Hunting Season: A Novel Page 2

  The old man looked down and, as he had done that afternoon, muttered:

  “Madonna biniditta!”

  “May I, sir?”

  For the stranger—who was as taut as a violin string—the sound of another voice right beside him had the same effect as a pistol shot. He took three quick steps back, ready to start running. The man who had spoken was tall and husky, dressed in black, completely bald, and looked to be about sixty. In his hand he held a blanket, which he then delicately wrapped around the old man’s body. When he had finished, he turned and eyed the stranger.

  “Need anything?”

  “Goodbye,” was the stranger’s reply.

  An hour later, he couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. At last, no longer able to stand the torment, the stranger turned to Signora Adamo, who was serving him a dish of fried calamaretti and shrimp.

  “Excuse me, signora, but do you know who that man in front of the Circolo dei Nobili is?”

  “There are so many idlers around there.”

  “No, I was referring to a very old man who sits in a wicker chair.”

  “Well, Signor Liquori—”

  “Liguori.”

  “—That’s the Marchese Peluso, Don Federico Maria u vecchiu, as they call him in town—‘the elder,’ so as not to confuse him with his grandson, who has the same name.”

  “So he would be the father of the Marchese Don Filippo?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But doesn’t the old man have anyone to help him?”

  “What do you mean? His manservant, Mimì, a tall man dressed in black without a hair on his head, carries him four times a day, in his chair, from his house to the Circolo and back. He looks after him, brings him blankets if it’s cold, removes his jacket when it’s hot. And he’s always keeping an eye on him from a window in Palazzo Peluso.”

  “By ‘helping him’ I meant, I dunno, changing his clothes, washing him . . . He looked utterly filthy to me.”

  “The marchese’s filth is his own business. It’s nobody’s fault. When Mimì tries to wash him down a little, the old man starts screaming so loud you’d think a pig was being slaughtered. One time, when he could still walk, he came here to eat with a friend and got some sauce on his hands.

  “‘Would you like to wash your hands, sir?’ I asked him.

  “‘My dear,’ he replied, ‘for me, even rinsing my hands is a calamity.’”

  That same evening, at the Circolo dei Nobili, there was a general meeting to appoint the new members. The only person missing was Signor Fede.

  “He must still be out hunting for strangers,” quipped Barone Uccello.

  The Marchese Peluso requested permission to speak.

  “Before we begin considering names,” he said, “I have a serious proposal to make. And that is, that the Circolo dei Nobili should no longer be called that.”

  “Why not?” asked Lieutenant Amedeo Baldovino.

  “Because there are only two nobles left here, myself and Barone Uccello. Everyone else—and far be it from me to offend anyone—hasn’t got the slightest connection to the nobility. Perhaps we should call our club the ‘Circle of Two Nobles and Their Relatives.’ The whole thing makes me laugh.”

  “The marchese is right!” enthusiastically replied the ex-Garibaldino Aguglia, the commendatore who was convinced that all men were almost equal. “Let’s call it the Circolo Garibaldi.”

  They began, in silence, to contemplate the proposal. Then Dr. Smecca asked to speak.

  “I don’t agree with Marchese Peluso,” he said. “Everyone should know that I speak only for myself, of course. I am not noble but, personally, I rather like being a member of the Circolo dei Nobili, whereas I couldn’t care less about belonging to some common Circolo Garibaldi.”

  As all present were applauding Dr. Smecca, Fede the surveyor came in. The hall suddenly grew silent again.

  “Nothing.”

  “Weren’t you able to talk to him?” asked Baldovino, who, after just two years in town, had become more Vigatese than the Vigatese.

  “Oh, I talked to him, all right. And he’s polite, of course, but prickly and standoffish.”

  “Yes, he certainly is standoffish,” the lieutenant seconded him. “During the entire journey here, neither Signor Colajanni nor Signora Clelia could extract a single tidbit of information from him.”

  “Why,” said Colajanni, slightly piqued, “didn’t you try to extract anything yourself?”

