Hunting Season: A Novel (14 page)

“This evening,” ’Ntontò said to Peppinella, “I want you to set the table for three.”

“Why, who’s coming?” the maid asked, alarmed.

“Nobody’s coming. From now on, I want you and Mimì to eat with me.”

“To sit at the same table as madame?!” Peppinella exclaimed, horrified.

“Why, have you got something against it?”

“Yes’m. First of all, iss not right. And second, me an’ my husband got no table manners. I smack my lips, and Mimì unbuckles his trousers.”

“You can smack your lips as much as you like and unbuckle whatever you wish. I don’t want any arguments.”

That evening, as she ate with Peppinella and Mimì, who sat still as two statues, ’Ntontò explained herself:

“If I keep eating alone I’ll lose my mind.”

Then she turned to face the other two, looking them straight in the eyes.

“Do you, Peppinella, or your sister, Maddalena, or you, Mimì, do any of you know what my father was doing at Le Zubbie?”

“Yes,” said Mimì, barely audible.

“And why didn’t you say anything to me?”

“Mimì wanted to tell you,” said Peppinella, “but I said no. I didn’t want m’lady to be sad.”

“With each passing day, the marchesina is showing every sign that she has inherited her father’s lunacy,” Postmaster Colajanni said at the Circolo. “Now she’s taken to eating at the same table as her servants! A noble!”

“Let’s make a distinction,” said Barone Uccello. “Those aren’t ordinary servants. Peppinella and Mimì raised and groomed her.”

“So what? They’re still servants.”

“And you’re still a pile of shit,” Commendatore Aguglia, the ex-Garibaldino, calmly intervened.

Colajanni gasped for breath.

“What did you say? You shall answer for this!”

“Whenever and however you like. There’s no danger in duelling with you. It’s a well-known fact that, while shit may stink, it doesn’t kill.”

“Consider yourself slapped.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. Get up out of that chair and come slap me in person. Which will lead to one of two things: either I’ll give you such a kick in the pants that you will fly all the way to Malta, or I’ll wipe my face with a piece of paper the way I do my ass after after I shit. The choice is yours.”

’Ntontò received another large bouquet of roses. The accompanying card said:
For the lady who so bravely and scornfully put the Garibaldian ideal of equality into practice. Commendatore Aguglia
.

“What’s he talking about?” ’Ntontò asked herself, puzzled.

Consternation, anger, and frowns colored the faces of the majority of the townsfolk as the carriage with the Peluso coat of arms entered Vigàta from Le Zubbie, with Mimì at the reins and Natale Pirrotta inside with Trisina holding the baby, crossed the Corso, and passed through the great door of the family palazzo. The minority, on the other hand—consisting in reality of only Barone Uccello and Commendatore Aguglia—rejoiced. And this without either side having a clue as to why they had come.

“The marchesina wanted to see them,” Mimì explained, to rid himself of two or three busybodies assailing him like rabid dogs. But he said nothing more, being himself in the dark as to the reason behind his lady’s strange whim.

“
Madonna santa
, she’s so beautiful!” Trisina thought upon seeing ’Ntontò, and the terror she had felt during the journey, dress clinging to her sweaty body and teeth tightly clenched, quickly passed. Unconsciously she was thinking that a woman who looked like the Blessed Virgin was incapable, by nature, of doing harm.

“I called you here,” ’Ntontò said to the group once they were gathered in the sitting room, “because I wanted to see the baby.”

She approached Trisina’s extended arms, parted the baby blanket, and gazed at the sleeping infant.

“He’s beautiful,” she said after a pause. “How old is he?”

“Three months.”

“Sit down.”

They all sat down, Natale and Trisina as stiff as brooms.

“I don’t want to offend anybody. But I need to know. And I want to tell you straightaway that I myself do not feel offended by anyone: not by my father, not by you, much less by the baby.”

“M’lady could never offend me. Just like the dear departed marchese never could,” said Pirrotta. “M’lady can ask me whatever she likes.”

“Whose is he?” asked ’Ntontò, gesturing at the baby.

“He’s the dear departed marchese’s,” said Pirrotta. “An’ I can hold my head high when I say it, ’cause there was no lying or betrayal. But people mustn’t know this; for them, he’s my son.”

“That’s right,” said ’Ntontò, who had taken the baby from Trisina’s arms and was now holding it.

“How did he die?” she asked after a pause.

“Peacefully, in his own bed. Without even realizing. When Trisina went in to wake him up, he was dead. And he didn’t even look dead. He looked like he was sleeping,” said Pirrotta.

“And why did you throw him into a ravine?”

