Hunting Season: A Novel by Andrea Camilleri Page B

finding no trace of ’Ntontò anywhere, however, they all returned to their respective homes, since it was time to eat. The women, too, after making one last sign of the cross in front of the deceased—who, as the hours passed, looked more and more like he was laughing—took their leave of Mimì and a weeping Peppinella. The only ones left in the palazzo were Father Macaluso—who cursed the saints as he prayed, because there was no one left to respond, the sacristan having taken advantage of the collective flight—and the pharmacist.
    “Let’s stay calm. We’ll find her,” Fofò La Matina said after the others had left. He assigned the remaining party different areas to search. He himself went up to the attic. Mimì went to have a better look in the rooms checked earlier; Peppinella was sent to the stables, the storehouse, and the cellar on the ground floor of the palazzo. After opening some old armoires and trunks, Fofò heard Peppinella yelling from below.
    “Come down to the cellar! She’s here!”
    The pharmacist rushed downstairs. There in the cellar, perfectly calm, her skirts hiked up around her waist and her panties down, ’Ntontò was brushing black paint on her bottom.

5
    B arely two days after the marchese’s funeral, Signora Colajanni went to work on Father Macaluso.
    “Does that seem right to you? Doesn’t it cry out to God for vengeance that this child of sin is going to enjoy the vineyard of Le Zubbie? And that whore and her cuckolded pimp of a husband are going to live it up after killing poor Don Filippo?”
    “Killing him? But the inspector said the marchese died after slipping and falling into the gorge.”
    “Yes, but why did he slip?”
    “How should I know? He lost his footing.”
    “No, sir. The pharmacist was like an open book on this point. He said that the marchese felt ill—he felt, I dunno, faint or something, and then he fell into the gorge.”
    “So?”
    “You really surprise me, Father. He felt faint, or dizzy, because of the state that whore had left him in.”
    “That whore, as you call her, and I’m sorry to defend her, did nothing more than what the marchese asked her to do. And anyway, I’m sorry, but what did they have to gain from Don Filippo’s death? Had he lived, the marchese would have made them even richer.”
    “No, no. Those two think the way peasants think. They decided that a bird in the hand—Le Zubbie today—was worth two in the bush.”
    One thing led to another, and one night Father Macaluso came to a decision—not to prevent an injustice, but to commit one himself. By intervening in the matter, he would avenge himself of all the bad turns the marchese had done him.
    The first thing he did was to go to see ragioniere Papìa, who was an honorable man. Papìa confirmed the bequest, but also pointed out that the marchese’s possessions were so many and so vast, that to lose Le Zubbie was like losing one drop from a bottle of wine. And his word was gospel: he had been Don Filippo’s administrator and continued to perform the same service after Marchesina ’Ntontò had given him a vote of confidence. Father Macaluso pretended not to know any of this and showed up at the office of Scimè the notary.
    “I don’t understand by what right you are requesting this information of me,” the notary said coldly to him.
    “By my rights as a citizen and priest,” Father Macaluso replied proudly.
    “Rights which in this office aren’t worth any more than a pile of cowshit. In any case, just to dispel all doubt, I can tell you that this business of the bequest is true, and that the legal heiress—the marchesina—has thirty more days to appeal it. But she had better find herself a good lawyer.”
    “There aren’t any surprises in store for us in the will, are there?”
    “What will? Let me speak your tongue: it would have been easier to convince a camel to do that bullshit mentioned in the Gospel than to persuade the dear departed to draw up a