Hunting Season: A Novel Page 12

  Mimì knocked on the door of Don Totò’s house, but nobody answered. Two things made him immediately suspicious: the first was that, though it was afternoon, he could see a lamp burning in one of the windows; and second, he could smell an odor of burnt meat coming from under the front door.

  At once he ran to alert Inspector Portera, who wasted no time having his assistant break down the door. And the scene that greeted the inspector, his man, and Mimì was such that the three simultaneously took off their hats. They felt as if they had entered a wax museum.

  Sitting at a round table impeccably set for dinner, Don Totò was raising a forkful of spaghetti to his mouth, Signora Harriet was wiping her lips with her napkin, and Petru was reaching for a slice of bread with his right hand. Nettie was in the kitchen, also sitting, with a plate on her knees and looking at a cooker, now extinguished, upon which sat a pan with a completely charred rabbit cacciatore inside. There was no sign of any violence. It was a perfect picture of everyday life. One almost expected these people, surprised at an intimate moment, to stand up and demand an explanation for the intrusion. Portera had seen many murders over the years, some of them frighteningly imaginative, but here it was the very lack of violence, or the apparent lack, that turned his stomach. His first thought was that it must have been a mistake by the black maid. It was well known that Nettie was obsessed with flavoring her spaghetti with the first things that came to mind. Then, all at once, the inspector remembered what the townsfolk had said about Don Totò and Nenè Impiduglia.

  Soon many people, after learning that the dead looked like statues, wanted to visit the museum. Frightened at the prospect, Portera sent for Lieutenant Baldovino and a small contingent of soldiers. The lieutenant tightened the slipknot around Impiduglia’s neck.

  “I saw Signor Impiduglia last night, right here in this house. He was near the kitchen window, drinking water.”

  Nenè, therefore, had somehow managed to enter the kitchen, where it would have been easy for him to put poison in the pot of boiling spaghetti water. The motive for vendetta was well established, and everyone knew it.

  Portera and two of his men dashed off to the house where Nenè had been staying. They knocked on the door, but it was Signora Clelia’s door, across the landing, that opened.

  “What is it? What do you want? Signor Impiduglia left early this morning. For Palermo. He said he was going to resume his studies.”

  “Break down the door,” Portera ordered his men.

  “But there’s no need!” Signora Clelia intervened. “He left me the key to give back to the landlord, and he also left me the rent money.”

  Her last statement slightly ruffled the inspector. Why would someone who has just finished killing four people bother to turn in the key and pay the rent before going on the lam? But the thought quickly faded from his mind when he saw the disorder of Nenè’s flat, with everything turned upside down, the sign of a hasty departure.

  Had he asked Signora Clelia, he would have learned that the disorder in that apartment was the normal order of Nenè Impiduglia’s life.

  Rediscovering the poker face of his former life as a brigand, Mimì told his mistress that Don Totò had had to go to the provincial capital for some important business. The marchese would come to lunch the following day. Having set ’Ntontò’s mind at rest with this whopper, he went to the shop, told the pharmacist what had happened—which Fofò, of course, already knew—and asked him to tell his mistress everything. He himself didn’t feel up to it.

  Fofò replied that he would take care of it, but that, in the meantime, Mimì should tell the marchesina that he would drop by in the evening.

  “And you, Father, don’t know which of Don Totò’s three offers Impiduglia was ready to accept?” asked Portera.

  “No, I don’t,” said Father Macaluso. “I merely communicated to him what the marchese had told me.”

  “But what are you trying to discover?!” Barone Uccello butted in. “He killed them, it’s as simple as that! He had it all planned. It’s possible he was going to accept one of the three offers—in my opinion the third, where he would take the money and leave—but then hatred made him change his mind.”

  “We’ll know the answer when we find him,” the inspector concluded.

  “You’re not going to find him so easily,” said the baron.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I never would have thought Nenè capable of murder. If he did it, it means he’s lost his head. And it’s not easy to know the reasoning of somebody who’s lost his head. Whereas you, dear inspector, have a reasoning mind. In short, you’re on two different roads that are unlikely to meet.”

  ’Ntontò opened the door but did not enter the small sitting room where Fofò La Matina was waiting for her.

  “What do you want?” she asked from the doorway.

  This took Fofò by surprise. Then he noticed that the marchesina was very pale and red-eyed. She was standing quite erect, unnaturally so.

  “Come, Marchesa. Please sit down. I have something to tell you.”

  “I already know what you have to tell me. I found out two hours ago. From Peppinella, who broke down when I started questioning her. Could you do me a favor?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  “Settle matters with Papìa, then take care of everything yourself.”

  7

  Taking care of everything was not an easy matter for Fofò. The first hitch came from the fact that Signora Harriet was Protestant.

  “What was she protesting?” said Father Macaluso. “All she had to do was drop in at the church and everything could have been resolved.”

