Giacomo had said that the Imposimato brothers were to blame, that he had been specific about the diameter of the mortar and the quantity of explosive. The Imposimato brothers had blamed Giacomo, who had done his calculations on the computer, and with this fucking technology they were all going crazy, and if next time they wanted a job well done they had better rely on artisanal expertise.
Giacomo wanted to be paid in full for the job because in any case someone had been taken out, Commendatore Calì, even if—so he told Turrisi, who was haggling over the price—“on the rebound.”
The prefects had resigned, officially because they hadn’t been able to keep order, unofficially because they had started to get really freaked.
The police and the carabinieri had held a joint press conference, very mysterious, in which they had hinted that the secret services were involved.
Obviously, all eyes were on Pirrotta and Turrisi.
Today, Betty is genuinely freaked.
She’s crawled under the bed and doesn’t want to come out, although Carmine is there trying to persuade her. “Not in prison, no!” she screams while Carmine tries to reassure a carabinieri sergeant with his eyes.
In the garden, two officers are trailing Turrisi.
One of them says to him, “Don’t get any ideas, now, if you try to escape we’ll catch you and bring you back.”
The two officers start laughing.
Turrisi gives them a dirty look.
Pietro, wearing his loudest Elvis outfit, silvery fringe on the jacket sleeves and his white boots with the mirror studs, is crying behind his Ray·Bans, tears are rolling down the teardrop lenses.
Pirrotta, dressed to the hilt, sitting on the bed, stares at his shoes.
Wanda, biting her lip, approaches him and pats his head.
Pirrotta looks at her with teary eyes. “I’m going.”
“Yes.”
The Contessa, seated in the front row, is fanning herself.
Gnazia and Quattrocchi too are already seated. Gnazia’s still wearing mourning.
Quattrocchi warns her, “Gnazia, you know you’re my best friend, but don’t get any funny ideas. When Betty throws the bouquet, see, I’m going to snatch it like I was a rugby champion, and I’m not afraid of anyone, friend or foe.”
The Contessa turns and, continuing to fan, says, “Think it’s so easy, my dear?”
Carmine, on his knees, is smiling as he tries to get Betty to come out from under the bed. “Darling, marriage is not prison.”
The officer says to Turrisi, “Making you wait, huh? My advice to you, however, is don’t try to escape.”
Pietro puts a hand to his mouth.
Betty had wanted a garden wedding, like they do in American movies.
The priest wouldn’t hear of it, and so Pirrotta and Turrisi had to set up a fund for Mafia widows, and Pirrotta had to hustle to build a little chapel in the garden and have it consecrated.
Caporeale is already dressed in tights and codpiece.
Pirrotta and Turrisi have decided to offer the guests a private performance of Romeo and Juliet.
That’s why there are so many cops.
They wanted to send a signal that the gang war was over. A trouble-free performance of Romeo and Juliet seemed like the best thing.
The officer says to Turrisi, “I’m sure nothing’s going to happen today, I’m sure your wedding won’t be spoiled, but tell me, how is it that you thought of a theatrical show on this occasion?”
Turrisi looks at the officer. He’s about to say something, then he turns to Pietro and asks, “Did you take care of the rings?”
Pirrotta hurries by, signaling to Turrisi.
“I’ll be right back,” he says.
An Arab-style tent mounted in the garden flaps lightly in the breeze. Individuals wearing earpieces and total black Armani stand around it, their legs apart.
Pirrotta and Turrisi go in, buttoning their jackets.
Inside, in a little sitting area with wicker furniture, is Jacobbo Maretta. Virtude’s main man. The Scarlet Pimpernel. The fugitive from justice that nobody knows if he really exists.
He exists and he’s wearing white linen. Gold eyeglass frames, dark brown lenses, hair dyed dead black, like his mustache. They make him feel like Charles Bronson.
Next to the furniture, a brazier exudes a smell of incense.
The air-conditioning is turned up to the max.
Pirrotta and Turrisi sit down in the wicker chairs.
On the table, everything a man could want to eat or drink.
“I thank you for the honor you have paid me, inviting me on this day when you celebrate old-fashioned family values,” says Maretta.
Pirrotta and Turrisi look at each other.
“Because you know, don’t you,” adds Maretta, pouring himself a J&B, “that peace in the family is all-important. You know how it is, no? The neighbors talk, people don’t mind their own fucking business, and so when you have to disagree in the family, you have to disagree discreetly. That’s how my grandmother Michela used to say, discreetly.” Maretta looks at Pirrotta and Turrisi.
Pirrotta and Turrisi nod.
“Because if not, then it’s better to get divorced. Am I right?”
“Right you are!” says Pirrotta.
Turrisi merely nods.
“Exactly. My grandmother was a true Catholic. However, for her, silence was golden. Shit, she was like the thing, the Indian chief, what was his name? Saskatchewan? No, no, Sitting Bull. “If there has to be nastiness in the family, divorce is better.”
“Let’s not speak of divorce on this happy day. We couldn’t agree more.”
