Sicilian Tragedee (22 page)

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Authors: Ottavio Cappellani

BOOK: Sicilian Tragedee
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Thunderous applause.
From the band, the sound of a drum falling on the gravel.
The drummer pretends nothing has happened, that it wasn’t him, even as the drum rolls across the gravel and comes to rest at Paino’s feet.
It’s as if they do it on purpose: one time they drop an instrument, another time someone faints, another time they fight with each other hooting on their clarinets. But of course, bands are made of teenagers and old farts! He must remember to put out a memo ASAP about the band.
“It must be the excitement,” says Paino, adding with a big smile, “Perfectly understandable!”
Thunderous applause.
“The San Giovanni la Punta band will now play for you
Festa paesana
by Jacob de Haan,
A Little Legend
by Lorenzo della Fonte,
Aria e scherzo
for trumpet and band by Alessandro Stradella,
Brevis historia
for a large band by Silvano Scaltritti, and by request,
Elisabetta
, symphonic march by Ippolito Nievo, in honor of a great Sicilian who is making a name for himself in the heart of London! Ladies and gentlemen, Mister Alfio Turrisi!”
The name echoes through the crowd, propelled by curiosity.
Pietro turns to Turrisi, astonished.
Turrisi is already on his feet, bending in a deferential bow toward the crowd, which breaks out in yet another applause. He sits down again. “Did you see her? Did you see her?”
 
 
Carmine turns to Betty, astounded. “But wait, is it dedicated to you?”
“What do you mean, I’m called Elisabetta?”
“You’re not?”
 
 
The drummer goes to reclaim his instrument, running and holding his hat.
Cosentino, behind a curtain that serves as the wings, stagewhispers, pointing at Caporeale with his thumb, “If anybody’s lost his stick, it’s over here!”
Caporeale turns around in his dainty floral-patterned shoes and
heads back behind the curtain. “Let me know when the concert is over.”
“Just kidding, just kidding!” says Cosentino.
Lambertini comes over, adjusting a tightly laced bodice. “Where’s Caporeale going? Why’s he walking like that?”
They can see a disgruntled Caporeale from behind, walking toward the curtain with his legs bowed out.
“He’s getting into the part,” says Cosentino, “but the part doesn’t fit into his shorts.”
Caporeale utters a loud, “Go fuck yourself.”
Cosentino yells after him, “Just kidding, just kidding.”
For a moment, Lambertini stops fiddling with her tits.
She looks at Cosentino.
Then she returns to the tits.
 
 
“No one told me about the band!” Cagnotto yells in Paino’s ear.
“What do you mean, it’s in the program.”
“What program?”
Paino reaches for his inside pocket and hands a program to Cagnotto.
ROMEO AND JULIET
BY SALVATORE CAGNOTTO
Before the play there will be a concert by the municipal band of San Giovanni la Punta.
 
Based on an idea by Arturo Paino and William Shakespeare
 
Sponsored by the Commissioner for Culture of San Giovanni la Punta
“No, nice idea the band, uh, I wish I had known about it before,” says Cagnotto to Paino, putting the program in his pocket.
 
 
“You see that?” says Wanda to her husband, “Turrisi has dedicated a song to our daughter.”
“What do you mean? Your daughter’s called Elisabetta?”
“No, her name is Betty, but maybe Turrisi thinks it’s her nickname.”
Pirrotta flashes a smile as big as the amphitheater. “Maybe Turrisi thinks I’m a dickhead,” he says, returning to his cell phone cheerfully whistling
Aria e scherzo.
 
 
When the band is approaching the grand finale, playing the introduction to
Elisabetta
, Betty blows Turrisi a kiss.
“Is that her?” says Pietro to Turrisi, who’s still looking around.
“Who? Which one? Where?”
“That one.”
“It’s her!”
“She just sent you a kiss.”
“A kiss? How?”
Pietro blows Turrisi a kiss.
 
 
The Contessa leans over toward the Baronessa. “So is Turrisi also one of them, like Cagnotto?”
“In what sense?”
“Oh, were you listening to the band? Did I distract you?”
“Who, me? The band?”
The Contessa nods, moving away from the Baronessa.
 
