Sicilian Tragedee

by Cappellani, Ottavio

  Lambertini looks at Cagnotto. “And who told this guy he could address me as tu?”

  “But you yourself said … you said ‘Rosanna,’” stammers a mortified Tafuri.

  Lambertini smiles. “I said Rosanna because they often write Rossana or even Rosa Anna or Rossella, and you need to write Rosanna, all one word and with one s. Got it?”

  Tafuri nods and takes notes.

  “Fine, and then write that I am the only normal one and everyone else is insane.”

  Tafuri looks at Lambertini, then at Cagnotto.

  “Pardon me, I’ll leave you folks to it,” says Cagnotto, walking away.

  “Can you see her? Huh?” Turrisi, seated very uncomfortably on the amphitheater’s concrete risers, is looking around trying to catch sight of Betty.

  Pietro signals no with his Ray·Bans.

  Turrisi sets his jaw and pounds his knee.

  “Take it easy, Mister Turrisi, take it easy.”

  The Contessa sits tall in the second tier of seats, the first tier having been reserved for the notabili of San Giovanni la Punta. There are cards with the names of the commissioners, the professors, the dottori , the avvocati, the cavalieri.

  The musicians are tuning their instruments.

  To the right and the left of the Contessa, a huddle of minor aristocrats is patiently awaiting the start of the show, fanning themselves with colorful fans.

  The Contessa looks at the diamond she wears on her index finger, bends over, and takes a fan out of her handbag too.

  She pauses for effect, looking around.

  Then she shows off her prize like a peacock’s tail: a fan that’s twenty inches long, in bone and seventeenth century lace, the real thing because the lace is a tiny bit yellow, the way precious old things turn yellow.

  The fans near the Contessa stop fanning, like they’re shy and ashamed of themselves compared with this majestic piece of history.

  The Contessa leans over toward Baronessa Ferla on her right and murmurs, “When it comes to fans they can kiss my ass.”

  Cagnotto feels something damp and pleasant stamped on his cheek. It’s a smell he recognizes. Bobo, wearing a white suit and pointed black patent leather shoes, has kissed his cheek in public, even though half of Catania is here in San Giovanni la Punta tonight.

  Cagnotto turns with his eyes shining. “That’s the first time you’ve kissed me in public.”

  Bobo looks down. “You deserve it.”

  Faced with such a romantic gesture, Cagnotto doesn’t know what to say. He had kissed him on the cheek in front of … Cagnotto looks around. The crowd is thronging in from the piazza to occupy the steps of the amphitheater, they only have to wait until the sun goes down and the lights can be turned on.

  And there, in front of everyone, Bobo had gone and done this, rendering their relationship practically public. Cagnotto is touched and astonished. He hadn’t expected it. He really doesn’t know what to say: a kiss in public, among gays, is a really old-fashioned gesture.

  Turi Pirrotta is like a man on Valium.

  His wife Wanda is watching him, puzzled. Pirrotta seems to be serenity itself. He is able to sit there all relaxed on those reinforced concrete risers as if they were velvet theater seats. He’s fooling around happily with his cell phone. Wanda, perched on the sharp edge of reinforced concrete, doesn’t know what to think. It’s not easy for a wife not to have one fuck of an idea what’s going through her husband’s mind. For sure he’s not sending text messages to his mistress Rosina, because when he’s sending text messages to Rosina, Turi is all preoccupied not to let Wanda know, as if in this day and age a wife doesn’t know when her husband has a mistress. So when your husband has that whole conspiratorial look like he’s sending text messages to his mistress you don’t worry about it, particularly if you know that dickhead of your husband, it would never even cross his mind to give up the ease of family life and set up house with his mistress. But instead, if you can’t figure out what the fuck is going through your husband’s mind, if one minute he looks like he wants to start a bloodbath, and the next minute he looks cool, then he turns twitchy again, and then relaxes, you worry, because it means there is something that has touched his soul, and not just his prick.

