favor of it. And if you don’t believe me, you can go ask Scimè the notary.”
“So, now that the marchese’s dead, there’s not going to be any adoption.”
“No, sir, no more adoption.”
“If it was up to us, the poor marchese, bless his soul, should’ve lived to be a hundred!” Trisina said, bursting into tears.
They waited for the sound of Portera’s galloping horse to recede before beginning to talk. The baby had been set down to sleep, and they had a great many things to say.
“You were right,” said Trisina.
“Of course,” said Pirrotta. “If they found ’im dead in the house, they would’ve sent us straight to San Vito prison. The law is always on the side of the nobles. As the proverb says: Sauta un torzolu e va in culu all’ortolano —‘When a plant goes missing, it ends up in the gardener’s ass.’”
Without warning, Trisina felt a flash of warmth down below, a pang of desire that anticipated her first postpartum menstruation by a good ten days.
“Oh, Natale, my sweet Natale, love of my life!”
She jumped on his lap and started kissing his neck. And this time Pirrotta held her close.
“What are these pills in here?” the inspector asked, setting the little box on the counter in front of the pharmacist.
“Where did you find them?”
“On the marchese’s bedside table at Le Zubbie.”
Fofò La Matina opened the box and looked inside. There were four pills left.
“I made these for the marchese, to alleviate his heartburn.”
“How many were there?”
“Ten.”
“Are you sure you didn’t make a mistake?”
“As to the number?”
“No, not as to the number. As to what you prepared for him.”
The pharmacist’s face hardened.
“I have never made a mistake in my life. And if you have any doubts, send those pills wherever you like and have them tested.”
“It hadn’t even crossed my mind!” said the inspector, pocketing the little box.
(But of course it had crossed his mind, and he sent the pills to Palermo only to receive a negative response one month later. They consisted only of bicarbonate of soda and extracts of digestive herbs.)
The wake proceeded according to a specific ritual, which was, moreover, a timeworn tradition, since Palazzo Peluso had seen more than its share of deaths.
The marchese lay on the bed, a white band over his forehead to hide the wound. He looked as if he was dreaming, and his dream must have been beautiful, to judge by the smile on his face. Father Macaluso had arranged to have a rosary wrapped around the deceased’s hands, but, for no apparent reason, every so often the rosary slipped out and onto the bed.
The women sat along the walls and prayed. The men, on the other hand, paid their last respects to Don Filippo, then withdrew to the salon to talk and smoke.
Every now and then Mimì and Peppinella would go around offering the mourners rosolio and little pastries to boost their morale.
Around midday, ’Ntontò, who hadn’t yet opened her mouth and whose eyes were dry but bewitched, rose without saying a word and left the room.
Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour, and still ’Ntontò hadn’t returned. At this point Signora Colajanni, after exchanging a glance of understanding with the other women, went off to look for her. She was not in the salon with the men. Signora Colajanni went into the kitchen, where Peppinella and Mimì were putting more pastries on trays.
“We haven’t seen ’Ntontò for the last half hour,” she said.
Peppinella became immediately alarmed and rushed to the marchesina’s room. ’Ntontò wasn’t there, nor was she in the convenience room. News of her disappearance quickly spread among the mourners, who started looking for her.
Barone Uccello had a sudden misgiving, which he expressed out loud:
“What if she decided to do what her grandfather did?”
The men all rushed out of the palazzo and spread out, some going into town, others taking the road to the beach.
After
“So, now that the marchese’s dead, there’s not going to be any adoption.”
“No, sir, no more adoption.”
“If it was up to us, the poor marchese, bless his soul, should’ve lived to be a hundred!” Trisina said, bursting into tears.
They waited for the sound of Portera’s galloping horse to recede before beginning to talk. The baby had been set down to sleep, and they had a great many things to say.
“You were right,” said Trisina.
“Of course,” said Pirrotta. “If they found ’im dead in the house, they would’ve sent us straight to San Vito prison. The law is always on the side of the nobles. As the proverb says: Sauta un torzolu e va in culu all’ortolano —‘When a plant goes missing, it ends up in the gardener’s ass.’”
Without warning, Trisina felt a flash of warmth down below, a pang of desire that anticipated her first postpartum menstruation by a good ten days.
“Oh, Natale, my sweet Natale, love of my life!”
She jumped on his lap and started kissing his neck. And this time Pirrotta held her close.
“What are these pills in here?” the inspector asked, setting the little box on the counter in front of the pharmacist.
“Where did you find them?”
“On the marchese’s bedside table at Le Zubbie.”
Fofò La Matina opened the box and looked inside. There were four pills left.
“I made these for the marchese, to alleviate his heartburn.”
“How many were there?”
“Ten.”
“Are you sure you didn’t make a mistake?”
“As to the number?”
“No, not as to the number. As to what you prepared for him.”
The pharmacist’s face hardened.
“I have never made a mistake in my life. And if you have any doubts, send those pills wherever you like and have them tested.”
“It hadn’t even crossed my mind!” said the inspector, pocketing the little box.
(But of course it had crossed his mind, and he sent the pills to Palermo only to receive a negative response one month later. They consisted only of bicarbonate of soda and extracts of digestive herbs.)
The wake proceeded according to a specific ritual, which was, moreover, a timeworn tradition, since Palazzo Peluso had seen more than its share of deaths.
The marchese lay on the bed, a white band over his forehead to hide the wound. He looked as if he was dreaming, and his dream must have been beautiful, to judge by the smile on his face. Father Macaluso had arranged to have a rosary wrapped around the deceased’s hands, but, for no apparent reason, every so often the rosary slipped out and onto the bed.
The women sat along the walls and prayed. The men, on the other hand, paid their last respects to Don Filippo, then withdrew to the salon to talk and smoke.
Every now and then Mimì and Peppinella would go around offering the mourners rosolio and little pastries to boost their morale.
Around midday, ’Ntontò, who hadn’t yet opened her mouth and whose eyes were dry but bewitched, rose without saying a word and left the room.
Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour, and still ’Ntontò hadn’t returned. At this point Signora Colajanni, after exchanging a glance of understanding with the other women, went off to look for her. She was not in the salon with the men. Signora Colajanni went into the kitchen, where Peppinella and Mimì were putting more pastries on trays.
“We haven’t seen ’Ntontò for the last half hour,” she said.
Peppinella became immediately alarmed and rushed to the marchesina’s room. ’Ntontò wasn’t there, nor was she in the convenience room. News of her disappearance quickly spread among the mourners, who started looking for her.
Barone Uccello had a sudden misgiving, which he expressed out loud:
“What if she decided to do what her grandfather did?”
The men all rushed out of the palazzo and spread out, some going into town, others taking the road to the beach.
After
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