Every now and then Mimì and Peppinella would go around offering the mourners rosolio and little pastries to boost their morale.
Around midday, ’Ntontò, who hadn’t yet opened her mouth and whose eyes were dry but bewitched, rose without saying a word and left the room.
Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour, and still ’Ntontò hadn’t returned. At this point Signora Colajanni, after exchanging a glance of understanding with the other women, went off to look for her. She was not in the salon with the men. Signora Colajanni went into the kitchen, where Peppinella and Mimì were putting more pastries on trays.
“We haven’t seen ’Ntontò for the last half hour,” she said.
Peppinella became immediately alarmed and rushed to the marchesina’s room. ’Ntontò wasn’t there, nor was she in the convenience room. News of her disappearance quickly spread among the mourners, who started looking for her.
Barone Uccello had a sudden misgiving, which he expressed out loud:
“What if she decided to do what her grandfather did?”
The men all rushed out of the palazzo and spread out, some going into town, others taking the road to the beach.
After finding no trace of ’Ntontò anywhere, however, they all returned to their respective homes, since it was time to eat. The women, too, after making one last sign of the cross in front of the deceased—who, as the hours passed, looked more and more like he was laughing—took their leave of Mimì and a weeping Peppinella. The only ones left in the palazzo were Father Macaluso—who cursed the saints as he prayed, because there was no one left to respond, the sacristan having taken advantage of the collective flight—and the pharmacist.
“Let’s stay calm. We’ll find her,” Fofò La Matina said after the others had left. He assigned the remaining party different areas to search. He himself went up to the attic. Mimì went to have a better look in the rooms checked earlier; Peppinella was sent to the stables, the storehouse, and the cellar on the ground floor of the palazzo. After opening some old armoires and trunks, Fofò heard Peppinella yelling from below.
“Come down to the cellar! She’s here!”
The pharmacist rushed downstairs. There in the cellar, perfectly calm, her skirts hiked up around her waist and her panties down, ’Ntontò was brushing black paint on her bottom.
5
Barely two days after the marchese’s funeral, Signora Colajanni went to work on Father Macaluso.
“Does that seem right to you? Doesn’t it cry out to God for vengeance that this child of sin is going to enjoy the vineyard of Le Zubbie? And that whore and her cuckolded pimp of a husband are going to live it up after killing poor Don Filippo?”
“Killing him? But the inspector said the marchese died after slipping and falling into the gorge.”
“Yes, but why did he slip?”
“How should I know? He lost his footing.”
“No, sir. The pharmacist was like an open book on this point. He said that the marchese felt ill—he felt, I dunno, faint or something, and then he fell into the gorge.”
“So?”
“You really surprise me, Father. He felt faint, or dizzy, because of the state that whore had left him in.”
“That whore, as you call her, and I’m sorry to defend her, did nothing more than what the marchese asked her to do. And anyway, I’m sorry, but what did they have to gain from Don Filippo’s death? Had he lived, the marchese would have made them even richer.”
“No, no. Those two think the way peasants think. They decided that a bird in the hand—Le Zubbie today—was worth two in the bush.”
One thing led to another, and one night Father Macaluso came to a decision—not to prevent an injustice, but to commit one himself. By intervening in the matter, he would avenge himself of all the bad turns the marchese had done him.
The first thing he did was to go to see ragioniere Papìa, who was an honorable man. Papìa confirmed the bequest, but also pointed out that the marchese’s possessions were so many and so vast, that to lose Le Zubbie was like losing one drop from a bottle of wine. And his word was gospel: he had been Don Filippo’s administrator and continued to perform the same service after Marchesina ’Ntontò had given him a vote of confidence. Father Macaluso pretended not to know any of this and showed up at the office of Scimè the notary.
“I don’t understand by what right you are requesting this information of me,” the notary said coldly to him.
“By my rights as a citizen and priest,” Father Macaluso replied proudly.
“Rights which in this office aren’t worth any more than a pile of cowshit. In any case, just to dispel all doubt, I can tell you that this business of the bequest is true, and that the legal heiress—the marchesina—has thirty more days to appeal it. But she had better find herself a good lawyer.”
“There aren’t any surprises in store for us in the will, are there?”
“What will? Let me speak your tongue: it would have been easier to convince a camel to do that bullshit mentioned in the Gospel than to persuade the dear departed to draw up a will.”
Since he was already halfway there, Father Macaluso decided to go for broke and call on the lawyer Cassar, a luminary of his profession.
“We could try it,” the lawyer said, “but we shall need more substantive arguments to prove the subject’s mental incapacities.”
“What? Killing a rooster because it didn’t do what was asked of it, or screaming because the rows of vines were not straight—aren’t those the actions of a madman?”
“Not necessarily. Personally, for example, I happen to like my rows of grapevines nice and straight. And my mother kicks and curses at chairs that aren’t where she wants them to be. And until proven otherwise, we are both of sound mind. Just let me handle this. Before we take another step, however, the marchesina must give her consent. She’s the legal heir to everything.”
When Father Macaluso, in the company of Signora Colajanni, went to talk about all this with the marchesina, ’Ntontò asked him a precise question.
