Hunting Season: A Novel

by Andrea Camilleri

  They were talking about what sort of wedding it should be, which people to invite, and whether it should be a great celebration or only a family affair, when Peppinella came in with an envelope in her hand.

  “This just arrived on the Franceschiello; it was sent from Palermo.”

  The arrival of a letter was an unusual event, and ’Ntontò wasted no time opening it. Upon reading it, she only had time to cry, “Zio Totò!” before fainting. As Nenè busied himself trying to revive her, he asked himself, “Who the hell is Zio Totò?”

  “Any story worthy of respect (and which respects itself first and foremost, before demanding the respect of others) always begins twenty years earlier,” Barone Uccello said at the Circolo, immediately falling speechless in shock, for never had he uttered words so rich and profound. Taking comfort, he resumed his tale.

  Salvatore Maria Peluso di Torre Venerina was a year younger than his brother, Don Filippo. But the distance between the two, in their ways of thinking and living, was greater than that separating the earth and the moon. Don Filippo was a jocund spirit, always laughing and enjoying life to the fullest, always drinking, eating, and chasing women. Don Salvatore instead spent his life in the company of books, to the point that he had even started wearing eyeglasses. When they were growing up, a day never passed without them coming to blows over the silliest trifles. Later the arguments between Don Filippo and Don Totò became more serious, even if they no longer raised their fists. The new cause for squabbling was politics: Don Totò being a Bourbon royalist and Don Filippo a firm supporter of Italian unity. By the end of 1860, Don Totò disappeared from Vigàta.

  “He’s gone to Calabria, to be with the bandits,” Don Filippo used to say. And by calling the thirty thousand rebels in those parts “bandits,” he was subscribing to the hasty, vague definition given them by the Piedmontese. Then, in one way or another, it came to be known that Don Totò had placed himself under the command of General Borjes, the Spaniard sent to lead the Bourbon troops. When Borjes and his general staff were shot at Tagliacozzo without a trial, the name of Salvatore Peluso did not figure among those executed by the Bersaglieri. Through indirect channels, Don Filippo came to learn that his brother had managed to escape to America. And since that time he had no more news of him. Finally, after some ten years had passed, he believed him dead.

  Instead he was alive and kicking and ready to set foot back in Vigàta. Rumors about town told that he was so rich that if he loaded all his money onto the Franceschiello, the steamboat would sink straight down from all the weight. They also said that Don Totò’s ’Merican wife was called Harriet and had the look and bearing of a wife, and that they had brought with them a secretary named Petru, a Calabrian by birth and a friend of Don Totò’s since the days when they fought together with the bandits, as well as an elderly woman as black as night who went by the name of Nettie and was a sort of cook and maid.

  On the day long awaited by all, four carriages pulled up in front of the great open door of Palazzo Peluso. All of Vigàta was at their windows or in the piazza, looking on. It was like the patron saint’s feast day.

  Out of the first carriage stepped Don Totò, tall, erect, and bespectacled, his face so marked by wrinkles and scars that it looked like a sea chart, and Signora Harriet, a sort of beanpole with no tits or hips and sallow skin. From the second coach emerged Petru, he, too, about fifty years old, small of stature and thin, looking around, his little head turning left and right like a ferret’s. Out of the third carriage stepped the black maid, fat and old and with two eyes so big they looked like portholes on a steamship. Little children began to cry at the sight of her. The last carriage was full of luggage, which Mimì and Peppinella hoisted onto their shoulders and carried inside. Then the great door shut behind them, and the celebration, for the moment, was over.

  Zio Totò spared his niece the task of recounting the family’s misfortunes. For reasons unclear, he already knew everything, even about the baby his brother had sired with Trisina.

  “Tomorrow we shall all go to the cemetery to see them,” said ’Ntontò.

  “Why?” asked Zio Totò, looking at her in astonishment. “The dead are dead, after all.”

  Then, after a pause, he continued: “Have you still got Curcunella?”

  ’Ntontò sprang to her feet, left the room, and returned with a doll, a baby doll her uncle had given her when she wasn’t yet three years old. Curcunella was the name they had given her, and she had remained a secret between them.

  “Here she is.”

  Don Totò took the doll into his hands, while ’Ntontò, who until that moment had managed to hold back, broke out in tears.

  “Come here,” said her uncle.

  He sat her down beside him on the sofa, put an arm around her shoulders, and ’Ntontò quite naturally laid her head on his chest.

  But then the door suddenly flew open. It was Peppinella, trembling and shouting:

  “I won’t work in the same kitchen as that black thing!”

  ’Ntontò quickly found a solution.

  “Let’s do this: you cook in the other kitchen for yourself and Mimì, and Nettie will cook for the rest of us.”

  “And what about tonight?”

  “What you mean, ‘tonight’?”

  “I mean that that black thing has put her baggage in the room next to ours.”

  “But what are you afraid of? Haven’t you got Mimì sleeping beside you?”

  “Mimì don’t like the look of this, either.”

  Nettie, the “black thing,” was asked to move her luggage upstairs. She would sleep in the masters’ wing.

