Who is Lou Sciortino?

by Ottavio Cappellani

  “Jacobbo, it was a pleasure seeing you.”

  “What are you talking about, Don Lou? You know what an honor this was for me. So if you’ll allow me…” Maretta takes Don Lou’s hand, kneels, and kisses it.

  “Get up, Jacobbo, this time I’m the one who owes you.”

  * * *

  As they bump along the dirt road, Don Lou is lost in thought. Pippino looks straight in front of him. “You know what I think, Pippino? Maretta’s starting to look just like that actor I like … what’s his name?”

  “Charles Bronson,” Pippino says.

  “That’s the one!” Don Lou says, and smiles.

  Pippino smiles, too.

  GIORGINO FAVAROTTA’S OLDER BROTHER, LEOLUCA FAVAROTTA

  Giorgino Favarotta’s older brother, Leoluca Favarotta, who was killed at the age of thirty-seven in a restaurant called La Paglia while eating spaghetti with cuttlefish ink (his face ended up in the plate and when they lifted it, it looked like the Saracen in a Sicilian puppet play), was the person Sal Scali really idolized. Always well dressed (he wore impeccable Irish linen suits even in summer), Leoluca Favarotta was a handsome guy and a great pool player.

  Whenever he played at the Eden Pool Hall, a small crowd of fans would gather, among them Sal Scali, who was a child at the time. This was in 1949–50, when people were starting to like American games and drinks, and a pool hall was a magical place to a kid like Sal.

  And now, fifty-four years later, on a day like today when he’s got important decisions to make, where is Sal Scali? At the Eden Pool Hall, in the same room, on the now-rickety mezzanine, where Leoluca Favarotta used to run the table.

  Of course, a lot of time has passed since then, and the felts are more yellow than green. The big painted wooden SAMBUCA signs on the walls are almost illegible, the figures on them faded: women in white dresses with parasols and gentlemen with mustaches who flirt with them, frozen forever in an image of lively chatter fueled by alcohol. The rims of these signs are full of dead flies. The manager is dozing behind a small table at the entrance. Behind him, a humming Coca-Cola machine converted to hold beer.

  Uncle Sal, who’s wearing a dark blue linen suit, just spoke with Frank Erra, who landed in Catania a few hours ago and immediately took refuge in the most expensive suite at the Central Palace Hotel.

  Tuccio took out the cell phone, removed the SIM card, and replaced it with one of those clones with the telephone numbers of Moroccans who pick tomatoes in Pachino, then dialed the number Uncle Sal gave him and asked to speak to Frank Erra. When Chaz answered, “Hello?” at the other end, Tuccio passed the cell phone to Uncle Sal.

  “This is Sal Scali,” Uncle Sal said. “Is Frank Erra there?”

  “Wait,” Chaz said, polite as ever.

  “Hello, Frank Erra here,” Frank said.

  “This is Sal Scali,” Uncle Sal repeated. “Pleased to meet you, at least over the phone. I’ve heard good things about you from friends.”

  “Likewise. When should we meet?”

  “That’s just it. I think maybe not right away … Maybe you’d like to see a bit of Catania first. But if you want to let me know where you’re planning to go, I can prepare the ground, maybe tell some of my picciotti to put themselves at your disposal.”

  Cazzarola! Frank thought. These guys are professionals!

  “Good idea,” he said. “I think I’m going to see the Bridge of the Sparrow, a friend of mine insists … She’s a woman, you know how it is…”

  “Sure! You got to show your friend the Bridge of the Sparrow in Catania. Or maybe your friend has some things to show you!”

  Frank laughed. “See you later, Sal!” he said.

  “Your health, Frank,” Uncle Sal said.

  * * *

  Whenever he administers the last rites to someone, Uncle Sal always says, “Your health.” And when he says it, Tuccio and Nuccio laugh excessively, almost hysterically, because it’s often their job to bid farewell to the designated person. Uncle Sal, though, keeps his cool, just like Leoluca Favarotta, because even this “Your health” thing was something Uncle Sal got from Leoluca Favarotta, who, one day in ’49, at the Eden Pool Hall, after somebody dared to address him disrespectfully, saying, “What are you doing tonight, Leoluca, you going to show me another of your tricks?,” bought the guy a Strega, then said, “Your health,” and finally slapped his face very hard five times, three times on one side and twice on the other.