  The only thing that keeps Wanda from really worrying is that Turi, if he’s acting like this, it must be because he’s thinking about something to do with his daughter Betty. Yes, that’s an encouraging thought. Still, there’s this thing that bothers you, that you’ve been married for a lifetime and you don’t understand fuck-all what’s going on in Turi’s head at this moment.

  There’s this thing that bothers you, and let’s be honest, this curiosity, because you didn’t think he was capable of it, Turi (who’s turning into the spit and image of Ernest Borgnine). You didn’t think that he could put things in question and surround them with a, how did they say in the movies? … ah yes, an aura of mystery.

  Wanda has not yet figured out whether she likes all this or whether it’s a sovereign ball-buster.

  Turi Pirrotta looks at his wife Wanda and smiles.

  Wanda turns toward the tubular scaffolding and, without letting Turi see, bites her lip.

  What the fuck is going on?

  “Ridi, ridi—”

  “Huh?” Pietro turns toward Turrisi, who’s been talking to himself for half an hour.

  “I said, Ridi, ridi.”

  “But I’m not laughing, Mister Turrisi.”

  “And what do you have to do with it?”

  “Huh?”

  “Ree-dee … Pagliac-cio,” Turrisi begins to sing in a low voice with the look of a madman on his face.

  “Mister Turrisi, in my opinion you’re too involved.”

  “E ognun … applau … dirà!” Turrisi goes on singing, staring at Pirrotta.

  “My respects, Contessa!” Falsaperla bows as he prepares to sit down in front of the Contessa. “Have you met my wife?”

  “Good evening,” says the Contessa, continuing to whip her fan back and forth undaunted, without bothering too much about Falsaperla’s wife.

  Falsaperla’s wife, who on social occasions likes to play the wife, as do most wives present tonight at San Giovanni la Punta, says to the Contessa, “Pleased to meet you, Contessa! I read so much about you in the paper. Warm tonight, isn’t it?”

  The Contessa replies with her fan, which stops for an instant, very tense and still, and then starts up again, whipping back and forth at a speed that’s just a tiny bit faster than before. Translation from fan language: Oh, how about this one, certainly it’s hot, otherwise why am I fanning, so you’re Falsaperla’s wife, if you really want to have a conversation come up with something better or otherwise just sit next to your commissioner husband, play the commissioner’s wife, and don’t bust my balls.

  The lady aristocrats sitting next to the Contessa don’t fail to appreciate the exquisite finesse of that reply delivered with just a tiny hesitation of the fan.

  The fans of the lady aristocrats applaud the performance with a little flurry of activity themselves, as if to say, Whoa, did you see what the Contessa’s fan said to Falsaperla’s wife?

  We certainly did!

  Gnazia … is … practically … naked.

  Not that she isn’t wearing clothes, no, it actually looks like she took a lot of trouble. She’s wearing a little blouse like the lady aristocrats wear, but apparently she spent the whole afternoon forgetting to put on a bra, so that every which way you look her tits are visible, tits that “in Civita, not to boast, but the dressmakers used to call me in to do the bustier fittings.”

  Oh, and where is the skirt? That’s a skirt? More like a belt, that is.

  He’d better sit down and shut up and not wag his tail, thinks Falsaperla, because when Gnazia gets like that, she’s capable of going and telling his wife that he’s going to bed with Lambertini.

  Because, say what you will, anything the fuck you like, but Falsaperla has got an equilibrium at home like you could only dream
of, with his wife who doesn’t bust Gnazia’s balls and Gnazia who doesn’t bust his wife’s.

  It’s true, both of them bust Falsaperla’s balls, but between them, the cohabitation, all things considered, is pacific.

  All he needs is for Lambertini to come in and destroy his familial harmony, when he doesn’t even understand how, at fifty-five years old, he got to be culture commissioner for the province of Catania, with both a wife and a mistress, so that when he goes down to the bar, his friends just about have their tongues falling in their coffee.

  Let’s hope Pirrotta does something to make Paino look bad tonight.

