Hunting Season: A Novel (13 page)

Portera was a born cop. He sensed that something didn’t add up in this affair, but couldn’t figure out what.

When the body was recovered from the gorge, he sent it on to Vigàta with Mimì and dismissed his men as well. He brought his horse up alongside Pirrotta’s mule.

“I want to see the room the marchese slept in.”

The first thing he noticed, upon entering the room, were the items on the bedside table: wallet, leather pouch, and a small cardboard box. Don Filippo’s gold watch had been found in the pocket of his vest, still running, though the chain had been broken. The wallet was full of money, and the pouch filled with coins. Inside the little box he found four white pills.

“Do you know what these are?” he asked Trisina, who was nursing her baby.

“Yessir. Pills the pharmacist gave to m’lord. They helped the burning in his stomach.”

“I’m taking the wallet, pouch, and box with me.”

“As you wish, sir,” said Pirrotta.

The inspector sat down, poured himself a glass of wine without asking permission, and began questioning.

“Whose kid is that?”

“What do you mean, whose kid? He’s mine,” said Pirrotta.

“Why was the marchese living here instead of at home?”

“We’re not the ones you should be asking that. Maybe it’s ’cause after his son died, he felt more comfortable living with us.”

“Why, didn’t he feel comfortable at home?”

“Seems not. An’ he felt so comfortable here, in fact, that he left all the land in Le Zubbie in our son’s name.”

The revelation hit the inspector like a punch in the stomach. The motive for a possible homicide had just fallen away. Pirrotta felt no pity for him.

“And he wanted to adopt him. And me an’ Trisina were in favor of it. And if you don’t believe me, you can go ask Scimè the notary.”

“So, now that the marchese’s dead, there’s not going to be any adoption.”

“No, sir, no more adoption.”

“If it was up to us, the poor marchese, bless his soul, should’ve lived to be a hundred!” Trisina said, bursting into tears.

They waited for the sound of Portera’s galloping horse to recede before beginning to talk. The baby had been set down to sleep, and they had a great many things to say.

“You were right,” said Trisina.

“Of course,” said Pirrotta. “If they found ’im dead in the house, they would’ve sent us straight to San Vito prison. The law is always on the side of the nobles. As the proverb says:
Sauta un torzolu e va in culu all’ortolano
—‘When a plant goes missing, it ends up in the gardener’s ass.’”

Without warning, Trisina felt a flash of warmth down below, a pang of desire that anticipated her first postpartum menstruation by a good ten days.

“Oh, Natale, my sweet Natale, love of my life!”

She jumped on his lap and started kissing his neck. And this time Pirrotta held her close.

“What are these pills in here?” the inspector asked, setting the little box on the counter in front of the pharmacist.

“Where did you find them?”

“On the marchese’s bedside table at Le Zubbie.”

Fofò La Matina opened the box and looked inside. There were four pills left.

“I made these for the marchese, to alleviate his heartburn.”

“How many were there?”

“Ten.”

“Are you sure you didn’t make a mistake?”

“As to the number?”

“No, not as to the number. As to what you prepared for him.”

The pharmacist’s face hardened.

“I have never made a mistake in my life. And if you have any doubts, send those pills wherever you like and have them tested.”

“It hadn’t even crossed my mind!” said the inspector, pocketing the little box.

(But of course it
had
crossed his mind, and he sent the pills to Palermo only to receive a negative response one month later. They consisted only of bicarbonate of soda and extracts of digestive herbs.)

The wake proceeded according to a specific ritual, which was, moreover, a timeworn tradition, since Palazzo Peluso had seen more than its share of deaths.

The marchese lay on the bed, a white band over his forehead to hide the wound. He looked as if he was dreaming, and his dream must have been beautiful, to judge by the smile on his face. Father Macaluso had arranged to have a rosary wrapped around the deceased’s hands, but, for no apparent reason, every so often the rosary slipped out and onto the bed.

The women sat along the walls and prayed. The men, on the other hand, paid their last respects to Don Filippo, then withdrew to the salon to talk and smoke.

Every now and then Mimì and Peppinella would go around offering the mourners rosolio and little pastries to boost their morale.

Around midday, ’Ntontò, who hadn’t yet opened her mouth and whose eyes were dry but bewitched, rose without saying a word and left the room.

Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour, and still ’Ntontò hadn’t returned. At this point Signora Colajanni, after exchanging a glance of understanding with the other women, went off to look for her. She was not in the salon with the men. Signora Colajanni went into the kitchen, where Peppinella and Mimì were putting more pastries on trays.

“We haven’t seen ’Ntontò for the last half hour,” she said.

