that even the artisans who carved the putti in the houses designed by Vaccarini couldn’t compete.
Under these conditions, the last thing you want to do is be seen on some public occasion. You want to be seen staying home and plotting—what’s it called?—strategy, vendettas, war, and all that shit. You don’t go to the big lunch where the mayor of Siracusa comes up to you, stares at you with that cocksucker face of his that says it all, pauses a moment to see if you have anything to tell him, you who have nothing to tell him because all the land is being sold to Turrisi, and then moves on, with an excuse, to somebody else.
And then they complain when they get blown away.
What is Pirrotta supposed to do? Go out and gun down the brokers, the real estate agents, threaten the property owners, blow things up? He’s too old for that kind of stuff. And meanwhile Turrisi is young and energetic.
Turrisi is young, energetic, and, as we said, a dick-face.
And he doesn’t have his nerves shredded by someone like Wanda who if you didn’t take her to the big lunch with stars of stage and screen would have raised such a firestorm at home that Pirrotta would have had to forget about slipping out to see Rosina, a girl so fine—young, pretty, sweet-smelling, and not even that much of a bitch—that Pirrotta can’t figure out why the Good Lord has given her to him.
Mister Turrisi is fiddling with his hair with the mother-of-pearl comb he keeps in the glove compartment of the Aston Martin.
He has found a place for the car in Piazza Duca di Genova because he knows the guy who runs the illegal parking operation there, and now, climbing the double-ramp staircase of Mt. Etna basalt, he walks though the reception rooms, laid out for the party but deserted.
Turrisi’s Brylcreemed head pokes out onto the terrace, where he sees that the party is well under way. Good. Someone of Mister Turrisi’s status should arrive after things have gotten warmed up.
With the nice weather the guests have all migrated to the south terrace, where, admiring the black basalt walls with their flowers, putti, and muscular columns sculpted of Siracusa limestone, they are broiling under the sun because in houses like this it is cooler inside than out.
But how could they live without that magnificent view of the traffic and the upholsterers, the street salesmen looking up with humility and admiration on that glorious festive crowd sporting here and there even a hat or two? How to resist that terrace that if only by a few meters stood above everyday plebeian mundanity? Who could forgo that ineffable caress that only a glance of envy can deliver?
The recent, but solid, success of Turrisi is quickly confirmed by the Baronessa Faillaci, who throws herself on him shrieking so all can hear. “Mister Turrisi!”
Turrisi, flashing a measured smile, inwardly exults. He has been recognized by the aristocracy at last! He can hardly wait to invite some of them to his home in Pembridge Square, Notting Hill, and show his English partners, who still appreciate that sort of thing, God save the Queen, that he has real aristocratic connections.
“My dear Baronessa.” Turrisi is in a bit of a bind, he wants to kiss her hand but she has already clamped herself to his arm. Someone had once explained to him that true distinction lies in not betraying emotion, so all he manages is a stiff half bow.
Pirrotta wishes they would all go screw themselves: actors, comedians, showgirls, aspiring directors, aspiring choreographers, aspiring scriptwriters, aspiring whatevers, commissioners, counselors, mayors, wives, lovers, girlfriends, bitches, sluts, tarts, cognoscenti and other smart-asses, businessmen, tradesmen, financiers and financees, vote-getters and vote-buyers, mentors, protectors, PR managers and spin doctors, decorators, drug dealers, doctors, dentists, plastic surgeons, pharmacists, theater directors, bank directors, lawyers, judges, and associates.
News, as we know, is born in the world of business, moves from there to the world of politics, then to society, and from there to sleaze. The moment a piece of news gets down to the sleaze level, it means it’s in the public domain. The baroness who’s hanging on Turrisi’s arm is an eloquent signal: everyone knows how matters stand, everyone at that instant knows that the Pirrotta family is on the way out.
Cagnotto cannot be late.
He owes his reputation to a couple of artistic seasons financed once by one commissioner, then by another, hoping to showcase, as a brochure put it, their “leading role in the context of cultural activities to relaunch Sicily as a Mediterranean nexus and crossroads for exchange among peoples” assisted by the purchase of expensive advertising supplements in La Voce della Sicilia, which guarantees the favor of local critics for the commissioners’ initiatives and also by default for Cagnotto’s experimental productions, staged, once again in the words of the brochure, “in urban spaces that are prime examples of industrial architecture,” i.e., lofts.
All of this naturally had the patronage and benediction of Sicilian Regional Commissioner Murabito.
