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,
“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,
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