Why couldn’t he have come up with the usual experimental bullshit that they always gave him the funding for?
His only hope is the Contessa.
When the Contessa gives her backing to something, there is always a little article about it in the paper. And a little article in the paper is something a commissioner would do anything to obtain. Even making an enemy of Falsaperla, if necessary.
Of course, it is usually a little article in the society pages, not on the theater pages, but what does a reader of La Voce della Sicilia care if an article is in Society or in Theater? The Contessa is his only chance to persuade a commissioner to give him a piazza, a street, a dark corner.
Before getting out of the car, Cagnotto looks at himself in the mirror. The self-tanning lotion he has smeared on his face has fortunately given him a nice orange tennis-court color. He steps out and promptly loses himself among the pathways of the Contessa’s garden.
Waiting for Cagnotto, the Contessa and the Baronessa, sitting at the white wrought-iron table at the side of the pool, hurl at each other, from behind sunglasses speckled with rhinestones, glances of mutual loathing. The Contessa has put on a straw hat big enough to be a sombrero and a giant pin to close the décolleté of her bathing suit. The Baronessa knows the Contessa is wearing that hat because otherwise her makeup would melt under the sun, and the pin is there to cover up the wrinkles in her cleavage.
The Baronessa is wearing a scarf on her head and huge sunglasses. The Contessa knows that the scarf is there to conceal the fact that the Baronessa didn’t make it to the hairdresser, and the big sunglasses are necessary because at poolside, with the sun in her face, you can see the flesh-colored makeup covering the black rings under her eyes.
Cagnotto, finally back on the right path, sees them sitting there all tarted up like that and feels freaked.
The Contessa alone already scares him, and in the company of the Baronessa, sitting by the pool in the sun, she’s a walking horror. He has come to plead for a raccomandazione, he has to humiliate himself, prostrate himself at the (disgusting) feet of these two who know nothing of Art and who in an hour’s time will be telling everyone in town how he’s fallen. Forced to plead for a raccomandazione after a lifetime of successes.
“Contessa! Baronessa! What a pleasure to see you both.” Cagnotto manages an acrobatic bow to kiss their hands and narrowly misses falling into the pool. He looks around and sees there’s no chair.
The old witch did that on purpose, Cagnotto feels certain. Cagnotto is there to beg a raccomandazione and of course the Contessa couldn’t pass up the fun of seeing him casting around for a chair. Cagnotto is also sure the Contessa had the table put right up by the edge of the pool on purpose.
“Sit down, Cagnotto. Always so elegant.”
Cagnotto grabs a chaise longue and drags it toward the table. He sits down carefully and feels the button on his jacket about to explode. He unbuttons it, then feels the buttons on his shirt exploding. This operation complete, Cagnotto looks at the Contessa and the Baronessa and doesn’t know what to say. “Gorgeous place,” he says. The Contessa’s pool, lemon-shaped (so she says; the Baronessa calls it “mussel-shaped”), is protected from the view of her neighbors (her cousins) by a row of olive trees.
The Contessa nods and takes a sip of her almond milk.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Oh, yes, thanks, almond milk?” says Cagnotto, adding a question mark because it sounds more chic.
“Certainly!” the Contessa practically shrieks with joy, but doesn’t call the maid or anyone. “You said on the phone that you had a problem.”
“I admire you so much. I’ve seen all your plays. Tell me, what are you working on now?” The Baronessa had bided her time so she could interrupt the Contessa’s remarks in midstream. Otherwise, where was the fun in it?
Cagnotto doesn’t know which of the questions to answer. So he says, “No, yes,” then collects his thoughts and replies to both at once. “I want to do an experimental version of Shakespeare, and that’s the problem. There was a misunderstanding with the culture commissioner for the province. He got the idea I want to do dialect theater.”
“And you don’t want to?”
Cagnotto smiles, shaking his head no. “No, no. I just want to use dialect actors, but there won’t be any dialect on the stage. Dialect actors are the street actors of the theater. Like Pasolini, De Sica, neorealism …”
“Did you hear that? The commissioner for the province didn’t get it,” says the Baronessa to the Contessa.
