the way you think you have the whole world at your feet? The fuck you do. But there you go. There you go, there you go … I was waiting for it, you think I wasn’t waiting for it, I was saying to myself, Hey, I wonder when he’s going to offer me a part in one of his plays? You think I wasn’t waiting for it … hey … because I’m just a salesclerk, no? A salesclerk aspiring actor, no? So you can treat me like shit, give me all this cultural blah-blah”—the sarcasm rises to the level of disgust—“because I’m, like”—he mimes the face of an ingenue—“here to gobble up all the nice blah-blah you put out, because you’re a director and I’m a salesclerk and you don’t get it, you don’t get it, you don’t get—” Bobo’s voice cracks.
Bobo turns toward the sea, his chin pointed at the horizon.
But what’s going on? He’s crying?
Confirmation arrives with a delicate sniff.
Cagnotto is reduced to silence.
“Because of course you have forgotten”—Bobo is back with his
hands at the sides of his plate, head down, staring at his octopus salad—“that once you were just a kid crazy about Art … sure, because success has destroyed you, it made you abandon your ideals, it made you into a monster without feelings who doesn’t understand … doesn’t understand … doesn’t understand …”—Bobo raises his head, then lowers his eyes—“doesn’t understand that even someone like me … someone like me … can have feelings … can … can …” Bobo stops.
He waits without lifting his gaze from the octopus.
He hears Cagnotto say, in a faint voice. “Can?”
“Be in love with you.”
Bobo, gasping, starts to cry.
Cagnotto sits there with his head tilted to one side, his tongue lolling limply on his lower lip, his eyes looking as if the antidepressant has in that precise instant delivered all its punch.
On the highway back from Capomulini to Catania, Cagnotto still has the same expression on his face, while Bobo looks puzzled, if relieved by the outburst, which has calmed his nerves.
On the windshield the wipers are going back and forth, even though the sun outside is hot enough to fry an egg.
CHAPTER EIGHT
No, He Can’t Stand Her When She’s Like That
No, he can’t stand her when she’s like that. He just can’t, Carmine thinks. Really, every molecule of indignation in him rebels.
Betty’s got a dreamy-hypnotic-nutty look on her face as if she has just, who knows? … discovered a treasure, found out that the human race is not as evil as it seems, as if she has only realized just now, with surprise and joy tempered by a note of diffidence (revealing a strong character loyal to her own ideals) that the man sitting before her is not only worthy of her attention, capable of penetrating her critical awareness, but also actually capable of charming her and of (really!) teaching her something, taking her with the strong and masculine arms of experience, imparting useful knowledge gained in the years that separate them (not many, not as many as you might think), years that only reinforce the conviction that no one who doesn’t have the experience, the history, and the intellect of Mister Turrisi could ever be an acceptable interlocutor with whom to share in that moment the friendship that Betty is always so reluctant to concede.
Give me a break, thinks Carmine.
What we have here is the pure archetype of a slut dressed up as ninety pounds of tits and sandals.
It can’t be true that Betty is conversant with such depth and sensitivity. Where does she get this stuff?
It must be that Betty has a plan. Carmine is sure of it.
“Carmine, dear, could you make a note of this book that Mister Turrisi is recommending?”
Carmine, ever patient, takes his BlackBerry out of his inside jacket pocket and turns toward Turrisi.
Turrisi is laughing up his sleeve.
Carmine sees Turrisi, immobile, his Brylcreem, his little mustache, his expressionless face, and yet he knows Turrisi
Bobo turns toward the sea, his chin pointed at the horizon.
But what’s going on? He’s crying?
Confirmation arrives with a delicate sniff.
Cagnotto is reduced to silence.
“Because of course you have forgotten”—Bobo is back with his
hands at the sides of his plate, head down, staring at his octopus salad—“that once you were just a kid crazy about Art … sure, because success has destroyed you, it made you abandon your ideals, it made you into a monster without feelings who doesn’t understand … doesn’t understand … doesn’t understand …”—Bobo raises his head, then lowers his eyes—“doesn’t understand that even someone like me … someone like me … can have feelings … can … can …” Bobo stops.
He waits without lifting his gaze from the octopus.
He hears Cagnotto say, in a faint voice. “Can?”
“Be in love with you.”
Bobo, gasping, starts to cry.
Cagnotto sits there with his head tilted to one side, his tongue lolling limply on his lower lip, his eyes looking as if the antidepressant has in that precise instant delivered all its punch.
On the highway back from Capomulini to Catania, Cagnotto still has the same expression on his face, while Bobo looks puzzled, if relieved by the outburst, which has calmed his nerves.
On the windshield the wipers are going back and forth, even though the sun outside is hot enough to fry an egg.
CHAPTER EIGHT
No, He Can’t Stand Her When She’s Like That
No, he can’t stand her when she’s like that. He just can’t, Carmine thinks. Really, every molecule of indignation in him rebels.
Betty’s got a dreamy-hypnotic-nutty look on her face as if she has just, who knows? … discovered a treasure, found out that the human race is not as evil as it seems, as if she has only realized just now, with surprise and joy tempered by a note of diffidence (revealing a strong character loyal to her own ideals) that the man sitting before her is not only worthy of her attention, capable of penetrating her critical awareness, but also actually capable of charming her and of (really!) teaching her something, taking her with the strong and masculine arms of experience, imparting useful knowledge gained in the years that separate them (not many, not as many as you might think), years that only reinforce the conviction that no one who doesn’t have the experience, the history, and the intellect of Mister Turrisi could ever be an acceptable interlocutor with whom to share in that moment the friendship that Betty is always so reluctant to concede.
Give me a break, thinks Carmine.
What we have here is the pure archetype of a slut dressed up as ninety pounds of tits and sandals.
It can’t be true that Betty is conversant with such depth and sensitivity. Where does she get this stuff?
It must be that Betty has a plan. Carmine is sure of it.
“Carmine, dear, could you make a note of this book that Mister Turrisi is recommending?”
Carmine, ever patient, takes his BlackBerry out of his inside jacket pocket and turns toward Turrisi.
Turrisi is laughing up his sleeve.
Carmine sees Turrisi, immobile, his Brylcreem, his little mustache, his expressionless face, and yet he knows Turrisi
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