  “I certainly did,” said Baldovino, smiling.

  “But I did find out one thing,” the surveyor cut in, pausing slyly after making this statement. “His name.”

  “What is it?” they all asked in chorus.

  “His name is Santo Alfonso de’ Liguori.”

  Father Macaluso, who according to his custom was sitting off to the side, sulking and reading the newspaper, suddenly lit up like a match.

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  “The owner of the boardinghouse told me that was his name.”

  “The owner of the boardinghouse was pulling your leg. That’s the name of a saint!”

  “Isn’t that what I said? His name’s Santo!”

  “You nitwit! Alfonso de’ Liguori is a saint, not someone who’s first name is Santo!”

  “I beg your pardon, Father Macaluso,” Barone Uccello calmly intervened, “but is it somehow forbidden that someone should have Santo as his first name, Alfonso as his middle name, and de’ Liguori as his surname?”

  “It’s not forbidden, but it sounds like humbug to me.”

  “And did you find out how long he’ll be staying in Vigàta?” Colajanni, the postmaster, asked.

  “A fortnight. Which means I’ll have all the time I need to find out how many hairs he’s got on his ass.”

  In the end, however, he proved unable to count these hairs—to continue the metaphor—for it was the stranger himself who decided at a certain point to let everyone know who he was and what he had come to do in Vigàta.

  Having rented a cabriolet and horse, the stranger began going back and forth to Montelusa, where the administrative offices were. Here he was seen entering the Royal Prefecture, the Royal Commissariat of Police, the Royal Tax Office, and many other no less royal venues. But the purpose of this grand tour remained nevertheless unknown. One evening Santo Alfonso was seen walking around the port and speaking in a low voice with Bastiano Taormina, a man with whom it was considered unwise to break bread and whom it was better not to meet at night.

  Fede the surveyor, who had witnessed that meeting from a distance, was unable to sleep for the rest of the night, so keenly was his curiosity eating him alive. Very early the next morning, quivering inside like gelatin, he paid a visit to the fruit and vegetables shop of Bastiano Taormina.

  “And a very good morning to you, Don Bastiano!” he greeted the greengrocer, leaning on the doorjamb in a pose that looked nonchalant but was in fact dictated by the need to lean against something. Taormina, who was unloading a crate of peas, didn’t even respond.

  “May I come in?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Now that he had to say something, the surveyor felt his mouth go all dry.

  “I have a question, just one, and then I’ll leave you to your work. Who is Santo Alfonso de’ Liguori?”

  The other stared back at him with bovine eyes.

  “A saint. My mother prays to him.”

  “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t make myself clear. Who is the new stranger in town?”

  “A man,” said Taormina, his eyes darkening.

  Fede did not insist, realizing that one question more might prove fatal.

  But the surveyor did manage nevertheless to gain satisfaction.

  “I know the whole story!” he cried triumphantly two days later to his friends and the Circolo.
“Signor de’ Liguori has bought the house that used to belong to Taormina’s brother, Jano, who died at sea. It’s right on the Corso, near my place, and has a store downstairs and an apartment above. The masons and carpenters start work tomorrow.”

  “Why has he come to Vigàta?”

  “I know that too,” said the surveyor, puffing up with pride like a peacock. “He’s going to open a pharmacy.”

  Thus nobody was curious when, the next few times the Franceschiello called at port, Sasà Mangione unloaded some huge trunks stuffed so full they risked giving him a hernia with every step he took; and nobody was curious when a crate full of glass tubes and bottles and flasks in theretofore unseen forms arrived at the post office; and nobody was curious when pharmacist de’ Liguori spent the morning combing the countryside looking for and gathering certain kinds of grasses and flowers. These things were all part of his profession.