  Falsaperla looks around for Pirrotta.

  He’s sitting down, all beatific, sending text messages with his cell phone. His wife has a horrible expression and she’s right, because at least when you’re in public, you have to let everyone see you show respect for your wife.

  Hey, Falsaperla is certain Pirrotta must have a plan, because it’s not possible he could be so calm otherwise.

  And at the party he had been categorical. “I don’t believe you have changed your mind, have you?”

  God only knows what Pirrotta has organized for this evening.

  “Everything okay, dear?”

  “What the fuck do you want?” replies his wife, who’s still pissed off at the Contessa for giving her the cold shoulder. These fucking countesses. They come here and play the aristocrat with the commissioner’s wife. Hey, gorgeous, I’m sitting in the first tier, and you, asshole with a fan, are sitting in the second. Falsaperla’s wife settles herself on the concrete step, she makes a wiggling motion with her rear end like she’s hatching an egg. My seat is in tier one, and you, with your fucking fan, are in tier two, you parvenu, she says with a wiggle of her behind.

  “Testing … testing … one two three, testing. Can you hear me?” says Paino into the microphone.

  The amphitheater quiets down.

  “Testing … can you hear me?”

  The amphitheater signals yes.

  Paino looks for something in his inside jacket pocket. He finds it. The folded pages of his speech. He smiles. He taps the microphone with his index finger once more to be sure everything is working. “My fellow citizens!”

  His fellow citizens, but nobody else, break out in a thunderous applause.

  “There are people here who have come all the way up on the mountain from Catania.”

  Silence.

  “From Catania.”

  Silence.

  “From Catania! My fellow citizens, do you understand?”

  Thunderous applause from his fellow citizens. (And in any case why would Paino give a shit about applause from Catania, his electorate is right here in San Giovanni la Punta.)

  “Welcome to this splendid stage”—Paino looks around to make sure Tafuri is there taking notes—“of our amphitheater … that today … is being used to host no less than … Shakespeare!”

  Thunderous applause from the upper tiers of the amphitheater. The lower tiers are more culturally elevated, therefore snobbish, and don’t applaud.

  “It’s pointless for me to thank the director, the actors, and the author of the immortal comedy that we are about to present, and about which”—Paino smiles, flashing a wink—“you will have read in today’s paper!”

  Thunderous applause.

  From the band, the sound of a drum falling on the gravel.

  The drummer pretends nothing has happened, that it wasn’t him, even as the drum rolls across the gravel and comes to rest at Paino’s feet.

  It’s as if they do it on purpose: one time they drop an instrument, another time someone faints, another time they fight with each other hooting on their clarinets. But of course, bands are made of teenagers and old farts! He must remember to put out a memo ASAP about the band.

  “It must be the excitement,” says Paino, adding with a big smile, “Perfectly understandable!”

  Thunderous applause.

  “The San Giovanni la Punta band will now play for you Festa paesana by Jacob de Haan, A Little Legend by Lorenzo della Fonte, Aria e scherzo for trumpet and band by Alessandro Stradella, Brevis historia for a large band by Silvano Scaltritti, and by request, Elisabetta , symphonic march by Ippolito Nievo, in honor of a great Sicilian who is making a name for himself in the heart of London! Ladies and gentlemen, Mister Alfio Turrisi!”

  The name echoes through the crowd, propelled by curiosity.

  Pietro turns to Turrisi, astonished.

  Turrisi is already on his feet, bending in a deferential bow toward the crowd, which breaks out in yet another applause. He sits down again. “Did you see her? Did you see her?”

  Carmine turns to Betty, astounded. “But wait, is it dedicated to you?”

  “What do you mean, I’m called Elisabetta?”

  “You’re not?”

  The drummer goes to reclaim his instrument, running and holding his hat.

  Cosentino, behind a curtain that serves as the wings, stagewhispers, pointing at Caporeale with his thumb, “If anybody’s lost his stick, it’s over here!”

