Hunting Season: A Novel (11 page)

“But now it’s different, sir. You know what? You got me pregnant, that day in the shed.”

Don Filippo said nothing. He got out of bed, staggering to the left and right, made it as far as the window, opened the shutters and fainted, falling to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

The following morning he raced into Vigàta, singing at the top of his lungs all the way. As a result, when he tried to talk to people in town, he had no voice left. He explained that he had caught a chill at Le Zubbie. His first visit was to the midwife, Signora Schilirò, and he arranged for her to come to Le Zubbie the following Sunday to examine Trisina. He would send Mimì for her with a carriage.

His second visit was to the pharmacy.

“I’m expecting a son,” he said to Fofò.

“Congratulations,” said the pharmacist, looking him up and down. “It doesn’t show.”

“This is no time for jokes, Fofò. This Sunday I want you to come in the carriage with the midwife and examine Natale Pirrotta’s wife.”

“I’m sorry, Marchese, but why don’t you ask Dr. Smecca? He has more experience with that sort of thing and knows more than I do.”

“I don’t trust Dr. Smecca.”

It wasn’t true. He certainly did trust Dr. Smecca, but he could not forget what Pirrotta had told him: that the doctor had dipped his biscuit in Trisina’s soup. And had in fact been the first to do so.

“All right,” said the pharmacist. “Have you already been to your house, Marchese?”

“I haven’t had the time.”

“Your daughter has been sick. I’ve been looking after her myself.”

At the thought of seeing ’Ntontò still dressed all in black, Don Filippo decided he wasn’t yet ready to meet with her.

“Greetings to all,” he said, entering the Circolo dei Nobili. “What’s new?”

After the riot of greetings, exclamations of delight, and embraces, Barone Uccello informed his friend of the only new development, aside from the detailed inventory of lamented passings.

“The pharmacist has been broken in,” said the baron.

“What do you mean, ‘broken in’?”

“Do you remember the time we talked about him here at the club? Well, since then, and up until last week, Fofò La Matina’s situation had not changed: nary a woman.”

“But are you sure?”

“Cross my heart. Neither in Vigàta nor the provincial capital.”

“But how could he do without it?”

“Why, don’t priests do the same?” interjected Fede the surveyor, a churchgoing man.

“Good God, please don’t talk about priests to me,” said the baron. He continued: “Anyway, last Saturday, Signora Clelia, having learned from her maid that the pharmacist would not open shop that day because he had to prepare some medicinal herbs, made herself up and went and knocked at his door. Fofò opened up and found the lady before him. He tried not to let her inside, but there was nothing doing. Signora Clelia insisted she urgently needed to be examined. To make a long story short, she wasted no time; she reached out and grabbed him. The pharmacist froze. Didn’t budge. Encouraged, the lady undid his trousers and knickers and brought the thing out into the open. And that was when the pharmacist popped.”

“What do you mean, he ‘popped’?” asked Lieutenant Baldovino.

“You know,
carissimo
,” the marchese explained, “the way the cork pops when you fill the barrel too full of wine.”

“Later, in the two hours that followed, the pharmacist attended to the lady till his barrel was empty,” the baron continued. “When Signora Clelia came out of the pharmacy, people say she looked like a cat with a full belly, purring down the street.”

Fate had decided that the marchese should hear talk of the pharmacist for the rest of the day. ’Ntontò continued where his friends from the Circolo had left off, telling him how Fofò La Matina had devotedly and valiantly cured her of an influenza that threatened to turn into pneumonia, without asking a cent in return.

“But I acquitted myself of my debt just the same.”

The marchese eyed his daughter.

“Did you make him pop, too?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ntontò, her face a question mark. “I had Mimì bring him two demijohns of good wine.”

The marchese kept eyeing her, finding her even more beautiful than when he had left her, a bit thinner and paler from illness.

“When are you going to take off the weeds?”

“It’s supposed to last three years.”

“And what if I die in the meantime?”

“What are you saying?!”

