Authors: Ottavio Cappellani
Sicilian Tragedee (31 page)
No One Would Ever Dare to Question Signorina Betty’s Virtue and Good Name
“No one would ever dare to question Signorina Betty’s virtue and good name.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” says Pirrotta, who doesn’t know where to look.
His daughter, that great big slut!
“And anyone who dares to,” says Turrisi, swelling out his chest, “I can swear before the Queen, will have to deal with me first.”
“Who? Marina Doria?”
“No, sir! Before Queen Elizabeth in person, who has the same name as your daughter.”
“No, actually, she’s just called Bet—Yes, Turrisi! Well said! I thank you as her father. But as Pirrotta, no. What’s going on here? You want to even the odds? I take out Falsaperla and you take out Paino?
Turrisi looks around, freaked.
“Don’t worry, there aren’t any bugs.”
Turrisi looks at Pirrotta, then lowers his eyes. “And what was I
supposed to do? Shut up and swallow it that you took out one of yours so the blame would fall on me?”
supposed to do? Shut up and swallow it that you took out one of yours so the blame would fall on me?”
Pirrotta goes
no
with his head.
no
with his head.
Even this sad bastard Turrisi has his own logic.
Then he thinks about it. “Right, absolutely!” he says, giving himself another slap on the knee.
“Huh?”
Pirrotta improvises. He can’t decide whether he should use the
tu
or the
Lei
with Turrisi. “See, I could have put your loyalty to the family to the test. It’s called a duty hit. Just like that.”
tu
or the
Lei
with Turrisi. “See, I could have put your loyalty to the family to the test. It’s called a duty hit. Just like that.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, a duty hit! I show you disrespect and you drop your horns down and drag them in the dirt as an act of devotion to the family. You want to join the family, no?”
Turrisi joins his two hands together. “God willing!”
“Well, then why, you dumb fool, didn’t you just shut up?”
“But first Signorina Elisabetta told me that you, sir, didn’t consent to the engagement, and then you, sir, blew Falsaperla away to make me look bad not only with the prosecutors, bless them, but also with the people from Palermo, who, as you know, would like us to keep quiet. But why, sir, did you first consent and then say no? What did I do wrong?”
And now what the fuck was he supposed to tell him?
“Never! I never consented.” Pirrotta stares at Turrisi.
Then, so as to seem more credible, he gives himself another slap on the knee.
“But one of your boys came to Pietroburger and gave me an appointment with Betty at Trinacria in Bocca.”
“Turrisi. My wife and my daughter, they got together. And the boys, these days at my house, obey my wife more than they do me.”
“But your boy didn’t tell you that your wife had sent him out?”
Fuck, what a nitpicker this fuckhead Turrisi is.
What the fuck business does he have, meddling in Pirrotta’s home affairs?
Fuck, he starts behaving like this as a son-in-law and he’ll end up taking a ride in the cement-mixer.
“Of course he told me, but it was too late.”
Turrisi nods.
“And then of course Betty was crazy about you,” adds Pirrotta. “You saw, no, how she greeted you so affectionately at Palazzolo Acreide, and even sat down next to you, defying my fatherly paternal authority?”
Turrisi thinks about how Betty had stroked his leg and about how, if he hadn’t tried to save Paino, who knows what she might have got up to stroking.
“Think about it. Betty, who always obeyed me, defied my fatherly paternal authority to go and sit next to you.” Pirrotta makes a disgusted face.
Turrisi nods, devastated, repentant, touched, his face a mask of regret.
“And just because she thought that Falsaperla, you had blown him away. To spite me,” says Pirrotta.
“Don’t twist the knife in the wound!”
“Certainly I’m going to twist it. Betty may be naive but she’s not stupid. You started to do that dance at Palazzolo Acreide and suddenly Betty understood everything. That I took down Falsaperla to put the blame on you, and that you took down Paino to put the blame on me.”
“But can’t we try to fix it, this problem? In the end, by evening the score, I challenged you with a public demonstration of my love for Betty.”
“Turrisi, can I tell you something?”
“Please, it would be an honor.”
“Okay, Turrisi, get this through your head. You, about females, understand fuck-all.”
You Understand?
“You understand? Those scumbags, those shitheads. I’m going to turn into a lesbian. First a whore, however, and then a lesbian.”
Betty is flipping out on the beach, leaning over the table at an Afro-bar on the sand, yelling directly into Carmine’s ear.
