Sicilian Tragedee

by Cappellani, Ottavio

  Lambertini looks contemptuously at the three men and climbs into the camper, slamming the door.

  “No, go right ahead, Caporeale, I have complete faith in you, you know.”

  Two police officers approach, hands on their holsters.

  “What was that? Who was yelling?”

  “Oh, nothing,” says Cosentino, “it was Lambertini, who couldn’t get the door of the camper open and thought it was locked. You know, it’s late, and she still hadn’t changed.”

  The police officers look at the camper suspiciously.

  Enter Chorus.

  Turrisi is trying to phone Pietro.

  Do you know who I am

  Have you any idea who I am

  Yes it’s been quite a while

  And it’s so good to see you again

  Fucking Pietro with his fucking voice-mail message with the Elvis songs!

  “Darling, what’s wrong?” Betty whispers in his ear, stroking his thigh once again.

  The first act is all like that, with Betty running her hand up his thigh and that shithead Elvis Presley singing on Pietro’s cell phone.

  You will know who I am

  When the time comes you’ll know who I am

  This is precisely Turrisi’s problem: he got his calculations wrong and now he really doesn’t want that time to come.

  JULIET My only love, sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown,

  Have you any idea who I am …

  And known too late!

  You will know who I am …

  Betty’s hand goes past all frontiers, known and unknown.

  The first act ends.

  Turrisi jumps up. “I’m sorry, signorina.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” says Betty with a smile, studying Turrisi’s fly.

  Turrisi looks down.

  He looks up, alarmed.

  He sees Pirrotta, a few tiers up, rise with a satisfied smile and bow in his direction.

  Beside him his wife, mother of Betty, mother-in-law Wanda, sends him a cordial smile, her head tipped elegantly to one side, her eyes lit up.

  Turrisi’s eyes widen.

  He sits down rapidly.

  “Problems?” asks Betty.

  Turrisi, his face flushed, says, “No … yes … Pietro, I must find Pietro.”

  Betty nods. “It’s that important?”

  The audience begins to file out for the interval, people want to have a look at the necropolis, the archaeological dig, take a couple of pictures, grab an ice cream and brioche.

  Pietro, hands in his pockets, walks coolly in front of Turrisi, sending him a smile of complicity.

  Turrisi shoots out an arm to stop him. “Pietro!” he shouts.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re sorry, but on account of the sunset, we will not be observing the interval. Please don’t leave your seats, the show will resume immediately,” says Ronsisvalle to the microphone.

  Pietro shrugs his shoulders. He sends Turrisi another smile, turns on the white heels of his boots, and looks for his seat.

  Turrisi looks around.

  Betty is staring at him, curious.

  Turrisi doesn’t give a shit about Ronsisvalle, he gets up and moves toward Pietro. He grabs him. “Why the fuck is your phone turned off? Why the fuck?”

  “But we’re at the theater.”

  “I’m at the theater, you’re on the job. The fuck you turn off your phone, the fuck you do.”

  The audience stares at Turrisi raving.

  Pirrotta rests his right elbow on his right knee and puts his forehead on his hands.

  “What’s the matter, baby?” says Wanda, caressing her husband’s thigh.

  Pirrotta looks at her with disdain.

  Wanda removes her hand.

  Pirrotta says, “You want to bet that Turrisi is more of a dickhead than the departed Falsaperla?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Pirrotta looks at his wife with a face that says, and what’s new about that?

  “Stop him … stop him … stop him …” Turrisi is shaking Pietro by the shoulders.

  “But Mister Turrisi, how?”

  “How? What do you mean, how? You call him up and stop him.”

  Pietro looks around. He wishes Turrisi would at least stop shouting. Pietro tries to get close to Turrisi’s ear.

  Turrisi backs off, disgusted.

  Pietro signals that he has to tell him something and that something, he has to tell it to him in his ear.

  Turrisi looks around.

  All eyes are on them.

  Including those of the police, just in case anybody doubted it.

  Turrisi puts his ear up next to Pietro’s mouth.

  “Do you really think that Giacomo, who’s already in position with his precision rifle, has his cell phone on, so they can go and pick him up right there where he’s standing?”

  Turrisi claps his hands together. He wants to scream. Instead he signals to Pietro to come closer.

  Pietro comes closer.

  Turrisi says in his ear, “And he doesn’t have a vibration option?

  Turrisi puts his ear up to Pietro’s mouth. “No, it’s turned off, he can’t have the phone vibrating while he’s taking aim. Anyway, Giacomo, he probably doesn’t even have the phone on him. He was in the SAS. He’s a strange guy.”

  “Try, damn it, try. I’m going to move Paino.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What the fuck should I do? I’m moving him.”

  “Mister Turrisi, please sit down,” the voice of Ronsisvalle, amplified by the microphone, booms over the Greek theater.

  Turrisi’s flesh is crawling.

  He looks at Pietro, desperate.

  Pirrotta pushes his face forward as if to say, Don’t bother explaining anything, you’re a dickhead like all sons-in-law.

  Turrisi runs over to Paino.

  “Commissioner, come with me.”

  “Me?” says Paino.