Peppinella became immediately alarmed and rushed to the marchesina’s room. ’Ntontò wasn’t there, nor was she in the convenience room. News of her disappearance quickly spread among the mourners, who started looking for her.

Barone Uccello had a sudden misgiving, which he expressed out loud:

“What if she decided to do what her grandfather did?”

The men all rushed out of the palazzo and spread out, some going into town, others taking the road to the beach.

After finding no trace of ’Ntontò anywhere, however, they all returned to their respective homes, since it was time to eat. The women, too, after making one last sign of the cross in front of the deceased—who, as the hours passed, looked more and more like he was laughing—took their leave of Mimì and a weeping Peppinella. The only ones left in the palazzo were Father Macaluso—who cursed the saints as he prayed, because there was no one left to respond, the sacristan having taken advantage of the collective flight—and the pharmacist.

“Let’s stay calm. We’ll find her,” Fofò La Matina said after the others had left. He assigned the remaining party different areas to search. He himself went up to the attic. Mimì went to have a better look in the rooms checked earlier; Peppinella was sent to the stables, the storehouse, and the cellar on the ground floor of the palazzo. After opening some old armoires and trunks, Fofò heard Peppinella yelling from below.

“Come down to the cellar! She’s here!”

The pharmacist rushed downstairs. There in the cellar, perfectly calm, her skirts hiked up around her waist and her panties down, ’Ntontò was brushing black paint on her bottom.

5

B
arely two days after the marchese’s funeral, Signora Colajanni went to work on Father Macaluso.

“Does that seem right to you? Doesn’t it cry out to God for vengeance that this child of sin is going to enjoy the vineyard of Le Zubbie? And that whore and her cuckolded pimp of a husband are going to live it up after killing poor Don Filippo?”

“Killing him? But the inspector said the marchese died after slipping and falling into the gorge.”

“Yes, but why did he slip?”

“How should I know? He lost his footing.”

“No, sir. The pharmacist was like an open book on this point. He said that the marchese felt ill—he felt, I dunno, faint or something, and then he fell into the gorge.”

“So?”

“You really surprise me, Father. He felt faint, or dizzy, because of the state that whore had left him in.”

“That whore, as you call her, and I’m sorry to defend her, did nothing more than what the marchese asked her to do. And anyway, I’m sorry, but what did they have to gain from Don Filippo’s death? Had he lived, the marchese would have made them even richer.”

“No, no. Those two think the way peasants think. They decided that a bird in the hand—Le Zubbie today—was worth two in the bush.”

One thing led to another, and one night Father Macaluso came to a decision—not to prevent an injustice, but to commit one himself. By intervening in the matter, he would avenge himself of all the bad turns the marchese had done him.

The first thing he did was to go to see ragioniere Papìa, who was an honorable man. Papìa confirmed the bequest, but also pointed out that the marchese’s possessions were so many and so vast, that to lose Le Zubbie was like losing one drop from a bottle of wine. And his word was gospel: he had been Don Filippo’s administrator and continued to perform the same service after Marchesina ’Ntontò had given him a vote of confidence. Father Macaluso pretended not to know any of this and showed up at the office of Scimè the notary.

“I don’t understand by what right you are requesting this information of me,” the notary said coldly to him.

“By my rights as a citizen and priest,” Father Macaluso replied proudly.

“Rights which in this office aren’t worth any more than a pile of cowshit. In any case, just to dispel all doubt, I can tell you that this business of the bequest is true, and that the legal heiress—the marchesina—has thirty more days to appeal it. But she had better find herself a good lawyer.”

“There aren’t any surprises in store for us in the will, are there?”

“What will? Let me speak your tongue: it would have been easier to convince a camel to do that bullshit mentioned in the Gospel than to persuade the dear departed to draw up a will.”

Since he was already halfway there, Father Macaluso decided to go for broke and call on the lawyer Cassar, a luminary of his profession.

“We could try it,” the lawyer said, “but we shall need more substantive arguments to prove the subject’s mental incapacities.”

“What? Killing a rooster because it didn’t do what was asked of it, or screaming because the rows of vines were not straight—aren’t those the actions of a madman?”

“Not necessarily. Personally, for example, I happen to like my rows of grapevines nice and straight. And my mother kicks and curses at chairs that aren’t where she wants them to be. And until proven otherwise, we are both of sound mind. Just let me handle this. Before we take another step, however, the marchesina must give her consent. She’s the legal heir to everything.”

When Father Macaluso, in the company of Signora Colajanni, went to talk about all this with the marchesina, ’Ntontò asked him a precise question.

“But why was my father so attached to that baby?”