“You understand? I don’t count for anything! The only fucking thing they had on their minds was oil. Turrisi’s love …”
Betty takes a champagne flute and hurls it toward the sand. The flute hits the beach without breaking.
“That’s where all that love was going. That’s where it was. Oil! Oil! Oil! That’s what interests those two shithead faggot males, who can screw each other as much as they want, bastards who fool around with the feelings and the lives of others …”
Carmine is massaging his forehead, his head down because he’s embarrassed.
“And … and …” Betty has used up all her insults. She crosses her arms and sits back in her chair, spreading her legs.
Carmine lifts an eye to see whether, by venting, she has calmed down.
“Oh, yes …” Betty leans forward again. “But now I’m going to show them what I’m capable of, you think I’m going to let it pass like that, they thought I was going to ruin my life, at my age, for oil, money … You understand, Carmine, how disgusting? For money! But me, what a slut, I go and give it gratis, understand, Carmine, because if my father wanted me to sell my body to Turrisi, you understand, Carmine, my
body
”—Betty puts her hand on her shoulder and takes the fabric of her white linen caftan between thumb and index finger and gives it a little lift—“my body for money, well, then I”—a little lift to the caftan—“my body, I’ll give it away gratis, gratis, gratis.”
body
”—Betty puts her hand on her shoulder and takes the fabric of her white linen caftan between thumb and index finger and gives it a little lift—“my body for money, well, then I”—a little lift to the caftan—“my body, I’ll give it away gratis, gratis, gratis.”
Betty freezes like that, immobile, her fingers pinching the linen.
Her body, my big fucking gay prick.
“Hey, Betty, you said yourself that you didn’t like Turrisi, you told Turrisi that your father didn’t want—”
Betty jumps up.
She looks at Carmine with loathing, contempt, disdain, and outraged dignity.
Betty’s extremely loud “
Gofuckyourself!
” makes almost a mile of beach turn toward the Afro-bar.
Gofuckyourself!
” makes almost a mile of beach turn toward the Afro-bar.
Beyond the mile, thank heavens, people hear something like the shriek of a seagull.
And So the Prefect Wants to Resolve the Situation and He’s Asking Me the Favor
“And so the prefect wants to resolve the situation and he’s asking me the favor.” In front of a huge slice of watermelon Timpanaro is explaining the prefect’s plan. “He says he’ll even put in air-conditioning,” he goes on happily.
“Ah,” yells Cagnotto suddenly, frightening the whole table.
“What’s that? What happened?” says Caporeale.
Cagnotto looks around with wide eyes. “I don’t know. I thought I was falling.”
“Falling?” says Timpanaro, interested.
“Must be vertigo,” says Lambertini.
Cagnotto looks at them as if he’s never seen them before.
“Cagnotto, cheer up!” says Timpanaro. “They’re giving us air-conditioning! We’ll be performing indoors, to enhance police surveillance! They’ll have law and order in Noto! There will be journalists from outside Sicily, from outside Italy! It looks to me like the regional
commissioner for sport, tourism, and entertainment is also getting involved. Cagnotto, maybe this means nothing to you, but here, a
situation
creates business opportunities. Think about it, Cagnotto. What do you want to do? You want to say no to such an opportunity?”
commissioner for sport, tourism, and entertainment is also getting involved. Cagnotto, maybe this means nothing to you, but here, a
situation
creates business opportunities. Think about it, Cagnotto. What do you want to do? You want to say no to such an opportunity?”
“I want to die,” says Lambertini. “The show must go on.”
Cagnotto looks at Lambertini.
He had heard her say “I want to die” but probably he had heard her wrong.
“Why are you looking at me like that, Cagnotto?”
“No, it’s, um …”
“All right, are we all in agreement?”
Cosentino looks at Caporeale, gives him a wink, and says, “What do you think?”
“No, no, I agree, Lambertini must die.”
Lambertini nods her head, satisfied. At least somebody understands her.
Look, Don’t Even Let Me Think About What Betty’s Thinking About Right Now!
“Look, don’t even let me think about what Betty’s thinking about right now!”
Pirrotta has moved on to the diplomatic
Lei
, he’s dropped the
tu
charged with intimate contempt.
Lei
, he’s dropped the
tu
charged with intimate contempt.
