Bobo, temporary salesclerk and aspiring actor, has heard of Tino Cagnotto. Yes indeed.
Cagnotto sets down the plate with the prawn. The faint feeling is gone and anyway he’s on a diet.
Betty Pirrotta bumps into a waiter bearing a tray of titties of St. Agatha, the little cassatelle in the shape of breasts that were invented in honor of the martyrdom of Agatha, Catania’s protectress.
How to describe the harmony of the spheres that suddenly descends on the numbered accounts and letters of credit, on the shortterm loans, on the bank lending rates and capital transfers?
Turrisi, fatal move, turns to look while the titties fly through the air, locking eyes for a second, sealing his fate and future punishment, with the blue orbs of that unknown young lady, blonder than all the babes of Chelsea.
Without thinking, Turrisi looks around for Pirronello, the photographer for La Voce della Sicilia, finds him, walks slowly over to him, leans over his ear, and, practically biting it off, murmurs something.
Pirronello slips—gracefully, due to his slight stature—back and forth among the guests, snapping a photo of Betty, who smiles and doesn’t get it.
“They were the most moving sight there, two young people in love dancing together, blind to each other’s defects, deaf to the warnings of fate, deluding themselves that the whole course of their lives would be as smooth as the ballroom floor, unknowing actors made to play the parts of Juliet and Romeo by a director who had concealed the fact that tomb and poison were already in the script,” says Caporeale.
“Screw Tomasi di Lampedusa and his Leopard; he was pretty fond of that aristocratic di, wasn’t he? However, it doesn’t seem to me that the guy in the zoot suit and the little blond blow-job artist are actually dancing together.”
“Who?”
Cosentino points with his chin.
“No, no, I was referring to Cagnotto and his new conquest.” Cosentino turns to look. “They’re not dancing either.”
“Wrong, those two are ballroom dancing, with the accent on ball.”
Goethe, in his Italian Journey, wrote of Palazzo Biscari:
CATANIA, MAY 3, 1787
We were about to take our leave when [the Prince] took us to his mother’s suite to see the rest of his smaller works of art. Then we were introduced to a distinguished-looking lady, who received us with the words, “Look around, you will find everything just as my dear husband arranged it. This I owe to the filial devotion of my son, who not only allows me to live in his best rooms but also will not allow a single object in his father’s collection to be removed or displaced. In consequence I enjoy the double advantage of living in the fashion I have been accustomed to for so long, and of making the acquaintance of eminent foreigners, who, as in former times, come here from far-off countries to look at our treasures …”
We were sorry to have to leave her and she was sorry to see us go.
On this occasion there is no sorrow in Palazzo Biscari when it comes time to bid the guests farewell. Nor are the guests sorry to leave the palazzo. Tight shoes, pinching bodices, sweaty crowd, melting makeup, and fried eggplant: all are grateful to see the end of the celebration in honor of Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli.
Outside, on the terrace, the white putti lit up by the sun look as if they need to take a piss.
CHAPTER FOUR
Car Theater Elegance
“Car Theater Elegance. E-Class Mercedes. Two 5.8-inch monitors in 16:9 format installed in the front headrests?” asks Turi Pirrotta, in the kitchen, reading aloud from a dealer’s brochure.
Betty’s face is sodden with tears and mascara is running down her cheeks. (When the fuck had she put on that mascara, when it was still practically dawn?) “Yeah, that’s right, the Mercedes with the TV,” says Betty, all pragmatism.
Last night Turi Pirrotta, feeling fucked over as always in recent months, needless to say because of that slimeball Turrisi and his petrochemical investments in the Ispica countryside, had to take two Ambien to go to sleep.
And a quarter of an hour ago he had been shaken out of bed by the shrieks of Betty, who was howling as if somebody were dissolving her body in quicklime.