  “He’s thought everything out very carefully,” said Fede the surveyor. “On the ground floor there’s the pharmacy, behind which there’s a great big room full of counters with glass gizmos on them. There are also two big jugs full of water and a little oven for drying plants. There’s also a door in this back room which gives onto the street, so that if the pharmacist wants to come and go when the shop is closed, he doesn’t have to open the front door; and there’s a broad wooden staircase that leads to the apartment upstairs, where there’s a living and dining room, a bedroom, a kitchen, and a commode.”

  “What is the bed like?”

  “Small.”

  “A sign he doesn’t want to settle down,” said Signor Colajanni, who had two marriageable daughters.

  “You’re telling us things that anyone can see with his own eyes,” Barone Uccello cut in, “but you still can’t tell us who Santo Alfonso de’ Liguori is or why he got it in his head to set up a pharmacy in Vigàta.”

  “That is the question,” the surveyor said pensively.

  “Tomorrow afternoon they’re going to open a pharmacy in town,” Mimì said as he was carrying his master, chair and all, from the palazzo to the Circolo. He often told him of the goings-on about town, such as: “Pippineddu the mason fell from a ladder and broke his leg,” or “Signora Balistreri gave birth to a baby daughter,” and he would say these things just to amuse him and help the time pass, knowing he would never reply. But as he was covering him with the blanket, since it was late February and frosty, the old man made as if to speak.

  “No,” he said with such effort that he began to sweat, despite the cold. “No, Mimì. Tomorrow hunting season opens.”

  “What are you saying, sir? It’s a pharmacy that’s opening, and the pharmacist is that gentleman stranger who greets you every time he passes by.”

  “No, Mimì, tomorrow hunting season opens. And I don’t want to get shot.”

  “But what are you afraid of, sir? What, are you a quail or something?”

  Mimì was dumbfounded. The marchese had not spoken so much in years.

  The old man bobbed his head forward, as if to say yes.

  “But I am a quail, Mimì; it is just as you say.”

  He took a long, deep breath, exhausted from all the words he was saying.

  “And remember one thing, Mimì. I don’t want to get shot. I would sooner kill myself.”

  Mimì paid no mind. His master had not been quite right in the head for some time.

  “Shall I go get a basin, warm up some water, and wash your hands in it?”

  By way of reply, the old man’s terrified scream shook the windowpanes on the door of the Circolo.

  The bomb went off half an hour after the pharmacy was inaugurated.

  “Something’s not right,” said Fede the surveyor, coming in out of breath.

  “Not a bloody thing’s right for me,” said Barone Uccello, who was losing game after game.

  “The pharmacist hired Fillicò, the carriage painter, to make his sign. Fillicò made it picture-perfect and just now hung it over the door. You know what it says?”

  “‘Pharmacy,’” said Lieutenant Baldovino.

  “Right, but just below, instead of the proprietor’s name, Santo Alfonso de’ Liguori, there’s a different name: Alfonso La Matina.”

  “Pharmacy, Alfonso La Matina,” the lieutenant summarized.

  “But if his name is Alfonso La Matina, why did he say it was Santo Alfonso de’ Liguori?” asked Barone Uccello, asking the question that was in everybody’s mind.

  “Madonna biniditta!” the Marchese Peluso exclaimed, lost in thought. “Madonna biniditta!” he repeated, unaware he was using the same expression his father had used upon seeing the stranger. He shot to his feet, grabbed his coat and hat, and ran out of the club.

  He returned half an hour later, appearing at once pleased and unconvinced.

  “I talked to him,” he said. “You know who he is? He’s Fofò, Santo La Matina’s son. Do you remember Santo?”

  “Of course I remember him,” said Barone Uccello after a moment’s pause. “He was that farmhand of your father’s, who had a magic garden in a secret place.”

  “That’s the one,” said the marchese.

  “A magic garden?” said Lieutenant Baldovino, skeptical.

  “Oh yes, lieutenant, and it was magic indeed,” the marchese explained. “I saw it myself. A little patch of earth with all of God’s bounty in it. And, as a matter of fact, those vegetables, herbs, and fruits could cure anything.”