“In this moment Betty feels wounded, cheated, bitter.” Pirrotta makes a face with a bitter smirk. “She’s a woman who believes in feelings, know what I mean, Turrisi?”
Turrisi nods compassionately.
“She thinks we’re at war for oil, for business, that we’re insensible to the call of love.”
“No, no. I’d do anything for Elisabetta!”
“No, she’s called Bet—Call her Betty! Turrisi, just call her Betty! I can see, I can see your intentions are serious. Only now the problem is not just my daughter. Now we got two homicides.”
Turrisi gestures with his chin, as if to say,
I know how many there are.
I know how many there are.
“But Turrisi, how did it ever cross your mind to take down Paino?”
“As I told you—”
“No, do me a favor. Don’t talk. Did you know that the magistrates have opened an inquest? Yeah? The prefect has put his nose in. They’re organizing something in Noto …”
“Okay, but what can those fuckers—”
“No, look, I asked you to shut up.”
Turrisi nods, saying
sorry
with his eyes.
sorry
with his eyes.
“The national newspapers are even talking about it, they say
La Voce della Sicilia
got a call from a paper in London wanting to know if it was all true.”
La Voce della Sicilia
got a call from a paper in London wanting to know if it was all true.”
“From London?”
“Turrisi, don’t start up with London now!”
Turrisi nods, saying
sorry
once again with his eyes.
sorry
once again with his eyes.
“And that’s not the only problem. They’re getting nervous in Palermo.”
“Scum,” says Turrisi.
Pirrotta looks at him.
Hadn’t he told him to shut up?
Okay, but he was right, the guys from Palermo are scum, it’s true. “If it weren’t for Jacobbo Maretta, Virtude’s man of honor who’s got the situation in hand, things in Sicily would be worse than a mess right now. In Palermo, with Virtude in Ucciardone Prison, this bunch of jack-offs are out there fooling around. But hey, where did you ever get the idea of blowing away Paino?” Pirrotta can’t stop thinking about it.
“But if I hadn’t done it, in Palermo they would have thought it was me who took down Falsaperla, and they would have gone after me for starting a gang war.”
“Ah, yes, and now that they’re pissed off at both of us, things are much better, aren’t they?”
Turrisi looks at Pirrotta.
Pirrotta looks away. “And where did you get the idea of doing it that way, so theatrical? During the same play, during the same line! No wonder the newspapers in London are talking about it.”
“Hey, what about that magistrate they blew up with the whole newsstand where he went to get his papers?”
“Well, in that case it means they didn’t have any other way to get him,” says Pirrotta. Sounding none too sure of himself, to tell the truth.
“I,” says Turrisi, “I had to show who Turrisi is. If it had to be war, it had to be war.”
Pirrotta raises his eyes to the heavens.
He sighs.
Best to remain calm. “Okay, trivialities. Don’t worry.”
“But how are we going to resolve the situation?” says Turrisi in a low voice.
Pirrotta nods, removing his sunglasses.
You never conclude a deal with sunglasses.
Pirrotta looks around. “You still got Giacomo in hand?” he asks.
“How do you know about Giacomo?”
“Paino, like that—only Giacomo could do that. He was in the SAS, no?”
“And when he turns on his cell phone, that dickhead, yes, sure, I’ve got him in hand.”
Pirrotta insists on walking him to his car.
“It was that garbage bin over there, see?”
Pirrotta looks at the garbage bin as if it were slime. “They got to go and put these things in the middle of the street,” he says indignantly.
“I was coming down that way, and what was I supposed to do?”
“Madness. Not to mention extremely dangerous for anyone on a
motorbike. Hey, it’s really a beautiful car, however,” says Pirrotta, turning to admire the Aston Martin.
motorbike. Hey, it’s really a beautiful car, however,” says Pirrotta, turning to admire the Aston Martin.
“I can’t look at it with the broken headlight, Signor Pirrotta.”
Pirrotta looks at Turrisi.
He nods.
He lowers his head.
He stares at his shoe.
“Turi, call me Turi. You’re a good kid. Call me Turi.”
Turrisi lifts a hand to his mouth.
Then, not to let him see the emotion that’s gripping his throat, he embraces Pirrotta and whispers in his ear, “Papa, Papa!”
Pirrotta raises his eyes to the heavens.
Mother of God, how good it used to be in the days when he drove the cement-mixer, drank Fernet at the bar, and nobody busted his balls.
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