“But why was my father so attached to that baby?”
To his genuine horror, Father Macaluso realized that ’Ntontò knew nothing, and that her naiveté had kept her from suspecting anything.
Madonna mia! thought the priest. Where to begin?
Signora Colajanni came to his aid.
“The truth is the truth,” the signora proclaimed, “and it should be shouted to the four winds because it offends neither mankind nor the Lord in heaven. Your father, my dear ’Ntontò, had been shacking up for some time with the field watcher’s wife. That was why he was living at Le Zubbie. And everyone in town says the baby is his.”
’Ntontò didn’t move, but only kept looking straight ahead, her eyes turning a brighter blue.
“And he bequeathed Le Zubbie to him?”
“Precisely.”
“And he said he wanted to adopt him?”
“Precisely.”
’Ntontò stood up. The visit, for her, was over.
“Give me two days to think about it,” she said.
“What is there to think about?” Father Macaluso asked, screwing up his face.
“Two days. And thank you for your concern.”
When ’Ntontò finished telling the pharmacist of the visit from Father Macaluso and Signora Colajanni, he broke into a broad smile.
“You find it funny?” she said, slightly miffed.
“No, but I feel relieved. When Peppinella came to the shop to tell me you needed to see me, I thought you had fallen sick again. Luckily, that’s not the problem.”
“I don’t need to ask anyone’s advice,” ’Ntontò said after explaining. “I could ask Barone Uccello, but he’s always taken my father’s side. That’s why I’ve come to you. You seem like an honest man. What’s your opinion?”
“It’s not easy to
say,” said the pharmacist. “In a certain sense, Father Macaluso is right. In the eyes of the townsfolk, that is.”
“If I based my decisions on what the townsfolk think, you wouldn’t be here now, wasting your breath on me.”
“Right.”
“And so, before you give me your advice, I want to know how things went. First. You were summoned by my father to help the field watcher’s wife. How did he behave? Pretend that you’re answering the police inspector, not me.”
“He behaved as if he was the child’s real father,” said Fofò, showing no doubt whatsoever. “Then there was the matter of how they had rearranged the house. The field watcher no longer slept with his wife.”
“And my father did?”
“No, that’s just it. They all slept apart, in different rooms.”
“Second. How did they treat my father?”
“In all honesty, both husband and wife were very fond of him.”
“Thank you,” said ’Ntontò, standing up. As the pharmacist was kissing her hand, she chided him: “But you never gave me your advice.”
“Because I have never felt in a position to advise others. I can only speak for myself.”
“Then speak as if you were the marchese’s son.”
“If my father had willed, not even in writing, but only by verbal agreement, that all his belongings should go to whomsoever of his choosing, and I were left destitute and mad, I should not have raised a finger against his wishes. But I speak only for myself.”
“Thank you,” said ’Ntontò.
’Ntontò did not wait the two days she had requested to think things over. That same evening, after speaking with Fofò La Matina, she sent Peppinella to Signora Colajanni with a message. The note was only a few lines long, but that very brevity communicated the firmness of her decision. In essence, ’Ntontò said she would not sign any papers that went against her father’s wishes, and she did not want to discuss the matter any further. In a fit of rage, Father Macaluso kicked his missal and sent it flying. The news spread at once and was received as more proof that the marchesina, since painting her bottom black, was no longer right in the head. Only one voice was raised in her defense. Indeed ’Ntontò received an enormous bouquet of roses with a card saying: To her father’s true daughter. It was signed “Zizì,” which was what ’Ntontò had called Barone Uccello since childhood. She replied with a note of thanks, inviting the baron to call on her at the palazzo whenever he wished.
Zizì did not wait to be asked twice. The following day he was sitting opposite ’Ntontò.
“I went to see your father twice at Le Zubbie,” said Barone Uccello. “I missed him. I was used to seeing him every day. And so I took the carriage and left, intending to return to Vigàta that same evening. But, both times, he wouldn’t listen to reason. I had to stay the night. I regretted this, because it was an imposition. Trisina had to vacate the room next your father’s for me, and went to sleep in Natale’s bedroom, while Natale had to sleep in the stables.”
“And what did the two of you do?”
“We didn’t do anything. Or rather, we did what we always did. We ate, we laughed, we played cards. Cards, you know, were the mirror of your father’s soul. Did you know that, ’Ntontò?”
“No, Zizì. What do you mean?”
“I mean that when he was in good spirits and untroubled, there wasn’t anyone he couldn’t beat. But when something wasn’t going right for him, he always lost. And, those days at Le Zubbie, even if I had called upon God to intervene, I could never have won so much as one game. It drove me mad.”
“So he was happy.”
“Happy?” said the baron, thoughtful. “He was in heaven, ’Ntontò.”
“This evening,” ’Ntontò said to Peppinella, “I want you to set the table for three.”
“Why, who’s coming?” the maid asked, alarmed.
“Nobody’s coming. From now on, I want you and Mimì to eat with me.”
“To sit at the same table as madame?!” Peppinella exclaimed, horrified.
“Why, have you got something against it?”
