Natale knelt down, took his mistress’s hand, and covered it with kisses and tears.
“And for whatever else you may need,” said ’Ntontò, “I’m here for you.”
The news that the Marchesina Antonietta Peluso di Torre Venerina had been left the sole surviving member of her family reached the ears of a certain Barone Nenè Impiduglia by chance, after a delay of a few months. And it was the eldest son of Barone Uccello who told him, at a reception of the Officers’ Club of Palermo. Hearing the catalogue of ’Ntontò’s misfortunes, Nenè Impiduglia made a public display of his emotions.
“First thing tomorrow, I’m leaving for Vigàta,” he announced.
And he kept his promise. When he disembarked from the Franceschiello, however, his arrival sparked no curiosity. Actually, it was, in a certain sense, expected.
“The hunter has arrived” was, in fact, Barone Uccello’s only comment.
Nenè had long been known in town for his frequent visits to his “dear auntie,” Donna Matilde, who had been a mother to him for a period of time after his parents left the world of the living when their carriage capsized. The visits were brief, lasting only as long as it took for the mail boat to cast and weigh anchor. But he would return to Palermo with arms full.
Indeed, the general chorus in town, when people saw Nenè arrive, was always:
“Nenè has come to load up.”
“What does your nephew do in Palermo?” people would ask the marchesa.
“He studies mathematics,” Donna Matilde would reply.
And it was true. Nenè studied the numerical permutations of the roulette wheel with dogged devotion, and this long, assiduous course of study relieved him of vast sums of money. And so, to prevent his studies from being interrupted by a lack of funds, every so often Impiduglia would show up in Vigàta to visit his aunt, who would generously refill his coffers.
This time Nenè did not sleep at the palazzo, as he had always done. After informing his cousin that he had arrived, and requesting a visit, he took a room at the inn. The following morning, dressed all in black, he went to the cemetery to pray at the noble family vault of the Pelusos. He stayed for an hour, glued to the spot.
“He cried and cried,” the sexton later recounted. “In fact, he cried so much, I had to give ’im a handkerchief ’cause ’is own was all soaked.”
After the cemetery he went into the church and left a sack of coins with Father Macaluso, so the priest would say Masses for the salvation of the blessed souls of the departed.
“Especially for Donna Matilde,” he specified.
“He’s a good man, you have to admit,” said Barone Uccello when he was told of Nenè Impiduglia’s morning activities. “I think he may just succeed in bagging ’Ntontò.”
’Ntontò had invited her cousin to lunch, but Impiduglia did not show up. In his stead, he sent a signed note in which he wrote that he had been too deeply affected by his visit to the cemetery and therefore did not feel up to the engagement. Could they perhaps postpone the invitation until suppertime?
The moment Impiduglia saw ’Ntontò, his heart leapt, as when a carriage wheel dips into a hole in the road.
Death becomes her, he thought as he eyed her. She was like a ray of sunlight. At once his eyes turned into fountains. They embraced. And suddenly a scene from many years before came back to ’Ntontò, the time she and Nenè had hidden in the attic and her cousin had taught her a new game called “doctor,” where he had her lie down on an old sofa, raised her little skirt, and examined her tummy and environs in detail. With a sense of shame, she felt the same flash of heat she had felt then.
They ate in silence. It was clear that Nenè was devastated and didn’t feel like talking. In fact, they didn’t even get to the second course. At a certain point he stood up, kissed his cousin’s hand, and ran off.
“He’s too sensitive,” said ’Ntontò, recounting the evening to Signora Colajanni and Signora Clelia, who had paid her a call.
“And good-looking, too,” said Signora Clelia, who, upon first seeing him a few days prior, had judged his capacities.
“So what will he do? Isn’t he going to come back?” asked Signora Colajanni.
“He’s coming back next week. He had to rush back to Palermo to return to his mathematics studies.”
“He must have a big head,” said Signora Clelia, without explaining what she meant.
Exactly one week later, Nenè returned to Vigàta.
“Let’s see what the hell he’s cooked up this time,” said Barone Uccello.
He had cooked up something good. A crate was unloaded from the Franceschiello and directly delivered, at Nenè’s behest, to the Chiesa Madre in town.
“The last time, when I came to have the Masses said for the dear departed,” he explained to Father Macaluso, “I noticed that the altar was bare. Allow me to make this gift to the church.”
And from the crate emerged a statue of Saint Anthony that looked alive, with the prettiest of faces and eyes upturned to heaven.
Upon seeing the gift, the priest decided that Nenè Impiduglia had all the qualities of sainthood.
For the next four months, Nenè proceeded to go back and forth between Palermo and Vigàta. When ’Ntontò seemed sufficiently softened up, he declared his intentions.
He knew that, for a variety of reasons, Father Macaluso, Signora Colajanni, and Signora Clelia were on his side. As were Peppinella and Mimì, since not a day went by in which he didn’t slip them some lettuce. The two servants, however, didn’t do it only for money; they were old and worried about their mistress’s future.
“Have people told you anything about me?” he asked ’Ntontò.
“Nothing at all. What would they have told me?”
