Sicilian Tragedee

by Cappellani, Ottavio

  Betty walks off under the gaze of the police force, which is armed and deployed in the park.

  Paino in his blue linen suit that’s fashionably rumpled, his Persol sunglasses, and his Dolce & Gabbana patent leather loafers, is sitting all alone and solitary on the steps of the theater. Even the Contessa has snubbed him, she had acknowledged him swiftly with the words, “You did well to come, Paino. Certainly your theater is in better shape than this one. Why don’t you get Intelisano to come and put down a nice coat of asphalt here too?”

  And to think that the credit was all his. But now that Falsaperla is no more, just wait a little, and then we’ll see what Paino can do. In any case, when he got there, the traffic squad had been very polite to him, and they let him park his convertible right in front of the entrance, while they sent the others around to the parking lot.

  “Hey, are they following us?” asks Pietro, who’s sitting on the passenger side while Turrisi struggles with the curves along the road from Noto to Palazzolo Acreide.

  “Certainly they’re following us,” says Turrisi, furious.

  Pietro smiles as he looks in the rearview mirror. There’s a red Fiat Panda that hasn’t let them out of its sight since they left Catania. The two guys in the car, you don’t need binoculars to see they’re cops.

  “What the fuck you got to smile about?”

  “They’re following us.”

  Turrisi, ever more furious, slams on the brake because a sheep, frozen in the middle of the road, is staring bewildered at the Aston Martin. Probably the sheep has never seen an automobile with right-hand drive before.

  The red Fiat Panda, in a genius move, brakes too, keeping a distance of about a hundred yards.

  “And they say they don’t know how to fight the Mafia in Sicily.”

  “Huh?” says Pietro, mesmerized by the sheep.

  “Nothing, nothing. Hey, Pietro, do me a favor, move that sheep.”

  “Huh?”

  Turrisi looks at him.

  “Okay, sure.”

  Pietro gets out of the car.

  Turrisi is thinking about that scum Pirrotta, who arranged that own-goal with Falsaperla just so he could put the blame on Turrisi.

  Mother of God, what a scumbag.

  And now Turrisi is going to score an own-goal by hitting Paino, so they will be fair and square and can start all over again. Is it possible to be more of a scum than Pirrotta?

  Betty sits down on a riser and crosses her legs, showing off a perfect little foot in a sandal so delicate it is almost nonexistent except for the five-inch heel. Betty’s wearing transparent toenail polish.

  Carmine sits down next to her, continuing to stare at her.

  “Hey, is something going on with you?” asks Betty.

  “What do you mean, going on?”

  “Um, okay, we don’t need to worry?”

  “Betty, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Nothing, nothing. I don’t see him. Maybe he’s absconded.”

  “Absconded?”

  “Yeah, after what happened.”

  Carmine spreads his hands and throws Betty a questioning look.

  Betty stares at her feet, rocking back and forth. Then she looks at Carmine and says, “Carmine, you’re weird today.”

  Lambertini, it’s like she scored a goal in the World Cup. The commissioners from halfway across Sicily are thronging around her to express joy and congratulations. Her interpretation of Juliet is a milestone, one fellow has offered her a recital, another, upping the stakes, is offering her the director’s job at the City Theater.

  Gnazia and Signora Falsaperla are battling it out on the widow front.

  Gnazia, not to be outdone, bursts into tears.

  Signora Falsaperla passes out under a carob tree.

  Gnazia lets it be known that she’s ready to say farewell to this cruel world.

  Signora Falsaperla asks for some sugar water.

  Gnazia maintains that Signora Falsaperla shouldn’t have come to the theater so soon after her loss.

  Signora Falsaperla insists that this is what her husband would have wanted, that she is sacrificing herself on behalf of the culture her husband so dearly loved.

  Gnazia spreads the word that Signora Falsaperla only finished elementary school.

  Signora Falsaperla spreads the word that her husband had a mistress, he knew how to choose a mistress, and the mistress was the type who knew her place in the world, and who wasn’t here tonight.

  “What do you mean, she’s not here?” yells Gnazia with a shout that echoes down the valley.