Cagnotto had recently redone his kitchen, and, after having read in Amica that minimalism was out not only on the fashion runways but also in interiors, had tried to correct his course halfway through the project. Even he, even before Amica said so, had begun to tire of those receptions where guests studied a single halogen lamp lighting up a bare white wall while they toyed with a celery stalk do
used in vodka. In place of the “open space look,” he had installed five “settings” : the solid “Victorian look”; flaming zebra-striped kitsch; the seventies “orange look”; the “musician look” complete with a Petrof baby grand piano; and finally, his favorite, the “bed corner,” with three white sofas surrounding an orgy futon in place of a coffee table. He had also bought up three whole collections (balls, elephants, and cigarette cases) and scattered them around. Then he had dumped a whole truckload of fine gravel on the floor of the guest room and built a fake waterfall, no expense spared for the engine that pumped the water. And finally he had brightened up the home theater corner with a leopard skin complete with sparkling eyes and a great big grinning mouthful of teeth.
It was definitely time someone signed him up for a new theater season.
It has been at least two weeks since he has given even a simple dinner for twelve and the fancy food shops still won’t extend him zero-interest credit with no down payment. And what’s more, he doesn’t have the slightest theatrical inspiration, and, having run through all the avant-gardes that there are, envies authors of a classical persuasion who can make do with a love story, a couple of homicides, and some bourgeois family drama.
Cagnotto parks the BMW X5 on the sidewalk of Via Archi della Marina, next to a Chinese guy selling cheap junk. He ignores the Chinese curses coming at him and, dodging between the cars, aims for the reception.
Seventy-year-old Contessa Salieri, the historic queen of Catania bitchdom and now the undisputed light of the city’s intellectual life, signals it is time to go inside, whispering in the ear of her companion, thirtysomething Arturo Paino, the up-and-coming commissioner for culture of San Giovanni la Punta, “We’d better get off the terrace; it’s too hot and I left the number of the ambulance service in my other bag.”
Paino debates whether he should laugh admiringly at the Contessa’s irony and youthful spirit, but, watching her clutch the stonework as she presses into the grand salone, he decides not to.
And so, as the grateful crowds begin to stream off the terrace, the Contessa and Commissioner Paino are the first people to cross Cagnotto’s path as he hastens over the polychrome majolica tile floor of 1711.
“Contessa! My deep and most sincere admiration,” shouts Cagnotto, breathing heavily and trying to kiss her hand, the loose skin of her forearm lasciviously bound up in the bushels of bracelets she’s wearing.
The Contessa’s mouth opens on the biggest set of dentures Cagnotto has ever seen apart from the teeth on the leopard flattened on the floor of his house—or maybe it’s that the Contessa is shrinking around that Godzilla set of teeth. From the makeup she is wearing it looks as if she has fallen face down in a plate of ripiddu nivicatu, the Catania gastronomic specialty inspired by Mt. Etna: rice tinted black with cuttlefish ink and piled up like a volcano with a splash of red sauce for the lava spilling out and a dollop of cream on top for snow.
“Hey, great to see you,” yells Cagnotto, pretending to notice Arturo Paino just at that moment.
“Ah, Cagnotto, I have big plans for you,” says Paino, automatically looking away. “I just spoke with my fellow … uh … party member, you know who I mean, yes?” he adds, looking the other way.
“Padovani?” asks Cagnotto, his voice going wobbly.
Paino nods, gazing at the Contessa with loathing.
“Dear Arturo,” says the Contessa, “he always has a nice thought for everyone, don’t you agree, Cagnotto?”
Cagnotto makes a you could have fooled me gesture with a rapid shake of his head, adding, “What would we do without him? Oh, by the way, Commissioner, I called to make an appointment with you last week …”
“And I preceded you! I’ve already spoken to the mayor and we agreed that San Giovanni la Punta can’t go another year without one of your productions. We’d like of course to do a whole season, but for that we’ll have to join forces with some other town, budgets being what they are.”
“But nobody … I haven’t heard from anyone.”
“Dear Arturo, he’s so sensitive about letters, about the spirit,” says the Contessa, gazing at him fondly.
“Nobody?” says Paino, staring at Cagnotto.
Nobody, nobody, signals Cagnotto with a swipe of his head.
“Mister Turrisi, allow me to present Signor Timpanaro,” chirps young Baronessa Faillaci, who has only just come out and can’t wait to present someone to someone else. As the last to be introduced, she’s eager to introduce someone and be the penultimate.
“Mister Turrisi, very pleased to meet you.” Timpanaro is emaciated and has dandruff, along with a suit that hangs on him, not that you could find a suit narrow enough to fit Timpanaro.
Turrisi shakes his hand. He has no problems about the proportions between his belly and his sleeve length, he doesn’t give a fuck about odd sizes, he has a London tailor—two, actually: Turnbull & Asser at 23 Bury Street.