Maretta looks at his whiskey. “You must apologize on my behalf to the police outside if I don’t go out, but you know how it is, no? What a life I lead! It’s got to the point where the sunlight gets to me. I’ve become, how do you say, photophobic. So I can’t go out.”
“Please don’t worry,” exclaims Pirrotta.
Maretta looks at him. “I’m not worrying, I’m saying it to be polite. Alfio!” Maretta turns toward Turrisi. “What the fuck happened in Noto?”
Turrisi looks at Pirrotta.
Pirrotta nods.
Maretta has turned to the younger of the two to get an explanation. That’s a good sign.
Turrisi lowers his eyes. “Your Honor must excuse us if we didn’t contact you sooner, but we didn’t think they would go so far.”
Maretta nods. He takes a cube of ice from the bucket, puts it in his glass, and moves his head, indicating he should continue.
“We didn’t think that Vaccalluzzo, after having taken out Falsaperla on my side and Paino from my future father-in-law, would go and get involved in this fuckup in Noto. We thought he’d remain silent, follow orders, and that we could come to an agreement.”
Maretta raises his voice. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand fuck-all!”
Turrisi looks at Pirrotta.
Pirrotta makes a sign with his head that he shouldn’t worry.
Turrisi understands. Maybe he shouldn’t speak so explicitly.
“We’re becoming a family,” says Turrisi, “me with Signor Pirrotta and Signor Pirrotta with me.”
Maretta makes a face that says, Wow, how interesting, this is a wedding, so what do you expect?
“And in the family, it’s right that one person should give a hand to another.”
Maretta is forced to nod agreement.
“So when we saw that what was happening was happening, we thought we should do something about it immediately. Do you like the Lexus as a car? I have to say I don’t care much for that car. There was a guy I knew who had an armored one, but I didn’t care for it.”
“The Lexus,” says Pirrotta.
Turrisi nods.
Maretta takes off his sunglasses. “Now, to me, I always thought the Lexus was a nice, quiet car.”
“No, sir!” exclaims Turrisi. “Actually, it’s extremely noisy.”
Maretta scratc
hes behind one ear. He nods to himself. “And who was he, this fellow you knew who had the Lexus?”
Turrisi looks at Pirrotta.
Pirrotta nods.
“He was called Vaccalluzzo,” says Turrisi.
Maretta looks at Turrisi, then he looks at Pirrotta. He thinks, swirling the ice in his glass. Then finally he says, “Fine. This Vaccalluzzo, I don’t know him. If you tell me the Lexus is a noisy car, that’s fine. By the way, how is this fellow with the Lexus?”
“Not so good,” says Pirrotta.
“Very sorry to hear that,” says Maretta. “But what can I do? Can I do anything? Any way I can be of help?”
Pirrotta goes no with his head.
Maretta’s face is pained. “Everyone suffers his own setbacks, what can I say? As the saying goes, when the Pope dies, they elect a new one. You two are becoming part of the same family, right?”
Pirrotta and Turrisi nod.
“And you’re not people who go out and besmirch the family, right?”
“You can bet on that,” says Pirrotta.
Maretta smiles. “What, now I’m not going to trust Riddu?”
Pirrotta lowers his eyes.
“May this marriage be blessed by the Lord,” says Maretta. “By the way, I brought a little something for the families.” Maretta twists around on the wicker sofa, trying to grab his wallet.
He pulls two santini out of the wallet. Two little pictures of Jesus’ Sacred Heart. “It’s only a little something. I hope I don’t offend you, but you know how it is, it’s all that I can do with the taxes, the internal revenue.”
Pirrotta and Turrisi join hands.
“One for the Pirrotta family, one for the Turrisi family.”
Pirrotta unhooks the band of his Rolex and cuts a finger with the buckle.
“Shit, I cut myself,” says Pirrotta.
“Let me see,” says Turrisi, “Ow, I cut myself too.”
“Do take care,” says Maretta.
Pirrotta gets to his feet and walks over to the brazier. What’s that, the smell of lemon?
Maretta, pretending not to watch, smiles.
Pirrotta leans over to smell and tosses the santini into the brazier.
Maretta gets up. “So what else do I have to say to you? Peace and prosperity.”
Pirrotta and Turrisi exit the tent.
“I’m going to see what the bride has to say,” says Pirrotta.
“Will you look at that codpiece?” says Quattrocchi to Gnazia, elbowing her.
Gnazia nods, making a face of congratulations.
“If I get that bouquet …”—Quattrocchi joins the fingertips of her right hand and brings the hand to her mouth—“I’m going to gobble it all up.”
Wanda, a hand on her breast, runs out in the garden to spread the word. “She’s decided, she’s decided, hurry, take your places before she reconsiders, hurry.”
Pirrotta looks at himself in the mirror.
Fuck, he’s getting old.
That white, white hair, the dentures, and this daughter of his who’s getting married.
Pirrotta grabs the bottle of cologne and sprays it all around, around, to keep himself from being overcome with emotion.