  “Come, Commissioner, I’ll explain, come.”

  Paino, sitting in row two, struggles to step over Signora Falsaperla, who gives him a disgusted face. Is this how people think they’re supposed to behave in a Greek theater?

  Turrisi grabs Paino’s arm and takes him toward the path that leads to the exit.

  Enter Chorus.

  “Halt! Where are you going?” A carabiniere stops Paino and Turrisi.

  “Um … I … have to go to the car.”

  “You can’t go out.”

  “What do you mean, we can’t go out?”

  “It’s a question of public safety. No one can leave the theater before the end of the play.”

  Turrisi looks at Paino.

  Paino says, “I’m Commissioner Paino.”

  “Sorry, Commissioner.”

  Turrisi intervenes. “I absolutely must get to my car.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll just be a minute and then we’ll be right back.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Piano interrupts. “But this is a holdup!”

  “Sorry, Commissioner. Public safety. We warned people about it at the box office.”

  “But we didn’t go through the box office. We’re guests.”

  “Right, that must be the reason,” says the carabiniere. “Anyway, you still can’t go out.”

  MERCUTIO If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark …

  “Paino, listen, get behind me.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  Turrisi looks at him. He’s about to burst into tears. He looks at the carabiniere. “And what am I supposed to do?”

  “Nothing, just stand there. When the second act is over you can resume your seats.”

  “Call your commanding officer,” orders Paino.

  “Okay, I’ll call him. But you two stay here.”

  “Hurry up. I’m Commissioner Paino.”

  The carabiniere says something into his walkie-talkie.

  Paino whispers to Turrisi, “What’s going on?�
��

  Turrisi looks at Paino.

  He looks around at the limestone ridges, the necropolis, the trees, the walls, the hills, the valleys, the doors to the tombs …

  ROMEO Pardon, good Mercutio. My business was great and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

  MERCUTIO That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.

  ROMEO (Bowing gracefully) Meaning, to curtsy?

  MERCUTIO (Looking at ROMEO’s backside) Thou hast most kindly hit it.

  ROMEO (Pushing his backside forward) A most courteous exposition.

  MERCUTIO Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

  ROMEO Pink for flower?

  MERCUTIO Right!

  Turrisi looks at Paino.

  ROMEO (Outlining a wide circle in the air with his arm, he boldly clutches his codpiece, leaps up, and lands on his feet, bouncing on his knees.) Why, then is my prick well-flower’d!

  Paino falls like a tree in the forest.

  Chaos breaks out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Cagnotto Is Terrorized

  Cagnotto is terrorized, Caporeale and Cosentino don’t understand fuck-all, Lambertini says that everyone is against her, she’s complaining that they don’t want her to die. “They don’t want me to die! Me, who in Romeo and Juliet dies not once but twice.”

  Timpanaro, all professional, is trying to reassure them.

  He has invited them to lunch at Don Mimmo in Piazza Borgo, tables outside, amid some eighteenth century Baroque, a palazzo in reinforced concrete from the sixties, and a gas station.

  Catania is deserted at lunchtime because everyone goes to the beach, so you can get a table at Don Mimmo. A bus that passes now and then, the roar of a scooter with a souped-up engine. Silence.

  “It’s normal that you feel traumatized,” says Timpanaro, who’s waiting for the lemon juice to marinate his raw alici.

  Lambertini must have forgotten to go to the hairdresser this morning; she has a piece of hair that doesn’t have fuck-all to do with the rest sticking straight up over her right temple.

  Cagnotto has spent the night throwing up, he mixed the antidepressant, the tranquilizer, alcohol, aspirin, a painkiller, and drank some mouthwash by mistake.

  First he had to wait in line because the police wanted to question him, then Bobo had reappeared.

  Traumatized?

  Cagnotto has lost track of the things to be traumatized about, if only he could figure out what was traumatizing him maybe the doctor could get him on the right medication. “We’re going to fine-tune it for you,” the doctor had told him.

  “Let’s not play the moralists now, however,” continues Timpanaro, looking at his alici with interest, “we’re grown up, a little homicide, sooner or later, happens to the best of us. Just think about the people who work in the emergency ward, how much of that stuff they see.”

  “Two little homicides,” Caporeale interrupts.

  Cosentino nods. “Right when Caporeale grabs his codpiece. It’s like Cagnotto did it on purpose, it is.”

  “I told you that the codpiece, I didn’t want to grab it.”

  “What are you saying, that it was me?” yells Cagnotto.

  “Oh, well, that I couldn’t say,” says Caporeale, who’s sucking out a raw sea urchin, “anyway don’t worry, I didn’t tell the cop who took my statement that it was you who kept insisting that I had to grab my prick.”

  “And why didn’t you tell him?” Cagnotto is scandalized.

  “Just minding my own business.”

  “Good work,” says Cosentino. “The way things are shaping up, whatever you say is wrong.”

  “But what does the codpiece have to do—” Cagnotto says defensively.

  “Who ordered the mussels in pepper sauce?” asks a waiter, interrupting them.

  “Over here.”

  “Aiola for the lady,” says the waiter, putting a plate of grilled fish under Lambertini’s nose.

