Sicilian Tragedee (14 page)

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Authors: Ottavio Cappellani

BOOK: Sicilian Tragedee
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Pump Means
Shoe
“Pump means
shoe
. Decorated in a floral pattern. It means
shoe
: pricks have nothing the fuck to do with it. I asked my niece, who knows how to use Intranet,” says Caporeale.
A table has been set on the stage. The scripts are lit by little table lamps that Cagnotto bought from some North Africans on the sidewalk. The setup is quite professional, and despite the heat Cagnotto’s happy.
He’s told Bobo that there have been disagreements about how to interpret one of the lines. He told him that all of Shakespeare’s poetics could be found in that single line. Things between him and Bobo have improved immeasurably since they went to Sharm el-Sheikh. Cagnotto had taken a mortgage on his apartment and now that he had cash in his pockets again, decided to permit himself and his new love a week of interpersonal reflection in Africa. Bobo had been very concerned about Cagnotto’s health. But now he could see he was in good form and was much relieved. At Sharm, all the shades of uncertainty had vanished from his face and the week had been a source of infinite inspiration. Not just the mise-en-scène, the idea of using dialect
actors as the street actors of theater, De Sica, Pasolini, neorealism, the recovery of Shakespeare’s authentic spirit going back to the origins of his signs and signifiers …
“You mean Internet,” Cosentino corrects Caporeale.
“Whatever the fuck you say,” says Caporeale. He’s had his arms crossed for two days, signifying his dissent.
“No, no,” says Cagnotto, “the interpretation isn’t so simple.”
Lambertini is following the discussion with great interest. Her eyelids lowered behind intellectual glasses, her lips hanging open to reveal extremely white teeth. (“It’s like when she’s not screwing, they’re switched off,” says Caporeale.)
“We must not forget,” adds Cagnotto, “that the double entendre plays, in Shakespeare’s language, a leading role with respect to the broader use of poetic devices ranging from metaphor to allegory, to the active linguistic deconstruction that manifests itself in the energy released by—”
“Go fuck yourself,” says Caporeale. Without metaphor or allegory.
Caporeale joins the tip of the index finger on his right hand to that of his thumb and draws a vertical line in the air. “Go fuck yourself. It’s that simple.”
Cagnotto makes a peculiar move with his head, like he’s been Tarantinoed, and also with his hands, as if he’s playing tambourines. Then he suddenly puts his fists on the table, stares at Caporeale, nods, and says, “So it’s that simple? Well, here’s what I have to say to you. I say to you that the meaning of ‘Why, then is my pump wellflower’d’ has to be sought, etymologically, in the following question: the
pump
, what does it stand for?”
Cagnotto turns to Lambertini as if for enlightenment.
“Um … oh, no, wait, don’t look at
me
,” says Lambertini.
Cosentino and Caporeale lock gazes.
Oh, no? And if not you, who?
Caporeale turns away; he’s offended, indignant, and doesn’t want anyone to see he’s about to burst out laughing.
“The confirmation comes with the line pronounced by Mercutio a moment later,” insists Cagnotto. “‘Sure wit! Follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, solely singular,’ where, as you can see, the word play involves
jest
, which means gesture as well as joke or pun, and
sole
, which refers to a shoe but also means alone, and in fact Romeo replies, ‘Oh single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness!’ in which the sole is no longer of the shoe, but is, and this is the point, a pedestrian pun, in the sense that the pun stands on its own two feet, it works theatrically, only so far as it is pedestrian, down to earth, anchored, shall we say, to the popular language of …”
Caporeale drops the corners of his mouth and rolls his head from side to side as if to say,
How much bullshit can he produce in one go, Cagnotto?
“ … and so the sole of the shoe, understood as a humble play on words, restores to the word
pump
all its demotic meaning of
prick
.” Cagnotto takes off the pink glasses and looks around expectantly.
Cosentino looks at Cagnotto, then at Caporeale, then he looks at Lambertini.
Lambertini, all practical, looks at her watch and in the most casual way possible says, “I mean, what the fuck are we supposed to do with this prick?”
Paino and Falsaperla Are at Each Other’s Throats
Paino and Falsaperla are at each other’s throats because of Cagnotto’s production. And needless to say, Contessa Salieri is fanning the flames with a fancy poolside dinner that everyone will be talking about for a week because everyone in Catania knows that Paino would like to screw over Falsaperla and become culture commissioner for the province.
The Contessa, when she explains worldly and political matters, is always a little vague and you can never tell if she’s being serious or has gone senile.
The Contessa says that commissioner for culture is a very sought-after job because you have only a tiny budget and do not commission public works and so it’s very unlikely that anybody will go and kill you.
Everyone who wants to get into politics in Sicily but doesn’t have real guts ends up being commissioner for culture. And of course you get to meet a lot of people, go to a lot of parties, decide who becomes
an actor and who doesn’t, who becomes a playwright and who doesn’t.
Commissioner for culture, the Contessa further maintains, is a very important job because you don’t have to confront, how do they say, market forces, because the market destroys culture, people don’t understand, they’re stupid and watch television, and so they don’t go to the market to purchase culture, which is
tough going
, and that’s why we have a commissioner for culture, so that even if nobody wants culture, he goes and gives it to them anyway.
Since Falsaperla has the backing of his party, will get elected in any case, and doesn’t need anyone to mount an election campaign for him, the Contessa has decided to support Paino, so that at least he has to feel grateful to her. Otherwise what’s the point of mounting a campaign?
When she thinks about what’s going to happen tonight the Contessa is as close as she can get to remembering what an orgasm is like. Along with Paino, obviously, she has invited Falsaperla. And Falsaperla, the last thing he’s going to do is say no to a society event at which Paino will be present.
The Contessa has also let the wives know that if they wish they can have a midnight dip in the pool. (On the invitation she has written “moon-bath” to let them know to bring their bathing suits.)
She’s had her hairdresser come to the house because she wants to personally supervise the pool buffet, which is supposed to be abundant. If a politician dies in the pool because he has a
congestione
—if too much blood goes to his stomach because he ate too much, and he passes out and drowns—the value of your property goes up. You can never figure out when the Contessa is fooling around and when she’s being serious.
“What did the yoga instructor say?” she yells out to someone while the hairdresser fiddles with her hair.
 
