Sicilian Tragedee Read Online Free PDF

head, adding, “What would we do without him? Oh, by the way, Commissioner, I called to make an appointment with you last week …”
    “And I preceded you! I’ve already spoken to the mayor and we agreed that San Giovanni la Punta can’t go another year without one of your productions. We’d like of course to do a whole season, but for that we’ll have to join forces with some other town, budgets being what they are.”
    “But nobody … I haven’t heard from anyone.”
    “Dear Arturo, he’s so sensitive about letters, about the spirit,” says the Contessa, gazing at him fondly.
    “Nobody?” says Paino, staring at Cagnotto.
    Nobody, nobody , signals Cagnotto with a swipe of his head.
     
     
    “Mister Turrisi, allow me to present Signor Timpanaro,” chirps young Baronessa Faillaci, who has only just come out and can’t wait to present someone to someone else. As the last to be introduced, she’s eager to introduce someone and be the penultimate.
    “Mister Turrisi, very pleased to meet you.” Timpanaro is emaciated and has dandruff, along with a suit that hangs on him, not that you could find a suit narrow enough to fit Timpanaro.
    Turrisi shakes his hand. He has no problems about the proportions between his belly and his sleeve length, he doesn’t give a fuck about odd sizes, he has a London tailor—two, actually: Turnbull & Asser at 23 Bury Street.
    “I’m told you have interests in the London theater.”
    Turrisi, rather than nod, makes a little bow, like a very genteel nod. “Well, yes indeed, I’m thinking about it. I do love to walk through the streets of Soho in the evening, and between us, I might
add, I’ve been taken by a certain … ah … appetite for the stage.”
    Timpanaro smiles at the Baronessa, who is gazing with a certain admiring wonder at Turrisi and his interesting diction. “Soho! Marvelous! All those movie stars pounding the boards! But wait, couldn’t we organize something in Soho? Some auditions … a Sicilian production in London, maybe a translation of Nino Martoglio …”
    What business does he think I’m in? Turrisi wonders to himself. I like Soho because it’s full of models and the model business is in the hands of the Afro-Brits—and I have some deals going with the Afro-Brits. But as for the theater, I don’t have any, ah … introductions, those English bastards are real snobs, but just wait till I make some aristocratic friends here and bring them back to London where, God save the Queen, these things still count, and then we’ll see about those shitheads who come to the bank for loans and then play the snob. So let me organize something in London for this Timpanaro and we’ll see.
    “Excellent idea, Signor Timpanaro, call me … call me in the office.”
    In Turrisi’s mind, lines of credit are already piling up, letters of introduction, stage shows bombing out that could be used to launder truckloads of money. And to think that in the early days he used to go and launder money in the currency exchange at the airport.
     
     
    Cagnotto, what with the heat, the rush, the stress, the disappointment, and the bills to pay, is feeling light-headed. So he decides to grab something at the buffet, which thanks to the region’s largesse is abundant: eggplant parmigiana and caponata oozing with olive oil, cauliflower buried under anchovies and olives and sautéed with cheese, fried zucchini flowers, risotto alla pescatora made with frozen mussels, involtini of eggplant and spaghetti (many thanks to the region they have not provided plastic forks, which as the Prince, a
mathematics buff, would have said are incommensurable with eggplant and spaghetti involtini ), ripiddu nivicatu , black spaghetti with cuttlefish in which the pieces of cuttlefish are big enough to destroy your dental work, veal cutlets, skewers of pork, mixed fry of small fish, mixed grill of large fish, mixed salad of midsized fish, shrimps and giant prawns.
    Cagnotto decides to go for a giant