  Nuccio is laughing now, excitedly. He keeps repeating over and over, “Minchia, we’re even killing americani now!”

  Maria, he really likes being at the Eden Pool Hall! With his well-dressed, nice-smelling boss who tells him what the fuck he has to do, and Tuccio just as determined and professional as him, minchia, the two of them are like two Japanese!

  TA-TANG! Nuccio cocks his well-oiled pistol to make sure everything’s in working order.

  Uncle Sal looks him in the eyes, coldly. “Make sure you don’t fuck this up,” he says. “The americano’s an idiot who signed his own death sentence. In business, if you make a mistake … you gotta pay.” Frank didn’t make any fucking mistake, except maybe agreeing to run Starship Pictures, but to Uncle Sal now it seems like a justified reproach.

  Tuccio swallows, he’s got a guilty conscience over that mess with the sergeant.

  Nuccio says, “Minchia, we’re even killing americani now!”

  “What mistake did he make?” Tuccio says, scared.

  “Shall we get to work?” Uncle Sal says.

  Tuccio and Nuccio nod. They’re ready. Uncle Sal nods.

  “Now,” Uncle Sal says, turning to Tuccio. “Nuccio takes care of the americano and the whore who’s with him. The more damage he does, the better. After which,” he says to Nuccio, handing him a rifle, “—I want you to use this rifle, not the gun—after which you bring it to me at the amaretti shop. And come right away, not like the other times … capito?”

  “Sure,” Nuccio says. “Whatever you say, sir.”

  “Good,” Uncle Sal says. “In the meantime, Tuccio, you go to Sonnino’s house and tell him I want to talk to him. If he asks you what about, tell him you don’t know. Let’s see if we can’t take care of that asshole Sonnino at the same time, too.”

  And because you’ve always got to send two people when you send a message to the boss of a district, Uncle Sal adds, “Take Nunzio Aliotro with you.”

  AT SCALI’S AMARETTI, SIGNORINA NISCEMI IS TALKING ON THE PHONE

  At Scali’s Amaretti, Signorina Niscemi is talking on the phone when Pippino and Don Lou appear outside the glass and brass door.

  “Yes … yes … I’m wearing the mini … the denim one with the daisies and the slits … Right … right … With the high heels … I almost cracked my head open leaving home this morning … Is it short? When I sit down, you can see everything … Shut up, shut up, somebody’s coming in … shut up, I said … I’ll call you later. Later…”

  Signorina Niscemi hangs up, looks around, crosses her legs, settles, says, “Fuck…” stands up, gets a few sheets of bonded paper, returns to her chair, sits down again, crosses her legs again, settles again.

  Pippino comes in, followed at a short distance by Don Lou. Two men, one a bit … mature, the other with a nice face but just about ready to meet his maker, Signorina Niscemi thinks, thrusting her big breasts forward and wriggling about on her chair. But as soon as she sees the faces of Pippino and Don Lou, the faces of people who could send you to meet your maker, she composes herself and picks up the sheets of bond paper. “Hello,” she says. “This paperwork’s driving me crazy. Makes me feel so hot…”

  “Buongiorno,” Pippino says. “Where is Signor Sciortino?”

  “Signor Sciortino is here … I’m sorry, who should I say…”

  “Tell Signor Sciortino that Don Lou Sciortino is here,” Pippino says.

  Signorina Niscemi picks up the telephone and dials a number. “Hello?” she says. “Your name is Lou Sciortino, right?… What do you mean, why
? Because there’s another Lou Sciortino here … Oh, okay, fine.

  “Go ahead,” she says to Pippino. “Second floor on the left.”

  Pippino looks at Don Lou. Don Lou nods and starts climbing the wooden staircase, hesitantly but with a very straight back.

  Pippino stays put, next to a circular display case, in which an amaretto is rotating on a silver platter, to the strains of a Strauss waltz.

  * * *

  “What the fuck’s that?” Don Lou says as he enters Lou’s office. Don Lou can see perfectly well that what Lou is holding behind the desk is a crossbow, but asking the question helps him not to be overcome with emotion at seeing his grandson again.

  “A crossbow,” Lou says, wrapping it up in newspaper and putting it back on the desk, before going to his grandfather and kissing him.