“Yes’m. First of all, iss not right. And second, me an’ my husband got no table manners. I smack my lips, and Mimì unbuckles his trousers.”
“You can smack your lips as much as you like and unbuckle whatever you wish. I don’t want any arguments.”
That evening, as she ate with Peppinella and Mimì, who sat still as two statues, ’Ntontò explained herself:
“If I keep eating alone I’ll lose my mind.”
Then she turned to face the other two, looking them straight in the eyes.
“Do you, Peppinella, or your sister, Maddalena, or you, Mimì, do any of you know what my father was doing at Le Zubbie?”
“Yes,” said Mimì, barely audible.
“And why didn’t you say anything to me?”
“Mimì wanted to tell you,” said Peppinella, “but I said no. I didn’t want m’lady to be sad.”
“With each passing day, the marchesina is showing every sign that she has inherited her father’s lunacy,” Postmaster Colajanni said at the Circolo. “Now she’s taken to eating at the same table as her servants! A noble!”
“Let’s make a distinction,” said Barone Uccello. “Those aren’t ordinary servants. Peppinella and Mimì raised and groomed her.”
“So what? They’re still servants.”
“And you’re still a pile of shit,” Commendatore Aguglia, the ex-Garibaldino, calmly intervened.
Colajanni gasped for breath.
“What did you say? You shall answer for this!”
“Whenever and however you like. There’s no danger in duelling with you. It’s a well-known fact that, while shit may stink, it doesn’t kill.”
“Consider yourself slapped.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort. Get up out of that chair and come slap me in person. Which will lead to one of two things: either I’ll give you such a kick in the pants that you will fly all the way to Malta, or I’ll wipe my face with a piece of paper the way I do my ass after after I shit. The choice is yours.”
’Ntontò received another large bouquet of roses. The accompanying card said: For the lady who so bravely and scornfully put the Garibaldian ideal of equality into practice. Commendatore Aguglia.
“What’s he talking about?” ’Ntontò asked herself, puzzled.
Consternation, anger, and frowns colored the faces of the majority of the townsfolk as the carriage with the Peluso coat of arms entered Vigàta from Le Zubbie, with Mimì at the reins and Natale Pirrotta inside with Trisina holding the baby, crossed the Corso, and passed through the great door of the family palazzo. The minority, on the other hand—consisting in reality of only Barone Uccello and Commendatore Aguglia—rejoiced. And this without either side having a clue as to why they had come.
“The marchesina wanted to see them,” Mimì explained, to rid himself of two or three busybodies assailing him like rabid dogs. But he said nothing more, being himself in the dark as to the reason behind his lady’s strange whim.
“Madonna santa, she’s so beautiful!” Trisina thought upon seeing ’Ntontò, and the terror she had felt during the journey, dress clinging to her sweaty body and teeth tightly clenched, quickly passed. Unconsciously she was thinking that a woman who looked like the Blessed Virgin was incapable, by nature, of doing harm.
“I called you here,” ’Ntontò said to the group once they were gathered in the sitting room, “because I wanted to see the baby.”
She approached Trisina’s extended arms, parted the baby blanket, and gazed at the sleeping infant.
“He’s beautiful,” she said after a pause. “How old is he?”
“Three months.”
“Sit down.”
They all sat down, Natale and Trisina as stiff as brooms.
“I don’t wa
nt to offend anybody. But I need to know. And I want to tell you straightaway that I myself do not feel offended by anyone: not by my father, not by you, much less by the baby.”
“M’lady could never offend me. Just like the dear departed marchese never could,” said Pirrotta. “M’lady can ask me whatever she likes.”
“Whose is he?” asked ’Ntontò, gesturing at the baby.
“He’s the dear departed marchese’s,” said Pirrotta. “An’ I can hold my head high when I say it, ’cause there was no lying or betrayal. But people mustn’t know this; for them, he’s my son.”
“That’s right,” said ’Ntontò, who had taken the baby from Trisina’s arms and was now holding it.
“How did he die?” she asked after a pause.
“Peacefully, in his own bed. Without even realizing. When Trisina went in to wake him up, he was dead. And he didn’t even look dead. He looked like he was sleeping,” said Pirrotta.
“And why did you throw him into a ravine?”
“’Cause if they found him dead in our house, with all the gossip’s been going around in town, they would’ve said me and Trisina killed him. So I hoisted him onto my shoulders, I took him to the ravine, and made it so it’d look to Portera like the marchese slipped and fell.”
“Thank you for your sincerity.”
“Much obliged.”
‘Ntontò rang the bell, and Peppinella came running, full of curiosity. Everything seemed calm.
“Peppinè, do me a favor. Go into my room and bring me the jewel box that’s on my commode.
“I did that for a reason,” she said to the others as soon as Peppinella had left. “I could have gone and got it myself, but I want a witness. I don’t want people to say that you stole what I want to give the baby.”
When the maid returned, ’Ntontò opened the inlaid box and extracted a small, solid-gold chain with a medallion bearing a cameo of the marchese’s profile.
“My father had this made for me,” she said, putting the chain around the baby’s neck.
Hunting Season: A Novel Page 9