“How are you going to show your grief then, if I die? You’ve given it all to the others, even your grief for me! You’re all decked out in black, outside and inside!” He was yelling, and didn’t know why he felt so angry. ’Ntontò burst into tears, the marchese following after her for a few steps.

“You can paint your bottom black, if I die!” he shouted. “It can be your special way of mourning me!”

He had just woken up from his nap when Mimì arrived.

“The sacristan’s here, m’lord. ’E’s got a message for you from Father Macaluso.”

The marchese reluctantly got dressed and went into the boudoir.

“With m’lord’s blessing,” said the sacristan.

“How many blessings do you want to extract? You’re already taken care of by the priest. What do you want?”

“Father Macaluso says you should drop in at the church, at m’lord’s convenience, of course.”

“And why should I drop in at the church? Tell Father Macaluso he should drop in to see me.”

After the sacristan had raced back and forth three or four times, the two parties reached an agreement. They would meet at six o’clock sharp in the square, between the church and the Circolo.

Naturally, they did not greet each other.

“I want to talk about your daughter,” said Father Macaluso, getting right to the point.

“And why should I talk about her with you?”

“Because I’m a priest and I’m supposed to look after the souls of my parishioners.”

“You’re asking me to discuss ’Ntontò’s soul?”

“For the love of God, Marchese, don’t make me lose my temper. You know how easily I get upset, and I might piss outside the urinal.”

“Well, you should know that if you piss outside the urinal, I’m liable to shit outside it.”

“I know. That’s why I’m suggesting that we set off, both of us, on the right foot. All right?”

“All right.”

“Would you please explain to me what sort of life your daughter leads? The poor thing! Shut up indoors all the time, in deep mourning! She only goes out on Saturdays to confess and on Sunday mornings to take Communion, and then at Christmas and Easter, on the feast of the patron saint, and on All Souls’ Day to go to the cemetery.”

“It seems to me she’s got all the entertainment she needs, and then some. What more do you want, a marching band?”

Father Macaluso had difficulty restraining himself.

“You, moreover, are clearly not a good father.”

“Here we go again! What the hell have I got to do with it?”

“Oh, you’ve got plenty to do with it, damn it all!” said the priest, beginning to get worked up. “You are never at home, but we all know where you are, and I even learned this morning that your sin will soon bear fruit. Are you not ashamed?”

“No, I’m not. I have no sense of shame. I follow nature.”

“Well, then, you should let your daughter follow nature, too, and in a more respectable manner.”

“And what would that be?”

“Marry her off.”

The marchese suddenly calmed down. The idea of being rid of ’Ntontò and clearing the way to bringing Trisina home with him could only appeal to him.

“She’s never wanted to get married. And to think that she’s had so many attractive offers.”

“But now it would be easy to persuade her. She’s been left almost completely alone.”

“Have you got someone in mind?”

“Yes,” said the priest, but then he hesitated.

“Come on, out with it. What’s his name?”

“Fofò La Matina. He’s an honorable man, has no vices, doesn’t drink, smoke, or gamble.”

“And every now and then he pops.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” said the marchese. Then, after a pause, he continued: “Whose brilliant idea was this? Yours,’Ntontò’s, or the pharmacist’s? Or all of you put together?”

“Your daughter and the pharmacist know nothing about this. It’s something I and my dear friend, Signora Colajanni, have been thinking about.”

“May I say something?”

“Of course.”

“You and your dear friend can go and take it you-know-where.”

Father Macaluso had made a vow, at the main altar, not to have it out with the marchese.

“Would you at least tell me what you have against the pharmacist?”

“I have nothing against the pharmacist. Actually, I rather admire the man. But he’s got no social standing whatsoever. His father worked the land for my father. And you want me to give my daughter to the son of a clodhopper? Look, I’ve already forgotten what you said to me. Bring me someone of my daughter’s station, and then we can talk.”

“Why, are you asking me to play matchmaker now?”

“Why not? After all, you’re already wearing a dress.”

It turned into a shouting match.