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Authors: Andrea Camilleri

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BOOK: Hunting Season: A Novel
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Standing at the back of the church, he waited for Mass to end and for four old women and two peasants hunched from working the land to go out, whereupon he raced into the sacristy. Father Macaluso, who was removing his vestments with the help of the sacristan, must certainly have been surprised to see him, but pretended to pay no notice. Surly and hot-tempered as he was by nature, he was waiting for the marchese to greet him first, while Don Filippo, for his part, was not about to open the proceedings by addressing a priest who was the son of clay-footed peasants. So in the end neither greeted the other. And just to spite the nobleman, Father Macaluso folded and refolded his vestments five times more than was necessary.

Stew in your own juices, fool
.

After showing the sacristan out, the priest finally looked at the marchese.

“What is it?”

“I’d like to speak to you.”

“Ah, thank goodness. I thought you were here to give me a shave.”

The marchese didn’t react.

“And I would also like what I’m about to tell you to remain a secret.”

“Look, I don’t usually discuss things people tell me. But if you want to feel more certain, entrust yourself to the secrecy of the confessional. What do you have to say to me?”

“I would like to speak to man to man.”

“Let’s have it.”

“I want a son.”

“Good God, that again?”

“What do you mean, ‘That again’?”

“Look, I was made priest of this parish, replacing the late Father Carnazza, bless his soul, at the very moment when you got it in your head that you had to have a son. And the marchesa would come to confess to me every Saturday. Have I made myself clear?”

“Like hell.”

“No, what’s like Hell is the torment you put that poor woman through every night the Lord sent your way!”

“But isn’t that what marriage is for?”

“Yes, indeed, for that, among other things. But not for satisfying your egotism and vanity. You wanted a son who could inherit your name and estate. But what is a name, in your opinion? What are earthly possessions? They are shit, that’s what they are.”

“Excuse me, but if I enjoy dancing in shit, what’s it to you?”

“Let’s drop it. What do you want from me?”

“Listen, before continuing, I’ll tell you something I’m under no obligation to tell you. You’re wrong about my wanting an heir. For Rico, yes, that was true. But this next son I want the same way any man without a cent in his pocket would.”

“That is to your credit. But I don’t think Donna Matilde is capable any longer.”

“Who ever mentioned my wife?”

The priest blinked his eyes.

“Did I hear correctly?”

“Perfectly.”

Father Macaluso turned into a pepper, half red, half green.

“Jesus bloody Christ, you come here, into the house of the Lord, to tell me you want to commit adultery?”

“Come now, adultery! Let’s not exaggerate. I will have a son with another woman, since with my own wife, by your own admission, I cannot. Then I’ll adopt the kid and that’s the last you’ll ever hear of it.”

“It would still be adultery, so long as Donna Matilde is alive! When the poor lady ascends at last into heaven, only then, after a proper period of mourning, could you marry the woman with whom you wish to sire a son, and then all would be in order.”

“The fact is that the woman I want to bear my son is already married.”

“Then, by hook or by crook, you are hell-bent on committing adultery! You are obsessed, an adulterous maniac! Don’t you know it is a more grievous sin than murder?”

“Are you joking?”

“I am not, you jackass!” yelled Father Macaluso, choking on his rage. And, picking up a very heavy chair, he did not spare the marchese a parting shot:

“Leave this house of God at once, you piece of shit!”

3

I
t took the marchese only a few days to arrange things. He granted power of attorney to ragioniere Papìa, had four trunks loaded onto two mules, and headed off to Le Zubbie. When Natale Pirrotta saw him arrive and take heavy clothing out of the trunks, woolen sweaters and overcoats, he darkened.

“You’ll have to excuse me, sir, but if your intention is to spend the winter here, what am I supposed to do? Go round and round Sicily like a spinning top?”

“No need to worry, Natà. Tomorrow Peppinella’s elder sister Maddalena will be arriving, who’s seventy years old. She’ll sleep with Trisina, to keep the tongues from wagging.”

“And where am I supposed to go?”

“You’re going to go and lend a hand to Sasà Ragona, the field watcher of Pian dei Cavalli. He’s sick with malaria and can’t work like before. And you can come back here to see Trisina whenever you want.”

The marchese didn’t turn up again at his own home until Christmas Eve. The first thing he noticed was that there was no crèche in the family chapel.

“Have you forgotten?” said ’Ntontò. “It was Rico who used to make the crèche. I don’t know how to, and neither does Mimì.”

Don Filippo thought back on Rico’s Nativity scenes. Yes, they had little mountains made of lavic slag, palm trees, a rivulet, a cave, the ox and the donkey, but everything was drowned in a thick carpet of mushrooms. And the Baby Jesus was himself a mushroom, between the mushrooms of Joseph and Mary.

“Is Mamma awake?”

At ’Ntontò’s affirmative nod, he opened the door, but was forced to take a step back by the smell.

“Jesus, can’t you open a window?”

“She doesn’t want me to.”

Overcoming his nausea, he went in and sat down in front of his wife.

She had become an old woman in the space of three months, her hair now completely white. It was difficult to see in her room. With the flame of the oil lamp kept low, Donna Matilde squinted as she tried to make out the features of her visitor’s face. To help her out, Don Filippo went over to the chest of drawers, turned up the flame, and sat back down. Then the marchesa recognized him.

“Help!” she began to shout. “Help! For heaven’s sake, somebody please help!”