  “That’s right, put it away, those contraptions are dangerous! Arthur Gelli’s wife went crazy after reading a book, Zen and Archery, Zen and the Art of Archery, some crap like that, and killed her husband by mistake with one of those fucking things…”

  “Grandpa, you just sat down, already you’re talking about accidents!”

  “Don’t joke, Lou, I’m very angry!”

  Don Lou tries to rise from the chair, can’t manage it, curses, and breathes hard until he calms down.

  “Can I talk in this fucking place?”

  “Don’t worry, Grandpa, I checked for bugs.”

  “I went to Marzamemi and Jacobbo made it clear to me we got to change our friends. ‘I don’t trust these fave rotte anymore,’ he said, and then, ‘Get rid of the amaretti.’ Fuck, if we were in New York, I’d send Pippino to bring me Giorgino Favarotta, and I’d say to Giorgino, ‘Giorgino, your brother did right getting shot, otherwise he’d have had to keep on living with people like you,’ and then I’d shoot him myself, even though the bastard doesn’t deserve to rejoin his family. As for Sal Scali, fuck, I’d tell Pippino I want him good and dead, in the morgue, with the autopsy already done, nice and cold and clean, without his intestines, and with a label on his big toe, lying there still and stiff like a fish. But we’re in Sicily, Lou. The americani can’t do shit here. In ’43, even Don Vitone and Max Magnani had to sit in a corner and take orders from Pippino Russo and Vanni Sacco. Luckily, those idiots in the U.S. Army put Max in charge of storing pharmaceuticals, including morphine, minchia! And Don Vitone got involved in the black market, supplying bread, oil, sugar, and coffee for the Army. But both of them always respected the boss. Because you see, Lou, you always got to respect the boss! Here, we gotta respect Virtude! If Virtude tells us to stick our dicks in terra-cotta jars, we stick our dicks in terra-cotta jars, if he tells us we gotta go see some pharmacist and make him pay protection, we go see that pharmacist and make him pay protection, but if he doesn’t tell us shit, we can’t do shit. You see, Lou, me, Jacobbo, Virtude, La Bruna, Favarotta, Sal Scali, and even that idiot, what the fuck’s his name … Erra, Frank Erra … we’re organic matter, Lou, we’re living organisms, and, like all living organisms, we sometimes need to lose a few cells in order to regenerate. Now, minchia, all we gotta do is work out which fucking cells to lose!”

  “You see this grafting knife with the mother-of-pearl handle, Grandpa?” Lou says, pointing at his desk.

  “My legs may not work, Lou, but I still got my sight, so yes, I can see it fine … But what the fuck is it got to do with anything?”

  “Because of this knife, I ended up with that crossbow and three hundred euros.”

  “What did you do, rob a gun shop?”

  “Much worse! I threatened some poor old guy in a store!”

  Don Lou tries again to get up from his chair, and can’t manage it. He starts swearing, and it’s hard for him to calm down. “And can you tell me why you did such a fucking idiotic thing?” he asks breathlessly.

  “Sal Scali asked me to. He told me to go scare the old man to keep him from squealing. A friend of his nephew Tony did an armed robbery in the old guy’s store and whacked a cop.”

  “Minchia! And Sal Scali sent my grandson to do these things? Weren’t there any picciotti that could do his business for him?”

  “He told me he had to send me.”

  “What did it have to do with you?”

  “He told me if I didn’t do it, I’d be showing disrespect.”

  “Fuck him! He was the one showing disrespect, making you do that. You were his guest!”

  Don Lou pounds the arm of the chair with his fist, curses, tries again to stand, succeeds this time, and walks three times around the room.

  “Frank Erra comes to Catania, and Sal Scali makes my grandson do this fucking idiotic thing … after an armed robbery!”

  “Frank Erra’s in Catania?”

  “Sure, he’s already at the Central Palace Hotel, with a picciotto, a whore, and Leonard Trent! And I’m convinced Sal Scali already knows.”

  “Let’s take out Sal Scali, then. Eh, Grandpa? Let’s lose a few cells!”

  “Lou, Lou … You didn’t understand a fucking thing I said! Right now all we can do is talk. Phone the bastard and tell him your grandfather would like to have a few words with his excellency at the Central Palace Hotel. Then find out where Sonnino is. Minchia, we watch our backs, we’ll come out okay!”