 
“You blew him a kiss?”
“What?”
“You blew him a kiss?”
Betty is too deeply absorbed in listening to the music to answer.
Carmine cranes his neck to see better.
Turrisi is looking at them with tears glittering in his eyes. “You blew him a kiss!”
“Shhh …”
 
 
Tatatah!
Thunderous applause.
The band files out.
The lights go down.
The hubbub recedes.
A little boy is crying.
A father yells, “Jennifer, leave your brother alone!”
“Shhh …”
 
 
Enter Chorus
(Cagnotto has cut back on the Chorus. The Chorus is Alessandro Latrati, a neomelodic Neapolitan crooner from Catania. Cagnotto sees no reason why neomelodic Neapolitan crooners have to sing songs in Neapolitan dialect. “It’s not like we don’t have the same bullshit in Catanese,” says Cagnotto.)
“Shhh …”
 
CHORUS
Two households, both alike in dignity
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny …
 
The audience comments.
“They got a
fair
in Verona too?”
“Sure, you think we’re the only ones that have a fair?”
“But like our
’a fera ’o luni
?”
“Hey, could be.”
“Shhh …”
 
 
The audience sits through the chorus’s introduction patiently. There will be people with a
grudge
on the stage.
“Hey, just like at the fair.”
“Shhh …”
In the audience, somebody says he wants to break another guy’s neck. Another guy says he wants to get the virgins up against the wall.
“You want to shoot them?”
“Shhh …”
 
 
Then they begin to whack each other like at the Catania fair, until a guy comes to try to calm them down, but he doesn’t succeed.
But by now all attention is focused on the entrance of the protagonists. The audience wants to see Romeo and Juliet and who gives a fuck about the others.
 
 
(Although Montague, Romeo’s father, isn’t bad. He’s played by Carmelo Schiacchitano, who trained as a bass-baritone before moving into the theater, and who holds the stage like an opera singer.)
 
 
But under Cagnotto’s direction, the performance doesn’t dwell on the other actors, not one bit. He has them appear onstage in all their “stage-worn authenticity,” as he puts it, which is another way of saying, get them out of the way and concentrate on Caporeale,
Cosentino, and Lambertini, actors who can grab headlines in
La Voce della Sicilia
, prime medium for funding and sponsorship.
 
MONTAGUE
Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow
We could as willingly give cure as know
 
The audience murmurs.
“Whence? Shit, what language—”
“Shhh … It’s poetry.”
“Whence, huh? Meaning
when
?”
“Ignoramus.”
“Hey, he couldn’t say
when
?”
“Whence doesn’t mean
when
, it means
from where.

“Where?”
“Will you shut up or shall I call the police?”
“Whence the police?”
“Shhh … Romeo’s coming on.”
“Shit, this part I want to see.”
 
 
Enter Romeo.
(Although it’s not in the script and although Cagnotto hadn’t indicated he should do so, Romeo enters with his back to the audience, scuttling backward and sideways.)
 
BENVOLIO
Good morrow, cousin.
ROMEO
(
A hand on his brow as if to make out some vague point on the horizon, still keeping his back to the audience
) Is the day so young?
BENVOLIO
But new struck nine.
ROMEO
(
Shrugging his shoulders
) Ay me! sad hours seem long. (
Moving his head from left to right
) Was that my father that went hence so fast?
BENVOLIO
It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
ROMEO
Not having that which having makes them short.
BENVOLIO
In love?
ROMEO
Out—
BENVOLIO
Of love?
ROMEO
Out of her favor where I am in love.
BENVOLIO
Alas that love, so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!
ROMEO
(
Continuing to show the audience his back, he reaches out an arm toward
BENVOLIO
and launches into his first long speech.
)
Alas that love, whose view is muffled, still …
ROMEO
(
He lies down on his side as if on a grassy meadow and begins his second speech.
) Why, such is love’s transgression.
ROMEO
(
On his stomach now and resting his chin on his hands
)
Well, in that hit you miss. She’ll not be hit
With Cupid’s arrow.
BENVOLIO
Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?
ROMEO
(
Sitting up with some difficulty and squatting with his knees against his chest
)
She hath; and in that sparing makes huge waste.
ROMEO
(
Rising, back to the audience
)
Farewell. Thou canst not teach me to forget.
 
Exeunt.
 
Cagnotto, backstage, looks at Romeo, bewildered.
“What’s wrong?”
“No, I’m … I don’t know … this thing of acting with your back to the audience …”
“I was turned toward the new day, and then toward my distant love. Then I lay down because it seemed like the kind of thing a man in love would do, to discourse on love with his chin resting on his hands.”
“Yes, hmm … a sort of bucolic scene, yes …”
“That’s right! That’s exactly what I had in mind.”
“How’s the audience, Caporeale?”
“Warm, warm, it’s warm.”
“Oh, good, good.”
Lambertini’s eyes are popping out of their sockets as she looks at Caporeale’s codpiece.
“They don’t make them like that anymore, all we can do is pat our lips,” says Cosentino to Lambertini, pretending to pat his lips with a napkin like a man for whom dinner is already over.
“Make what?”
“Actors like Caporeale. They broke the mold!”
“Hurry up, Caporeale, onstage,” says Cagnotto, clapping his hands.
 

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