Then he goes to his daughter’s room.
He knocks on the door.
Betty opens, her eyes downcast.
Six little pageboys are twisted up in a six-yard-long veil of genuine nineteenth century lace, snatched up at a bargain price from the Contessa.
Betty adjusts her dress, bustier in ecru-colored Sicilian tulle, embroidered with Sciacca coral.
“Let’s go, Pietro,” says Turrisi. And then, on a lighter note, “Take it easy, this is the only time I’ll ever want you to be a witness to anything!”
Carmine races to sit beside Cagnotto.
He elbows him.
He smiles.
“Hey, you did it!” says Cagnotto.
Carmine crosses his legs, puts an elbow on his knee, his chin in hand, raises an eyebrow, and gives Cagnotto a look that, hey, we really can’t tell you what he was thinking.
“Yes,” says Carmine. “Yes.”
EPILOGUE
Enter Chorus.
CHORUS Isn’t there always something strange about the interval between the acts, whether it’s at a play or an opera, isn’t there always a distance, a gap, between what’s happening on the stage and in the foyer? Can it be that these people are really improved by going to the theater? What’s the problem? Is there a problem?
In any case, the actors bow and pay their respects, they have put blood and sweat into it, and fiction and falsehoods and tricks and codpieces, to represent life and make it sound true.
Or false, as only life can be.
The curtain falls.
In the distance, music.
CHORUS The chorus doesn’t care about what’s center stage, but what surpasses. Isn’t there always a distance, a gap between what’s happening on the stage and in the foyer? We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and not one hair was plucked from those you heard scream, from those you saw shipwrecked.
Do you think for that, the story we have told is any less true?
As tradition would have it, you are invited to the last ball, it’s up to you to decide whether, limping like us, you want to take part, or head for the foyer. Here we are paid to dance, the dead and the living together, as once they did in the days of Elizabeth. God save the Queen.
One moment, please.
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 (Bending over at the waist) Meaning, to curtsy.
MERCUTIO (Looking at ROMEO’s backside) Thou hast most kindly hit it.
ROMEO (Arching his kidneys) A most courteous exposition.
MERCUTIO Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
ROMEO Pink for flower.
MERCUTIO (Miming with his hands something that swells) Right.
Pause.
Caporeale and Cosentino look at the audience.
They turn toward the bride and groom.
Both bend in a courteous bow, as if to dedicate the line.
Then they resume their places.
Caporeale bounces on his knees, rocking the codpiece back and forth.
He waves his elbows as if he wants to take off.
He jumps up.
He lands, flapping the codpiece with both hands.
ROMEO Why, then is my pump well-flower’d!
Pause.
Lambertini is listening.
It’s silent in the garden.
The priest coughs.
Caporeale looks at Cosentino.
Cosentino goes no with his head.
Caporeale goes yes, yes with his head.
Cagnotto clasps his hands.
He looks at Carmine.
He smiles, content.
Cosentino makes a face that says, Oh, all right.
Cosentino turns around.
He bends over at the waist.
Caporeale comes forward with the codpiece and smiles at the audience.
MERCUTIO (Bent over at the waist) Sure wit, follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump!
The audience applauds.
Carmine smiles.
Cagnotto, putting his clasped hands under his chin, makes a face as if to say, Isn’t this great?
Carmine lays an arm around his shoulder, puts his mouth up close to his ear, and whispers, “Bravo. Bravo.”
And then?
Well, then the speakers begin to blast out a crescendo of techno with “Push the Button,” and, to the dance beat of the Chemical Brothers, we see Falsaperla begin to do the tarantella with Gnazia and his wife, a bopping Paino bring the Contessa onto the floor, Intelisano throwing off his plaster as Commedatore Calì looks on smiling, Lambertini getting down with Vaccalluzzo and Rattalina, Caporeale throwing himse
lf into a belly dance around a preening Quattrocchi, Bobo at work with the Baronessa, and yes, Betty, a tender look on her face, patting the head of one of her pages.
CHORUS Do you think for that, the story we have told is any less true?
THE END
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
NEW YORK
ALSO BY OTTAVIO CAPPELLANI
Who Is Lou Sciortino?
Notes
1 “I Saw a Skull,” Sicilian folk song.
2 Aiola, a Mediterranean fish. Bresaola, cured beef, a popular dish from Northern Italy.
Copyright © 2007 by Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A., Milano Translation copyright © 2008 by Frederika Randall
All rights reserved
FARRAR, STRAUS AND GIROUX
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
Originally published in 2007 by Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, Italy, as Sicilian tragedi
Published in the United States by Farrar, Straus and Giroux
www.fsgbooks.com
Designed by Gretchen Achilles
eISBN 9781429996150
First eBook Edition : April 2011
First American edition, 2008
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint lines from “Do You Know Who I Am” by Robert Russell, copyright © 1969 Universal-PolyGram Int. Publ., Inc. (ASCAP). Copyright renewed. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Sicilian Tragedee Page 27
