Hunting Season: A Novel (15 page)

Exactly one week later, Nenè returned to Vigàta.

“Let’s see what the hell he’s cooked up this time,” said Barone Uccello.

He had cooked up something good. A crate was unloaded from the
Franceschiello
and directly delivered, at Nenè’s behest, to the Chiesa Madre in town.

“The last time, when I came to have the Masses said for the dear departed,” he explained to Father Macaluso, “I noticed that the altar was bare. Allow me to make this gift to the church.”

And from the crate emerged a statue of Saint Anthony that looked alive, with the prettiest of faces and eyes upturned to heaven.

Upon seeing the gift, the priest decided that Nenè Impiduglia had all the qualities of sainthood.

For the next four months, Nenè proceeded to go back and forth between Palermo and Vigàta. When ’Ntontò seemed sufficiently softened up, he declared his intentions.

He knew that, for a variety of reasons, Father Macaluso, Signora Colajanni, and Signora Clelia were on his side. As were Peppinella and Mimì, since not a day went by in which he didn’t slip them some lettuce. The two servants, however, didn’t do it only for money; they were old and worried about their mistress’s future.

“Have people told you anything about me?” he asked ’Ntontò.

“Nothing at all. What would they have told me?”

“Oh, they’ll tell you, all right. They’ll tell you, for example, that I’ve put all the money I had into my mathematical research.”

“But I already know that.”

“Yes, but if you accept the proposal I am about to make you, everyone in town will say I’m doing it for one purpose only: to get my hands on your money. And it’s not true, ’Ntontò, I swear it, on your dead mother’s soul, it’s not true.”

“And what is this proposal you want to make?”

“’Ntontò, shall we bring our two lonely lives together? No, don’t answer just yet. I’ll come back in a few days, same time as today. I shall hope to find your front door still open—”

A histrionic sob cut his last word short.

In the three days that followed, ’Ntontò had no peace. The first to show up was Father Macaluso.

“He’s a lad of noble sentiments. An ideal
pater familias
. And it is your duty, Marchesina, to marry. When your dear departed father was still alive, I told him it was time you found a husband. He said he agreed, so long as your future spouse was of equal standing. And it appears to me that Barone Nenè Impiduglia has all his papers in order in that regard. So you should respect your father’s wishes.”

“When it’s convenient, you mean?” ’Ntontò asked with a wry smile. She was referring to the adoption of Trisina’s baby, which the priest had fought tooth and nail to thwart. But Father Macaluso failed to grasp her subtlety.

The second person to call on her was Signora Colajanni.

“Let us speak woman to woman. You, ’Ntontò, after all the torments you’ve been through, are no longer the same. You need a man with a good head on his shoulders beside you, a man who will be both a husband and a father to you. Impiduglia is that man.”

The third person was Signora Clelia.

“Let us speak woman to woman. You are a virgin, ’Ntontò, and you don’t know what you are missing. A real woman needs a man. There is nothing more beautiful than when a man and a woman embrace. You cannot die without having experienced this.”

Entirely unexpectedly, ragioniere Papìa also showed up.

“I’ve heard the talk about town, and so I decided to come and see you on my own. Do you know, Marchesina, how old I am?”

“About seventy?” said ’Ntontò.

“Yes, that’s right. And my head’s not what it used to be. More and more these days, I can’t do my numbers, and my eyes go all foggy. If you, m’lady, get married and your husband takes over the administration of your estate, I can retire in peace. Think it over.”

Before the three days were up, ’Ntontò sent for Fofò La Matina.

“What should I do?” she asked him after telling him all that had been happening.

And Fofò told her, dispassionately, what she should do. The following day he was accosted by Barone Uccello.

“So you’re with the rest of them, trying to screw the quail?” said the baron.

“I’m not trying to screw anyone. But I didn’t feel like telling the marchesina she should die of loneliness and melancholy.”

Still on the subject of loneliness, Nenè Impiduglia, once he had received ’Ntontò’s affirmative reply, headed back to Palermo with a purse full of money he had had Papìa advance him on the marchesina’s dowry. He gambled half of it and lost, as was the general rule, but with the other half he began to set things right. He sold the little house he had in the city, and the proceeds equaled what was left of Papìa’s money. He paid off fifteen creditors who very nearly died of surprise, and then he got down to the most serious business at hand—that is, dumping his two mistresses. With the first, Tuzza, the daughter of a street vendor of vegetables, it was a simple matter.

“How much would it cost for you to buzz off?”

Tuzza spat out a figure. They spent the entire afternoon bargaining, then ate and spent the night fucking. The following morning they reached an agreement.

