Sicilian Tragedee by Ottavio Cappellani Read Free Book Online

farsightedness, shit, I can’t believe it, thought Pirrotta, holding his side.

    And now Betty—shit, how sweet it is—is getting into that fucking Mercedes to go on her date with Turrisi!
    Want to bet I’m going to kill two birds with one stone? thinks Pirrotta. Not only will I get Turrisi to share the oil rights with me, but also (I can’t believe this) I’ll get Betty out of my house and into his. I can’t believe it.
     
     
    Carmine adjusts his lacy shirt cuffs, crosses his legs, and tunes the Mercedes’ TV monitor to MTV.
    Carmine, to tell the truth, likes Turrisi. He’s seen him around, elegant and a little bit melancholy, with his English automobiles. He’s hard to resist; he looks lost and homeless. And then he has that pencil mustache, that Brylcreem in his hair, that aura of power and respect.
    He’s not entirely sure whether Turrisi will make an equally good impression on Betty, who for her lunch has put on the sort of bright pink vinyl minidress that only a turbocharged blow-job expert would wear.
    However, it’s also true that girls like Betty can plow though half the men in town, then go on to marry someone like Turrisi. They seem to positively go for guys with wimp faces. And a wimp-face is what Turrisi has, shit if he doesn’t. Carmine, to tell the truth, wouldn’t mind at all saving him from that inferno populated by bitches like Betty!
    Betty, getting into the backseat, slams the door in a fit of pique, flashes a smile that has fuck-all to do with it, and asks, “So what’s this Turrisi like?”
    Carmine, about to say something, changes his mind, looks out the window, and replies, “Mature.”
    Betty settles into her seat, her minidress riding up above her thong. “Mature. Good. A guy who can understand me.”

    Carmine, still looking out the window, replies, “Sweetheart, the fact that they nod when you talk doesn’t mean they understand you.”
    Betty grabs her bag, opens it, looks at something inside, closes it, and jams it between herself and Carmine. “You’re jealous because I can decide whether to ride in the front or the rear, and you can only go for the rear.”
    Then, addressing the driver, “And what the fuck are you waiting for?”
    “What a drag of a life,” murmurs Carmine, sighing. “Everybody waiting for a fuck.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    Each New Love Brings Great Tumult
    Each new love brings great tumult and Cagnotto grows ever more desperate. How true it is that love hits you when you least expect it, and above all, when you’re least looking for it. Cagnotto, sprawled on the sofa before an immense plasma-screen TV, broods.
    His collection of balls on the low table looks unstable. He blames the antidepressant for this impression. He’s bloated, with alcohol and anxiety, with poisons ingested and a dissolute existence, with ideas that won’t come, with discontents. No, this isn’t the moment to fall in love.
    No.
    The extra weight puts his elegance in question, strains his movements, his words, his assurance. His bank account has dried up and he doesn’t have even half an idea for a new theater season. The culture commissioners speak of nothing but proposals . “Give me a proposal. We need a proposal. Have you worked up a proposal?”
    Proposal. What fucking proposal?
    Maybe if he had a proposal his fat wouldn’t be such a problem.

    Cagnotto thinks of Orson Welles: How did he manage to be so fascinating even as he was growing rotund? Cagnotto thinks he looks like Orson Welles, the young Orson Welles, when he was just a little bit overweight; can it be that Bobo doesn’t see how much he looks like Orson Welles? Cagnotto reflects that Orson Welles had many, many proposals, his problem was that he had too many proposals. Cagnotto’s problem, instead, is named Bobo.
    Bobo is confused.
    Yes, that’s it, confused.
    He’s confused because of his youth, his impetuousness, his passion. Bobo is a young colt who’s frightened of nothing: such is the torment and the