“Okay, but I feel embarrassed all the same. I don’t know anybody.”
“Just do what I do. When you haven’t got anything to say or anybody to talk to, just make a snobby face, like this.” Signorina Niscemi sticks her nose in the air and pouts. “That way it looks like you don’t want to talk to people because you think they’re not quite your kind and you can’t trust them.”
Raffaella also sticks her nose in the air and pouts, then laughs.
“I told you we’d have a good time if you came,” Signorina Niscemi says.
* * *
“I don’t understand Signorina Niscemi,” Rosy says to Cinzia and Alessia, sitting on the wicker couch on the other side of the garden. “You can see a mile off all she wants is somebody to eat her tits, so I don’t know why the fuck she has to make that face!”
* * *
Tony is still thinking about Nunzio’s impertinent answer and the missing amaretti when he sees Lou Sciortino and Leonard Trent coming in and his head starts spinning. Tony watches them for a moment, then walks toward them, but doesn’t know where to start. “Cettina!” he screams. When he doesn’t know what the fuck to do, he always screams, “Cettina!”
Cettina appears, holding the train of her red dress in her left hand and a glass of prosecco in her right. As she can’t hold out her hand, she’s forced to smile and bow. Lou smiles, while Leonard bows in reply.
“And this is Tony!” Tony says, pointing to himself, and looking at Leonard with a forced smile.
“Ciao, Tony,” Leonard says, giving him his hand. “Nice party.”
“Thank you,” Tony says, holding out a hand as flabby as a fresh cuttlefish.
Then Tony falls silent, and so does Cettina. Lou is on the point of saying something stupid about how his jacket and Cettina’s dress are both red, when Leonard looks straight in Agatino’s direction.
“Marvelous!” he says.
“Who?” Tony asks in surprise.
“The octopus,” Leonard says.
“The octopus?” Tony asks, even more surprised, remembering that in Sicilian, “octopus” can mean “faggot.”
“Yes, the octopus … How do you say?” Leonard walks toward Agatino and, a few yards from the table where the aperitifs are, points to an octopus, made out of three feet of real pastry, with colored parasols stuck in its head and its tentacles used for holding glasses.
“Oh,” Tony says, relieved. “Nice, isn’t it? Almond pastry, like Uncle Sal’s amaretti. Amazing what they can do with almond pastry!” Then he signals to Agatino. “An aperitif?”
Agatino puffs out his chest, wiggles his shoulders, and blinks behind the sunglasses. “A Bellini, a Rossini, or a Tonini?”
“A Tonini, please,” Leonard says.
With the palm of his hand Tony indicates the anchovies and the raw octopus. “May I offer you some Sicilian sushi? Lou?”
“Thanks, Tony,” Lou says, looking around. “Maybe I’ll have something later.”
“Mindy … is on her way,” Cettina says timidly.
“Any chance of having a little of this … this … almond pastry?” Leonard says.
Tony turns white, looks at Cettina, and clears his throat. “The amaretti are on their way…” he says. “I know it’s a shame, but we can’t eat the octopus, can we?”
“Don’t worry,” Leonard says, smiling. “Sicilian sushi sounds perfect.”
Tony cheers up, looks at Cettina like a contented child, then puts a hand on Leonard’s shoulder. “Baretta…” he says in a shrill voice. “Is it true Baretta killed his wife?”
“No, thanks, not this octopus … just the other one.” Leonard can’t take his eyes off the octopus sculpture. “The lawyer says Marlon Brando’s son Christian had an affair with his wife.”
“The lawyer’s wife?” Tony asks in a worried tone.
“No, Baretta’s wife.”
Tony jumps, like he’s had a shock. “Madre!”
Leonard nods, then looks left and right. “But the whole defense doesn’t add up.”
Tony nods, too.
“Baretta and his wife were in a restaurant,” Leonard goes on, “and they go out to the parking lot. But then, according to Baretta, he goes back to the restaurant because he forgot his gun. He goes in, gets the gun, and when he gets back to the parking lot, his wife’s already been shot. Can you see somebody forgetting his gun in a restaurant?”