With his second mistress, Jeannette Lafleur, aged thirty, leading lady at the theatre—known as Gesualda Fichera in the real world—things were a bit more complicated. Jeannette had a flair for the dramatic, like all women of the stage, and claimed she was in love with Nenè. It was not a question of money.

“I missed you like the very air I breathe,” she would say to Nenè whenever he returned after a few days’ absence. And there was always hell to pay, because before Impiduglia could get down to the business of having sex with her, he had to listen to an endless litany of gossip about how the supporting actress was a slut who was corrupting the innocent soul of the young male lead, and the theatre manager didn’t go a day without making lewd propositions to her, and the prompter had pretended to be distracted during the climactic scene and left her helpless on the stage, feeling utterly at sea on a ship sailed by pirates. After which Jeannette, tired from talking so much, would turn towards the wall and offer him, at last, the perfect shape of her back.

“I’ve been unwell,” Nenè said upon returning from Vigàta.

“Unwell in what way?” Jeannette asked.

“Bah, I don’t know. I fainted three times.”

“Why don’t you go see a doctor?”

The following evening, as soon as Jeannette turned towards the wall, Nenè said:

“I’m sorry, darling, I’m not up to it. I can’t do it. This morning, the doctor, after examining me, made a strange face. He wants me to come back tomorrow.”

Immediately assuming the role of the generous nurse, Jeannette hugged and kissed him all night.

The next day, as Jeannette was making herself up in her dressing room, the door flew open to reveal Nenè. A dead man standing on his own two feet by a miracle. His suit was all rumpled, his hair dishevelled, his tie crooked. He was pale and looked as if all the blood had been drained from his body. He collapsed into a chair and said in a faint, barely audible voice:

“Please, Jeannette, a glass of water.”

The theatre manager arrived at once with a glass.

“Jeannette,” said Nenè, “the doctor has spoken: I’ve got two months left to live, give or take a few days. Try to be brave.”

Jeannette started trembling, and the manager had her drink the remaining water in the glass.

“Our love affair ends here,” Nenè resumed, with some effort. “I don’t want to be a burden to you. You have your life, your career. This is where I make my exit. But you, you’ve got to grit your teeth: the show must go on.”

Jeannette realized that at this point in the script she was supposed scream and then faint. Which she did. After entrusting Jeannette to the dressmaker, the manager helped Nenè to his feet and accompanied him with difficulty to the theatre exit.

“Shall I call a cab, Barone?”

Nenè looked at him, smiled, and straightened up.

“No thanks, I can walk.”

And he set off at a brisk pace. A moment later, the manager caught up to him.

“Was that all an act?”

“Of course.”

“How much do you want?”

“For what?”

“To sign up with my company. You knock the spots off the best actors I know.”

While Nenè was taking care of business in Palermo, Father Macaluso and Signora Colajanni were holding council.

“There are a few hitches,” the priest began. “Barone Nenè and the marchesina are first cousins. They’re going to need a dispensation in order to marry.”

“And who would grant that?”

“The bishop.”

“So go and talk to the bishop, then.”

“But that’s not the only thing. There’s also the problem of deep mourning. Because, if strictly observed, there’s no question of marriage for quite a while yet.”

“But can’t the bishop take care of that, too?”

“Yes, of course. But I’ve done some math. Between one thing and another, a grandfather, a brother, a mother, and a father have died. In simple words, ’Ntontò is supposed to be holed up at home for at least nine years. Talk about marriage!”

“But nobody can survive nine years of engagement!”

“Exactly. We must find a solution. Tomorrow I’m going to talk to the bishop’s secretary, Monsignor Curtò, who is a reasonable man.”

Monsignor Curtò discussed the matter with the bishop and, less than a week later, Father Macaluso was summoned to the diocesan curia.

“Concerning the matter of cousinship,” began the bishop, who was a man of scarce words and concrete acts, “there is no problem. It’s all up to me and can be easily resolved. The question of mourning, however, is not my province. It is God’s.”

“So how will we negotiate with God?”

The bishop smiled; he had always appreciated Father Macaluso’s wit.

“Don’t you know that we are His intermediaries on earth? You are one, and I, in all modesty, am another. Thus, my son, you should know that some of the dead are good, and some are bad. In our case, the elder marchese and the younger marchese are bad, very bad. They passed away in a state of mortal sin, one by committing suicide, and the other while he was committing adultery. I can shorten the nine years of mourning to thirty-six months. More than that I cannot do. But there are certain rules that must be respected. Monsignor Curtò has prepared the tally.”