Sicilian Tragedee Read Online Free Page B

him.

     
     
    Mister Turrisi is fiddling with his hair with the mother-of-pearl comb he keeps in the glove compartment of the Aston Martin.
    He has found a place for the car in Piazza Duca di Genova because he knows the guy who runs the illegal parking operation there, and now, climbing the double-ramp staircase of Mt. Etna basalt, he walks though the reception rooms, laid out for the party but deserted.
    Turrisi’s Brylcreemed head pokes out onto the terrace, where he sees that the party is well under way. Good. Someone of Mister Turrisi’s status should arrive after things have gotten warmed up.
     
     
    With the nice weather the guests have all migrated to the south terrace, where, admiring the black basalt walls with their flowers, putti, and muscular columns sculpted of Siracusa limestone, they are broiling under the sun because in houses like this it is cooler inside than out.
    But how could they live without that magnificent view of the traffic and the upholsterers, the street salesmen looking up with humility and admiration on that glorious festive crowd sporting here and there even a hat or two? How to resist that terrace that if only by a few meters stood above everyday plebeian mundanity? Who could forgo that ineffable caress that only a glance of envy can deliver?
    The recent, but solid, success of Turrisi is quickly confirmed by the Baronessa Faillaci, who throws herself on him shrieking so all can hear. “Mister Turrisi!”
    Turrisi, flashing a measured smile, inwardly exults. He has been recognized by the aristocracy at last! He can hardly wait to invite some of them to his home in Pembridge Square, Notting Hill, and show his English partners, who still appreciate that sort of thing, God save the Queen, that he has real aristocratic connections.
    “My dear Baronessa.” Turrisi is in a bit of a bind, he wants to
kiss her hand but she has already clamped herself to his arm. Someone had once explained to him that true distinction lies in not betraying emotion, so all he manages is a stiff half bow.
     
     
    Pirrotta wishes they would all go screw themselves: actors, comedians, showgirls, aspiring directors, aspiring choreographers, aspiring scriptwriters, aspiring whatevers, commissioners, counselors, mayors, wives, lovers, girlfriends, bitches, sluts, tarts, cognoscenti and other smart-asses, businessmen, tradesmen, financiers and financees, vote-getters and vote-buyers, mentors, protectors, PR managers and spin doctors, decorators, drug dealers, doctors, dentists, plastic surgeons, pharmacists, theater directors, bank directors, lawyers, judges, and associates.
    News, as we know, is born in the world of business, moves from there to the world of politics, then to society, and from there to sleaze. The moment a piece of news gets down to the sleaze level, it means it’s in the public domain. The baroness who’s hanging on Turrisi’s arm is an eloquent signal: everyone knows how matters stand, everyone at that instant knows that the Pirrotta family is on the way out.
     
     
    Cagnotto cannot be late.
    He owes his reputation to a couple of artistic seasons financed once by one commissioner, then by another, hoping to showcase, as a brochure put it, their “leading role in the context of cultural activities to relaunch Sicily as a Mediterranean nexus and crossroads for exchange among peoples” assisted by the purchase of expensive advertising supplements in La Voce della Sicilia, which guarantees the favor of local critics for the commissioners’ initiatives and also by default for Cagnotto’s experimental productions, staged, once again in the words of the brochure, “in urban spaces that are prime examples of industrial architecture,” i.e., lofts.

    All of this naturally had the patronage and benediction of Sicilian Regional Commissioner Murabito.
    Cagnotto had recently redone his kitchen, and, after having read in Amica that minimalism was out not only on the fashion runways but also in interiors,