Tony shakes his head. “Minchia, they set him up! In my opinion, it was Marlon Brando’s son. He already killed his stepsister’s lover ten years ago because he was beating her—and that isn’t normal, because you can kill your sister’s lover, all right, but your stepsister’s? If you kill your stepsister’s lover, it means you’re doing it because you have the hots for her…”
“Don’t forget Duffy Hambleton, Tony, the stuntman who first accused Baretta of hiring him to kill his wife…”
“What the hell does Baretta got to do with Duffy’s wife?”
“No, when I say his wife, I mean Baretta’s wife…”
“Oh, yes…”
“Now he’s changed his story and he’s accusing Brando’s son … There’s also Kevin London, the parking lot mugger, Baretta’s lawyer says it could have been him…”
Tony and Leonard Trent walk away, leaving Lou and Cettina to themselves.
* * *
In her right hand, Signora Zappulla clutches the fan her husband bought her in Córdoba and taps it nervously on the palm of her left hand. Minchia, Tony hardly even said good evening to her! Asshole! Turncoat!
A few yards away, Signora Falsaperla is reveling in the fact of Tony’s treating the senator and his wife so badly. To Signora Falsaperla, who’s arm in arm with her husband, his stomach barely contained by his red shirt with the mother-of-pearl buttons and his face aflame with aftershave, it seems too good to be true, seeing Signora Zappulla with her horse face contorted in rage, and hair like Farrah Fawcett in a wind tunnel. So she decides to unburden herself. “Signora,” she says, approaching, “nice barbecue, isn’t it? They’ve even got americani here.”
“Let them go back to Hollywood and be ballbusters there. Then they can come here and act all high and mighty. By the way”—Signora Zappulla turns to Signor Falsaperla—“your wife told me at Tony’s that you’d like to go into politics.”
Signor Falsaperla’s face gets even redder, because it’s one thing to talk about having political ambitions when you’re in your shop, wrapping sausages for your customers, and quite another in front of Senator Zappulla. But the senator tells him, “Excellent idea, excellent idea. The country needs entrepreneurs like you.”
Nobody’s ever called Falsaperla an entrepreneur before. His face almost explodes with happiness, and even the tips of his ears turn bright red.
* * *
“That’s democracy, look!” Uncle Mimmo says to Tano, nudging him in the elbow and indicating Lou with his eyes.
“Minchia, that’s the guy who came to collect the protection!” Tano says.
“Who?” Cosimo screams.
“Why don’t you say it a little louder, eh?” Uncle Mimmo says. “He hasn’t heard you yet.”
* * *
During the afternoon Mindy called Valentina, took her into Tony and Cettina’s bedroom, opened the wardrobe, and showed Valentina Tony’s wife’s clothes. Cettina had told her to choose something to wear and Mindy had thought, Who better to decide than Valentina? Among Cettina’s things, Valentina immediately saw a simple seventies-style dress, white with blue polka dots, which seemed tailor-made for Mindy. Cettina’s shorter, but just as big-breasted, and the dress fit her to a T, coming down to midthigh.
Valentina then rushed over to her own house and came back with a pair of stiletto-heeled sandals she bought on Via Etnea.
“When a woman’s got beautiful feet like you do, Mindy, she oughta show them off,” Valentina said as Mindy gazed in the mirror.
Now Mindy is advancing across the lawn, a surly expression on her face. She sways in an ungainl
y way as she walks, her white breasts shaking above the low-cut neckline.
“Mindy!” Cettina says, waving.
Mindy turns and sees Cettina with the americano, who’s wearing an open red jacket.
Lou gives her a long, studied look as she approaches.
“Good evening,” Mindy says when she’s in front of Lou, keeping her knees together so she can plant her heels more firmly in the ground. Her voice is steady, and so are her eyes, which look straight into his.
Lou turns red and looks down.
“What are you doing, looking at my feet?” Mindy asks.
“What?” Lou says curtly.
Cettina smiles and gives Mindy a look that says, You’re gorgeous. Then she signals to Agatino, who’s moving among the guests with a tray full of the triad of aperitifs. Agatino approaches and whispers in her ear, “Signora, your husband’s looking desperately for you.”
“Are you having anything, kids?” Cettina says. “You’ll have to excuse me. Apparently my husband’s looking for me.”
Mindy shifts her weight, trying to free her right heel, which is caught in the grass. “A Brancamenta,” she says to Agatino with a slightly pained tone.