Cagnotto sees his mistake. “No!” he shouts. Then, smiling affectionately, almost tenderly, he goes on, “The commissioner was magnificent. I see his point. He has to consider what all the theater companies in the province want. No! He did everything he could, really.”
“Ah, I see,” says the Baronessa.
“Dear Falsaperla. He needs to find a proper tailor, however,” says the Contessa, speaking from the high vantage of being a countess with respect to the Baronessa.
Holy Mother of God, how Cagnotto would love to dish a little dirt about Commissioner Falsaperla, his air conditioner, his probable thing with Gnazia (which his intuition had picked up on and which no one else in town yet knew about). Hey, the Contessa herself had given the green light. But the Baronessa seems to him a little bit unreliable, and anyway it’s always better not to gossip about a commissioner in the presence of a baroness.
Cagnotto stares at the olive trees, pretending not to have heard. Why, oh, why hadn’t the Baronessa just stayed home?
“But I’ve already spoken to Paino! He’s delighted to host your play at San Giovanni la Punta!” says the Contessa happily.
The Baronessa is annoyed. Why isn’t the Contessa joining forces with her against Cagnotto? “Wonderful! Paino is doing wonderful things at San Giovanni la Punta!”
The Contessa and Cagnotto give the Baronessa a there you go again with your bullshit look.
“But … how did he know?” says Cagnotto, ruffled, to the Contessa.
“These things are known,” says the Baronessa with a laugh, with reference to Cagnotto’s problems.
“Paino learned that the commissioner for the province wanted to recommend your new production to the commissioner for Pedara. But he’s been following your work for some time. He absolutely must have you put on the show at San Giovanni la Punta. In the amphitheater.”
Amphitheater? Pedara? San Giovanni la Punta? He had gone there to ask if she was willing to be a “godmother” to Shakespeare and she had already gotten him a political patron. He is bowled over. This Contessa is a real lady! Maybe, given her age, she is a little vague, like she forgets to put out chairs for her guests, but that’s normal, these nobili, the real ones, are not used to thinking about the practical details. That’s what servants are for. This is what the real aristocracy is about. Not like the Baronessa, new aristocracy, ruder than the bourgeoisie. Another school altogether, the Contessa. Certainly they didn’t make countesses much older than this!
“Obviously, Paino too has a problem, Cagnotto. The money has dried up,” adds the Contessa.
“Hey. No problem. At all!” exclaims Cagnotto, getting up happily.
“No, wait, Cagnotto, wouldn’t you like to have a swim?”
Cagnotto exchanges a look of gratitude and complicity with the Contessa.
“Rehearsals, Contessa, rehearsals!” Cagnotto bends to kiss her hand, and then in a burst of affection tries to grab her and kiss her on the cheeks, despite the sombrero.
He bids a chilly farewell to the Baronessa and goes off deep in thought, teetering dangerously on the edge of the pool.
“Now, where did you get that? Did you also hear the rumor that he’s crossed swords not only with Falsaperla but also with Rattalina?”
The Contessa takes a sip of almond milk. “Crossed swords? No, no. Arturo begged me to put in a good word with Cagnotto. He really wants to host his play at San Giovanni la Punta.” The Contessa puts t
he glass down carefully on the table. “Luckily I’m old now and such things don’t interest me anymore. Otherwise I’d be concerned that Arturo is going over to the other side. Which reminds me, yesterday I spoke with Dr. Farina’s wife. She told me he no longer has, how can I say, the enthusiasm he once had.”
“I’d better go,” says the Baronessa.
All alone, the Contessa telephones Paino. “Arturo. It’s done. You have a free show by Cagnotto. No, I have no idea. What the hell do you think I care about where he gets the money?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Paino Phones Falsaperla
Paino phones Falsaperla. “I’m going to host Cagnotto’s show here at San Giovanni la Punta … No … no, I don’t know where he’s getting the money. No, not from me. Are you crazy? It’s a free performance, what do you want me to do? Tell me about it, tell me about it. They were going to grab the show for Pedara. Yes, yes, I know. Your guidelines, your memo.”
