Hunting Season: A Novel by Andrea Camilleri Read Free Book Online

standing in the doorway, smiling.

    When Don Filippo Peluso arrived at the front door of his palazzo after being away for eight days (having sent Pirrotta on a few other errands), the first thing he heard was the shrill voice of Donna Matilde piercing the window blinds, which were closed for mourning.
    “They shot him!”
    In the courtyard, Mimì the manservant informed him that nobody in the household had been able to get any sleep because of the signora marchesa’s constant screaming. Without batting an eye, the marchese got back on his horse, according himself another seven days of special leave with Trisina, which would continue the process of turning field watcher Natale Pirrotta into some sort of snakebitten traveler. And it was his own fault, really, for wanting to keep up appearances, even in front of the crickets—like the time when, returning home earlier than planned, he had found his wife and his master together in bed, stark naked. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, Natale reported what he had to report, and then asked:
    “Do you know where my wife Trisina might happen to be, sir?”
    “I think she’s gone into the garden,” the marchese replied, playing by the rules.
    “I’ll go and see if I can find her,” Pirrotta said, and went out.
    “Well, since for that fool I’m in the garden, let me pick this nice big cucumber here,” Trisina said, laughing and grabbing him firmly under the sheets.
    A sudden, violent cuff to the head from the marchese sent her flying out of the bed.
    “You must never make fun of your husband. You must show him the respect he deserves.”
    Before taking refuge again in Pirrotta’s cottage and Trisina’s lush garden, the marchese went into town, to the shop of Salamone e Vinci, fine jewelers. Without responding to the two business partners’ hand-wringing condolences, he sat himself down in front of Salomone’s counter. (He wanted nothing to do with Vinci—not because he wasn’t as accomplished as his associate, but because for no apparent reason the man got on his nerves.) He then extracted five exploded bullets from his pocket and laid them down on the table.
    “Have no fear,” he said, noticing the look on the jeweler’s face, “I fired them myself at a tree on my way here, and then dug them out with a knife.”
    “And what do you want me to do?”
    “Allow me to explain.”

    Seeing him enter her room, confidently pull up an armchair, and sit down before her as she sat sunken in another armchair, Donna Matilde got flustered. Then she decided to talk to the stranger.
    “Are you aware that my son was murdered?”
    Don Filippo was not surprised. ’Ntontò had told him that for the past month the poor woman no longer recognized anybody and used the formal mode of address with everyone.
    “And how do you deal with it?” he had asked his daughter.
    “I answer her in kind,” ’Ntontò had said, giving a wan hint of a smile, “and follow the rules of etiquette to a T.”
    “And you know what takes the cake?” the marchesa continued, speaking to the stranger. “Nobody believes it. They say he died eating poison mushrooms. My son, who knew everything there was to know about every mushroom in creation. Are you from these parts?”
    “Who?” asked the marchese, taken by surprise.
    “You. Are you from these parts?”
    “No. Just passing through.”
    And he really did feel as if he was only passing through, since the moment he set foot back in his house he had come to the decision to grant himself another three months at Le Zubbie.
    “I’m a friend of your husband, the marchese,” he added.
    “The cuckolded bastard,” Donna Matilde said under her breath.
    The marchese gave a start and grimaced.
    “Do you mean that in a manner of speaking, or is it true?”
    “Why are you making that face? His own brother wouldn’t have such a reaction!”
    “Marchesa, do not change the subject. You absolutely must answer my question.”
    “I meant it