  “What’s that?”

  “Aiola, signora.”

  “Well, I ordered bresaola.”

  The waiter looks at the fish. “And there you are!”

  To Cagnotto they all seem crazy.

  The doctor says the depression, he says that when you’re depressed everyone seems crazy. He’d better tell the doctor to fine-tune it because Cagnotto has been taking the antidepressant for a couple of months and they all continue to seem crazy to him.

  “Don Mimmo!” the waiter shouts. “We got bresaola?”

  Don Mimmo, the proprietor, seated on a straw-backed chair watching his customers, yells back, “What’s the matter? Tell the lady to grab the aiola because it’s fresh. Bresaola is an Atlantic fish and we don’t carry it.”2

  The waiter puts the plate down in front of Lambertini and walks off. He asked the boss, the boss answered, and now they can deal with it themselves.

  To Cagnotto, Lambertini, that piece of hair sticking straight up over her right temple, is scary, she looks crazy.

  However, he’s not really sure whether she looks crazy to him because she looks crazy, or only because he’s depressed and the doctor has messed up on the fine-tuning.

  Cagnotto, putting a hand to his right temple, signals to Lambertini to fix that piece of hair.

  Lambertini figures that Cagnotto is signaling that the waiter and Don Mimmo are crazy, and so she nods and says, “Totally.”

  Cagnotto puts his elbow on the table and holds his forehead.

  “Fine,” says Timpanaro, finally taking a bite of his alici, the marinade of oil and lemon running down his chin. “So what difference is there between one little homicide and two? It’s normal for there to be a first homicide, and then, usually, they commit another one. Zerbino even said so in the newspaper, don’t you remember, Cagnotto? It’s normal. They call it a vendetta trasversale for that very reason! It’s not like we have to make a tragedy out of it, a vendetta trasversale. Let’s concentrate on business. I had a call from the prefect.”

  “Who?” says Cagnotto, who hasn’t ordered anything because his stomach is upset.

  “The prefect.”

  “And what did he want?”

  “He wanted to talk about Noto.”

  “The prefect wanted to talk about Noto?” says Lambertini.

  “Precisely,” says Timpanaro, nodding and chewing.

  Cagnotto feels slightly dizzy.

  CHAPTER TEN

  On the Terrace of the Top Floor of the Una Palace Hotel

  On the terrace of the top floor of the Una Palace Hotel, Pirrotta has asked to be seated in the breeziest corner where the drapes are flapping around him.

  The terrace on the top floor of the Una Palace Hotel is decorated in oriental-chic.

  The bar is deserted.

  There are no waiters and no bartender.

  In front of Pirrotta, there’s a huge glass of Campari with a slice of orange impaled on the edge of the glass.

  Mister Turrisi’s Aston Martin, laying rubber, takes the curve that leads from Via Passo Gravina down to Piazza Stesicoro and boldly slams into a garbage bin.

  The Aston Martin backs up coolly, disengages, and looks for a parking space.

  Mister Turrisi leaps out of the car like a demon, slams the door, takes a quick look at the headlight that’s hanging down like a gouged-out eyeball, and heads down Via Etnea with a stride that echoes down the Baroque corridors.

  Pirrotta had said he wanted some privacy.

  His boys, in front of the elevator, are stopping the hotel’s clients and sending them away, telling them the bar is closed for cleaning.

  From the windows you can see the roofs of Catania.

  Pirrotta is wearing his sunglasses.

  He’s immobile.

  The only things in motion are the voluminous, pure-white drapes flapping in the breeze.

  The elevator door opens and there’s Mister Turrisi combing his hair in the mirror.

  He looks distractedly at Pirrotta’s boys.

  H
e finishes combing his hair.

  Even though his heart is in turmoil, even though he knows he’s responsible for a fucking mess, even though he hasn’t the slightest idea how to resolve the matter, even though an hour ago he had showed up at Pietroburger and Pietro had told him that Pirrotta wanted to see him at the Una Palace Hotel, at the bar on the top floor, even though he had practically had a panic attack because Pietro had specified, “They said you should come alone. You can’t even take me,” even though he had messed up the Aston Martin and there was a headlight hanging down, you must never let the boys see you are nervous, and above all, not your enemy’s boys. “Reserve is the basis of all elegance,” they had explained to him in London back in the days when he would begin to shriek like a washerwoman at the first obstacle.

  The elevator doors close under the contemptuous gaze of Pirrotta’s boys.

  Mister Turrisi, comb in hand, is terribly annoyed.

  Pirrotta takes a slow sip of his Campari.

  He puts down the glass and meticulously adjusts the orange slice to keep it nice and upright.

  He sits back in his chair and is once again immobile.

  Turrisi comes in, out of breath and buttoning his jacket.

  Pirrotta doesn’t even look at him.

  Turrisi looks around.

  He looks at a chair.

  He unbuttons his jacket and sits down.

  He stares at Pirrotta.

  Pirrotta is silent.

  The truth is that Pirrotta too has no idea what to say.

  He might have a glimmer, but he’s awaiting confirmation.

  After a few seconds, Turrisi turns his head to look for a waiter. He realizes that the bar is deserted.