Read Online Hunting Season: A Novel by Andrea Camilleri - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrea Camilleri
Ads: Link
way.
“I’m afraid we’ll be too late.”
When he entered his wife’s bedroom, the marchese was immediately shot in the middle of the forehead by a dirty look from Father Macaluso, who was reciting prayers accompanied by ’Ntontò and Peppinella, who were kneeling at the foot of the bed.
“Is she alive?” he asked.
Fofò La Matina, who was standing by the window, nodded yes.
“I want you all out of here,” said the marchese. “I’ll let you know when you can come back in.”
They obeyed. Raindrops began to patter against the windows as Don Filippo grabbed a chair to sit down in at the head of the bed. Then, bending slightly forward, he took his wife’s hand in his. He stayed that way for a while. Then he had the impression that there was a leak in the roof and that some rain was filtering inside. Looking up, he saw that the ceiling was intact.
“Ah, well,” he said to himself, “that must mean I’m crying.”
Instead of letting Fofò La Matina into his wife’s bedroom, Don Filippo stopped him in the doorway.
“Do you really need to be here?”
He led him into his office, sat him down on a sofa, offered him a cigar, which was declined, and lit his pipe.
“Do you mind if I speak informally with you? I’ve known you since you were about ten years old.”
“I’m honored, sir.”
“And don’t call me ‘sir’ or ‘Marchese.’ Just call me ‘Don Filippo.’”
“As you wish.”
“Forgive me, but I feel I need to talk to somebody.”
“Here I am.”
“You know something? It was I, in a sense, who made your father’s fortune.”
“Please excuse me,” a young Filippo Peluso, barely more than twenty, said as he began to rise, huffing and twisting and muttering as much as was necessary to lift his three hundred pounds of flesh and bones into a vertical position. “I’m going to take advantage of this little pause while my friend Uccello is dealing.”
They were playing briscola, the young versus the old. The young were Peluso and Uccello, the old, the Marchese Fiannaca and Don Gregorio Gulisano.
“And that makes four, dammit,” Gulisano commented under his breath. As someone who weighed barely a hundred pounds, he felt a sort of dull, irrational irritation whenever Filippo Peluso began his maneuvers to stand up.
“Why, do I have to pay a toll?” said the marchesino, who was keen of hearing.
“For what?”
“For pissing. For the last hour you’ve been counting how many times I get up.”
“I only wonder why someone would have to go to the privy four times in two hours,” Gulisano snapped back, turning green in the face.
“Come on, gentlemen, let’s be serious,” the young Barone Uccello cut in. “If you start arguing, we’ll never finish this blessed game. And I have to be back home at the stroke of midnight.”
“You can go right now, if you like; the door is open.”
“Come now, Marchese . . .”
“Come now, Marchese, my bollocks. We’re going to be here till morning if Signor Gulisano doesn’t explain to me exactly why it bothers him so much when I feel the need to urinate. What, does the outhouse belong to him? Is he afraid I’m going to fill it up?”
Gregorio Gulisano, visibly making an effort to remain calm, opened his mouth, took a breath, but said not a word. Silence descended. The Marchesino Peluso didn’t budge, one hand gripping the back of his chair, the other leaning heavily on the card table; the Marchese Fiannaca was counting and recounting the gold and silver pieces he had in front of him, while young Uccello kept cutting the deck. After a suitable pause, Filippo Peluso continued:
“Either Signor Gulisano deigns to explain himself, or in one minute, since I can no longer hold it in, I’m going to whip it out and inundate the whole table.”
In the face of this threat—which, given the young Peluso’s capriciousness and bright ideas, was not at all a hollow one—the Marchese Fiannaca decided to intervene.
“My dear
“I’m afraid we’ll be too late.”
When he entered his wife’s bedroom, the marchese was immediately shot in the middle of the forehead by a dirty look from Father Macaluso, who was reciting prayers accompanied by ’Ntontò and Peppinella, who were kneeling at the foot of the bed.
“Is she alive?” he asked.
Fofò La Matina, who was standing by the window, nodded yes.
“I want you all out of here,” said the marchese. “I’ll let you know when you can come back in.”
They obeyed. Raindrops began to patter against the windows as Don Filippo grabbed a chair to sit down in at the head of the bed. Then, bending slightly forward, he took his wife’s hand in his. He stayed that way for a while. Then he had the impression that there was a leak in the roof and that some rain was filtering inside. Looking up, he saw that the ceiling was intact.
“Ah, well,” he said to himself, “that must mean I’m crying.”
Instead of letting Fofò La Matina into his wife’s bedroom, Don Filippo stopped him in the doorway.
“Do you really need to be here?”
He led him into his office, sat him down on a sofa, offered him a cigar, which was declined, and lit his pipe.
“Do you mind if I speak informally with you? I’ve known you since you were about ten years old.”
“I’m honored, sir.”
“And don’t call me ‘sir’ or ‘Marchese.’ Just call me ‘Don Filippo.’”
“As you wish.”
“Forgive me, but I feel I need to talk to somebody.”
“Here I am.”
“You know something? It was I, in a sense, who made your father’s fortune.”
“Please excuse me,” a young Filippo Peluso, barely more than twenty, said as he began to rise, huffing and twisting and muttering as much as was necessary to lift his three hundred pounds of flesh and bones into a vertical position. “I’m going to take advantage of this little pause while my friend Uccello is dealing.”
They were playing briscola, the young versus the old. The young were Peluso and Uccello, the old, the Marchese Fiannaca and Don Gregorio Gulisano.
“And that makes four, dammit,” Gulisano commented under his breath. As someone who weighed barely a hundred pounds, he felt a sort of dull, irrational irritation whenever Filippo Peluso began his maneuvers to stand up.
“Why, do I have to pay a toll?” said the marchesino, who was keen of hearing.
“For what?”
“For pissing. For the last hour you’ve been counting how many times I get up.”
“I only wonder why someone would have to go to the privy four times in two hours,” Gulisano snapped back, turning green in the face.
“Come on, gentlemen, let’s be serious,” the young Barone Uccello cut in. “If you start arguing, we’ll never finish this blessed game. And I have to be back home at the stroke of midnight.”
“You can go right now, if you like; the door is open.”
“Come now, Marchese . . .”
“Come now, Marchese, my bollocks. We’re going to be here till morning if Signor Gulisano doesn’t explain to me exactly why it bothers him so much when I feel the need to urinate. What, does the outhouse belong to him? Is he afraid I’m going to fill it up?”
Gregorio Gulisano, visibly making an effort to remain calm, opened his mouth, took a breath, but said not a word. Silence descended. The Marchesino Peluso didn’t budge, one hand gripping the back of his chair, the other leaning heavily on the card table; the Marchese Fiannaca was counting and recounting the gold and silver pieces he had in front of him, while young Uccello kept cutting the deck. After a suitable pause, Filippo Peluso continued:
“Either Signor Gulisano deigns to explain himself, or in one minute, since I can no longer hold it in, I’m going to whip it out and inundate the whole table.”
In the face of this threat—which, given the young Peluso’s capriciousness and bright ideas, was not at all a hollow one—the Marchese Fiannaca decided to intervene.
“My dear
Similar Books