  “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “No. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask anyone who still remembers it, like Barone Uccello, here present. Then, one day some twenty years ago, Santo and his son Fofò disappeared. Or rather, Fofò alone disappeared; he was about ten years old at the time. Santo was found a foot underground with his throat slashed. His killers had burned down his garden and scattered salt over it.”

  “Were the culprits ever found?”

  “Never. And that is precisely why Fofò La Matina, when he came here to open his pharmacy, used a different name. He was afraid that some of his father’s killers might still be in town.”

  “And how does he know now they’re not still around?”

  “Because, aside from buying a house, he talked to Bastiano Taormina. And Bastiano told him everything he needed to know. But the pharmacist didn’t tell me what Bastiano said. He only told me how that night, four masked men came for them and wanted to kill him, too. But Fofò hid behind a big shrub with the sack of money his father had managed to hand him right before the killers entered the house. When the masked men left, Fofò escaped, taking eight days to get to Palermo, where he went to a cousin of his father’s who was a priest and recognized him. You can imagine the rest. But I can tell you one thing: if Fofò has a quarter of his father’s talent, that pharmacy is going to make him rich.”

  The latest bit of news concerning the pharmacist was a strictly private matter, which, nevertheless, as always happened in Vigàta, immediately became public. To wit: Signora Clelia had not been able to stomach something that happened on her way home from Palermo on the Franceschiello. At a certain moment during the journey, as everyone was eating, Captain Cumella had come out and said that thirty years earlier, at the exact point in which they found themselves, an Austrian three-master had sunk into the sea for no apparent reason with all its passengers and the entire crew. Upon hearing this, Signora Clelia decided to have an attack. She stiffened and began shaking her head to the left and right, moaning and rolling her eyes backwards. It was a maneuver she always pulled off rather well, having practiced it since the age of eight whenever something didn’t go her way. The three men with her, Captain Cumella, Signor Colajanni, and Lieutenant Baldovino, rushed to her aid without a moment’s hesitation, with Captain Cumella opening her mouth and making her drink some water, Signor Colajanni fanning her with his napkin, and Lieutenant Baldovino unlacing her bodice with his dextrous hands.
The only one who did not budge was the person for whom the entire drama was being performed: the stranger, now identified as Fofò La Matina the pharmacist, who stood the whole time to one side, twirling his moustache. And now Signora Clelia wished to avenge herself for his indifference.

  One day, when she learned from her maid, Cicca, that Dr. Smecca was ill, she decided she urgently needed to see a doctor.

  “But where are you going to go, if Smecca is unavailable? Would you like me to accompany you to Girgenti?” asked her husband, unaware that the horns on his head were so tall that they could have been used as lighthouses.

  “There’s no need. I’ll go and see the new pharmacist. I have the impression he’s very good.”

  She washed herself from head to toe, using an entire jug of water, doused herself in Coty perfume, bedizened herself in black Brussels-lace panties and bra—an already tested tool able to turn a bent blade of grass into rock-hard pitch pine—powdered her nose, dolled herself up, and went to the pharmacy.

  “What do you need?” the pharmacist asked.

  You, Signora Clelia wanted to reply, but instead she said:

  “I want you to examine me.”

  “I am not a doctor, signora.”

  “I know. But I am told you are talented. And I need to be examined so badly that you cannot even imagine it.”

  “I take no responsibility,” said the pharmacist. Then he turned towards a boy he had hired as his assistant. “If anyone comes,” he said, “tell them I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  “Do you think five minutes will be enough?” asked Signora Clelia, batting her eyelashes.

  The pharmacist invited her to follow him up the wooden staircase to the living and dining room, sat her down, and inquired as to what was ailing her. As she was speaking, and without Fofò’s having asked, Signora Clelia quickly stripped down to her black Brussels lace, looking from time to time towards the bedroom. The pharmacist listened to her, dead serious.

  “Please get dressed, signora, and go back downstairs,” he said. “In the meantime I’ll prepare something for you.”