Falsaperla yells into the phone, “Now everybody’s going to want to know why, if there was a free show by Cagnotto available, I gave it to you.”
“And what are we supposed to do? Not let him work because he’s not asking for a penny?”
“Exactly. Otherwise how’s he going to know who to be grateful to?”
“He’ll be grateful to me because you didn’t even offer him a piazza.”
“You’ll pay for this, I swear I’ll make you pay for this.”
Gnazia appears at the door. “Could you stop yelling, because I’m on the phone too? Thanks.”
Paino has slammed down the receiver.
Paino is calling La Voce della Sicilia.
“This is Commissioner Paino of San Giovanni la Punta. You remember me? That time we did the finals of Queen for a Night, no, what was it called, that beauty contest we did here in the amphitheater. Certainly we’re doing it again this year! It’s called Miss Local Color and obviously we would be honored to have you as the president of the jury for the finals. No, no, don’t mention it. Listen, I wanted to give you a tip. You know Cagnotto? The avant-garde director? We’re going to do his upcoming play here in San Giovanni la Punta. The Contessa Salieri will be present too. The nobility, the slopes of Etna, you could do something like ‘Shakespeare, the aristocracy, and a weekend in San Giovanni la Punta,’ what do you think?”
Falsaperla too calls La Voce della Sicilia, only Falsaperla has the advertising budget of the province in hand and he speaks directly to the managing editor. “It’s Falsaperla. Cagnotto’s new performance does not have the sponsorship of the province. He’s doing it at San Giovanni la Punta, paid for by God knows who and I don’t want to know, and therefore, on our side, there’s no advertising coverage.”
Falsaperla grabs the remote and ups the ventilation on the air conditioner.
“Yes, we’ll be doing food festivals in the coastal towns. Uh-huh, I think we’ll advertise them. Yes, yes, the future of the slopes of Etna is definitely in local color. Food and wine, that’s right. Which brings me to something I wanted to say: I’m going to call the ad department because I think maybe it would be nice to have an insert, say eight pages, how many editorial pages could you give me? By the way, did I say that Cagnotto’s new show doesn’t have the sponsorship of the province?”
Falsaperla tries to get his feet up on the desk. “That’s very good of you. No, no, sure, I’ve read the proposal. What Cagnotto presented was a real mess. It lacks structure. Structure. He’s good, of course, but there’s no structure. Otherwise, I would have sponsored him. I don’t understand how Paino could have … sure, they’re young and they want to be noticed, I know … I know … I know.”
Falsaperla gets his feet up on the desk. “I know.”
He takes the remote of the air conditioner in hand. “I know.”
At that very instant Cagnotto is looking for a parking place on Corso Sicilia. He doesn’t have a clue how you go about getting a mortgage on an apartment. He just hopes it won’t take too long. In front of him looms a giant concrete building, his bank.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ridi, Pagliaccio …
Ridi, Pagliaccio …
Seated in a leather chair in the calm of his wood-paneled study, Mister Turrisi takes refuge in opera.
The week has passed much like the equatorial climate that for some time has possessed Sicily, due to chlorofluorocarbon emissions that, according to some, are provoking the alternating blistering heat and violent downpours that make the fruits of the earth grow fat and sensual.
Similarly, Turrisi’s mood has swung from melancholy to wild ecstasy, such as he experienced as an adolescent, buffeted by hormones, in solitary afternoon pleasures, when, having stolen a motorbike and found a secret hiding place in a courtyard baked by the sun, he was unable to determine if the emotion he felt was erotic pleasure (an ineffable mystery whose existence he’d learned of thanks to the explicit stories he’d heard from older companions) or merely the result of a digestive process which had reached its natural climax.
She calls, she calls, she says she’ll call, but she doesn’t call. What the fuck was going on? He had written a letter to Milord and Milady, permission had been granted, the lunch had been a great success, and then came the mysterious call. He was certain, however, that Betty had feelings for him, and that made it possible to endure the distance between them while he waited to learn why.