“Oh, they’ll tell you, all right. They’ll tell you, for example, that I’ve put all the money I had into my mathematical research.”
“But I already know that.”
“Yes, but if you accept the proposal I am about to make you, everyone in town will say I’m doing it for one purpose only: to get my hands on your money. And it’s not true, ’Ntontò, I swear it, on your dead mother’s soul, it’s not true.”
“And what is this proposal you want to make?”
“’Ntontò, shall we bring our two lonely lives together? No, don’t answer just yet. I’ll come back in a few days, same time as today. I shall hope to find your front door still open—”
A histrionic sob cut his last word short.
In the three days that followed, ’Ntontò had no peace. The first to show up was Father Macaluso.
“He’s a lad of noble sentiments. An ideal pater familias. And it is your duty, Marchesina, to marry. When your dear departed father was still alive, I told him it was time you found a husband. He said he agreed, so long as your future spouse was of equal standing. And it appears to me that Barone Nenè Impiduglia has all his papers in order in that regard. So you should respect your father’s wishes.”
“When it’s convenient, you mean?” ’Ntontò asked with a wry smile. She was referring to the adoption of Trisina’s baby, which the priest had fought tooth and nail to thwart. But Father Macaluso failed to grasp her subtlety.
The second person to call on her was Signora Colajanni.
“Let us speak woman to woman. You, ’Ntontò, after all the torments you’ve been through, are no longer the same. You need a man with a good head on his shoulders beside you, a man who will be both a husband and a father to you. Impiduglia is that man.”
The third person was Signora Clelia.
“Let us speak woman to woman. You are a virgin, ’Ntontò, and you don’t know what you are missing. A real woman needs a man. There is nothing more beautiful than when a man and a woman embrace. You cannot die without having experienced this.”
Entirely unexpectedly, ragioniere Papìa also showed up.
; “I’ve heard the talk about town, and so I decided to come and see you on my own. Do you know, Marchesina, how old I am?”
“About seventy?” said ’Ntontò.
“Yes, that’s right. And my head’s not what it used to be. More and more these days, I can’t do my numbers, and my eyes go all foggy. If you, m’lady, get married and your husband takes over the administration of your estate, I can retire in peace. Think it over.”
Before the three days were up, ’Ntontò sent for Fofò La Matina.
“What should I do?” she asked him after telling him all that had been happening.
And Fofò told her, dispassionately, what she should do. The following day he was accosted by Barone Uccello.
“So you’re with the rest of them, trying to screw the quail?” said the baron.
“I’m not trying to screw anyone. But I didn’t feel like telling the marchesina she should die of loneliness and melancholy.”
Still on the subject of loneliness, Nenè Impiduglia, once he had received ’Ntontò’s affirmative reply, headed back to Palermo with a purse full of money he had had Papìa advance him on the marchesina’s dowry. He gambled half of it and lost, as was the general rule, but with the other half he began to set things right. He sold the little house he had in the city, and the proceeds equaled what was left of Papìa’s money. He paid off fifteen creditors who very nearly died of surprise, and then he got down to the most serious business at hand—that is, dumping his two mistresses. With the first, Tuzza, the daughter of a street vendor of vegetables, it was a simple matter.
“How much would it cost for you to buzz off?”
Tuzza spat out a figure. They spent the entire afternoon bargaining, then ate and spent the night fucking. The following morning they reached an agreement.
With his second mistress, Jeannette Lafleur, aged thirty, leading lady at the theatre—known as Gesualda Fichera in the real world—things were a bit more complicated. Jeannette had a flair for the dramatic, like all women of the stage, and claimed she was in love with Nenè. It was not a question of money.
“I missed you like the very air I breathe,” she would say to Nenè whenever he returned after a few days’ absence. And there was always hell to pay, because before Impiduglia could get down to the business of having sex with her, he had to listen to an endless litany of gossip about how the supporting actress was a slut who was corrupting the innocent soul of the young male lead, and the theatre manager didn’t go a day without making lewd propositions to her, and the prompter had pretended to be distracted during the climactic scene and left her helpless on the stage, feeling utterly at sea on a ship sailed by pirates. After which Jeannette, tired from talking so much, would turn towards the wall and offer him, at last, the perfect shape of her back.
“I’ve been unwell,” Nenè said upon returning from Vigàta.
“Unwell in what way?” Jeannette asked.
“Bah, I don’t know. I fainted three times.”
“Why don’t you go see a doctor?”
The following evening, as soon as Jeannette turned towards the wall, Nenè said:
“I’m sorry, darling, I’m not up to it. I can’t do it. This morning, the doctor, after examining me, made a strange face. He wants me to come back tomorrow.”
Immediately assuming the role of the generous nurse, Jeannette hugged and kissed him all night.
The next day, as Jeannette was making herself up in her dressing room, the door flew open to reveal Nenè. A dead man standing on his own two feet by a miracle. His suit was all rumpled, his hair dishevelled, his tie crooked. He was pale and looked as if all the blood had been drained from his body. He collapsed into a chair and said in a faint, barely audible voice:
“Please, Jeannette, a glass of water.”
The theatre manager arrived at once with a glass.