“’Cause if they found him dead in our house, with all the gossip’s been going around in town, they would’ve said me and Trisina killed him. So I hoisted him onto my shoulders, I took him to the ravine, and made it so it’d look to Portera like the marchese slipped and fell.”

“Thank you for your sincerity.”

“Much obliged.”

‘Ntontò rang the bell, and Peppinella came running, full of curiosity. Everything seemed calm.

“Peppinè, do me a favor. Go into my room and bring me the jewel box that’s on my commode.

“I did that for a reason,” she said to the others as soon as Peppinella had left. “I could have gone and got it myself, but I want a witness. I don’t want people to say that you stole what I want to give the baby.”

When the maid returned, ’Ntontò opened the inlaid box and extracted a small, solid-gold chain with a medallion bearing a cameo of the marchese’s profile.

“My father had this made for me,” she said, putting the chain around the baby’s neck.

Natale knelt down, took his mistress’s hand, and covered it with kisses and tears.

“And for whatever else you may need,” said ’Ntontò, “I’m here for you.”

The news that the Marchesina Antonietta Peluso di Torre Venerina had been left the sole surviving member of her family reached the ears of a certain Barone Nenè Impiduglia by chance, after a delay of a few months. And it was the eldest son of Barone Uccello who told him, at a reception of the Officers’ Club of Palermo. Hearing the catalogue of ’Ntontò’s misfortunes, Nenè Impiduglia made a public display of his emotions.

“First thing tomorrow, I’m leaving for Vigàta,” he announced.

And he kept his promise. When he disembarked from the
Franceschiello
, however, his arrival sparked no curiosity. Actually, it was, in a certain sense, expected.

“The hunter has arrived” was, in fact, Barone Uccello’s only comment.

Nenè had long been known in town for his frequent visits to his “dear auntie,” Donna Matilde, who had been a mother to him for a period of time after his parents left the world of the living when their carriage capsized. The visits were brief, lasting only as long as it took for the mail boat to cast and weigh anchor. But he would return to Palermo with arms full.

Indeed, the general chorus in town, when people saw Nenè arrive, was always:

“Nenè has come to load up.”

“What does your nephew do in Palermo?” people would ask the marchesa.

“He studies mathematics,” Donna Matilde would reply.

And it was true. Nenè studied the numerical permutations of the roulette wheel with dogged devotion, and this long, assiduous course of study relieved him of vast sums of money. And so, to prevent his studies from being interrupted by a lack of funds, every so often Impiduglia would show up in Vigàta to visit his aunt, who would generously refill his coffers.

This time Nenè did not sleep at the palazzo, as he had always done. After informing his cousin that he had arrived, and requesting a visit, he took a room at the inn. The following morning, dressed all in black, he went to the cemetery to pray at the noble family vault of the Pelusos. He stayed for an hour, glued to the spot.

“He cried and cried,” the sexton later recounted. “In fact, he cried so much, I had to give ’im a handkerchief ’cause ’is own was all soaked.”

After the cemetery he went into the church and left a sack of coins with Father Macaluso, so the priest would say Masses for the salvation of the blessed souls of the departed.

“Especially for Donna Matilde,” he specified.

“He’s a good man, you have to admit,” said Barone Uccello when he was told of Nenè Impiduglia’s morning activities. “I think he may just succeed in bagging ’Ntontò.”

’Ntontò had invited her cousin to lunch, but Impiduglia did not show up. In his stead, he sent a signed note in which he wrote that he had been too deeply affected by his visit to the cemetery and therefore did not feel up to the engagement. Could they perhaps postpone the invitation until suppertime?

The moment Impiduglia saw ’Ntontò, his heart leapt, as when a carriage wheel dips into a hole in the road.

Death becomes her
, he thought as he eyed her. She was like a ray of sunlight. At once his eyes turned into fountains. They embraced. And suddenly a scene from many years before came back to ’Ntontò, the time she and Nenè had hidden in the attic and her cousin had taught her a new game called “doctor,” where he had her lie down on an old sofa, raised her little skirt, and examined her tummy and environs in detail. With a sense of shame, she felt the same flash of heat she had felt then.

They ate in silence. It was clear that Nenè was devastated and didn’t feel like talking. In fact, they didn’t even get to the second course. At a certain point he stood up, kissed his cousin’s hand, and ran off.

“He’s too sensitive,” said ’Ntontò, recounting the evening to Signora Colajanni and Signora Clelia, who had paid her a call.

“And good-looking, too,” said Signora Clelia, who, upon first seeing him a few days prior, had judged his capacities.

“So what will he do? Isn’t he going to come back?” asked Signora Colajanni.

“He’s coming back next week. He had to rush back to Palermo to return to his mathematics studies.”

“He must have a big head,” said Signora Clelia, without explaining what she meant.