Sicilian Tragedee Read Online Free

moment Rosanna Lambertini and her mandolin are making their triumphant approach to Palazzo Biscari, her gaze taking in the large entrance hall decorated, for no apparent reason, with a grand piano. The mandolin sways enthusiastically in appreciation of the eighteenth century murals depicting the Biscari estate with its several industries, including wine and silkworms. Yes, this is a stage worthy of an artist, an intellectual! From the entrance hall she moves into the picture gallery with its polychrome majolica tile floors laid in 1711 by craftsmen from Vietri, then into the Rose Room, with its portraits of the Biscari family, and on into the ballroom, a rococo delirium of plaster and painting on three levels, right up to the dome of the music gallery, with Vulcan presiding over the Council of the Gods, to which the musicians could ascend via a staircase shaped like a cloud.
    Anyone who doesn’t know her might think that Lambertini is feeling dizzy, but actually this is her interpretation of a “poor but clever young woman who, after having spent her youth cooped up in a humble but spotless chamber, meets by chance a prince who marries her and takes her home to his castle.”

    Caporeale and Cosentino, who on the other hand have known her since she took her first steps onstage, exchange a meaningful glance, and you can bet that they are thinking, veteran dialect actors that they are, that Lambertini is in high gear as “poor but clever young woman who, after having spent her youth cooped up in a humble but spotless chamber, meets by chance a prince who marries her and takes her home to his castle.”
    Lambertini in turn takes from her bag a pair of tiny glasses, puts them on, looks at a picture with a superior air, takes off the glasses, puts them back in the bag, and sends Caporeale and Cosentino a look that says, I appreciate.
    “She understands ,” says Caporeale.
    “Yes, sir, she’s a connoisseur,” says Cosentino.
    “It’s obvious that she’s seen a few.”
    “A real collector.”
    “The reputation of a polite but inflexible art expert which was to accompany her quite unwarrantably throughout her long life,” adds Caporeale, hitching up his trousers.
    “Huh?”
    “I quote from The Leopard .”
    “Shit, you read that stuff?”
    Caporeale makes his sure, who the fuck did you think I was? face.
    The palazzo’s reception rooms resound with the clack of heels as two provincial culture commissioners, Giarre and Militello, hustle over toward Lambertini exchanging glances of competitive dislike.
    “Here come the rats escorting the flaming rose.”
    “ The Leopard again?” asks Cosentino.
    “Certainly. Angelica, she was another real bitch. But if we start counting the rats trailing Lambertini we’ll have to call Iancelo the exterminator.”
     
     

    Cagnotto is desperate.
    He stares straight ahead without moving a muscle.
    The Afro-Sicilians have gotten out of the car and are circling around the BMW X5, studying it with curiosity. They’re jiving to the beat of “Vitti ’na crozza” 1 in a rap-dance-remix version that is swelling out onto the street from the subwoofers installed in the front doors of the Peugeot, flung open for the no-fault accident report.
    One of the Afro-Sicilians sticks his face right up against the window of the driver’s side.
    Cagnotto can’t pretend not to see him.
    He whips around.
    He sees those two black, burning eyes, and his soul paints an expression on his face.
    The black, burning eyes see the expression that Cagnotto’s soul has painted on his face.
    It frightens the Afro-Sicilian.
    He says something to his friends and they jump back into the car.
    Cagnotto gives the wheel a jerk. He looks at his watch, the watchband speckled with glittering colored stones.
    He jerks the wheel again.
    These Afro-Sicilians always blocking traffic. Cagnotto leans on the horn.
    The Afro-Sicilian at the wheel sticks his Rasta head out the window.
    Cagnotto gives him a chilling