“Jeannette,” said Nenè, “the doctor has spoken: I’ve got two months left to live, give or take a few days. Try to be brave.”
Jeannette started trembling, and the manager had her drink the remaining water in the glass.
“Our love affair ends here,” Nenè resumed, with some effort. “I don’t want to be a burden to you. You have your life, your career. This is where I make my exit. But you, you’ve got to grit your teeth: the show must go on.”
Jeannette realized that at this point in the script she was supposed scream and then faint. Which she did. After entrusting Jeannette to the dressmaker, the manager helped Nenè to his feet and accompanied him with difficulty to the theatre exit.
“Shall I call a cab, Barone?”
Nenè looked at him, smiled, and straightened up.
“No thanks, I can walk.”
And he set off at a brisk pace. A moment later, the manager caught up to him.
“Was that all an act?”
“Of course.”
“How much do you want?”
“For what?”
“To sign up with my company. You knock the spots off the best actors I know.”
While Nenè was taking care of business in Palermo, Father Macaluso and Signora Colajanni were holding council.
“There are a few hitches,” the priest began. “Barone Nenè and the marchesina are first cousins. They’re going to need a dispensation in order to marry.”
“And who would grant that?”
“The bishop.”
“So go and talk to the bishop, then.”
“But that’s not the only thing. There’s also the problem of deep mourning. Because, if strictly observed, there’s no question of marriage for quite a while yet.”
“But can’t the bishop take care of that, too?”
“Yes, of course. But I’ve done some math. Between one thing and another, a grandfather, a brother, a mother, and a father have died. In simple words, ’Ntontò is supposed to be holed up at home for at least nine years. Talk about marriage!”
“But nobody can survive nine years of engagement!”
“Exactly. We must find a solution. Tomorrow I’m going to talk to the bishop’s secretary, Monsignor Curtò, who is a reasonable man.”
Monsignor Curtò discussed the matter with the bishop and, less than a week later, Father Macaluso was summoned to the diocesan curia.
“Concerning the matter of cousinship,” began the bishop, who was a man of scarce words and concrete acts, “there is no problem. It’s all up to me and can be easily resolved. The question of mourning, however, is not my province. It is God’s.”
“So how will we negotiate with God?”
The bishop smiled; he had always appreciated Father Macaluso’s wit.
“Don’t you know that we are His intermediaries on earth? You are one, and I, in all modesty, am another. Thus, my son, you should know that some of the dead are good, and some are bad. In our case, the elder marchese and the younger marchese are bad, very bad. They passed away in a state of mortal sin, one by committing suicide, and the other while he was committing adultery. I can shorten the nine years of mourning to thirty-six months. More than that I cannot do. But there are certain rules that must be respected. Monsignor Curtò has prepared the tally.”
The tally ended up amounting to two Masses a week for each of the two marchesi, and one weekly Mass each for Donna Matilde and her son, said Masses to be held, of course, over the thirty-six-month period. In addition there were certain offerings to be made to charitable institutions such as the Pauper’s Table and the Orphans of Saint Theresa and so on. The total amount of these offerings was to be disbursed in one single settlement to Monsignor Curtò, who would see to their fair distribution. When all was said and done, an arm and a leg. The banns would be published, in church and at city hall, when the thirty-six months were over.
“But, where I come from, thirty-six months means three years!” Nenè snapped, when he was told the conditions imposed by the bis
hop.
“Where I come from, too,” said Father Macaluso. “But think about it for a minute. First of all, it means three years starting from the last death—that is, the marchese’s. Well, a good eight months have passed since that sad day. Which means that you must wait two years and four months. Got that? All it takes is a little patience. You, in the meantime, should set yourself up in Vigàta, go calmly about your business, and get to know ’Ntontò a little better. You can even continue your studies of mathematics here.”
“They haven’t got the proper equipment here,” said Impiduglia. Then he added: “And where’s all the money for the Masses and offerings going to come from?”
It came from ’Ntontò. After all, the dead were hers.
Signora Clelia, moreover, did her part to help Nenè Impiduglia pass the time during his long wait. She had him rent a small flat that had just been vacated across the landing from her own apartment.
In the two years that followed, two things happened.
First, one Sunday, when he was eating at the home of his fiancée, Nenè Impiduglia stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence, turned pale, and dropped his face slowly into his soup. Brought to the provincial capital for an examination, he was found to be diabetic.
The second thing that happened was that ’Ntontò had a white border sewn onto the hems of her blouses and skirts, a sign that a ray of light was beginning to shine through the blackness.
6
With only three months to go before the banns were published, Nenè Impiduglia was like a castaway at sea who, breathing his last breaths, could finally see land. And at that moment, the steamship Pannonia, the most luxurious of the “Sicilian and International Line,” having sailed from New York, docked at the port of Palermo. Among the many passengers to disembark was a gentleman of about fifty who spoke pure Sicilian and had an American wife. With a great load of luggage in train, he took a suite at the Hotel des Palmes, where only the rich went to stay. For the time being, not a soul knew of his arrival, which would upset not only Nenè Impiduglia’s plans, but the entire town of Vigàta.
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