Sicilian Tragedee Read Online Free PDF Page B

prawn. He takes one and places it in the middle of his plate, puts a knife and fork next to it, and realizes that in all of Palazzo Biscari there is not one level surface on which to place the plate and behead the prawn. Okay, there are the mantelpieces of the two fireplaces but apart from the fact that they’re lit (they’re lit ?) the fireplaces are as big as two garages and so the mantelpieces are too high.
    Now his gaze falls, tumbles, collapses on Bobo: extremely tight white jeans (how long has it been since he has seen white jeans? not since the days of Charlie’s Angels , TV version), a shirt with very fine multicolored stripes open to his navel, a nicely modeled chest free of hair and adorned with a plain red chain that clings to his Adam’s apple, from which hangs a pendant in the shape of a … car jack? No, it’s a Fascist, uh, bundle of sheaves, that is, the fasces … The fasces? No, maybe it’s a bunch of little daisies tied together with a blade of grass. Maybe.
    “You … I must say … as usual … there’s no place to put the plate down,” Cagnotto says to him.
    Bobo turns. Bobo has hair in fake casual disarray as you can only do when you have a lot of hair, a square jaw, nice cheekbones, and bored lips. Bobo looks with distaste at Cagnotto’s too-tight suit while Cagnotto tries to suck in his stomach. Bobo turns to look with greater interest at a casserole of baked rice.
    Bobo smells of vanilla.
    Cagnotto lowers his head over the giant prawn. In any case he doesn’t have the money to invite him to dinner. He feels as if he
might burst into tears. When was this damn antidepressant going to kick in? He’s about to walk away, and then he remembers his grandmother’s famous saying, “Nobody gets anything for free.” (Actually, his grandmother used to say that to his sister, encouraging her to dress up like a tart so that she didn’t give away the men’s admiring glances to the competition, but he had been listening.)
    Cagnotto sucks in his cheeks, making a molar that is loose because of periodontitis wobble. Sure, we all have a deep desire for intimate candor, for simple sincerity, moments in which we would like to capture our prey with just a nude, unarmed glance. But these are archaic dreams of a bucolic state, thinks Cagnotto. Adrift in the great, globalized metropolis, love has become war, a hunt where reciprocal diffidence, fear, and terror make appearances more important than sentiment. And if appearances are a weapon, they are a weapon Cagnotto can use, if it will get him that scent of vanilla!
    Cagnotto turns on his heel. He comes to a halt next to Bobo. “I’m Cagnotto, Tino Cagnotto. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”
    Bobo, temporary salesclerk and aspiring actor, has heard of Tino Cagnotto. Yes indeed.
    Cagnotto sets down the plate with the prawn. The faint feeling is gone and anyway he’s on a diet.
     
     
    Betty Pirrotta bumps into a waiter bearing a tray of titties of St. Agatha, the little cassatelle in the shape of breasts that were invented in honor of the martyrdom of Agatha, Catania’s protectress.
    How to describe the harmony of the spheres that suddenly descends on the numbered accounts and letters of credit, on the shortterm loans, on the bank lending rates and capital transfers?
    Turrisi, fatal move, turns to look while the titties fly through the air, locking eyes for a second, sealing his fate and future punishment, with the blue orbs of that unknown young lady, blonder than all the babes of Chelsea.

    Without thinking, Turrisi looks around for Pirronello, the photographer for La Voce della Sicilia , finds him, walks slowly over to him, leans over his ear, and, practically biting it off, murmurs something.
    Pirronello slips—gracefully, due to his slight stature—back and forth among the guests, snapping a photo of Betty, who smiles and doesn’t get it.
     
     
    “They were the most moving sight there, two young people in love dancing together, blind to each