  Caporeale turns around in his dainty floral-patterned shoes and heads back behind the curtain. “Let me know when the concert is over.”

  “Just kidding, just kidding!” says Cosentino.

  Lambertini comes over, adjusting a tightly laced bodice. “Where’s Caporeale going? Why’s he walking like that?”

  They can see a disgruntled Caporeale from behind, walking toward the curtain with his legs bowed out.

  “He’s getting into the part,” says Cosentino, “but the part doesn’t fit into his shorts.”

  Caporeale utters a loud, “Go fuck yourself.”

  Cosentino yells after him, “Just kidding, just kidding.”

  For a moment, Lambertini stops fiddling with her tits.

  She looks at Cosentino.

  Then she returns to the tits.

  “No one told me about the band!” Cagnotto yells in Paino’s ear.

  “What do you mean, it’s in the program.”

  “What program?”

  Paino reaches for his inside pocket and hands a program to Cagnotto.

  ROMEO AND JULIET

  BY SALVATORE CAGNOTTO

  Before the play there will be a concert by the municipal band of San Giovanni la Punta.

  Based on an idea by Arturo Paino and William Shakespeare

  Sponsored by the Commissioner for Culture of San Giovanni la Punta

  “No, nice idea the band, uh, I wish I had known about it before,” says Cagnotto to Paino, putting the program in his pocket.

  “You see that?” says Wanda to her husband, “Turrisi has dedicated a song to our daughter.”

  “What do you mean? Your daughter’s called Elisabetta?”

  “No, her name is Betty, but maybe Turrisi thinks it’s her nickname.”

  Pirrotta flashes a smile as big as the amphitheater. “Maybe Turrisi thinks I’m a dickhead,” he says, returning to his cell phone cheerfully whistling Aria e scherzo.

  When the band is approaching the grand finale, playing the introduction to Elisabetta, Betty blows Turrisi a kiss.

  “Is that her?” says Pietro to Turrisi, who’s still looking around.

  “Who? Which one? Where?”

  “That one.”

  “It’s her!”

  “She just sent you a kiss.”

  “A kiss? How?”

  Pietro blows Turrisi a kiss.

  The Contessa leans over toward the Baronessa. “So is Turrisi also one of them, like Cagnotto?”

  “In what sense?”

  “Oh, were you listening to the band? Did I distract you?”

  “Who, me? The band?”

  The Contessa nods, moving away from the Baronessa.

  “You blew him a kiss?”

  “What?”

  “You blew him a kiss?”

  Betty is too deeply absorbed in listening to the music to answer.

  Carmine cranes his neck to see better. />
  Turrisi is looking at them with tears glittering in his eyes. “You blew him a kiss!”

  “Shhh …”

  Tatatah!

  Thunderous applause.

  The band files out.

  The lights go down.

  The hubbub recedes.

  A little boy is crying.

  A father yells, “Jennifer, leave your brother alone!”

  “Shhh …”

  Enter Chorus (Cagnotto has cut back on the Chorus. The Chorus is Alessandro Latrati, a neomelodic Neapolitan crooner from Catania. Cagnotto sees no reason why neomelodic Neapolitan crooners have to sing songs in Neapolitan dialect. “It’s not like we don’t have the same bullshit in Catanese,” says Cagnotto.)

  “Shhh …”

  CHORUS Two households, both alike in dignity

  In fair Verona, where we lay our scene

  From ancient grudge break to new mutiny …

  The audience comments.

  “They got a fair in Verona too?”

  “Sure, you think we’re the only ones that have a fair?”

  “But like our ’a fera ’o luni?”

  “Hey, could be.”

  “Shhh …”

  The audience sits through the chorus’s introduction patiently. There will be people with a grudge on the stage.

  “Hey, just like at the fair.”

  “Shhh …”

  In the audience, somebody says he wants to break another guy’s neck. Another guy says he wants to get the virgins up against the wall.

  “You want to shoot them?”

  “Shhh …”