Accustomed by now to his daughter’s hysterics, Pirrotta was only moderately concerned, and rose from his bed swearing, took a look at his wife (that other bitch who slept like a baby, with an eye mask on her face that looked like she was riding on a jumbo jet and two earplugs with cords like Tampax), put on his dressing gown, threaded his toes into his slippers, went flying as he tripped over the African footstool, got up somewhat rattled, ran to Betty’s room, and found her on her knees in the bathroom with her head inside the toilet bowl, while she vomited ranting nasally (the screams echoing off the porcelain of the toilet bowl), “That bitch Anna! They did an article about her in the paper. For that hopeless party of hers in Taormina. That ass-kissing-bitch-of-a-goddamned-whore!”
Her pale white arm pointing, Betty indicated La Voce della Sicilia , crumpled up and tossed in the sink.
Pirrotta took the newspaper, sat on the rim of the bathtub, put on his glasses which he took from the pocket of his dressing gown, crossed his legs (with a bit of difficulty), and read the article about the party hosted by his daughter’s best friend.
A party at the Panasia Beach in Taormina, with even a guy who was famous on television among the guests, it seemed. There was a half-page photo of Anna Pizzone, there was a photo of a watermelon cut like a starfish, and there was not even one little photo of Betty.
A catastrophe, to say the least.
“Frigging fucking water heaters,” Betty screamed again, in reference to the company selling and installing boilers owned by Anna Pizzone’s father, a company that, by buying regular advertising space in La Voce della Sicilia, guaranteed the daughter a suitable social profile.
Pirrotta nodded, folding the newspaper carefully (he had yet to read it and look at the shape it was in), took off his glasses, and speaking to no one in particular said, “What was that car that you liked?”
Betty raised her head from the toilet, shoved it back inside, coughed up for good measure the last stream of vomit, got up coolly, flushed the toilet while she wiped her mouth with her forearm, and said, “Wait, I have the brochure.”
They went to the kitchen and while the Filipina maid prepared their coffee Turi Pirrotta read the dealer’s brochure.
“Yeah, that’s right, the Mercedes with the TV,” says Betty.
Pirrotta recalls that when she was little, after the fainting fits (Betty, pubescent, used to pass out when she wanted something), his daughter would look at him with big eyes all red from crying and afford him that paternal joy that at least repays some of the sacrifices you make for a family. Now Betty has become more pragmatic, like her mother, and despite the rivulets of mascara has a shark’s expression stamped on her face.
Pirrotta, who has also grown pragmatic, to get her to stop throwing her guts up, and above all to get her off his ass, goes into his study, makes a couple of calls, and gets an assurance that the Mercedes will be delivered right away. “I don’t give a fuck about the papers, just tell the dealer to send it to me as is.”
Brand-new, flaming red, shining, the Mercedes is parked this morning on the gravel in front of Villa Wanda’s neoclassical entrance. In the center of the gravel is a full-scale reproduction of Liotru, the elephant that is Catania’s symbol, the only difference being that here the water flows out of the trunk.
Betty Pirrotta stares at the car with a contempt alloyed with hatred.
It is not the expression her father would have expected in the face of such a present. But only Betty could know how much pain and suffering that automobile had cost her. It was inhuman to have had to suffer that much for a lump of steel; it was unjust to have had to spill so many tears, to have forgone the pleasures that life could offer for such a long time, just for that thing there.
With the heels of her Manolo Blahnik sandals sinking into the gravel (a pain in the ass, this gravel, how man
y broken heels had she left in the fucking gravel, which her mother had insisted upon because she’d seen it some-fucking-where), Betty advances determined and injured toward the Mercedes.
You can see she’s had enough from the way her Prada bag is twitching, with the same hard, dry blows they use to beat fresh octopus to death against the volcanic rocks at Acitrezza.
“Not in front! Behind, behind!” Carmine, known as Mina among friends, yells at her. Carmine, Betty’s “lady’s companion” (“It’s cool to have a gay guy as a lady’s companion,” says Betty, “they have them in America, don’t you watch the sitcoms?”) is racing down the white steps at the front of Villa Wanda.
Carmine is wearing an orange suit of raw silk with sinuous orange embroidery, pointy black shoes, and a shirt with a Chinese collar.
Betty halts with her hand on the car door.
She looks defiantly at Carmine.
