Hunting Season: A Novel (19 page)

“Those are venial sins, but sins nonetheless. You must be more careful, Marchesa. Five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers. Ego te—”

He had raised a hand in benediction, knowing from experience that these were the worst of the girl’s offenses. But ’Ntontò’s voice froze him in midsentence.

“There’s something else.”

“Tell me.”

“When I go to bed at night, I touch myself,”
the marchesina said in a different voice, deep and husky.

“What do you mean, you touch yourself?”

“I mean, I touch myself.”

“Where?”

“In front and in back, on top and on the bottom. And afterwards I have a good sleep. Till morning.”

“And is that why you do it, to fall asleep?”

“Also.”

“But, Jesus Christ, you can’t use a sin as if it was a pill!”

“What can I do, if it makes me feel better? And it even gives me pleasure.”

“Do you touch yourself only once?”

“No, some nights many times.”

“Many?”

“Many.”

“And do you do these things only to help yourself fall asleep, or are you thinking of someone in particular?”

“I’m thinking of someone.”

“Who?”

“I’m ashamed to tell you.”

“You must tell me, otherwise I can’t give you absolution.”

“I think of Fofò La Matina.”

This was what Father Macaluso was repeating to himself as he walked along the beach. And it gave him no peace. ’Ntontò’s conscience had always been like a great white sheet of paper; now it was stained with a nasty blot of black ink.

“I want to confess.”

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Speak, Marchesa.”

“The day before yesterday I slapped Peppinella after she talked back to me.”

“Marchesa, for the love of God, you can skip the chickenshit. Let’s get to the point. Still?”

“Yes.”

“Every night?”

“Yes.”

“And on certain nights, several times in a row?”

“Yes.”

“And are you still thinking of the same man?”

“Yes.”

“I was expecting this, Marchesa. Over the past week I’ve thought things over. It is my duty to save your soul. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have an idea. Listen carefully.”

“Yes.”

“Would you take the pharmacist for your husband?”

“Yes.”

Fofò La Matina had just sat down to eat when he heard knocking at the door and a voice cursing outside. He descended the wooden staircase, opened the door, and was immediately seized by the collar and thrust up against against a bench. Father Macaluso was in a rage.

“Pig! Scoundrel! How dare you appear in a young girl’s fantasies! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“What for?” the pharmacist managed to say, half asphyxiated.

“Ah, the innocent man doesn’t know!”

“I swear I don’t.”

“Well, if you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you. But you shall do what I say, or I’ll break you in two, so help me God!”

“And would you like to tell me what it is I’m supposed to do?”

“You must marry the Marchesina ’Ntontò,” Father Macaluso shot out, finally letting go of Fofò’s neck.

The pharmacist froze.

“Are you joking?”

“No, I am not.”

“Look at me: the marchesina is descended from Frederick the Second, whereas I have only just descended from the tree I used to pick the fruit from and sell it.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean, ‘it doesn’t matter’? The only condition set by Don Filippo and Don Totò was that her fiancé must be noble.”

“And how the bloody hell do you think they’re going to object? Haven’t you noticed that there isn’t a living soul left around ’Ntontò?”

“So whom should I ask for her hand?”

“’Ntontò herself. And today.”

“But does the marchesa want me?”

“She wants you, she wants you. Christ, does she want you!”

“Let’s go upstairs and talk this over calmly.”

They talked about it for another two hours. Fofò had lost his appetite, but apparently it had been transferred to the priest, who polished off all the food on the table as he was knocking down one after another of the pharmacist’s observations.

“But when would this marriage take place?” asked Fofò, expressing his last doubt.

“What do you mean, ‘when’? In a month.”

“What about the dispensation from mourning?”

“That’s already been taken care of. The bishop ate up a small fortune to clear the way for Impiduglia.”