  * * *

  Meanwhile, downstairs, Signorina Niscemi is bringing Pippino his coffee. She holds the tray up near her breasts, to give Pippino something nice to look at. Pippino takes the cup, but keeps his eyes fixed on a small display case in which a miniature Sicilian cart adorned with beautiful figurines of the paladins of France, and loaded with Scali’s amaretti, is endlessly turning. Over here, Signorina Niscemi thinks, I’m over here, but Pippino’s a lost cause and she walks back to her chair near the door.

  THIS MORNING CETTINA WOKE WITH A START

  This morning Cettina woke with a start, and very nearly banged her head on the wall. It’s always the same, ever since she’s been married to Tony.

  The days immediately following a barbecue are usually even worse than the barbecue itself, because there’s always a lot of cleaning up to do.

  At the fair in Messina, Tony bought a kind of fold-up canopy, which he calls the Arab tent, and after the barbecue he has it set up in the garden and fills it full of cushions, hookahs, and bells, because according to Tony the Sicilians inherited their sense of hospitality from the Arabs—in fact, for the Arabs guests and horses were sacred. He’s so sure of this that one night he woke up suddenly, and with his eyes wide open said to Cettina, “Cettina, don’t you think we ought to invite some horses?” Then he went back to sleep.

  In the days immediately following the barbecue, never at the barbecue, thank God, Tony even hires a caterer. And to make himself heard by the waiters while he receives his guests in the Arab tent he uses a whistle.

  That’s why Cettina was woken this morning by the sound of a whistle.

  Cettina gets up and searches for her slippers. Then she goes out in the garden, wearing her dressing gown with the hole, her feet in slippers, her hair a mess.

  Tony has put on his caftan and his pointed shoes with his initials on them.

  One of the waiters passes Cettina, wearing a white jacket that’s too tight and carrying a tray of Turkish coffee.

  Cettina has become convinced that waiters with homosexual tendencies all end up in catering because restaurants don’t want them. If a waiter’s got homosexual tendencies, she figures, he might upset the customers. What she doesn’t know is that Tony does the casting for the waiters himself.

  The waiter places the tray in front of Tony, bending just a tad too gracefully. Next to Tony sit Felice Romano, the mechanic, in his Greek pants and a little blouse Cettina could swear she’s seen on his wife, and Angelo Colombo, the dressmaker, in pearl-gray pants, a blue double-breasted jacket with gold buttons, and a yachtsman’s white cap.

  When Tony sees Cettina, he leaps to his feet, throws himself on her, takes her by the arm, and pulls her into the kitchen.

 
; There’s dance music playing in the kitchen, and three more waiters are swaying in time to the music, their arms in the air, as they make coffee.

  Tony whispers something in her ear. In reply, Cettina lifts her arms, too, and sways in time to the music to make them understand that the music is too loud and she can’t hear a fucking thing.

  Tony looks at the kitchen, nods, takes her arm again, and pulls her into the living room. He closes the door and says, “What in fuck’s name do you think you’re doing, behaving like this? You think it’s right to come into the Arab tent looking like you just escaped from a nuthouse?”

  “Well, you never know. Felice and Angelo have never seen me in my house clothes!”

  Tony starts to move his hands about close to his ear like he’s fanning himself. Cettina thinks, Holy shit, now he’s going to lose his temper. But Tony doesn’t lose his temper.

  Cettina looks at him. Tony has already got his first menthol cigarette of the day between his fingers. He lights it to calm himself down and looks out at the garden.

  Where did he get that cigarette?

  Tony makes a face like a puppeteer at work. “Minchia, Cettina,” he says, “I’m a genius!”

  Cettina raises her eyes to heaven.

  Tony sits down in the armchair and crosses his legs. “So,” he says, “Uncle Sal has gotten it into his head to fix Mindy up with Nick. And we know,” he continues, uncrossing his legs and crossing them again in the other direction, “not only does Mindy not give a fuck about Nick, but Valentina’s crazy about him.” Tony flicks ash in the air. Cettina drags herself to the other armchair, but no sooner has she sat down than Tony stands up, goes to the sideboard, and leans against it.