leave him.
Okay.
He asked for it.
He wants to play social climber.
Okay.
Climb!
“Hey, Bobo, I wanted to talk to you about my next production.”
“Okay,” replies Bobo, continuing to stare at the sea.
Cool, he’s not showing too much interest. “I was thinking about you for a couple of parts and I wanted to get your input, that is, I wanted you to decide, uh, which character struck you as the most congenial.”
See, I want you, kiddo!
Because I’m the only opportunity you’ve got in your ignorant fucking life. I want you. Let’s see if you keep staring at the water with that bored look … Cagnotto remembers that he has no clue about his next production, no plot, no characters, no nothing.
It doesn’t matter, I’ll invent something. I’m still Cagnotto and something will come to me.
You’re fooling yourself, I’m going to screw you and then dump you, you’ll see.
Bobo continues to stare at the sea. He grinds his teeth. You can see he’s grinding his teeth because his jaw muscles begin to move up and down.
“Bobo?”
Up and down, up and down.
Cagnotto turns to look out to sea.
What can be so interesting?
Nothing.
“Bobo?”
Bobo snaps around, lowers his gaze, closes his eyelids to a slit, and bellows at him through clenched teeth, “Asshole!”
CHAPTER SIX
Mister Turrisi’s Brylcreem Reflects the Sun of Piazza Lupo
Mister Turrisi’s Brylcreem reflects the sun of Piazza Lupo. He’s wearing an impeccable double-breasted pin-striped blue linen suit with generous lapels and pale blue, very fine stripes.
Turrisi’s pinstripes get wider and more intense as the sun goes down: for breakfast he has a series of suits whose stripes can only be seen in a strong light; for evening, a set that resemble pedestrian crosswalks. He is also fond of stripes in all the colors of the rainbow.
Behind his Brylcreemed head the sign of the restaurant Trinacria in Bocca pokes out.
Female tourists go crazy for this restaurant because they like the double entendre: “a mouthful of Sicily.”
Turrisi likes it because it’s a place the British flock to.
The tables are set behind a bamboo fence, on the other side of which parked cars bake in the sun.
Turrisi looks at his watch.
He rocks on his heels.
He checks the time again.
He can’t remember whether in England young ladies are permitted to break the rules of punctuality. He knows that in Sicily, it is the female who must wait while the male tarries, he knows that in Italy the opposite holds, but he isn’t sure what the rule is in Great Britain.
A Mercedes car theater purrs silently down Via Ventimiglia, enters the piazza, and comes to a halt, double-parked.
Turrisi stares at the automobile, then at his watch.
The car theater sits immobile, the sun sparkling off the hood.
Turrisi stares at the rogue “parking attendant.” The man, sitting sideways on a beaten-up scooter, stares back, with some curiosity.
Turrisi glances away.
He fiddles with the knot of his tie.
Shit, it’s hot.
Betty Pirrotta is slumped on the floor in the space between the backseat and the front (on which is installed the TV monitor that’s showing a duel from a western, probably a Sergio Leone).
“Sweetie, the windows are tinted, he can’t see in,” Carmine is telling her.
Betty Pirrotta, her little snout turned up like a ferret snug in its den, says, “They’re not tinted. I can see that guy perfectly and I’m not getting out.”
Carmine, staring at the ring he wears on his thumb, says in a level voice, “No? Fine.”
Betty nods, swiftly and firmly, as if to say, Of course it’s fine; what’s the alternative?
“And what will we tell your father?”
Betty stares at him with distaste, her eyes squeezed tight. “What do I care? You get me out of this. I’m not going anywhere with that guy. Don’t bust my balls.”
Carmine looks for the remote control, finds it under his rear end, and begins to zap through the channels.
“Well?” says
Okay.
He asked for it.
He wants to play social climber.
Okay.
Climb!
“Hey, Bobo, I wanted to talk to you about my next production.”
“Okay,” replies Bobo, continuing to stare at the sea.
Cool, he’s not showing too much interest. “I was thinking about you for a couple of parts and I wanted to get your input, that is, I wanted you to decide, uh, which character struck you as the most congenial.”
See, I want you, kiddo!
Because I’m the only opportunity you’ve got in your ignorant fucking life. I want you. Let’s see if you keep staring at the water with that bored look … Cagnotto remembers that he has no clue about his next production, no plot, no characters, no nothing.
It doesn’t matter, I’ll invent something. I’m still Cagnotto and something will come to me.
You’re fooling yourself, I’m going to screw you and then dump you, you’ll see.
Bobo continues to stare at the sea. He grinds his teeth. You can see he’s grinding his teeth because his jaw muscles begin to move up and down.
“Bobo?”
Up and down, up and down.
Cagnotto turns to look out to sea.
What can be so interesting?
Nothing.
“Bobo?”
Bobo snaps around, lowers his gaze, closes his eyelids to a slit, and bellows at him through clenched teeth, “Asshole!”
CHAPTER SIX
Mister Turrisi’s Brylcreem Reflects the Sun of Piazza Lupo
Mister Turrisi’s Brylcreem reflects the sun of Piazza Lupo. He’s wearing an impeccable double-breasted pin-striped blue linen suit with generous lapels and pale blue, very fine stripes.
Turrisi’s pinstripes get wider and more intense as the sun goes down: for breakfast he has a series of suits whose stripes can only be seen in a strong light; for evening, a set that resemble pedestrian crosswalks. He is also fond of stripes in all the colors of the rainbow.
Behind his Brylcreemed head the sign of the restaurant Trinacria in Bocca pokes out.
Female tourists go crazy for this restaurant because they like the double entendre: “a mouthful of Sicily.”
Turrisi likes it because it’s a place the British flock to.
The tables are set behind a bamboo fence, on the other side of which parked cars bake in the sun.
Turrisi looks at his watch.
He rocks on his heels.
He checks the time again.
He can’t remember whether in England young ladies are permitted to break the rules of punctuality. He knows that in Sicily, it is the female who must wait while the male tarries, he knows that in Italy the opposite holds, but he isn’t sure what the rule is in Great Britain.
A Mercedes car theater purrs silently down Via Ventimiglia, enters the piazza, and comes to a halt, double-parked.
Turrisi stares at the automobile, then at his watch.
The car theater sits immobile, the sun sparkling off the hood.
Turrisi stares at the rogue “parking attendant.” The man, sitting sideways on a beaten-up scooter, stares back, with some curiosity.
Turrisi glances away.
He fiddles with the knot of his tie.
Shit, it’s hot.
Betty Pirrotta is slumped on the floor in the space between the backseat and the front (on which is installed the TV monitor that’s showing a duel from a western, probably a Sergio Leone).
“Sweetie, the windows are tinted, he can’t see in,” Carmine is telling her.
Betty Pirrotta, her little snout turned up like a ferret snug in its den, says, “They’re not tinted. I can see that guy perfectly and I’m not getting out.”
Carmine, staring at the ring he wears on his thumb, says in a level voice, “No? Fine.”
Betty nods, swiftly and firmly, as if to say, Of course it’s fine; what’s the alternative?
“And what will we tell your father?”
Betty stares at him with distaste, her eyes squeezed tight. “What do I care? You get me out of this. I’m not going anywhere with that guy. Don’t bust my balls.”
Carmine looks for the remote control, finds it under his rear end, and begins to zap through the channels.
“Well?” says
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