Fuck, Lou thinks, just like my grandfather!
She’s spent years playing the saint, Agatino thinks, and now look at the whore.
“Make that two, please,” Lou says, looking straight at Rosamunda, or Mindy, or whatever the fuck she’s called.
Sì, principessa, ascoltami!
Tu che di gel sei cinta,
da tanta fiamma vinta,
l’amerai anche tu!
The voice of Violetta Leonardi, a soprano from the Teatro Massimo, rings out loud and clear, reaching every corner of the garden. It wasn’t difficult for Senator Zappulla to get the soprano to grace Tony’s barbecue, along with the tenor Pippo Del Gaudio, the two first violins, a cellist, and a pianist from the Massimo. They’re performing a program of chinoiserie et orientalisme, according to Tony’s instructions: mainly Turandot and Butterfly … Tu che di gel sei cinta, Bimba dagli occhi pieni de malia, Un bel dì vedremo, Il cannone del porto, Tu, tu piccolo Iddio …
The performance ought to have gone off without a hitch, but unfortunately Salvatore Attigliano, the first violin, grabbed all the amaretti for himself, and now he’s having trouble keeping time.
* * *
Nick looks right and left, and then goes back and hides behind the garden gate. Minchia, opera, Americans, and Chinese dragons! All that’s missing is for a coffin with Saint Agata’s relics to pass by in procession.
Nick is terrified, because he’s sure that as soon as he enters everybody will stop what they’re doing and start applauding the fiancé’s arrival.
Because it’s one thing to take Mindy aside, although he’s still not sure what she looks like because when they introduced her he felt faint, anyway it’s one thing to take Mindy aside and say, “I’m sorry, Mindy, let’s forget this.” It’s quite another thing to say to everybody, “Thanks a lot, but let’s forget it” when her relatives are applauding you, the invitations are printed, the church is booked, the house is furnished, and Uncle Sal’s as happy as could be.
As if that weren’t enough, now he’s got this fucking allergy to deal with! Never mind Uncle Sal, even Tony’s plants bust your balls!
Nick is coughing and swearing at the top of his lungs when he becomes aware of a presence behind him. He turns abruptly and sees Valentina.
“Wipe your nose, it’s running!” Valentina says, smiling, and hands him a Kleenex.
* * *
Tony approaches the girls on the wicker couch.
“Have you seen the amaretti?” he asks, in a sharp, angry voice.
“Huh?” Rosy says.
Tony folds his arms and drums with his foot.
“They gotta be here, Tony. There were trays of them,” Alessia says.
“Oh, there were trays of them,” Tony says, turning with legs apart and hands on hips and looking all around the barbecue. “Have you seen Cettina?” he asks, even more angrily.
Cinzia opens her eyes wide. “Fuck, Tony, you’re firing off questions like a machine gun. We haven’t seen her, but here’s Nunzio, why don’t you ask him?”
Tony glances down at the big rings of sweat under his armpits, swears, and grabs Nunzio’s arm.
“Have you seen Cettina?”
“She was just talking to the americano and her cousin Mindy.”
Shading his eyes with his hand, Tony looks around, and spots Lou talking to Mindy. No sign of Cettina.
“Listen, have you seen the amaretti?” Tony screws up his eyes very small.
“No. There was a box, but that was an hour ago.”
“What do you mean … an hour ago? That director just asked me for amaretti. What am I going to give him, fried dicks?”
Nunzio smiles wickedly. “Maybe your wife hid them! Of course, if they don’t turn up, you’ll have to get more from Corso Italia!”
Minchia, Nunzio really loves stirring things up between Tony and his wife!
DON GIORGINO’S ORZATA IS A RITUAL, A WAY OF SHOWING OFF
Don Giorgino’s orzata is a ritual, a way of showing off. He used to buy it from the stands on Piazza Umberto when he was young. At the time he had torn pants, but there were lots of torn pants in those days. Your shoes, though, had to be good and shiny. And you kept the nail on your little finger really long to emphasize your ruby ring, because going to the stand in those days with the ring in clear view was like saying to everybody, You’re all dying of starvation, but I can afford an orzata, and when I buy it I’ve got a ring on my little finger, because Giorgino Favarotta isn’t dying of starvation like all of you, and doesn’t need to pawn things.
