ask you, sir, was this: Do you know the name of the person who shot my son?”
“His name? I’m afraid not. It must have been someone who didn’t like him.”
“No one could ever dislike Rico.”
The marchese reflected that, if he gave her a name, any name at all, she would go quietly back to bed, and he could go back to sleep.
“All right. His name is Abdul. He’s an Arab who lives out Trapani way.”
“And why did he kill Rico?”
“He belongs to a sect of fanatics who kill twenty-two-year-old young men by the name of Federico who eat mushrooms.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind. Will you be staying with us?”
“Just a little while longer.”
“Then I’ll say goodbye, because I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“And where are you going, Marchesa?”
“Out Trapani way. And the minute I see him, I’m going to shoot that Arab. With this.”
All the while she had been keeping her right arm behind her back. Now that arm reached out towards the marchese. In her right hand Donna Matilde was gripping a large pistol tightly and aiming straight at him. At this point that other aspect of Don Filippo’s character, his temerity, came to the fore. Emitting a yell that would have frightened a wolf, the marchese leapt at his wife and seized the wrist of the hand holding the gun. They rolled about on the floor. A first shot was fired, shattering the lamp, spilling the oil onto the bed and setting the sheets ablaze. The two continued grappling, squawking and yelping as they struggled. The second shot went towards the door through which Mimì was entering at that exact moment. Recovering his former highwayman’s instincts, the manservant, judging from the report alone, was able to calculate the angle and distance, and stepped aside just enough to dodge the bullet. ’Ntontò and Peppinella also came running, and the two antagonists were finally separated.
“This man jumped on me, wanting to do lewd things to me, and pointed a gun at me,” said Donna Matilda, perfectly calm, and all in one breath.
“Me?! It was you who pointed the gun at me , you liar!”
“How dare you speak to me that way! I don’t even know you!”
’Ntontò and Peppinella led the marchesa away and locked her in her room, then rushed back to help Don Filippo and Mimì put out the spreading fire. It kept them busy until morning.
“Everything all right at home?” asked Barone Uccello.
“Yes, why do you ask?” shot back the marchese, who was losing his third game of the morning.
“Well, it’s just that people in town are chattering.”
“Saying what?”
“That late at night they heard two gunshots inside your house and saw flames through the slats of the shutters.”
“Why don’t people in this town sleep at night and peddle their own fish?”
“Dunno. They say there were two shots from a rifle . . . or maybe a pistol.”
“That was me, carissimo . I’d bought two firecrackers to set off on San Calorio’s day, but then I couldn’t do it because we were in mourning. So I tried them at home.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Why, is there a specific time of day or night for setting off firecrackers at home?”
It was no use. The marchese sat at his desk, with ragioniere Gegè Papìa, administrator of the estate, beside him, putting papers in front of him to sign. And before writing each signature, Don Filippo sniffed his fingers. It was no use. He had washed his hands repeatedly, but the smell of Donna Matilde’s skin remained stuck to his hands, arms, all over. They had clung to each other too long during their struggle. Don Filippo signed the last document. The Pelusos were, in a sense, traitors to their class and wealth: they knew how to read and write, whereas the majority of otherSicilian nobles customarily signed with an X. “He won’t sign because he’s noble,” they would say. Reading and writing were for miserable paper pushers and clerks. Papìa bowed and went out, leaving Don Filippo to sniff
“His name? I’m afraid not. It must have been someone who didn’t like him.”
“No one could ever dislike Rico.”
The marchese reflected that, if he gave her a name, any name at all, she would go quietly back to bed, and he could go back to sleep.
“All right. His name is Abdul. He’s an Arab who lives out Trapani way.”
“And why did he kill Rico?”
“He belongs to a sect of fanatics who kill twenty-two-year-old young men by the name of Federico who eat mushrooms.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind. Will you be staying with us?”
“Just a little while longer.”
“Then I’ll say goodbye, because I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“And where are you going, Marchesa?”
“Out Trapani way. And the minute I see him, I’m going to shoot that Arab. With this.”
All the while she had been keeping her right arm behind her back. Now that arm reached out towards the marchese. In her right hand Donna Matilde was gripping a large pistol tightly and aiming straight at him. At this point that other aspect of Don Filippo’s character, his temerity, came to the fore. Emitting a yell that would have frightened a wolf, the marchese leapt at his wife and seized the wrist of the hand holding the gun. They rolled about on the floor. A first shot was fired, shattering the lamp, spilling the oil onto the bed and setting the sheets ablaze. The two continued grappling, squawking and yelping as they struggled. The second shot went towards the door through which Mimì was entering at that exact moment. Recovering his former highwayman’s instincts, the manservant, judging from the report alone, was able to calculate the angle and distance, and stepped aside just enough to dodge the bullet. ’Ntontò and Peppinella also came running, and the two antagonists were finally separated.
“This man jumped on me, wanting to do lewd things to me, and pointed a gun at me,” said Donna Matilda, perfectly calm, and all in one breath.
“Me?! It was you who pointed the gun at me , you liar!”
“How dare you speak to me that way! I don’t even know you!”
’Ntontò and Peppinella led the marchesa away and locked her in her room, then rushed back to help Don Filippo and Mimì put out the spreading fire. It kept them busy until morning.
“Everything all right at home?” asked Barone Uccello.
“Yes, why do you ask?” shot back the marchese, who was losing his third game of the morning.
“Well, it’s just that people in town are chattering.”
“Saying what?”
“That late at night they heard two gunshots inside your house and saw flames through the slats of the shutters.”
“Why don’t people in this town sleep at night and peddle their own fish?”
“Dunno. They say there were two shots from a rifle . . . or maybe a pistol.”
“That was me, carissimo . I’d bought two firecrackers to set off on San Calorio’s day, but then I couldn’t do it because we were in mourning. So I tried them at home.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Why, is there a specific time of day or night for setting off firecrackers at home?”
It was no use. The marchese sat at his desk, with ragioniere Gegè Papìa, administrator of the estate, beside him, putting papers in front of him to sign. And before writing each signature, Don Filippo sniffed his fingers. It was no use. He had washed his hands repeatedly, but the smell of Donna Matilde’s skin remained stuck to his hands, arms, all over. They had clung to each other too long during their struggle. Don Filippo signed the last document. The Pelusos were, in a sense, traitors to their class and wealth: they knew how to read and write, whereas the majority of otherSicilian nobles customarily signed with an X. “He won’t sign because he’s noble,” they would say. Reading and writing were for miserable paper pushers and clerks. Papìa bowed and went out, leaving Don Filippo to sniff
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