What the hell’s the matter with this faggot, wonders Betty, that he’s so excited about this fuck of a car? He wasn’t the one who cried all those tears.
“You have to ride in the rear, sweetheart,” Carmine says to her, opening the back door.
Betty flashes an irritated smile. “The TV screens are in the front headrests, I read it in the brochure.”
Carmine looks heavenward. “Sure, darling, that’s why you have to ride in the rear. You want to go the whole way with your head screwed on backwards?”
Betty slams the door hard.
Turi Pirrotta gazes at her radiantly.
Enjoying the scene from the top of the stairs, he smiles at his wife Wanda and goes back in the house smiling and smoothing down his thin white hair which lately he has begun to wear a bit longer in the back.
Yesterday afternoon, in fact, because the Supreme Being is just and knows how to reward a good father, Turi Pirrotta had received a pizzino, a message of the sort mobsters send, written by hand on Alfio Turrisi’s letterhead. (What a gas this Mister Turrisi is, what with his letterhead bearing a crest worthy of the Juventus soccer club.)
The guy Turrisi sent with the message was dressed identically with the late-model Elvis Presley, in white pants and a jacket with fringe, and white boots with metal studs, so that Fernando, who works as Pirrotta’s doorman for Villa Wanda, got nervous that someone wanted to blow Pirrotta away and thought this was the killer in disguise.
Pirrotta, instead, had understood immediately that this guy was Pietro, the one who parked his sandwich truck, the “Pietroburger,” in Piazza Europa and who every once in a while did some business for that cocksucker Turrisi.
The message said:
My dear and esteemed Signor Pirrotta,
My sincere apologies for interrupting you in your worthy domestic tranquillity blessed by the Lord and the Sacred Bonds of the Family. I trust I explain myself.
Let us hope this finds you in good health and prosperity.
With this note, I would like to convey that any unfinished business matters between us do not, not even for an instant, diminish the respect I feel for you as a man of experience, a man who knows the ways of the world in Sicily.
That caveat accepted, I would like, should you agree, to illustrate the following to you and to your Esteemed Wife, to whom I bow in honor.
Having caught a glimpse—in a public place, on the stage of Palazzo Biscari at an event in which you also deservedly took part—of your distinguished offspring, I would very much like (with your permission, of course) to pay tribute to her aesthetic qualities (inherited, certainly from her Lady Mother) and above all to her style, magnanimity, and farsightedness, biological inheritance from her most worthy Father.
With all due respect I hope that it will be possible to meet (not alone, of course, needless to say) Lady Elisabetta (never was a name so apt) for lunch at a date to be established, with the exclusive aim of exchanging views on some theatrical business in which I am engaged, as you know, in London.
Considering the views of Lady Elisabetta in these matters to be of the utmost value, she being an esteemed voice of youth culture, I pray you, and the most honorable Lady Mother, to grant me the privilege of this meeting, certain that dialogue between generations and civilizations is the basic foundation on which all reciprocal prosperity between peoples and Families is built.
I trust I explain myself.
Hoping you will be so kind as to let me know,
Bowing deeply once again to your Lady Wife, I remain humbly and most cordially yours,
Alfio Turrisi
Turi Pirrotta, bent over double with laughter, had handed the letter to his Lady Wife, not to say Lady Mother of the Lady Daughter, and Wanda had snapped, “What the hell do you think you have to laugh about, you animal, you peasant, you ape! This Turrisi, now, there’s a gentleman!”
Pirrotta had to step out into the garden to catch a breath of air and settle his cough. Style, magnanimity, and even farsightedness, shit, I can’t believe it, thought Pirrotta, holding his side.
And now Betty—shit, how sweet it is—is getting into that fucking Mercedes to go on her date with Turrisi!
Want to bet I’m going to kill two birds with one stone? thinks Pirrotta. Not only will I get Turrisi to share the oil rights with me, but also (I can’t believe this) I’ll get Betty out of my house and into his. I can’t believe it.
Carmine adjusts his lacy shirt cuffs, crosses his legs, and tunes the Mercedes’ TV monitor to MTV.
