Read Online Sicilian Tragedee by Ottavio Cappellani - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ottavio Cappellani
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to tell Bobo about his decision right away, keep him up to date on his spiritual evolution.
Okay, he thinks in the elevator, shall I call him right away or shall I wait fifteen minutes?
CHAPTER TEN
In Pajamas and Dressing Gown in the Sitting Room of Villa Wanda
In pajamas and dressing gown in the sitting room of Villa Wanda, Turi Pirrotta is staring curiously at a bell. For years now Pirrotta has been staring curiously at his house; since his wife Wanda learned that redecorating was an excellent way to launder money, she has done nothing but shift the furniture out from under him, switch this room with that, bang in nails, adjust walls, and hire consultants.
Here’s how it works: You get hold of a bell, let’s say the bell costs you five euros, you take it and you put it in a shop owned by your family under a fake name (usually under the name of the previous proprietor of the shop, who has fallen on hard times because of the protection money he had to pay you or because of the interest on the loans you advanced). You take the bell and on the bottom you put a sticker with a price on it: five hundred euros. Into the shop walks Wanda, she buys the bell, and you have just laundered four hundred ninety-five euros in one go.
And even if the tax police do come along, what can they say?
Pirrotta pictures the tax police, all serious, asking his wife, “And you say you paid five hundred euros for this bell?” You just have to look at Wanda to see she’s the type who would do something as dumb-assed as that. Shit, you just have to look at the woman when she comes back from the hairdresser’s.
Pirrotta raises his eyes to the heavens recalling the time his tax accountant’s wife explained these financial matters to Wanda. Couldn’t they just exchange gossip about their lovers like all other married women instead of busting their better halves’ balls?
Where the fuck is Betty? How much fucking time does she need to get home? How long is this frigging lunch going to last?
The thought brings a happy half-smile to Pirrotta’s lips. Shit, getting her married to Turrisi!
His daughter Betty not only out of his house but into Alfio Turrisi’s.
Mrs. Betty Turrisi. Mother of God, how nice that sounds to Turi Pirrotta. Mrs. Betty Turrisi.
The oil business at Ispica: check!
The Mafia-war business: check!
The ball-busting-daughter-who-needs-a-husband business: check!
What more could he want from life? Only that Wanda should go to the hairdresser’s a little more often.
Is Betty going to hurry up and bring him some news?
Pirrotta sighs and squirms in his chair.
The bell rings in his hand.
Pirrotta, deep in thought, jumps.
He takes that bitch of a bell and puts it down carefully between a stylized pineapple in crystal and a cigarette box in the shape of the Altar of the Nation, that mammoth monument to national unity in Rome.
The Filipina maid appears. “Mister ring?”
“Who, me? No!” Pirotta says without thinking, somewhat freaked. The maid bows and withdraws.
Pirrotta looks at the bell again.
He understands.
He picks up the bell and rings it hard.
The maid does not appear.
Pirrotta rings harder.
Still nobody.
Pirrotta takes the bell in two hands and shakes it with his whole body, as if he were strangling someone.
The maid runs in.
“Mister ring?”
“No, I was just celebrating the election of the new mayor.”
The maid doesn’t get it.
“Yes, I rang. Didn’t you hear?”
“I hear. But I think you fooling.”
Pirrotta lowers his eyes to contain the rage that is rising in him.
“Bring me a wodka. ” (Strangely, he pronounces it as if he were a true Russian.)
“Right away, sir.”
“A double, make it a double.”
“Double, sir, double.”
Pirrotta hears the door slam and the tick-tick-tick of Betty’s heels.
He gets up, doesn’t know what to do with himself, sits down, gets up; he doesn’t want Betty to see that he’s worried.
But hey, as if Betty hadn’t already figured it
Okay, he thinks in the elevator, shall I call him right away or shall I wait fifteen minutes?
CHAPTER TEN
In Pajamas and Dressing Gown in the Sitting Room of Villa Wanda
In pajamas and dressing gown in the sitting room of Villa Wanda, Turi Pirrotta is staring curiously at a bell. For years now Pirrotta has been staring curiously at his house; since his wife Wanda learned that redecorating was an excellent way to launder money, she has done nothing but shift the furniture out from under him, switch this room with that, bang in nails, adjust walls, and hire consultants.
Here’s how it works: You get hold of a bell, let’s say the bell costs you five euros, you take it and you put it in a shop owned by your family under a fake name (usually under the name of the previous proprietor of the shop, who has fallen on hard times because of the protection money he had to pay you or because of the interest on the loans you advanced). You take the bell and on the bottom you put a sticker with a price on it: five hundred euros. Into the shop walks Wanda, she buys the bell, and you have just laundered four hundred ninety-five euros in one go.
And even if the tax police do come along, what can they say?
Pirrotta pictures the tax police, all serious, asking his wife, “And you say you paid five hundred euros for this bell?” You just have to look at Wanda to see she’s the type who would do something as dumb-assed as that. Shit, you just have to look at the woman when she comes back from the hairdresser’s.
Pirrotta raises his eyes to the heavens recalling the time his tax accountant’s wife explained these financial matters to Wanda. Couldn’t they just exchange gossip about their lovers like all other married women instead of busting their better halves’ balls?
Where the fuck is Betty? How much fucking time does she need to get home? How long is this frigging lunch going to last?
The thought brings a happy half-smile to Pirrotta’s lips. Shit, getting her married to Turrisi!
His daughter Betty not only out of his house but into Alfio Turrisi’s.
Mrs. Betty Turrisi. Mother of God, how nice that sounds to Turi Pirrotta. Mrs. Betty Turrisi.
The oil business at Ispica: check!
The Mafia-war business: check!
The ball-busting-daughter-who-needs-a-husband business: check!
What more could he want from life? Only that Wanda should go to the hairdresser’s a little more often.
Is Betty going to hurry up and bring him some news?
Pirrotta sighs and squirms in his chair.
The bell rings in his hand.
Pirrotta, deep in thought, jumps.
He takes that bitch of a bell and puts it down carefully between a stylized pineapple in crystal and a cigarette box in the shape of the Altar of the Nation, that mammoth monument to national unity in Rome.
The Filipina maid appears. “Mister ring?”
“Who, me? No!” Pirotta says without thinking, somewhat freaked. The maid bows and withdraws.
Pirrotta looks at the bell again.
He understands.
He picks up the bell and rings it hard.
The maid does not appear.
Pirrotta rings harder.
Still nobody.
Pirrotta takes the bell in two hands and shakes it with his whole body, as if he were strangling someone.
The maid runs in.
“Mister ring?”
“No, I was just celebrating the election of the new mayor.”
The maid doesn’t get it.
“Yes, I rang. Didn’t you hear?”
“I hear. But I think you fooling.”
Pirrotta lowers his eyes to contain the rage that is rising in him.
“Bring me a wodka. ” (Strangely, he pronounces it as if he were a true Russian.)
“Right away, sir.”
“A double, make it a double.”
“Double, sir, double.”
Pirrotta hears the door slam and the tick-tick-tick of Betty’s heels.
He gets up, doesn’t know what to do with himself, sits down, gets up; he doesn’t want Betty to see that he’s worried.
But hey, as if Betty hadn’t already figured it
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