Sicilian Tragedee (27 page)

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Authors: Ottavio Cappellani

BOOK: Sicilian Tragedee
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Dawn Comes at Dusk
is the headline of the page-one comment in
La Voce della Sicilia
, under the byline of Giuseppe Zerbino. “In the glorious setting of the Greek theater of Palazzolo Acreide, two hours before sunset as tradition would have it, the celebrated and tormented
Romeo and Juliet
of the young Tino Cagnotto will return to the stage. Our compliments to Commissioner Ronsisvalle, who with courage and drive has revived the work of the celebrated director, over which a pall of gloom was cast, as we know, by events we shall not dwell on here. With no fear of contradiction, we can say that today at nightfall we will applaud not merely an historic interpretation of the Bard’s immortal verses, but, above all, the dawn of a new era for theater in Sicily, the latest in a long legitimate line of ancient Greek theater, that theater which has shaped our world.”
Cagnotto is unable to continue reading. He has tears in his eyes, Zerbino had called him “young.”
“Did you see that, Cagnotto?”
Timpanaro looks less emaciated somehow, his shoulders broader, his skin tanned.
Cagnotto nods, moved.
“Take it easy, Cagnotto, take it easy. You deserve it! And, you put yourself in good hands.” Timpanaro gives Cagnotto a pat on his left shoulder.
Cagnotto sighs happily, showing his gratitude with a languid look.
“Right, Cagnotto, to work, your actors are waiting.”
 
 
The actors couldn’t give a shit about Cagnotto.
They’re in the necropolis next to the Greek theater of Palazzolo Acreide, having their photos taken. There are even a couple of reporters from the national newspapers. Caporeale is walking around the site with his codpiece prominently on display, being interviewed. For the photos, consummate actor that he is, he even tilts his pelvis forward a little bit. “Let’s do one in profile,” he says to
La Repubblica
’s photographer, standing sideways in front of the door to one of the tombs.
Cosentino, somewhat envious of Caporeale’s codpiece and the photographer from
La Repubblica
—a national newspaper, not a local one like the one whose journalist he is talking to—rushes over, saying, “Yes, yes, in profile.”
Cosentino gets in front of Caporeale and bends down in Mercutio’s famous bow.
Caporeale and Cosentino both turn their heads to smile at the camera.
The photographer lowers his camera and looks at them, puzzled.
Cosentino and Caporeale freeze like that, smiles stamped on their faces, one with his codpiece thrust forward, the other bent over at a right angle, not understanding why the photographer doesn’t proceed.
The photographer doesn’t want to say anything, because they’re in a Greek theater and these two are not only old—no, senior citizens—but also actors working on the stage in a Greek theater.
Caporeale and Cosentino still don’t understand what’s wrong with the photographer, who instead of snapping is staring at them.
Cosentino twists his head around looking for Caporeale to ask him with his eyes what the fuck is going on.
Caporeale too looks toward Cosentino and sees, for the first time, his rear end, and then his face, peering behind it.
He notices with horror that between the codpiece and Cosentino’s rear end, there is at most three to four inches.
Caporeale makes an instant pirouette, turning the other way, while Cosentino leaps upright.
Click:
Cosentino and Caporeale, two pillars of Catania dialect theater, upright and proud in Shakespearean costume, shoulder to shoulder with the ruins of ancient Akrai in the background.
 
 
Half of Catania, half of Messina, and of course half of Siracusa are arriving in Palazzolo Acreide. The ladies are in evening dress although it’s afternoon, but it’s as if this were evening because in ancient Greece the evening took place in the late afternoon. The only concession to afternoon are the hats, as with the races at Ascot.
Betty is wearing a simple veil.
Black.
It’s held in front of her face with a diamond tiara.
Her hair is swept up with a coral comb.
Her black linen dress rises high in the neck.
Behind, the neckline plunges to her hips, on which are dancing a string of pearls hanging like a plumb line that follows the sinuous action of her spine.
Carmine’s eyes are popping out, if he weren’t a gay guy he would screw her himself.
“Where is he?” asks Betty, looking straight ahead.
“Who?” asks Carmine, who, although not reneging on his gay status, cannot help but follow that ass and the hypnotic effect of those pearls on the tanned back.
“Th-isi,” says Betty without opening her mouth.
“Huh?”
Betty stops cold on the path leading to the theater. She looks at Carmine. She looks around at her back as if to say,
Why are you looking at my ass, have you turned into a moron?
“Okay, I’ll look for him myself. You continue to meditate.”
Betty walks off under the gaze of the police force, which is armed and deployed in the park.
 
 
Paino in his blue linen suit that’s fashionably rumpled, his Persol sunglasses, and his Dolce & Gabbana patent leather loafers, is sitting all alone and solitary on the steps of the theater. Even the Contessa has snubbed him, she had acknowledged him swiftly with the words, “You did well to come, Paino. Certainly
your
theater is in better shape than this one. Why don’t you get Intelisano to come and put down a nice coat of asphalt here too?”
And to think that the credit was all his. But now that Falsaperla is no more, just wait a little, and then we’ll see what Paino can do. In any case, when he got there, the traffic squad had been very polite to him, and they let him park his convertible right in front of the entrance, while they sent the others around to the parking lot.
 