 
The Contessa had them put candles along the path that leads through the garden. Every ten yards she’s also stationed a waiter dressed in a white jacket who’s standing very still. The waiters are in a good mood because they know that there are many gay politicians, whose acquaintance they hope to make. The gay politicians, by way of thanks, will get you a job with the city. Anyway, that’s what they say, and the Contessa neither confirms nor denies, she merely says, “Until you blow him or he blows you, there’s no way you can be sure.” Some people think the Contessa is completely out of her mind. Others think she is merely being a countess and is therefore sane.
The Contessa says that once upon a time things were done the same way, but instead of the gayish male waiters they had slutty girl waitresses. But that’s gone out because today gay guys are in.
The Contessa wants to be clear about this because, who knows, they might label her politically incorrect. When it comes to whores, male and female, there’s no shortage in Catania, thank heaven.
 
 
The men arrive at the party with their wives on their arms. Not that the wives like being on the arms of their husbands, but the path that leads to the pool is a dirt path, and so in order not to take a dust bath they have to glom on to their husbands’ arms. The husbands, who knows why, are usually shorter than their wives, probably because of the heels, and so the ladies try to glom on, lose their grip, and trip all the same. The wives lose their cool in a low voice because otherwise it’s not chic. Usually, the blame goes to the husband, not to the heels.
The Contessa says that the guests, before they arrive at the party, must be tested: first you make it hard for them to find a place to park,
then you make them walk down a dark path lit by candles with the gay waiters, and finally, when they arrive, you treat them badly and don’t acknowledge their presence. The Contessa says the point of this is to get the husbands and the wives to quarrel, so that they won’t say a word to each other all evening, but will talk to other people out of spite, and then you have a good party.
The Contessa, when she says these things, looks very serious. You want to tell her to stop fooling around, but then you get to the party and there are husbands and wives who are practically tearing each others’ ears off in front of everyone, and you realize that the Contessa, silly as she sounds, is not entirely dim.
 
 
Commissioner Falsaperla comes in all sweaty.
He’s wearing a three-button jacket, all three buttons buttoned, and on his arm is his wife. Commissioner Falsaperla is trying desperately to quarrel with his wife because the Contessa has also invited Gnazia to the party, and Gnazia, when she sees him come in with his wife, gets into a vindictive thing where she starts to play the slut with everyone if you don’t keep an eye on her.
Falsaperla’s wife knows all this perfectly well and so she doesn’t get annoyed when her husband doesn’t find a parking place, doesn’t get cross when she sprains her ankle on the path, and doesn’t get angry now when her husband says to her, “Let go of my arm, I’m hot. Is this shirt you bought me polyester? How many times do I have to tell you not to buy me polyester because it gives me an allergy? Fuck, I’m burning up. And let go of my arm.”
Falsaperla’s wife, who married him for just this reason, is damned if she’s going to detach herself from the arm that belongs, yes, to her husband, but also, let us not forget, to the culture commissioner for the province of Catania. It’s all very well about Gnazia, who lets him blow off steam in the office sometimes so that
when he comes home he doesn’t bust her balls, but a party is a party and Gnazia can go drown herself in the pool if it means so much to her.
The Contessa, who up to now has not acknowledged anyone, as soon as she sees Signora Falsaperla glued onto her husband’s arm, unsheathes (that’s the correct term for it:
unsheathes
) her smile (lips that draw back like a glove, lines at the corner of her mouth like rubber bands ready to spring), approaches the couple, and says, without preamble, “Signora! What a pleasure! You
will
let your husband spend a little time with us too, won’t you?”
But if the Contessa is a bitch and likes to stir things up, Signora Falsaperla is no slouch. And so she replies, “Oh, but I see so little of him that tonight I don’t intend to let him out of my sight!”
Commissioner Falsaperla, sweatier than ever, aims an interrogatory glance at his wife. Then he casts around the room looking for Gnazia. Mother of God, what a miniskirt she’s got on. A fog descends on Commissioner Falsaperla: the nervous sweat is pearling on his glasses. He takes them off and tries to wipe them on his jacket sleeve, which has plenty of excess fabric.
“Are you looking for Paino?” says the Contessa. “He’s here! You know the party’s in his honor, don’t you?” she adds happily.
Signora Falsaperla turns a gaze of contempt on her husband. Paino? Is there anybody who doesn’t know that Paino is trying to destroy Falsaperla?
“Arturo-o-o-o,” trills the Contessa.
 