  “Yes, no, thank you, I feel so much better already,” says Signora Falsaperla with a strange smile on her face, as she refuses a glass of tamarind syrup.

  Commissioner Ronsisvalle is about to pass out between two members of the traffic squad. He’s been standing there for an hour in front of the police barricades, waiting for Turrisi. Turrisi is late and if he doesn’t show up soon the sun’s going to go down and the commissioner doesn’t know how he’s going to put on the show, because he doesn’t have the right kind of artificial light. Finally he sees him. “The barricades! Move the barricades.”

  Pirrotta is radiant. Betty is wearing a tiara with a veil, and all the princesses, the baronesses, the countesses, all the fucking coats of arms can suck his daughter’s dick, his daughter who, God willing, is forgetting about Turrisi. Today he saw she had a new sparkle in her eyes and his father’s heart melted. Luckily she’s young, and young people, as we know, soon forget love’s hurts.

  Wanda, lately her husband has been stirring her up like she can’t fathom. He’s, I don’t know, more erect, he’s got the charisma, he walks the way he did when he was way up high at the wheel of his cement-mixer, his hands on the great big wheel, so that when he would come by to pick her up and he made sure that everybody saw, Wanda would make him the big eyes and Turi would say, “You like the way I handle the wheel, don’t you, Wanda? Take a look at what I can do.” And then Turi would push a button while Wanda began to tremble all over with excitement, and then she would watch the cement-mixer that slowly, slowly pushed upright toward the sky, and then begin to whirl around with a whirl that whirled even inside Wanda’s head, and finally Turi would even let her see the gush of cement pouring out, and Wanda’s eyes would be shining.

  Bobo, standing in line at the box office to pay for his ticket, is waiting for Cagnotto to catch sight of him.

  So Cagnotto comes along, sees him standing there humbly in a queue at the box office to pay for his ticket out of pure love for Art, and calls out to him, shouting, “Bobo, what are you doing? You’re paying for a ticket? You! You, the inspiration, the alpha and omega, the source of my genius, you, to whom Shakespeare owes everything! Come, come here under my protective wing.”

  Fat chance. No sight of Cagnotto.

  Bobo looks around. He can’t stand these peasants from Palazzolo Acreide, all waiting in line to see Shakespeare. What do they know about Shakespeare, peasants!

  Quattrocchi, you’d think it was her lover who had been blown away, she’s so involved in Gnazia’s widowhood; you should see how she pats her, how she hands her a Kleenex, how she strokes her arm.

  Caporeale, his legs bowed, approaches Gnazia and Quattrocchi, thrusting out his chest and his codpiece. Because Quattrocchi is one of his fans, and everybody knows fans have to be cultivated, that you have to be modest with your fans, because fans are, yes, fans, but woe to him who abuses them, because fans abused, shit, they say they are more terrible than a wife.

  “Signorina Quattrocchi!”

  Signorina Quattrocchi gives him a dirty look.

  Can’t you see we’re in mourning?

  “My dear Signorina Gnazia!”

  Signorina? Gnazia? Is that any way to address a freshly widowed widow?

  Gnazia and Quattrocchi stare at Caporeale with contempt.

  Caporeale thrusts out his chest and his codpiece.

  “It’s the wrong moment, Caporeale,” says Qu
attrocchi, deep into Gnazia’s sorrow.

  “Okay, right, sorry.” Caporeale whips his codpiece around and goes off, thinking that it’s true, they’re right, it’s absolutely the case, that you can’t be successful for more than a minute before the fans go and act superior. And then they’ll say you’re snubbing them, these parvenu fans.

  Commissioner Ronsisvalle walks Turrisi respectfully to his seat.

  Turrisi sees Paino. He stops.

  “Mister Turrisi, please, you know, there’s the sunset, we have to hurry.”

  Turrisi looks at Pietro.

  Pietro looks at Commissioner Ronsisvalle.

  Commissioner Ronsisvalle says, “You ought to see what a sunset we have here at Palazzolo Acreide. It’s really spectacular.”