  Another problem was finding Petru’s surname and date of birth. That Nettie was Christian, on the other hand, there was no doubt: every morning, when the sun was still rising from the sea, she would open her great window and start singing her praises to the Lord, clapping her hands and shaking all over. It was quite a spectacle. Fofò put the house with the columns up for sale, then gathered together all the documents and papers of Don Totò and his wife to send to America. He also wrote their children to tell them about the money the marchese had in Vigàta and almost surely in Palermo as well. Only one thing did he put in his own pocket: a little black book in which Don Totò jotted down his daily expenses. The last line of the book said: “Given to Nenè Impiduglia,” followed by a large sum.

  Some ten days later, the inspector headed off on horseback to Misilmeri, a town near Palermo. He had received a letter from a colleague there, and he wanted to verify its contents in person.

  As soon as he returned to Vigàta, he summoned Barone Uccello, Father Macaluso, and Fofò La Matina to his office.

  “Nenè Impiduglia has been located. He was found naked and dead in a thatched hut outside Misilmeri.”

  “Why naked?” the priest asked at once.

  “I doubt he took his clothes off himself,” said the inspector. “It was probably some passersby. They took everything, down to his underwear. It was probably people who needed clothing.”

  “Why dead?” the baron then asked, more to the point.

  “It’s not clear. There were no wounds on the body, except for a few dog bites.”

  “I think I know how he died,” Fofò La Matina cut in. “Did they find a little box beside him?”

  “They didn’t find anything at all. Only a torn envelope with his name and address on it. Why, what would have been in the box?”

  “Insulin and strychnine,” said the pharmacist.

  “Good God!” said the inspector.

  “I gave them to him myself—the strychnine pills, that is. They were for treating his diabetes, together with the insulin. Did you know he was ill?”

  “No,” the inspector and baron said in a single voice.

  “Being a diabetic,” Fofò La Matina continued, “he must have started feeling sick along the way. Maybe he r
an out of pills and was unable to find help.”

  “Of course he ran out of pills!” exclaimed Barone Uccello. “He had used them to poison Don Totò and his family!”

  “I don’t think so, Barone, not with strychnine.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because death from strychnine is visible. People’s faces and bodies become contorted from the spasms. Whereas at Don Totò’s house, everyone was in a natural pose. No, I think that son of a bitch poisoned them with belladonna.”

  It was well known that the pharmacist never used profanity, and thus calling Nenè Impiduglia a son of a bitch was out of character for him.

  “I’m sorry,” the pharmacist said, taking the little black book out of his pocket and handing it to the inspector. “Look at the last line. The scoundrel first took the money from Don Totò, and then he killed him.”

  “Would you be so kind as to break the news to ’Ntontò, as usual?” the baron asked the pharmacist after a pause.

  Fofò remained silent for a moment; it was clear he was weighing the pros and cons.

  “No, I won’t tell her. Let’s let her believe that Impiduglia escaped. I don’t know how she would take the news of another death. Her nerves are barely holding up.”

  “He can just as well not tell the marchesina about this last death. And he’s right not to tell her,” said Postmaster Colajanni later at the Circolo. “But the fact remains.”

  “I don’t see what you’re trying to insinuate,” said Barone Uccello, defensively. He was well familiar with that tone of voice from Colajanni.

  “I’m not trying to insinuate anything. I’m only counting.”

  “And what the hell are you counting?”

  Colajanni raised the thumb on his right hand and began.

  “Don Federico, Rico, Donna Matilde, Don Filippo, Don Totò, Signora Harriet, Petru, Nettie, and Nenè Impiduglia.”

  When he had finished his list, only the pinky on his left hand was not raised.

  “That makes nine,” he continued. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “No, sir, you have not. You must say it in plain speech.”

  “What plainer speech is there than this? I am saying the marchesina is doing more damage than an earthquake.”

  If Lieutenant Baldovino had not promptly restrained him, the baron would have pummeled the postmaster’s face with his fists.

  But the rumor was cast abroad and began to spread quickly through town because, as we know, calumny travels light as a breeze. ’Ntontò, for her part, only stirred the winds up further. Prey to insomnia, she would spend the night walking from room to room with a candle in her hand, and since she also suffered from hot flashes, she was forced to keep the windows open. And so the Vigatese who went to bed late and those who got up early saw her going through her rigmarole and got scared.

  “She’s always got a tear-soaked handkerchief over her mouth,” said one.

  “And her eyes look too wild,” said another.

  “I heard her laughing one night,” said a third.

  “It was hysteria, I’m sure, but it still makes your hair stand on end.”

  The members of the Agrò family discovered by chance, but to their great horror, that they were tenth cousins of ’Ntontò Peluso. Since they didn’t know how to read or write, they hired an old crone who, in matters of exorcism, was the best for miles around.

