himself undisturbed.
After lightly knocking, ’Ntontò came in.
“Did you tell Papìa to pay for nonno’s and Rico’s funerals?” she asked. “Father Macaluso reminded me again this morning. Papìa never wants to give a cent to priests, not even at knifepoint.”
“Yes, I told him. The church will be paid this very day. But while you’re here, ’Ntontò, tell me something: Does Mamma still have the curse?”
’Ntontò immediately took offense.
“How can you make light of these things at a time like this? She’s in distress, not cursed!”
“You misunderstood me. I meant, does Mamma still have her periods?”
’Ntontò turned bright red.
“What kind of filth have you got in your head? Mamma stopped being a woman two years ago!”
She burst into tears and ran out of the room.
Don Filippo went back to smelling his hands.
It was a second straight night of hell. His wife’s scent had grown even stronger on his naked body, bringing back memories of nights twenty years earlier, when he and Donna Matilde had grappled together for more pleasant reasons. And the burnt smell lingering on the walls, moreover, made him cough, but he didn’t feel like getting up and going into another bedroom. He blamed his agitation on the intense heat that still prevailed, though it was late September. When, at last, he heard the church bells calling for morning Mass, he got dressed and slipped out with a light step, closing the great front door behind him without a sound.
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
After lightly knocking, ’Ntontò came in.
“Did you tell Papìa to pay for nonno’s and Rico’s funerals?” she asked. “Father Macaluso reminded me again this morning. Papìa never wants to give a cent to priests, not even at knifepoint.”
“Yes, I told him. The church will be paid this very day. But while you’re here, ’Ntontò, tell me something: Does Mamma still have the curse?”
’Ntontò immediately took offense.
“How can you make light of these things at a time like this? She’s in distress, not cursed!”
“You misunderstood me. I meant, does Mamma still have her periods?”
’Ntontò turned bright red.
“What kind of filth have you got in your head? Mamma stopped being a woman two years ago!”
She burst into tears and ran out of the room.
Don Filippo went back to smelling his hands.
It was a second straight night of hell. His wife’s scent had grown even stronger on his naked body, bringing back memories of nights twenty years earlier, when he and Donna Matilde had grappled together for more pleasant reasons. And the burnt smell lingering on the walls, moreover, made him cough, but he didn’t feel like getting up and going into another bedroom. He blamed his agitation on the intense heat that still prevailed, though it was late September. When, at last, he heard the church bells calling for morning Mass, he got dressed and slipped out with a light step, closing the great front door behind him without a sound.
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
Similar Books