Carmine, to tell the truth, likes Turrisi. He’s seen him around, elegant and a little bit melancholy, with his English automobiles. He’s hard to resist; he looks lost and homeless. And then he has that pencil mustache, that Brylcreem in his hair, that aura of power and respect.
He’s not entirely sure whether Turrisi will make an equally good impression on Betty, who for her lunch has put on the sort of bright pink vinyl minidress that only a turbocharged blow-job expert would wear.
However, it’s also true that girls like Betty can plow though half the men in town, then go on to marry someone like Turrisi. They seem to positively go for guys with wimp faces. And a wimp-face is what Turrisi has, shit if he doesn’t. Carmine, to tell the truth, wouldn’t mind at all saving him from that inferno populated by bitches like Betty!
Betty, getting into the backseat, slams the door in a fit of pique, flashes a smile that has fuck-all to do with it, and asks, “So what’s this Turrisi like?”
Carmine, about to say something, changes his mind, looks out the window, and replies, “Mature.”
Betty settles into her seat, her minidress riding up above her thong. “Mature. Good. A guy who can understand me.”
Carmine, still looking out the window, replies, “Sweetheart, the fact that they nod when you talk doesn’t mean they understand you.”
Betty grabs her bag, opens it, looks at something inside, closes it, and jams it between herself and Carmine. “You’re jealous because I can decide whether to ride in the front or the rear, and you can only go for the rear.”
Then, addressing the driver, “And what the fuck are you waiting for?”
“What a drag of a life,” murmurs Carmine, sighing. “Everybody waiting for a fuck.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Each New Love Brings Great Tumult
Each new love brings great tumult and Cagnotto grows ever more desperate. How true it is that love hits you when you least expect it, and above all, when you’re least looking for it. Cagnotto, sprawled on the sofa before an immense plasma-screen TV, broods.
His collection of balls on the low table looks unstable. He blames the antidepressant for this impression. He’s bloated, with alcohol and anxiety, with poisons ingested and a dissolute existence, with ideas that won’t come, with discontents. No, this isn’t the moment to fall in love.
No.
The extra weight puts his elegance in question, strains his movements, his words, his assurance. His bank account has dried up and he doesn’t have even half an idea for a new theater season. The culture commissioners speak of nothing but p
roposals. “Give me a proposal. We need a proposal. Have you worked up a proposal?”
Proposal. What fucking proposal?
Maybe if he had a proposal his fat wouldn’t be such a problem.
Cagnotto thinks of Orson Welles: How did he manage to be so fascinating even as he was growing rotund? Cagnotto thinks he looks like Orson Welles, the young Orson Welles, when he was just a little bit overweight; can it be that Bobo doesn’t see how much he looks like Orson Welles? Cagnotto reflects that Orson Welles had many, many proposals, his problem was that he had too many proposals. Cagnotto’s problem, instead, is named Bobo.
Bobo is confused.
Yes, that’s it, confused.
He’s confused because of his youth, his impetuousness, his passion. Bobo is a young colt who’s frightened of nothing: such is the torment and the delight of Cagnotto, who spends hours seeking the right words to maintain a delicate balance between veiled reproach and patient tolerance.
Oh, the thin line between courtship and hypnosis! thinks Cagnotto.
Bobo is like a lost puppy rescued from the street, torn between the appeal of a new owner and the mistrust that drives him toward a dangerous freedom. Only male puppies behave this way, the females jump up and slobber all over you as soon as they see there’s a chance of finding a home, thinks Cagnotto, tormenting—and equally enjoying—himself.
Cagnotto feels the attraction and the rude ingenuousness of a creature hungry for art but still untutored in the ways of the avant-garde and its experiments.
He needs to be taken by the hand, Bobo, broken in, almost: seduced, co-opted, gently pushed into the meanders of experimentation. Oh, what a difference, Cagnotto observes to himself, between the unripe, green soul of Bobo, into which (Cagnotto even hears the imperceptible sound) the Wisdom that Cagnotto holds in his hand enters with difficulty, what a difference between that and his own soul, abused over the years by great big experimenters.
Sicilian Tragedee Page 4
