Betty, curled up in a ball down there on the floor.
“I’m thinking.”
“Great, make it fast.”
The “parking attendant” gets up lazily from the scooter, scratches his ass, stretches, and moves toward Turrisi.
Turrisi pretends not to see him.
The man stops next to him, stares at him, then stares at the Mercedes. “Fucking nice car. What’s up, they need to park?”
Turrisi doesn’t move.
“Okay, if they want to park, you, sir, you let me know. I’m over there,” he says, pointing to the scooter.
Turrisi looks at his watch.
“So?” asks Betty.
“So, what? We can go and tell your father that Turrisi didn’t show up.”
“Fucking shit, he’s here. ”
“I can see that, I can see that.”
“You could go and tell him I’m not feeling well and would rather stay in the car.”
Carmine looks at her as if she were a moron. Correction: not even “as if.”
“No? Why? I came, and if I didn’t feel well in the car it’s not my fault.”
“Your mother and father want you to be here.”
“Wow, that’s fucking brilliant. If they didn’t want me to be here, what the fuck was I doing here now?”
Carmine reflects on the grammatical construction of Betty’s sentences.
“He’s wearing Brylcreem.”
“Huh?” Carmine looks down at Betty and then takes a quick glance out the window. “Brylcreem’s coming back.”
“Yeah, in Giorgio Armani ads, on models. He’s got a tiny little mustache.”
“That’s coming back too.”
“Mustaches, not tiny little mustaches. On gay guys like you. He’s old.”
“In his forties.”
“Ninety, he’s at least ninety.”
“Look, in the meantime, you need to get out of the car, go have lunch, and then afterwards we’ll come up with something to keep your father happy.”
Carmine watches Betty get up, smooth her minidress, take a tiny mirror out of her bag, look herself over, get rapidly out of the car, and walk, smiling, over toward Turrisi.
“Oh my God,” says Carmine to himself in a whisper, and then he hurries out of the car, smiling and pleasant as he can be.
Mister Turrisi lights up.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’m a Salesclerk, Not an Object
“I’m a salesclerk, not an object,” says Bobo, turning once again to stare at the sea.
The sun sparkles tremulously off the crests of the waves. The rubber rafts, bobbing on the water, are melting under the sun. Some teenagers have parked their motorbikes on the concrete breakwater and now they’re competing to see who can make the biggest splashes with his cannonballs. One of them is doing cannonballs dressed and wearing a pair of trainers.
“Huh?” Cagnotto doesn’t get it.
“You heard me.” Bobo looks pleased with himself. He doesn’t even bother to look at Cagnotto. Yeah, he’s pleased with himself. He told him.
But wasn’t it supposed to be me who told him ? thinks Cagnotto.
What’s going on?
What’s happening, kiddo, is that you’re really beginning to make me lose my cool.
How dare you talk to me like that?
This is what I get for treating you like an equal?
Hey, this is the way it goes with climbers ; it’s always a mistake to let them get too friendly. They get a kick out of mistreating their superiors, just because you let them get friendly and because you act like a civilized person.
“I heard what?” says Cagnotto with mounting rage.
“That’s right,” says Bobo, as if Cagnotto has finally understood.
Cagnotto raises his eyes to the heavens.
Bobo turns to look him in the face, his hands placed firmly on either side of his plate, his gaze decisive and firm, implacable. “You think I haven’t understood that you just want to have sex, you pig; you think I don’t get it that all this cultural blah-blah”—the word cultural comes out with a sarcastic snarl—“that I hear from you is only aimed at scoring a fuck? You think I don’t understand because I’m only a salesclerk?”
“But …”
“You think I don’t know about you famous directors,
“I’m thinking.”
“Great, make it fast.”
The “parking attendant” gets up lazily from the scooter, scratches his ass, stretches, and moves toward Turrisi.
Turrisi pretends not to see him.
The man stops next to him, stares at him, then stares at the Mercedes. “Fucking nice car. What’s up, they need to park?”
Turrisi doesn’t move.
“Okay, if they want to park, you, sir, you let me know. I’m over there,” he says, pointing to the scooter.
Turrisi looks at his watch.
“So?” asks Betty.
“So, what? We can go and tell your father that Turrisi didn’t show up.”
“Fucking shit, he’s here. ”
“I can see that, I can see that.”
“You could go and tell him I’m not feeling well and would rather stay in the car.”
Carmine looks at her as if she were a moron. Correction: not even “as if.”
“No? Why? I came, and if I didn’t feel well in the car it’s not my fault.”
“Your mother and father want you to be here.”
“Wow, that’s fucking brilliant. If they didn’t want me to be here, what the fuck was I doing here now?”
Carmine reflects on the grammatical construction of Betty’s sentences.
“He’s wearing Brylcreem.”
“Huh?” Carmine looks down at Betty and then takes a quick glance out the window. “Brylcreem’s coming back.”
“Yeah, in Giorgio Armani ads, on models. He’s got a tiny little mustache.”
“That’s coming back too.”
“Mustaches, not tiny little mustaches. On gay guys like you. He’s old.”
“In his forties.”
“Ninety, he’s at least ninety.”
“Look, in the meantime, you need to get out of the car, go have lunch, and then afterwards we’ll come up with something to keep your father happy.”
Carmine watches Betty get up, smooth her minidress, take a tiny mirror out of her bag, look herself over, get rapidly out of the car, and walk, smiling, over toward Turrisi.
“Oh my God,” says Carmine to himself in a whisper, and then he hurries out of the car, smiling and pleasant as he can be.
Mister Turrisi lights up.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’m a Salesclerk, Not an Object
“I’m a salesclerk, not an object,” says Bobo, turning once again to stare at the sea.
The sun sparkles tremulously off the crests of the waves. The rubber rafts, bobbing on the water, are melting under the sun. Some teenagers have parked their motorbikes on the concrete breakwater and now they’re competing to see who can make the biggest splashes with his cannonballs. One of them is doing cannonballs dressed and wearing a pair of trainers.
“Huh?” Cagnotto doesn’t get it.
“You heard me.” Bobo looks pleased with himself. He doesn’t even bother to look at Cagnotto. Yeah, he’s pleased with himself. He told him.
But wasn’t it supposed to be me who told him ? thinks Cagnotto.
What’s going on?
What’s happening, kiddo, is that you’re really beginning to make me lose my cool.
How dare you talk to me like that?
This is what I get for treating you like an equal?
Hey, this is the way it goes with climbers ; it’s always a mistake to let them get too friendly. They get a kick out of mistreating their superiors, just because you let them get friendly and because you act like a civilized person.
“I heard what?” says Cagnotto with mounting rage.
“That’s right,” says Bobo, as if Cagnotto has finally understood.
Cagnotto raises his eyes to the heavens.
Bobo turns to look him in the face, his hands placed firmly on either side of his plate, his gaze decisive and firm, implacable. “You think I haven’t understood that you just want to have sex, you pig; you think I don’t get it that all this cultural blah-blah”—the word cultural comes out with a sarcastic snarl—“that I hear from you is only aimed at scoring a fuck? You think I don’t understand because I’m only a salesclerk?”
“But …”
“You think I don’t know about you famous directors,
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