AT MARZAMEMI, THE SEA TODAY IS LIKE A SHEET OF GLASS
At Marzamemi, the sea today is like a sheet of glass, and Brancati’s island seems to be lying on it. It’s still hot, but in the shade of Don Mimmo’s veranda the wind feels cool.
Don Mimmo is walking along the boardwalk and his steps echo in the silence. The only table that’s been laid is Don Lou’s. The other three are empty and haven’t even got tablecloths. There are no more foreigners, and Don Mimmo has stopped putting the red checkered oilcloths on the tables, because the wind would blow them away.
Pippino is getting dressed on the beach. He swam all the way to the island and back while Don Mimmo was making the sauce for the spaghetti alla pescatora. Don Lou could even hear the sound of his strokes.
He’s sitting with his back to the reinforced concrete scaffolding because he doesn’t want to see it, and he’s drinking red wine. When Pippino comes back from his swim and sits down opposite him, Don Lou says, “It’s concrete, Pippino, just concrete. All you need is a bomb…”
Pippino thinks about this, then tucks his napkin in his shirt collar, looks down, and nods.
Fuck, Don Lou thinks, whatever happened to the good peasants and the assholes we used to have, the generous noblemen and the grumpy ones, the men of honor and the ones who screwed up? What happened to the time when all you needed was a ring on your little finger and being able to talk like the men of honor talked, saying some things and keeping quiet about others, even if what you were saying or keeping quiet about didn’t mean a fucking thing? And the Festival of San Sebastiano, the ricotta in the pot, the pruning of the carob trees and the holes in the ground for the charcoal, the olives roasting on the grill, the shiny shoes and the noblemen’s clubs, the lowered eyes and the boys with ropes for belts, the duels with knives and the onion salad, the carnival with the fairground booths and the games of chance, the heat you couldn’t get away from, the lemon water, the lazy afternoons and the women who threw themselves on the bed, the black hair and blue eyes, the brilliantine and the short ties, the puppet shows and the singers who told stories with their songs, the men who shook the trees and the women who gathered what fell, the hunger and the charity, the sun and the anger, the dignity and the respect, the “May I kiss your hand?” and the “God bless Your Honor,” the workingmen’s clubs and the secret societies, the brigands, the priests with guns, the brokers and matchmakers, the cutthroats, the bottle of perfume, the jasmine in a drawer, the black brassieres, the afternoon siesta and the whole village waking up in the evening, the variety shows and the dancers, the contracts and the death sentences, the word that was sacred and the kissing of the cross, the pinstripe suits, the cuff links, the box at the opera house in Catania, where are they all? Where are all those stupid things that were so much a part of life, where are the friends who supported you?
“Taste this. It’s wine from Pachino. It’s good for you.” Pippino pours Don Lou another glass.
“Eh?”
“Taste it. It’s wine from Pachino,” Pippino repeats.
Don Lou isn’t crazy about wine from Pachino, but he drinks it, because a Sicilian’s got to drink wine from Pachino.
“Now we’re going back,” Don Lou says, “we got to start thinking about the La Brunas. I’m not leaving Starship Pictures in their hands!”
Pippino nods.
“What do you think about my grandson, Pippino?”
Pippino looks at Brancati’s island. “I think whatever you think. It’s hard for me to say, he’s so quiet.”
Don Lou nods. “He had this thing when he was small, whenever he did something bad, he used to stand in front of the stove, looking all innocent. Do you think he did all this on purpose?”
“Maybe he wanted to see his grandpa behave the way he did in the old days.”
“Let’s order,” Don Lou says.
Pippino signals to Don Mimmo.
Don Mimmo approaches, walking unsteadily.
“Sit down, Don Mimmo,” Don Lou says. “You’re getting old, too.”
Don Mimmo takes a chair, brushes the sand off it with the tablecloth, and sits down.
“You remember the old days, Don Mimmo?”
Don Mimmo smiles. “What old days, Don Lou?”
“Precisely,” Don Lou says. “Do me a favor, Pippino. If anything happens to me in America, take my grandson aside and tell him the old days never existed, we used to stumble along then just like we do now. Tell him things are the same now as they always were, the Sicily I told him about exists only in my head. Tell him there were never rules and laws, honor and dignity, justice and secret societies. Tell him, tell my grandson all the things I told him about are still to come.”
EPILOGUE
In the purple Fiat 127, Tony beats the blue plush steering wheel in time to the music from the CD. When Shocking Blue launch into the chorus, Tony and Agatino share the task. “I’m your Venus,” Tony sings.
“I’m your fire at your desire,” Agatino follows him.
Tony is driving slowly. Sitting behind him, you notice that all the people speeding by on the left are turning to look at you.
* * *
After three Brancamentas and a couple of gin and tonics at the barbecue, Mindy said, “Shall we go?”
“Go where?” you asked.
“To Acitrezza,” she said. She was swaying, and she dug her heels even deeper into the grass to keep still. “It’s a magical place. You can still see the stones the cyclops threw at Ulysses when he was blinded!”