He still has the same ring. A woman’s ring, with a ruby, that he got from a pawnbroker. It used to belong to a baroness whose carob orchards had burned down in 1926 and who pawned the ring to pay for a dinner she was giving.
Now, though, Don Giorgino drinks his orzata at the Hollywood, a bar on Piazza Europa with small tables outside, where the local bad boys drive up in their convertibles at aperitif time. And where they keep orzata specially for him.
Don Giorgino arrives with a picciotto, sits down, leans on his cane, and remains still, looking behind his sunglasses at the hookers with their bare midriffs, while the picciotto orders for him.
* * *
You can either reach Piazza Europa from the seaside promenade, which is crowded with people coming back from the sea, or from Corso Italia, which crosses the city, and is deserted on Sunday, when all the shops are closed.
Pippino is coming from Corso Italia.
On foot, in his brown suit and black polo shirt. Walking fast and seeming resolute. To tell the truth, Pippino isn’t the kind of guy who has to walk fast to seem resolute. Pippino doesn’t even know what the fuck it means to be resolute. He was born that way and, like all men who are born a certain way, doesn’t even know he is. Pippino is walking fast because he wants to be sweating when he arrives.
* * *
Fuck, how many hookers there are here, Don Giorgino is thinking as he waits for his orzata. Look at them, plastic tits, fashionable shoes, they go to beauty salons, and they can’t wait to suck the cocks of the guys in the convertibles!
Don Giorgino bursts into a wild laugh. The picciotto sitting next to him doesn’t turn a hair. Every now and again Giorgino starts laughing like a moron.
* * *
Pippino is walking with his head down. Faster than ever. He can feel the first beads of sweat dropping from his forehead. His stomach, though, is still dry.
When Pippino is tense, time slows down for him, and then he sees everything: he can see if a fly is passing close to your ear, if you’ve lied to your wife, if your feet are sweating in your shoes—everything. But when he relaxes, like now that he’s walking fast, then time speeds up, and Pippino sees only what he wants to see and nothing else.
* * *
The waiter arrives with the
orzata. Don Giorgino appears to be asleep. He’s absolutely still, with his mouth half open, the tip of his tongue sticking out, and his breath coming out in a wheeze, rising from his throat. The waiter puts the glass down on a little silver dish in front of Don Giorgino.
Nothing for the picciotto. He’s here to work, not drink coffee.
Don Giorgino, dozing off constantly, takes an hour to drink the orzata. His hand shakes and he sips his drink like a little bird. Every now and then he laughs … his usual wild laugh.
* * *
Pippino reaches Piazza Europa. He walks toward the Hollywood. He looks at the customers in the bar and spots Don Giorgino. As he approaches the table, he stumbles and overturns the orzata.
The waiter sees a man who’s bathed in sweat apologizing to Don Giorgino, then putting his hand on the picciotto’s back and apologizing to him, too. The waiter comes running.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Pippino’s saying. “Maria, I’m sorry! Bring another one straightaway, the same thing, I’ll pay, I’ll pay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
The young guys in the convertibles laugh, so do the hookers.
The waiter doesn’t know what to do. He runs inside to order another orzata and to get a cloth to wipe the floor.
Pippino runs into the bar. “Maria, I’m so sorry … Give me a glass of water, please. Maria, I’m so sorry. Let me pay … What was it, an orzata? Please let me pay.”
Pippino puts his hand in his pocket and takes out a wad of hundred-euro bills. Nancy, the cashier, who’s wearing a white blouse with lace trimmings and has very big tits—quite obviously not the ones God gave her—looks him up and down: brown suit, long sleeves, wide trouser cuffs … a peasant in from some buttfuck village to chase after whores.
“Don’t worry,” she says, smiling.
“You must excuse me. Maria, I’m so sorry. Listen … is there a gas station open around here? My Mercedes broke down on Piazza Trento.”
“Sure, there’s a twenty-four-hour place on Piazza Trento, didn’t you see it?”
“On Piazza Trento! Maria, I thought it was closed. It’s Sunday. Maria, it’s twenty-four hours. Maria … I’ll be right back, okay?”
Pippino runs out. Nancy watches him, smiling.
Who is Lou Sciortino? Page 17