  That afternoon, Barone Uccello asked if he could pay a call. He and Don Totò threw themselves into each other’s arms, and then immediately locked themselves in the little room where the late Don Filippo had his office. Totò offered the baron a cigar as big as a stovepipe.

  “So why did you let us think you were dead?”

  “That wasn’t me. It was my brother who became convinced of it.”

  “All right, but you went twenty whole years without giving any sign of life!”

  “Well, for the first few years I couldn’t afford to send news. When I arrived in America with Petru, the war between the North and the South was on. I was on the side of the South, and took part in the Battle of Chattanooga. In fact our commander, General Lee, made me colonel. Then I met Harriet, whose father owned some cotton fields, and we got married. I have two children, a boy and a girl, named Federico and Matilde, like my father and mother. At the moment they’re with their grandmother, Harriet’s mother. Then I moved to a place called Texas and bought myself a well. And I made some money.”

  “With a well?”

  “An oil well, Barone, not a water well.”

  “All right, but why, after the war, when you got married and made all that money, did you never drop me a line?”

  “What would have been the use? I would have had to write a whole novel, and nobody would have believed it.”

  “Will you be staying long in Vigàta?”

  “A few months. Then I shall go back to America. But while I’ve got you here, I’d like to ask you something. ’Ntontò told me she’s engaged to a cousin I can’t remember, Nenè Impiduglia. Do you know him?”

  “My children, who live in Palermo, know him well. They also know he’s made his share of mischief in his day.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Really.”

  And the baron told him what he had to tell him.

  In the week that followed, Petru proved his worth.

  On his boss’s behalf, he bought the columned house that the “Anglo Sulphur Company” had put up for sale, then brought in a caravan of craftsmen to set it completely right, paying what he had to pay.

  “Why, is there not enough room in the marchesa’s palazzo?” people asked about town.

  �
�Don Totò doesn’t want to put them out.”

  Then Petru went off to Palermo to load onto the Franceschiello some more trunks that had arrived from America. In Vigàta Sasà Mangione and three cronies were hired to unload them and arrange their contents in the proper places inside the house, and they worked for four days. When it was all over, Sasà pocketed a silver snuffbox. In twenty days’ time, the house was ready to be inhabited, and Don Totò and his wife, secretary, and black housekeeper moved into their new home.

  Don Totò then went and spoke with the president of the Sicilian Credit and Discount Bank.

  “What’s wrong? You look pale,” the postmaster said to the bank president when he appeared at the Circolo that evening.

  “Never mind,” said the banker.

  “Come on, what happened? What is it?”

  “What happened is that this morning Don Totò requested that a portion—a very small part—of the money he deposited in Palermo should be transferred to me.”

  “So?”

  “So, there are so many zeroes in that account, they stretch from here to the jetty. Which gave me a terrible headache.”

  After taking care of what needed to be done, Petru went back to Palermo to see to a delicate matter that Don Totò had told him about.

  Meanwhile, the daily morning farce began for the people of Vigàta. This consisted of Nettie the maid going out shopping while not understanding a word of Sicilian, which always resulted in total confusion. The entertainment didn’t last long, however, because that friend to foreigners, Fede the surveyor, soon came to her aid. There was one thing Nettie was insistent about, however, and that was going to the pharmacy and asking for the strangest things. One day, for example, she wanted a pair of socks.

  “She says you can do that in her country,” explained Fede the surveyor, who spoke a smattering of English. “She says you can buy everything at the pharmacy, which she calls a store.”

  Thus, every so often, Fofò La Matina, just to make her happy, would sell her something.

  Don Totò had got in the habit of frequenting the Circolo, and whenever he entered, he was immediately surrounded. Fede the surveyor was particularly good at egging him on, getting him to tell stories about America compared to which the puppet theatre and the tales of the paladins of France seemed like small potatoes. There wasn’t a day, however, when the marchese—since the title now fell to him—failed to pay a call upon his niece.

  To Nenè Impiduglia he was aloof; just “Good morning” and “Good evening.” ’Ntontò had noticed her uncle’s behavior towards her fiancé, but didn’t have the courage to ask him about it.

  Some ten days before the banns were published, as ’Ntontò was getting ready to change into clothes of half mourning, Petru came in from Palermo on the mail boat.

  “It’s all here,” he said, setting a large envelope down on his boss’s desk. “Looks like some stormy weather’s on the way.”

  The marchese opened the envelope and started reading some documents.

  “So, what have you decided?” Barone Uccello later asked him at the Circolo. “Will you stay in Vigàta or go back to America?”

  “I’m going to stay a few more days, settle some business, and then go back to America. I don’t want to die here.”

  “Aren’t you going to wait until your niece’s wedding?”

  The marchese looked at him and said nothing. As for the place of his death, however, he turned out to be a bad prophet.

  Entering Don Totò’s office-chamber, Father Macaluso noticed that Barone Uccello was already there, and he was none too pleased about this. Whatever the reason for Petru summoning him there, he knew that the baron would not be neutral. Uccello could never stand priests.

  The marchese rose, came up to greet him, held out his hand, and invited him to sit down.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No thank you, Marchese, at this hour it would ruin my appetite.”