It was pointless to resist. And so, at nightfall, dressed in a clean suit, with Father Macaluso at his side, the pharmacist showed up at the palazzo. ’Ntontò was waiting for him in the sitting room. Saying nothing, she merely gestured to Fofò to sit down beside her on the sofa, and for the priest to sit in an armchair. Then, as though summoned by her eyes, the pharmacist, who had kept his head turned towards a painting, began to turn around. And at last they looked each other in the eye.

When they returned from their honeymoon—a fortnight in Palermo, at the Hotel des Palmes—Fofò and ’Ntontò were transformed.

’Ntontò looked ten years younger; she had become a young girl again, always laughing, showing up in a different dress every Sunday. She had put the years of mourning and tears behind her. Fofò La Matina, on the other hand, became more gloomy and taciturn with each passing day. Sometimes he didn’t respond when greeted, spent all day holed up in the pharmacy, and in the evening, before going home to the palazzo, he would take a long, solitary walk along the water’s edge, watching the crabs as they walked beside him. He had never had any friends, and didn’t make any new ones, either.

“The compresses you gave me to put on my eyes have done me a world of good,” said Barone Uccello. “Could you prepare some more for me?”

“Certainly,” said the pharmacist. He went into the back room and returned with a small glass jar full of black powder.

“This is all I have left,” he said. “But tomorrow’s Sunday, so I’ll go to La Mantellina to gather some more.”

“You’re going to La Mantellina?”

“Yes, there’s a rocky spur there that’s full of this plant.”

“Bring a rifle along.”

“Why?”

“Because I was told that, just a day or two ago, right around La Mantellina, a peasant was bitten by a rabid dog and died.”

Fofò decided to take the baron’s advice. When he reached the rocky spur, a desolate site whose sole vegetation consisted of melilot, the grass he was interested in, and stalks of sorghum, he realized—or perhaps it was the rifle strapped to his shoulder that made him realize—that the place was full of hares and rabbits. He killed two hares and one rabbit, then stopped shooting, since he had nowhere to put any more animals.

This was how he developed a mania for hunting.

Unsatisfied with the rifles he found in the palazzo, he went to Palermo and bought himself four shotguns that were a pure delight. Three months later, two English bloodhounds arrived, a breed that could smell quarry from a mile away. Little by little, Fofò was seen less and less about town. He had turned the pharmacy over to an assistant about whom nobody had any complaint.

Promoted to the rank of captain, Lieutenant Baldovino had to leave Vigàta, and the town’s garrison was sent a new commander: Lieutenant Emiliano di Saint Vincent, a Piedmontese nobleman from Asti. At the Circolo, a party was held to say goodbye to the departing Baldovino and to welcome the new arrival; there were many toasts and much emotion, because Baldovino, after all these years, was considered one of the town.

“But, he’s an angel!” said Signora Clelia, as soon as she saw Lieutenant Emiliano.

Tall, blond, and quite elegant, Emiliano di Saint Vincent, throughout the reception, spoke, saluted, clicked his heels, and bowed, but did it all as if he were somewhere else. He seemed distant, unreachable.

“When will I ever get my hands on this one?” wondered Signora Clelia, a bit discouraged.

In fact, Lieutenant Emiliano politely declined the generous solicitations of Signora Clelia, who had wanted him to rent the little flat across the landing from hers, the very same that Nenè Impiduglia had inhabited.

“I prefer to sleep at the barracks, with my men.”

“But it’s uncomfortable in a barracks!”

“We are soldiers, madame; we are used to discomfort.”

And not only was he quite at home with discomfort; he felt it was his duty to make his men live with it as well. When Amedeo Baldovino was in charge, their quarters had become a sort of little town apart, but one which enjoyed all the liberties of the town itself. Reveille was sounded quite a bit later on cold and rainy days, and the soldiers returned to barracks at whatever hour of the night they pleased. With Emiliano di Saint Vincent, however, hours became regular again, with drills in the courtyard early each morning, and the scourge of long marches through the countryside. The few times he was seen in town, the lieutenant never made small talk with anyone, never once eyed a woman, and was uninterested in joining the Circolo.