 
Turi Pirrotta has the most beatific dick-face on the planet tonight, because the Contessa has invited both his daughter Betty and Alfio Turrisi and he can’t wait to exchange a few pleasantries with his future son-in-law.
Holy Mary, how sweet it is! He’s sucking on a skewer of pineapple and strawberries and his wife, Wanda (who was busting his balls
all afternoon, telling him to hurry up and get ready or they’d be late), as soon as they got to the party had put on a big face, made it clear she wanted him to bugger off, and left him alone by the buffet table. Damn, he is enjoying himself. The reflection of the moon sparkling in the pool, the piped-in music from the fifties.
The commissioner for public works for Siracusa walks by, not even bothering to look at him. Pirrotta nevertheless aims a smiling bow in his direction: just wait until his daughter marries Turrisi, and then the commissioner for public works for Siracusa can get stuffed where he should be stuffed. Pirrotta’s giving the skewer a noisy workover with his tongue, otherwise, where’s the beauty in it?
 
 
Tino Cagnotto is struck dumb with amazement and excitement. He had come in with Bobo and there were all these waiters along the path giving him languid glances, so that Bobo had turned to stone on his arm from jealousy. Mother of God, how Cagnotto loves it when Bobo gets jealous.
The waiters know that they have to aim the languid glances at the older one in the suit, not at the younger one with the flashy shirt open to his navel.
And now here’s Paino, who has grabbed his arm and is taking him around introducing him left and right. Cagnotto hears the Contessa shouting, “Arturo-o-o-o,” and feels Paino grip his arm and steer him toward the call of the Contessa. Cagnotto sends a look of love at Bobo. Bobo stares back with a look that says,
Go ahead. I’ll wait for you here in my heart’s solitude, I’ll let the others have some of you but only tonight and only because it matters to you.
Standing next to the Contessa is Falsaperla.
Paino holds on to Cagnotto’s arm as if he were made of gold.
“Falsaperla!” exclaims Paino. “Look who’s here, Cagnotto!”
Cagnotto sees that Falsaperla is even more sweaty than he is. His wife’s got him in a hammerlock on her arm, poor bugger.
He’s not going to pass up such an occasion, is he? Never! So Cagnotto says, “Commissioner, my friend, you know what? With Paino, I managed to resolve that whole business.”
Falsaperla looks at his wife fearfully.
“With Paino?” says his wife.
Commissioner Falsaperla doesn’t know what to say.
Signora Falsaperla says to Cagnotto, “I’m a great admirer of your work. What’s this you’ve resolved with Paino?”
“My new play,
signora
. With your husband, unfortunately, there were some problems.”
Signora Falsaperla looks at Cagnotto. Then she looks at Paino and then at her husband. She looks at her husband as if he were scum.
The Contessa is beaming.
 
 
Mister Turrisi has come with Pietro of Pietroburger. He had told him not to dress up like Elvis because this was going to be an elegant evening. “Exactly!” said Pietro, to make it clear that Elvis attire
was
elegant.
Turrisi had gotten him a double-breasted suit, he’d sent down to Via Etnea for it. Pietro had put on the suit, but with a white Elvis turtleneck and a pair of Ray·Bans.
Turrisi thinks the result is pretty good.
 
 
Carmine is weaving down the path.
Betty, in her red and gold damask minidress, takes a step and twists her ankle. She takes another and falls. It’s amazing how this complete inability to walk is considered sexy, but then, men are like that, they’re total morons.
Right now, however, Carmine is not focusing on the mysterious harmony of Betty’s gait. He’s focused on the shit that Betty is plotting. She’s there hissing incomprehensible stuff into his ear.
Betty looks at the candles along the path.
Okay, it’s great to have a gay guy for a friend, they even say so on the sitcoms, but the sitcoms don’t show you what happens when the gay guy starts busting your balls. In the sitcoms the gay guy appears only when you need him, offers girl advice, makes you gay stuff like complicated drinks and soufflés; he doesn’t come to your house and bust your balls.
“Hey, Carmine, if you’ve got a case of pussy-hysteria without having a pussy and you don’t know what to do about it, there’s no way I can help you.”
Carmine stands immobile.
Nailed to the path.
He looks at Betty’s ass, which continues to twitch back and forth between tripping and twisting.
A waiter, frozen in place, is looking at him with a smile.
Carmine flashes him a look that says,
Listen, don’t go playing queer on me now that I’ve got a serious problem on my hands.
Betty, nervous and annoyed that she’s been brought to a party of old people, joins her father to establish that she’s here, but as if to say with all her bored being,
Yes, I’m here, but only because you made me.

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