“I’m told you have interests in the London theater.”
Turrisi, rather than nod, makes a little bow, like a very genteel nod. “Well, yes indeed, I’m thinking about it. I do love to walk through the streets of Soho in the evening, and between us, I might add, I’ve been taken by a certain … ah … appetite for the stage.”
Timpanaro smiles at the Baronessa, who is gazing with a certain admiring wonder at Turrisi and his interesting diction. “Soho! Marvelous! All those movie stars pounding the boards! But wait, couldn’t we organize something in Soho? Some auditions … a Sicilian production in London, maybe a translation of Nino Martoglio …”
What business does he think I’m in? Turrisi wonders to himself. I like Soho because it’s full of models and the model business is in the hands of the Afro-Brits—and I have some deals going with the Afro-Brits. But as for the theater, I don’t have any, ah … introductions, those English bastards are real snobs, but just wait till I make some aristocratic friends here and bring them back to London where, God save the Queen, these things still count, and then we’ll see about those shitheads who come to the bank for loans and then play the snob. So let me organize something in London for this Timpanaro and we’ll see.
“Excellent idea, Signor Timpanaro, call me … call me in the office.”
In Turrisi’s mind, lines of credit are already piling up, letters of introduction, stage shows bombing out that could be used to launder truckloads of money. And to think that in the early days he used to go and launder money in the currency exchange at the airport.
Cagnotto, what with the heat, the rush, the stress, the disappointment, and the bills to pay, is feeling light-headed. So he decides to grab something at the buffet, which thanks to the region’s largesse is abundant: eggplant parmigiana and caponata oozing with olive oil, cauliflower buried under anchovies and olives and sautéed with cheese, fried zucchini flowers, risotto alla pescatora made with frozen mussels, involtini of eggplant and spaghetti (many thanks to the region they have not provided plastic forks, which as the Prince, a mathematics buff, would have said are incommensurable with eggplant and spaghetti involtini), ripiddu nivicatu, black spaghetti with cuttlefish in which the pieces of cuttlefish are big enough to destroy your dental work, veal cutlets, skewers of pork, mixed fry of small fish, mixed grill of large fish, mixed salad of midsized fish, shrimps and giant prawns.
Cagnotto decides to go for a giant prawn. He takes one and places it in the middle of his plate, puts a knife and fork next to it, and realizes that in all of Palazzo Biscari there is not one level surface on which to place the plate and behead the prawn. Okay, there are the mantelpieces of the two fireplaces but apart from the fact that they’re lit (they’re lit?) the fireplaces are as big as two garages and so the mantelpieces are too high.
Now his gaze falls, tumbles, collapses on Bobo: extremely tight white jeans (how long has it been since he has seen white jeans? not since the days of Charlie’s Angels, TV version), a shirt with very fine multicolored stripes open to his navel, a nicely modeled chest free of hair and adorned wi
th a plain red chain that clings to his Adam’s apple, from which hangs a pendant in the shape of a … car jack? No, it’s a Fascist, uh, bundle of sheaves, that is, the fasces … The fasces? No, maybe it’s a bunch of little daisies tied together with a blade of grass. Maybe.
“You … I must say … as usual … there’s no place to put the plate down,” Cagnotto says to him.
Bobo turns. Bobo has hair in fake casual disarray as you can only do when you have a lot of hair, a square jaw, nice cheekbones, and bored lips. Bobo looks with distaste at Cagnotto’s too-tight suit while Cagnotto tries to suck in his stomach. Bobo turns to look with greater interest at a casserole of baked rice.
Bobo smells of vanilla.
Cagnotto lowers his head over the giant prawn. In any case he doesn’t have the money to invite him to dinner. He feels as if he might burst into tears. When was this damn antidepressant going to kick in? He’s about to walk away, and then he remembers his grandmother’s famous saying, “Nobody gets anything for free.” (Actually, his grandmother used to say that to his sister, encouraging her to dress up like a tart so that she didn’t give away the men’s admiring glances to the competition, but he had been listening.)
Cagnotto sucks in his cheeks, making a molar that is loose because of periodontitis wobble. Sure, we all have a deep desire for intimate candor, for simple sincerity, moments in which we would like to capture our prey with just a nude, unarmed glance. But these are archaic dreams of a bucolic state, thinks Cagnotto. Adrift in the great, globalized metropolis, love has become war, a hunt where reciprocal diffidence, fear, and terror make appearances more important than sentiment. And if appearances are a weapon, they are a weapon Cagnotto can use, if it will get him that scent of vanilla!
Cagnotto turns on his heel. He comes to a halt next to Bobo. “I’m Cagnotto, Tino Cagnotto. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”
Sicilian Tragedee Page 3
