Sicilian Tragedee Read Online Free PDF Page A

had tried to correct his course halfway through the project. Even he, even before Amica said so, had begun to tire of those receptions where guests studied a single halogen lamp lighting up a bare white wall while they toyed with a celery stalk doused in vodka. In place of the “open space look,” he had installed five “settings” : the solid “Victorian look”; flaming zebra-striped kitsch; the seventies “orange look”; the “musician look” complete with a Petrof baby grand piano; and finally, his favorite, the “bed corner,” with three white sofas surrounding an orgy futon in place of a coffee table. He had also bought up three whole collections (balls, elephants, and cigarette cases) and scattered them around. Then he had dumped a whole truckload of fine gravel on the floor of the guest room and built a fake waterfall, no expense spared for the engine that pumped the water. And finally he had brightened up the home theater corner with a leopard skin complete with sparkling eyes and a great big grinning mouthful of teeth.
    It was definitely time someone signed him up for a new theater season.
    It has been at least two weeks since he has given even a simple dinner for twelve and the fancy food shops still won’t extend him zero-interest credit with no down payment. And what’s more, he doesn’t have the slightest theatrical inspiration, and, having run through all the avant-gardes that there are, envies authors of a classical persuasion who can make do with a love story, a couple of homicides, and some bourgeois family drama.
    Cagnotto parks the BMW X5 on the sidewalk of Via Archi della Marina, next to a Chinese guy selling cheap junk. He ignores the Chinese curses coming at him and, dodging between the cars, aims for the reception.

    Seventy-year-old Contessa Salieri, the historic queen of Catania bitchdom and now the undisputed light of the city’s intellectual life, signals it is time to go inside, whispering in the ear of her companion, thirtysomething Arturo Paino, the up-and-coming commissioner for culture of San Giovanni la Punta, “We’d better get off the terrace; it’s too hot and I left the number of the ambulance service in my other bag.”
    Paino debates whether he should laugh admiringly at the Contessa’s irony and youthful spirit, but, watching her clutch the stonework as she presses into the grand salone , he decides not to.
    And so, as the grateful crowds begin to stream off the terrace, the Contessa and Commissioner Paino are the first people to cross Cagnotto’s path as he hastens over the polychrome majolica tile floor of 1711.
    “Contessa! My deep and most sincere admiration,” shouts Cagnotto, breathing heavily and trying to kiss her hand, the loose skin of her forearm lasciviously bound up in the bushels of bracelets she’s wearing.
    The Contessa’s mouth opens on the biggest set of dentures Cagnotto has ever seen apart from the teeth on the leopard flattened on the floor of his house—or maybe it’s that the Contessa is shrinking around that Godzilla set of teeth. From the makeup she is wearing it looks as if she has fallen face down in a plate of ripiddu nivicatu , the Catania gastronomic specialty inspired by Mt. Etna: rice tinted black with cuttlefish ink and piled up like a volcano with a splash of red sauce for the lava spilling out and a dollop of cream on top for snow.
    “Hey, great to see you,” yells Cagnotto, pretending to notice Arturo Paino just at that moment.
    “Ah, Cagnotto, I have big plans for you,” says Paino, automatically looking away. “I just spoke with my fellow … uh … party member, you know who I mean, yes?” he adds, looking the other way.
    “Padovani?” asks Cagnotto, his voice going wobbly.
    Paino nods, gazing at the Contessa with loathing.

    “Dear Arturo,” says the Contessa, “he always has a nice thought for everyone, don’t you agree, Cagnotto?”
    Cagnotto makes a you could have fooled me gesture with a rapid shake of his