’Ntontò, Peppinella, and Mimì came running and the usual pandemonium broke out. With the strength of her desperation, Donna Matilde managed to stand up halfway from the easy chair, gripping the arms.

“It’s him! The man who wanted to shoot me! Who wanted to do lewd things to me!”

Before leaving the room, Don Filippo turned around to look at his wife. And it looked to him—but surely it wasn’t possible, it must have been an effect of the dancing light of the oil lamp—like she was laughing.

“We’re going to put Mamma to bed, and then we’re going out,” said ’Ntontò. “We’re going to midnight Mass: me, Peppinella, and Mimì.”

“Mimì, too?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure he’ll have to attend quite a few Masses before he atones for all his sins.”

“What are you going to do, Papà? Go to the Circolo?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He remained seated a long time at the now cleared table, taking sips of wine every so often. Then, when he was certain that everyone was gone, he headed for Rico’s room. It was years since he had last set foot in it, and it immediately looked much smaller than he remembered. He set the lamp down on a table and looked around. It all gave him a strange feeling he couldn’t explain, and the more he looked at things, the stronger the impression became. Suddenly he understood. This was the bedroom of a grown man; one could see it in the size of the bed, the clothes, the shoes, and the rifle propped in a corner, which Bonocore had apparently recovered in the woods. Yet at the same time it was also the bedroom of a little boy, an impression that came from the drawings stuck to the wall, which Rico had recently made and which portrayed, in infantile fashion,
Papà
,
Mamma
, and
My sister ’Ntontò
, going by the words written under each picture. Don Filippo opened the desk drawer and found a stack of paper, every sheet covered likewise with drawings of the same subject: a goat. Looking at them one by one, the marchese could see just how diligently Rico had begun to make progress; in fact, the last sheet was a genuine portrait of Carmelina. Rico had colored it and even got the shadings right. In a sudden fit of anger of which he was hardly aware, he tossed the sheet into the air and went out.

What kind of bloody Christmas Eve is this?
he asked himself.
I think I’ll go to the club and gamble one of my properties
.

He felt overcome with fatigue, however, and his shoulders ached as if he had been carrying a heavy load. Very slowly he opened the door to Donna Matilde’s room and looked inside. Only one small lamp was lit, and he felt reassured. He didn’t want there to be much light. If his wife saw him and recognized him, she was liable to start another riot.

He sat down in an armchair at the foot of the bed. Donna Matilde was sleeping with her mouth open, and every now and then emitted a moan. Don Filippo slowly reached out and rested his hand on his wife’s cheek; then he withdrew it, brought it to his nose, and inhaled. Nothing. His hand smelled only of rancid sweat. He stayed a little while longer, watching Donna Matilde, then spoke to her.

“I’m going to spend the night with you. Merry Christmas, Matì.”

When ’Ntontò, back from Mass, went to check on her mother, she saw Don Filippo asleep. She didn’t wake him.

The marchese took the road to Le Zubbie at a gallop, as if he were being pursued, and arrived in such a rush in front of the house that he very nearly frightened to death Trisina, Maddalena, and Pirrotta, who was saying goodbye to the two women before heading back to Pian dei Cavalli.

“Natà, can’t you wait till tomorrow morning to leave? You need to explain something to me.”

That evening, after supper, the two men sat down near the well, and the marchese asked Pirrotta how he could build himself a small fireplace in his bedroom.

“Why don’t you hire a stonemason?”

“Because I want to make it with my own hands. Don’t you worry, I can do it. Anyway, it’ll help me pass the time.”

“But you have to climb up on the roof, which is dangerous. My poor wife certainly learned that.”

“Pirrò, I want to do it my way. Have you got the necessary tools?”

“You’ll find everything you need in the house.”

After listening to Pirrotta’s instructions, the marchese felt sleepy. He said goodbye to his field watcher, who would be leaving at daybreak and would sleep in the stable so as not to disturb the two women. Then he withdrew to his room. He sat for a short while at the window, smoking his pipe, and when his eyelids began to droop, he went to bed. But, as if cursed, once horizontal he no longer felt sleepy. For hours he tossed and turned, with the sheets twisting around his sweaty body. He finally became convinced that the only thing to do was to return to the window and watch the morning star. He heard Pirrotta in the stable, saddling the mule and then leaving. He waited until the dawn light allowed him to see the line of the sea in the distance, and then he lay back down, eyes wide open, hands crossed behind his head. Such was his position when Trisina came in, lay down beside him, and began kissing him through the hairs in his armpit.

“We have all the time we want,” she said. “I drugged the old woman.”

“You did what?”

“I put a little poppy extract in her soup.”

“Won’t that hurt her?”

“No, your excellency. I tried it once when you weren’t here. It only makes her sleep late in the morning. And she’ll complain she has a little headache.”

She began groping him and started laughing.

“Excellency! Are you drugged, too? Let me wake it up for you, the way my lord likes best.”

She pulled away the sheet and started sliding down the marchese’s body, but he grabbed her by the hair to stop her.

“Let it be,” he said. “It’s feeling a little melancholy this morning.”

Donna Matilde made her decision around the middle of January. She had just been brought lunch, which was set down on a little table in front of her armchair, when ’Ntontò heard a tremendous crash in her mother’s room. Going in, she found the little table overturned and the broth and soft-boiled egg dripping from the broken plates and onto the rug.

BOOK: Hunting Season: A Novel
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