  Turrisi’s not even listening. He’s walking toward Paino with a huge, white smile.

  Pirrotta can’t help but see him. “And what the fuck’s he doing here?”

  “Huh?” says Wanda, who was thinking about the days when he used to show her how to whip up a cement-mixer.

  Pirrotta’s already on the cell phone, punching in a number.

  Betty gets up. She smooths her skirt. She fiddles with the nipped-in waistline that allows the plunging neckline over her back to ease slightly and show off the curve of her breasts.

  Betty takes the stairs as if she has never done anything else in her life besides walk on high heels out-of-doors.

  The spectators who see first Betty, then Carmine, are asking themselves why that beautiful piece of ass should be going out with that guy who looks like a faggot.

  But then everybody knows that girls like that marry rich faggots, daddy’s boys.

  Carmine notices the looks of contempt.

  He returns them.

  Pirrotta stops, cell phone in hand.

  What the fuck is Betty doing?

  “Commissioner, my friend!”

  Paino jumps to his feet as the crowd settles down on the stairs. Jumping to your feet in the theater, especially if you’re in one of the front rows and the whole audience is watching, is mandatory. Obviously, if you jump to your feet you have to let it be seen you’re talking to someone. If you jump to your feet and stand there all alone, they’ll think you’re nuts. Paino couldn’t wait to jump to his feet.

  “Mister Turrisi!”

  Pietro bows in Commissioner Paino’s direction.

  Turrisi looks around. The police have not stopped keeping him under surveillance.

  “Do you know Commissioner Ronsisvalle?”

  Paino looks at Ronsisvalle with a smile that opens up while his eyes close to a tiny slit. Paino’s very pleased with this expression. He has practiced it at length before the mirror: the affectionate smile, the eyes closed to a slit, it looks a little bit like a snake (although Caporeale says it looks more like a Simeto eel, the ones that were caught a couple of days ago and which nobody in the market wants to get stuck with).

  Fuck if he doesn’t know Ronsisvalle, this asshole who’s getting all the benefit from the murder of Falsaperla, with his asshole original Greek theater. “Dawn Comes at Dusk,” Zerbino had written in La Voce della Sicilia, as if we were talking about that asshole film with the naked vampires. “Certainly I know him!”

  Paino and Ronsisvalle shake hands.

  Ronsisvalle’s looking around because he’s worried that the sun’s going to go down on him. He had told the mayor they needed to put in lighting. They made beautiful lighting today, like the stuff they use at the stadium when they do the night games or the Champion’s League. Fat chance. The mayor said it clashed. What the fuck was it supposed to clash with? At the Greek theater in Taormina they had put them in, those fucking lights like they use in the stadium. “And in fact, they don’t do classical theater in Taormina,” the mayor had said.

  Paino thinks Ronsisvalle is looking around so he won’t have to look him in the eyes and snub him.

  “We need to speak,” Turrisi is saying to him.

  Paino lets go of that moron Ronsisvalle’s hand. “At your service!”

  “Sure, okay, but not now. I’ll call you.”

  Paino, without meaning to, practically jumps to attention.

  Unexpectedly, Turrisi kisses him on both cheeks. And while Paino is still recovering from the surprise, he gets two kisses from Pietro too.

  Turrisi turns around to find his seat and sees Betty, with the heel of her left shoe pivoted in the dirt, revolving her little foot in a circle, her chin down, her gaze, behind the veil, pointed up, as if she were just waiting for Turrisi to stop talking.

  Turrisi, instinctively, looks up the stairs to see if Pirrotta is there.

  He doesn’t have time to find him before Betty is saying to him, “Mister Turrisi, I was waiting for you. What’s wrong? You’re not going to say hello?”

  Turrisi looks at Pietro.

  Pietro doesn’t know what to say.

  Turrisi bows.

  Betty holds out her hand. “I very much appreciated what you did for me.”

  Turrisi, his lips near her hand, looks puzzled, then in a flash, all is clear to him.

  He looks around for Pietro, terrorized.

  Pietro is smiling romantically.

  Pirrotta is watching the scene with his mouth open.