  Shortly thereafter, the pharmacist found an enormous red horn in front of the door to his house, with a note saying: For when you go visit the marchesa.

  When opening the great door of the palazzo one morning, Mimì found two live cockerels hanging from one of the handles. He waited a while for someone to come and take them back, and then, when nobody came, he untied them, broke their necks, and made a broth out of them. He didn’t know that the cockerels had been purposely put there by Saro Miccichè, whose three-year-old boy was gravely ill. The doctors, even those from Palermo, had examined and prodded him and prescribed remedies, but it was clear they had little hope.

  One week after Saro Miccichè had hung the cockerels from the palazzo door, something serious happened: the little boy recovered. And two days later he was running up and down the streets.

  Thereafter, not a morning went by without Mimì finding, upon opening up the palazzo, piles of wheat bread, vegetables, quarters of lamb, whole rounds of tumazzo cheese, sausages, baskets of ricotta, cassatas, cannoli, and so on.

  “She should thank God we no longer live in times of consequence,” said the postmaster. “Otherwise, not even the Holy Spirit could have saved ’Ntontò from the stake.”

  Then the matter began to die down as it had begun; first of all, because people realized that, despite the offerings made to the marchesa, whoever was supposed to die, died, and whoever was supposed to live, lived; and second, because on certain mornings the bearers of gifts found themselves face to face with Barone Uccello, who would start yelling and slapping and kicking them.

  Then ’Ntontò herself removed the burden she had placed on her own shoulders. One Sunday morning, around nine o’clock, she came out the great door and headed to the church in the company of Peppinella. She was still dressed in black, of course, but did not do anything strange; she walked properly and responded with a nod to those who greeted her. Someone even saw her attempt to smile behind her veil. Then she knelt down in the confessional, took Communion, and returned to the palazzo. That night the great windows remained closed.

  Another person, however, was seen walking along the beach late into the night, despite a strong north wind, and that person was Father Macaluso. Apparently something was not right with him, since he was talking to himself and gesticulating.

  “I want to confess.”

  “Have you offended the Lord in word or deed?”

  “Yes. I was rude to my servant Mimì and lost my patience with the maid, Peppinella.”

  “Those are venial sins, but sins nonetheless. You must be more careful, Marchesa. Five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers. Ego te—”

  He had raised a hand in benediction, knowing from experience that these were the worst of the girl’s offenses. But ’Ntontò’s voice froze him in midsentence.

  “There’s something else.”

  “Tell me.”

  “When I go to bed at night, I touch myself,” the marchesina said in a different voice, deep and husky.

  “What do you mean, you touch yourself?”

  “I mean, I touch myself.”

  “Where?”

  “In front and in back, on top and on the bottom. And afterwards I have a good sleep. Till morning.”

  “And is that why you do it, to fall asleep?”

  “Also.”

  “But, Jesus Christ, you can’t use a sin as if it was a pill!”

  “What can I do, if it makes me feel better? And it even gives me pleasure.”

  “Do you touch yourself only once?”

  “No, some nights many times.”

  “Many?”

  “Many.”

  “And do you do these things only to help yourself fall asleep, or are you thinking of someone in particular?”

  “I’m thinking of someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m ashamed to tell you.”

  “You must tell me, otherwise I can’t give you absolution.”

  “I think of Fofò La Matina.”

  This was what Father Macaluso was repeating to himself as he walked along the beach. And it gave him no peace. ’Ntontò’s conscience had always been like a great white sheet of paper; now it was stained with a nasty blot of black ink.

  “I want to confess.”

  “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Speak, Marchesa.”

  “The day before yesterday I slapped Peppinella after she talked back to me.”

  “Marches
a, for the love of God, you can skip the chickenshit. Let’s get to the point. Still?”

  “Yes.”

  “Every night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And on certain nights, several times in a row?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you still thinking of the same man?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was expecting this, Marchesa. Over the past week I’ve thought things over. It is my duty to save your soul. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I have an idea. Listen carefully.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you take the pharmacist for your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  Fofò La Matina had just sat down to eat when he heard knocking at the door and a voice cursing outside. He descended the wooden staircase, opened the door, and was immediately seized by the collar and thrust up against against a bench. Father Macaluso was in a rage.

  “Pig! Scoundrel! How dare you appear in a young girl’s fantasies! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  “What for?” the pharmacist managed to say, half asphyxiated.

  “Ah, the innocent man doesn’t know!”

  “I swear I don’t.”

  “Well, if you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you. But you shall do what I say, or I’ll break you in two, so help me God!”

  “And would you like to tell me what it is I’m supposed to do?”

  “You must marry the Marchesina ’Ntontò,” Father Macaluso shot out, finally letting go of Fofò’s neck.

  The pharmacist froze.

  “Are you joking?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Look at me: the marchesina is descended from Frederick the Second, whereas I have only just descended from the tree I used to pick the fruit from and sell it.”