  “Then I’ll get straight to the point. I took the liberty of disturbing you, dear Father, because I know it was you who persuaded my niece to become engaged to Impiduglia.”

  “Good God, it wasn’t only me. There were also Signora—”

  “I don’t care about the ladies involved.”

  “Well, even the pharmacist—”

  “Never mind the pharmacist. And don’t keep backpedaling, or you’re likely to fall and hurt yourself. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Since ’Ntontò has already suffered a great deal, I, as her uncle, must make certain she doesn’t suffer more and worse.”

  “What could be worse than losing her parents and brother?”

  “There are worse things, I assure you, Father. At any rate, I sent Petru to Palermo to find out about this Impiduglia. Let us begin by saying that he has had four mistresses.”

  Father Macaluso smiled.

  “Do you find that amusing?”

  “No, these are things young people do. But since Impiduglia has been living in Vigàta, he has definitely put himself back on the right path.”

  “What path? The path into Clelia Tumminello’s bed?”

  Father Macaluso stopped smiling.

  “Let us now turn to more serious matters. Impiduglia is a hardened gambler. It’s a disease for him. He has lost his entire inheritance playing cards and roulette.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. And you want to know something else? He had Papìa advance him part of ’Ntontò’s dowry, then immediately gambled half of it away. But that’s not all. He has already been twice convicted for fraud. Have a look at these documents.”

  Father Macaluso approached the small stack of papers that was on the desk. These weren’t rumors: they were extracts of verdicts and sworn declarations.

  “What should I do?” he asked, resigned.

  “You must talk to Impiduglia. I will give him three days to think things over, because I am offering three options. The first is that he leaves and goes wherever the hell he pleases, and sends ’Ntontò a nice letter saying that he no longer feels like being tied down, that he’s not the marrying kind. The second is that he doesn’t leave, and the war begins. In this case I will become my niece’s guardian, forbid him to see her, and the only way Barone Impiduglia will ever see any of ’Ntontò’s money is through a telescope. I won’t have any problem obtaining such authorization from the courts. The law always follows the path that money tells it to follow. The third is that he comes here, to my house, asks me to forgive him for wishing to harm ’Ntontò, I give him a little money as a parting gift, and we all go our merry ways with God’s blessing. But he must not make any mistakes, such as trying to see ’Ntontò during these three days. Send him word that she doesn’t feel well.”

  “I’ll tell him,” said the priest, standing up. Before leaving, however, he had a question:

  “Could you tell me what right Barone Uccello had to be present at this meeting?”

  “He’s a witness. I wouldn’t want the things I have said to be distorted after we leave this room. And, while we’re on the subject of rights, if you want to say a comforting word to your protégé, tell him that the only right entitling him to marry ’Ntontò was the fact that he’s a noble.”

  It took less than four hours for all of Vigàta—except for ’Ntontò—to learn what sort of person Nenè Impiduglia was and to hear about the scene that had taken place between Don Totò and Father Macaluso. The only person to benefit from Nenè’s staying at home was Signora Clelia.

  “But is it true you were convicted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s do it again. Ahh, God, that’s good! Again! No, wait, Nenè, now let’s do it this way.”

  When the three days were up, a hundred eyes followed Impiduglia’s every step as he walked from his flat to the house with the columns.
Night was falling.

  Looking into the eyes of the marchese, who was sitting behind his desk, Nenè got scared. Those were the eyes—he was sure of it—of a man who had killed, perhaps even in cold blood. He opened his mouth to speak but it felt walled up.

  “Water,” he managed to say.

  The marchese did not budge, but kept eyeing him like a snake about to eat a mouse. Nenè turned his back and followed a smell of rabbit cacciatore down a corridor until he reached the kitchen. Nettie wasn’t there. Resting on the windowsill was a sweaty jug of water. He picked it up and drank it. Having done what he needed to do, he returned to the office.

  “I’ve come to tell you I accept your third offer.”

  Without taking his eyes off him, Don Totò opened a drawer, extracted a fat envelope, and tossed it near Nenè’s hands.

  “In America,” he said, “I would have spared myself the expense. You should thank God we’re not in America.”

  Nenè put the envelope in his pocket.

  “And who’s going to tell ’Ntontò?”

  “I’ll take care of that. Don’t you worry about it.”

  Impiduglia turned on his heel and left. Don Totò wiped his face with his hand, sighing deeply, and rang the bell.

  “It’s all over, Petru,” he said to his secretary as soon as the latter appeared. “He took the money. And we could not have expected otherwise, given the character of this shit of a man. Do me a favor: go to ’Ntontò and tell her I’m coming to lunch tomorrow.”

  “Will the missus also come?”

  “No, Harriet gets bored. She can’t understand a word we say. This journey has been hard on her. But in a few days we’re going back to America.”

  ’Ntontò waited until past two o’clock for her uncle to come to the palazzo. Then, seeing that he still had not shown up, she began to get nervous. She understood that Don Totò, in inviting himself to lunch, wanted to talk about Nenè and explain the reason for his behavior. She rejected Peppinella’s advice to sit down in the meanwhile and begin eating; instead she decided to send Mimì to the house with the columns to find out what the problem was.