* * *
Tony’s wife stammered something incomprehensible when you said goodbye to her. The two of you took a taxi to Acitrezza, and on the seawall you stopped at a stand. To reduce your intake, you drank a seltzer with lemon and salt. Disgusting! Your head started turning, and instinctively you leaned on her, brushing against her right side and a bit of her ass. She laughed like a little girl, hit you on the head with her handbag, and started running. After a few yards, she stopped, with her red heel in her hand. Still laughing, she took off both sandals and walked barefoot along the seafront. You bought a phosphorescent plastic ball from a Chinese woman. A boy shouted at her, “Eh, americana!” and whistled with the thumb and index finger of his right hand in his mouth. She said, “Americana, my ass!” and put the little finger of her right hand in her mouth and gave a very sharp, very loud whistle. In front of the Church of San Giovanni Battista she ran quickly up and down the steps a couple of times. It made you think maybe she was crazy. You sat down at a bar on the seafront and knocked back another couple of gin and tonics. You went to the fish market and bought a tuna at four o’clock in the morning. With the wrapped-up tuna under your left arm, you emptied your right pocket at the desk of the hotel, which naturally was called the Odyssey, looking for your ID card. When you got to the room, she went right to the bathroom, still laughing, and you lay down on the bed. In a few minutes, you were fast asleep.
When you woke up, she was asleep, lying on her back. Her white blouse had ridden up her stomach, so you could see her panties, white with a raised edge. She was sleeping with her legs together, the panties wadded between them. She had very white skin and an ass so round her back wasn’t completely flat on the sheet. You put your left hand between her legs and heard a kind of moan and then nothing. With your little finger and ring finger you lifted her panties and slid your hand underneath. She opened her eyes, put her legs together even more, and turned to you with her mouth open.
“In Sicily, Lou, there comes a time when you’re nothing but a brain and a dick, capish? It’s like your stomach disappears.” During the days you spent in that room, you thought about your grandfather several times.
* * *
This morning the sun entered the room like a slap in the face. When the phone rang, you thought it was noon and the guy in reception wanted to tell you the boy was coming up with a late breakfast. Instead, the guy was stammering in a mixture of Italian and English.
“Sir, a signore … diciamo … a signore … is wa
iting for you.”
“Where is he?” you asked.
“In the lobby, sir.”
Mindy was still asleep. You ran downstairs, tucking your shirt into your jeans on the stairs as best you could. At the foot of the stairs, you saw Agatino, completely dressed in black, black suit, black shirt, with a bracelet of blue stones on his right wrist.
Agatino saw you, then half closed his eyes, lifted his head with a pout, crossed his hands on his lap, wiggled his shoulders, and said, “Signor Tony is waiting for you in the car.”
* * *
In the room, you woke Mindy and told her. As you both gathered your things, the red jacket, the underwear, you asked her if she’d spoken to anybody in the last few days.
“No,” she said.
At that moment, you realized for the first time what was going on: you’d run away with the girl, fucked her, and now you had to marry her! This was how people got married in this fucking country!
* * *
Tony was standing in front of the purple Fiat 127. He, too, was dressed all in black. “Get in!” he said solemnly, opening the door. You sat down in the backseat with Mindy. Mindy was silent, her head slightly bowed. Your hands were sweating.
“Where are we going?” you asked in a hoarse voice.
“To Uncle Sal’s,” Tony said, starting the car. “He’s waiting for us in church.”
Fuck you, you thought, fucking men of honor! Fuck you, you fucking people who never talk clearly! Fuck you, too, Grandpa! Fuck you, puppet shows, seltzer with lemon and salt, and amaretti, “May I kiss your hand?” and “God bless Your Honor”! Fuck you, fucking sun! Fuck you, dignity and respect! Fuck you, Italy, fuck you!
* * *
“What do you think, Agatino?” Tony said, after a few minutes’ silence. “Maybe he should take off the red jacket!”
Agatino was sitting in the front next to Tony, looking through Tony’s CDs. “The Queen Mother of England wore a red suit at the ceremony for her dead groom.”
“But he’s not the Queen Mother! On a man, red doesn’t look right for a funeral!”
“A funeral? What funeral?” you asked.
Tony turned. He was smiling.
“Uncle Sal’s funeral,” he said. “While the barbecue was going on, they killed him at Scali’s Amaretti with an arrow from a crossbow … Nuccio died, too!” Modestly, Tony didn’t say how Nuccio had died.
Fuck, you thought, Pippino killed everybody with Uncle Mimmo’s crossbow!
* * *
After exactly a minute of silence, Mindy started laughing, softly at first, then unrestrainedly. Almost immediately the laughter infected Agatino. As he laughed, he kept repeating, “With an arrow! Minchia!” Tony laughed, too. At one point, he was laughing so hard it almost sounded like he was wheezing. “Minchia, Agatino,” he said, punching the steering wheel, “put on a CD! Life goes on!”
Agatino didn’t need to be asked twice, he already had a seventies compilation in his hand, he pulled out the player, put in the CD, and was already swaying before the music even started.
* * *
Now you’re all singing together at the top of your lungs.
I’m your Venus, I’m your fire at your desire!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to I know who.
FARRAR, STRAUS AND GIROUX
18 West 18th Street
New York, New York 10011
Copyright © 2004 by Neri Pozza Editore, Vicenza
Translation copyright © 2007 by Howard Curtis
All rights reserved
Originally published in 2004 by Neri Pozza Editore, Italy, as Chi è Lou Sciortino?
Published in the United States by Farrar, Straus and Giroux
First American edition, 2007
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Who is Lou Sciortino? Page 19