  With her mouth open, Wanda too is watching.

  Pirrotta turns slowly toward his wife Wanda, his open mouth transmuting into a smile.

  His wife Wanda doesn’t understand.

  “I got to say, he’s smart, that dickhead Turrisi,” says Pirrotta.

  Wanda still has her mouth open. She doesn’t understand.

  Pirrotta makes a strange move with his head, he inclines it to the left and points a few times with his chin to the right, as if he were congratulating himself. “Did you see how it’s good with him that they killed Falsaperla?”

  His wife Wanda, it’s like she’s being carried off by Turks, as they say. “But wasn’t Falsaperla your man?”

  “Woman! Shut up, and your husband, if you behave and don’t bust his balls, will maybe explain everything to you later.”

  Holy Mary! Was there a cement-mixer at Palazzolo Acreide? One they could rent and then make the road home a parking lot, and so forth and so on?

  “Woman, behave like a female and even if you don’t understand, obey your husband and be polite to that dickhead Turrisi.”

  Sure she’ll obey. As if she wouldn’t.

  “Mister Turrisi, pardon, the play must begin.”

  Turrisi looks at Ronsisvalle with surprise mixed with pique.

  Pietro takes Ronsisvalle by the arm and walks off with him.

  “But—” Ronsisvalle begins.

  “Commissioner, come with me because I want to tell you something,” says Pietro.

  “But … the sunset …”

  “That’s what we must talk about, Commissioner, about the sunset. Come with me, come with me.”

  “Signorina,” says Turrisi, who doesn’t know what the fuck to say.

  “You don’t mind if I sit next to you, do you?” Betty asks.

  Turrisi looks at Pietro, who’s walking off with the commissioner.

  “No, not at all, it’s Pietro’s seat, but—”

  “Oh, no, if it’s a problem, never mind.”

  “No!” shouts Turrisi. “It’s not a problem, it’s only that Pietro … Pietro!”

  Pietro doesn’t hear him. He’s walking toward the stage with the commissioner.

  Turrisi looks at Betty.

  “Yes or no?” says Betty.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Pietro is pushing the commissioner onto the stage.

  Ronsisvalle looks at Pietro. Pietro nods.

  Ronsisvalle approaches the microphone.

  He’s still looking at Pietro.

  Pietro nods again.

  Ronsisvalle pulls out his glasses and a sheet of paper.

  “The show’s beginning,” says Betty, who’s getting impatient.

  “Be my guest,” says Turrisi, show
ing the way with his hand and pointing at the seats in the front row.

  Turrisi notices that Betty, from behind, is practically naked.

  “My fellow citizens,” says Ronsisvalle at the microphone.

  A sudden silence falls on the Greek theater of Palazzolo Acreide.

  Then there’s an equally sudden burst of applause.

  Turrisi is waiting impatiently for Betty to sit down. He sits down next to her, and, trying not to let it be seen he is nervous, struggles to extract his cell phone from his pin-striped jacket. These fucking English tailors don’t seem to know that people might have to sit down, they make a suit like a straitjacket.

  While the applause in the Greek theater dies down, Turrisi feels Betty’s hand run swiftly up the inside of his thigh. Then she takes his arm, putting on an interested face, while her dress gaps right to the hip.

  Turrisi freezes.

  With his cell phone in hand.

  The echo of an ancient, distant call can be heard.

  “I am Lambertini-i-i-i.”

  The audience looks around.

  Ronsisvalle clears his throat and continues. “Welcome to this splendid setting.”

  Applause.

  Lambertini has a hoe in hand and is whacking the camper that Timpanaro has provided for a dressing room.

  Caporeale, Cosentino, Cagnotto, and the codpiece walk by without a glance in her direction.

  “If it’s all right with you, I have a thought about how I might update my interpretation tonight,” Caporeale is saying to Cagnotto.

  “Rosanna …” says Cagnotto.

  Lambertini stops, hoe in hand.

  Cagnotto points to his watch. “It’s late, the reporters are already sitting down, you should have thought about this before. You still aren’t changed?”