To his genuine horror, Father Macaluso realized that ’Ntontò knew nothing, and that her naiveté had kept her from suspecting anything.

Madonna mia!
thought the priest.
Where to begin?

Signora Colajanni came to his aid.

“The truth is the truth,” the signora proclaimed, “and it should be shouted to the four winds because it offends neither mankind nor the Lord in heaven. Your father, my dear ’Ntontò, had been shacking up for some time with the field watcher’s wife. That was why he was living at Le Zubbie. And everyone in town says the baby is his.”

’Ntontò didn’t move, but only kept looking straight ahead, her eyes turning a brighter blue.

“And he bequeathed Le Zubbie to him?”

“Precisely.”

“And he said he wanted to adopt him?”

“Precisely.”

’Ntontò stood up. The visit, for her, was over.

“Give me two days to think about it,” she said.

“What is there to think about?” Father Macaluso asked, screwing up his face.

“Two days. And thank you for your concern.”

When ’Ntontò finished telling the pharmacist of the visit from Father Macaluso and Signora Colajanni, he broke into a broad smile.

“You find it funny?” she said, slightly miffed.

“No, but I feel relieved. When Peppinella came to the shop to tell me you needed to see me, I thought you had fallen sick again. Luckily, that’s not the problem.”

“I don’t need to ask anyone’s advice,” ’Ntontò said after explaining. “I could ask Barone Uccello, but he’s always taken my father’s side. That’s why I’ve come to you. You seem like an honest man. What’s your opinion?”

“It’s not easy to say,” said the pharmacist. “In a certain sense, Father Macaluso is right. In the eyes of the townsfolk, that is.”

“If I based my decisions on what the townsfolk think, you wouldn’t be here now, wasting your breath on me.”

“Right.”

“And so, before you give me your advice, I want to know how things went. First. You were summoned by my father to help the field watcher’s wife. How did he behave? Pretend that you’re answering the police inspector, not me.”

“He behaved as if he was the child’s real father,” said Fofò, showing no doubt whatsoever. “Then there was the matter of how they had rearranged the house. The field watcher no longer slept with his wife.”

“And my father did?”

“No, that’s just it. They all slept apart, in different rooms.”

“Second. How did they treat my father?”

“In all honesty, both husband and wife were very fond of him.”

“Thank you,” said ’Ntontò, standing up. As the pharmacist was kissing her hand, she chided him: “But you never gave me your advice.”

“Because I have never felt in a position to advise others. I can only speak for myself.”

“Then speak as if you were the marchese’s son.”

“If my father had willed, not even in writing, but only by verbal agreement, that all his belongings should go to whomsoever of his choosing, and I were left destitute and mad, I should not have raised a finger against his wishes. But I speak only for myself.”

“Thank you,” said ’Ntontò.

’Ntontò did not wait the two days she had requested to think things over. That same evening, after speaking with Fofò La Matina, she sent Peppinella to Signora Colajanni with a message. The note was only a few lines long, but that very brevity communicated the firmness of her decision. In essence, ’Ntontò said she would not sign any papers that went against her father’s wishes, and she did not want to discuss the matter any further. In a fit of rage, Father Macaluso kicked his missal and sent it flying. The news spread at once and was received as more proof that the marchesina, since painting her bottom black, was no longer right in the head. Only one voice was raised in her defense. Indeed ’Ntontò received an enormous bouquet of roses with a card saying:
To her father’s true daughter.
It was signed “Zizì,” which was what ’Ntontò had called Barone Uccello since childhood. She replied with a note of thanks, inviting the baron to call on her at the palazzo whenever he wished.

Zizì did not wait to be asked twice. The following day he was sitting opposite ’Ntontò.

“I went to see your father twice at Le Zubbie,” said Barone Uccello. “I missed him. I was used to seeing him every day. And so I took the carriage and left, intending to return to Vigàta that same evening. But, both times, he wouldn’t listen to reason. I had to stay the night. I regretted this, because it was an imposition. Trisina had to vacate the room next your father’s for me, and went to sleep in Natale’s bedroom, while Natale had to sleep in the stables.”

“And what did the two of you do?”

“We didn’t do anything. Or rather, we did what we always did. We ate, we laughed, we played cards. Cards, you know, were the mirror of your father’s soul. Did you know that, ’Ntontò?”

“No, Zizì. What do you mean?”

“I mean that when he was in good spirits and untroubled, there wasn’t anyone he couldn’t beat. But when something wasn’t going right for him, he always lost. And, those days at Le Zubbie, even if I had called upon God to intervene, I could never have won so much as one game. It drove me mad.”

“So he was happy.”

“Happy?” said the baron, thoughtful. “He was in heaven, ’Ntontò.”