Fuck if it made it possible; however, Turrisi knew that Englishmen behaved this way, they were calm and collected.
Devoting himself to Literature and the Fine Arts was the ideal way to prepare himself for their next encounter. Betty belongs to the younger generation, she hadn’t grown up, as he had, in a time when art didn’t fill your stomach, and even though the supermarkets had been full of food, the hunger in Sicily had been, how did you say? Ah, yes, atavistic. No, Betty’s generation is completely different, they all go to university, they read the newspaper, they know. To tell the truth, his father and Betty’s father would be the same age today, if his father hadn’t … Turrisi squelches the thought of his father. Already he’s listening to opera, all he needs now is to start thinking about his father and begin to weep right there in front of Lino.
Lino too is young, and knows.
… e ognun applaudirà!
Tramuta in lazzi lo spasmo e il pianto;
in una smorfia il singhiozzo e ’l dolor …
Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto …
… and all will applaud!
Make mock of pain and tears;
And grin with sighs and woe …
Laugh, Clown, for your broken heart …
The recording is from the famous production with Maria Callas (soprano) in the role of Nedda, Giuseppe Di Stefano (tenor) as Canio, Tito Gobbi (baritone) as Tonio, and Rolando Panerai (baritone) playing Silvio.
Turrisi nods as he follows the libretto and the music, seated on the edge of his chair, his hands clasped at his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles, his eyelids heavy. Turrisi, deep in his heart where it is difficult to dissemble, above all to himself, thinks that Ruggero Leoncavallo’s Pagliacci is just a story about Nedda, an actress and a slut, who has married a miserable two-timed comedian, Canio, so she can use him. Nedda won’t go to bed with Tonio (a hard-up case who tries it on because he knows she’s a slut) because he’s an intellectual but a little bit of an asshole, while at the same time she wants to go to bed with Silvio, the peasant, who’s totally dumb but has a nice body because he works in the fields.
However, Turrisi is convinced that there must be something more to the story, I mean, how could a guy become an opera composer just by telling the story of a common slut?
However, opera is full of sluts. That’s the impression he has gained since he began to learn about this new art form. He knows that this impression is due to the fact that he grew up with a mother who was obsessed with postwar hardship, who was always saying, “It’s macaroni that’ll fill your stomach.” But now Turrisi can’t wait to connect to the
new generation. And so he has hired a consigliere, Lino Marchica, a deep young man with a university education, who’s instructing him in opera. Turrisi is not ashamed of his own ignorance. After all, his ignorance has not prevented him from owning a bank in London. But he knows it’s right to get advice from those who know better.
Studying opera. There couldn’t be a better way to spend his time in order to impress Betty Pirrotta, who, Turrisi is certain, is fed up with living at home with that arriviste father of hers who drove a cement-mixer in his youth, and with Milady, who had gone to work at a glove factory, when nobody, not even in Sicily, had bought a glove in years.
He and Lino had studied the Cavalleria rusticana, La Bohème, and now they are studying Pagliacci. Lino had explained to him that you said it like that, Pagliacci, without the article. Turrisi takes the stereo remote that’s sitting between his legs and lowers the volume. It’s the signal that he wants an explanation.
Lino, who looks like he’s about twenty, rimless glasses, a mass of dark curls, a narrow tie with a white, short-sleeved shirt, sits in front of him on a sofa covered with books. He looks at Turrisi and scratches his head. Pietro had found him Lino. It was amazing how many people Pietro had gotten to know selling sandwiches at Pietroburger.
Turrisi nods, he’s ready to listen.
“Pagliacci deepens opera’s verismo tradition, which begins to focus more attention on the conditions of Southern Italy,” Lino begins.
“Right!” says Turrisi, giving the armchair a whack.
He looks at Lino, decides his reaction was a little over the top, flashes a polite smile, and says, “Right!” but this time with his voice lowered and with a little punch of his right fist onto his left palm. Yes, that’s better.
Sicilian Tragedee Page 9