 
“Hey, are they following us?” asks Pietro, who’s sitting on the passenger side while Turrisi struggles with the curves along the road from Noto to Palazzolo Acreide.
“Certainly they’re following us,” says Turrisi, furious.
Pietro smiles as he looks in the rearview mirror. There’s a red
Fiat Panda that hasn’t let them out of its sight since they left Catania. The two guys in the car, you don’t need binoculars to see they’re cops.
“What the fuck you got to smile about?”
“They’re following us.”
Turrisi, ever more furious, slams on the brake because a sheep, frozen in the middle of the road, is staring bewildered at the Aston Martin. Probably the sheep has never seen an automobile with right-hand drive before.
The red Fiat Panda, in a genius move, brakes too, keeping a distance of about a hundred yards.
“And they say they don’t know how to fight the Mafia in Sicily.”
“Huh?” says Pietro, mesmerized by the sheep.
“Nothing, nothing. Hey, Pietro, do me a favor, move that sheep.”
“Huh?”
Turrisi looks at him.
“Okay, sure.”
Pietro gets out of the car.
Turrisi is thinking about that scum Pirrotta, who arranged that own-goal with Falsaperla just so he could put the blame on Turrisi.
Mother of God, what a scumbag.
And now Turrisi is going to score an own-goal by hitting Paino, so they will be fair and square and can start all over again. Is it possible to be more of a scum than Pirrotta?
 
 
Betty sits down on a riser and crosses her legs, showing off a perfect little foot in a sandal so delicate it is almost nonexistent except for the five-inch heel. Betty’s wearing transparent toenail polish.
Carmine sits down next to her, continuing to stare at her.
“Hey, is something going on with you?” asks Betty.
“What do you mean, going on?”
“Um, okay, we don’t need to worry?”
“Betty, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Nothing, nothing. I don’t see him. Maybe he’s absconded.”
“Absconded?”
“Yeah, after what happened.”
Carmine spreads his hands and throws Betty a questioning look.
Betty stares at her feet, rocking back and forth. Then she looks at Carmine and says, “Carmine, you’re weird today.”
 
 
Lambertini, it’s like she scored a goal in the World Cup. The commissioners from halfway across Sicily are thronging around her to express joy and congratulations. Her interpretation of Juliet is a milestone, one fellow has offered her a recital, another, upping the stakes, is offering her the director’s job at the City Theater.
 
 
Gnazia and Signora Falsaperla are battling it out on the widow front.
Gnazia, not to be outdone, bursts into tears.
Signora Falsaperla passes out under a carob tree.
Gnazia lets it be known that she’s ready to say farewell to this cruel world.
Signora Falsaperla asks for some sugar water.
Gnazia maintains that Signora Falsaperla shouldn’t have come to the theater so soon after her loss.
Signora Falsaperla insists that this is what her husband would have wanted, that she is sacrificing herself on behalf of the culture her husband so dearly loved.
Gnazia spreads the word that Signora Falsaperla only finished elementary school.
Signora Falsaperla spreads the word that her husband had a mistress, he knew how to choose a mistress, and the mistress was
the type who knew her place in the world, and who wasn’t here tonight.
“What do you mean, she’s not here?” yells Gnazia with a shout that echoes down the valley.
“Yes, no, thank you, I feel so much better already,” says Signora Falsaperla with a strange smile on her face, as she refuses a glass of tamarind syrup.
 
 
Commissioner Ronsisvalle is about to pass out between two members of the traffic squad. He’s been standing there for an hour in front of the police barricades, waiting for Turrisi. Turrisi is late and if he doesn’t show up soon the sun’s going to go down and the commissioner doesn’t know how he’s going to put on the show, because he doesn’t have the right kind of artificial light. Finally he sees him. “The barricades! Move the barricades.”
 
 
Pirrotta is radiant. Betty is wearing a tiara with a veil, and all the princesses, the baronesses, the countesses, all the fucking coats of arms can suck his daughter’s dick, his daughter who, God willing, is forgetting about Turrisi. Today he saw she had a new sparkle in her eyes and his father’s heart melted. Luckily she’s young, and young people, as we know, soon forget love’s hurts.
 
 
Wanda, lately her husband has been stirring her up like she can’t fathom. He’s, I don’t know, more erect, he’s got the charisma, he walks the way he did when he was way up high at the wheel of his cement-mixer, his hands on the great big wheel, so that when he would come by to pick her up and he made sure that everybody saw, Wanda would make him the big eyes and Turi would say, “You like
the way I handle the wheel, don’t you, Wanda? Take a look at what I can do.” And then Turi would push a button while Wanda began to tremble all over with excitement, and then she would watch the cement-mixer that slowly, slowly pushed upright toward the sky, and then begin to whirl around with a whirl that whirled even inside Wanda’s head, and finally Turi would even let her see the gush of cement pouring out, and Wanda’s eyes would be shining.
 
 
Bobo, standing in line at the box office to pay for his ticket, is waiting for Cagnotto to catch sight of him.
So Cagnotto comes along, sees him standing there humbly in a queue at the box office to pay for his ticket out of pure love for Art, and calls out to him, shouting, “Bobo, what are you doing? You’re paying for a ticket? You! You, the inspiration, the alpha and omega, the source of my genius, you, to whom Shakespeare owes everything! Come, come here under my protective wing.”
Fat chance. No sight of Cagnotto.
Bobo looks around. He can’t stand these peasants from Palazzolo Acreide, all waiting in line to see Shakespeare. What do they know about Shakespeare, peasants!
 
 
Quattrocchi, you’d think it was
her
lover who had been blown away, she’s so involved in Gnazia’s widowhood; you should see how she pats her, how she hands her a Kleenex, how she strokes her arm.

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