The Bastards of Pizzofalcone Read Online Free PDF

Di Vincenzo had wanted to wash his hands of him. He had a strong hunch that the man was a smart cop. And an honest one.
    Commissario Luigi Palma, better known as Gigi, hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.
    He hoped it with all his heart.

VII
    S eated on her throne, Donna Amalia kept her eyes focused on the fifth floor of the building across the way. On the balcony, to be precise: and Donna Amalia, everyone knew, was precise. Quite precise indeed.
    She’d noticed something odd almost immediately, seventeen days ago. She’d paid close attention to the renovation work being done in the apartment, which had been done quickly but extremely well, at least as far as she could tell from her vantage point. They must have spent a considerable amount of money. Donna Amalia had even mentioned the fact to Irina, and as usual that slut had said sure, sure, but she’d actually been thinking about her own business: maybe about some wealthy old man she ducked in and serviced while she was out shopping for groceries, to make ends meet. She never seemed to have enough money, that slut. What with the money she spent here in the city and the money she sent home to her village, which was no doubt a complete shithole. Irina had showed her pictures, and even in photographs the place looked like a pigsty, in real life just imagine.
    Donna Amalia was all but paralyzed, she couldn’t stand up. She had osteoarthritis, a particularly grave form of osteoarthritis, she would declaim with tragic pride: the pain came in excruciating waves, and she could barely make it to the bathroom, but she wasn’t going to let that slut bring her a bedpan; she’d make it if she had to crawl. To make a long story short, when she got up every morning she accepted the slut’s help getting dressed, then she hobbled to her throne with the three-legged cane, and there she would sit. She’d spend the day with the television on, peering out the window.
    Her son was in Milan, and these days he had an array of excuses to explain why he couldn’t come see her, even on the holidays. He was dating some girl, no doubt another slut, who wouldn’t even let him come see his
mamma
who’d made so many sacrifices for him. He thought he’d ease his conscience by sending her money, the piece of shit. As if money was enough.
    Donna Amalia’s legs might not work, but her head did. Her head was as fresh as the flowers in May, and all her cogs and gears were spinning merrily. She paid attention to the world, and when things changed she knew. Then she’d tell that slut Irina about it, and Irina would say sure, sure, but Irina didn’t understand a thing, didn’t know that it’s the changes that tell you where the world is headed. All changes, from the smallest to the biggest, had a meaning in the larger picture.
    Did that lady with a man’s voice, on Channel 5, do a program with old people? That was a sign. Was the new pope an Argentine? That was a sign. Did a soldier murder his wife because he was having an affair with a lady soldier? That was a sign. The hard thing, my dear Ukrainian slut, was to put all those signs together. Interpretation, that was the key. To understand the system of signs, and therefore the changes.
    The apartment in the building across the way, for instance, was a sign. An important sign. Very important.
    A normal family used to live there. A horrible family, but a normal one. A father who was never at home. A mother, a vulgar tub of lard, who spent her days yacking on the phone; she could see her pacing back and forth in front of every window, gesticulating with the receiver cradled between her ear and her shoulder: how the woman managed not to develop curvature of the spine was more than Donna Amalia could figure out. Two kids in their teens, a girl who brought home boyfriends and locked herself in her room with them, and a boy who instead of doing his homework played the guitar and snuck cigarettes