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Authors: Ottavio Cappellani

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All alone, the Contessa telephones Paino. “Arturo. It’s done. You have a free show by Cagnotto. No, I have no idea. What the hell do you think I care about where he gets the money?”
Paino Phones Falsaperla
Paino phones Falsaperla. “I’m going to host Cagnotto’s show here at San Giovanni la Punta … No … no, I don’t know where he’s getting the money. No, not from me. Are you crazy? It’s a free performance, what do you want me to do? Tell me about it, tell me about it. They were going to grab the show for Pedara. Yes, yes, I know. Your guidelines, your memo.”
Falsaperla yells into the phone, “Now everybody’s going to want to know why, if there was a free show by Cagnotto available, I gave it to you.”
“And what are we supposed to do? Not let him work because he’s not asking for a penny?”
“Exactly. Otherwise how’s he going to know who to be grateful to?”
“He’ll be grateful to me because you didn’t even offer him a piazza.”
“You’ll pay for this, I swear I’ll make you pay for this.”
Gnazia appears at the door. “Could you stop yelling, because I’m on the phone too? Thanks.”
Paino has slammed down the receiver.
Paino is calling
La Voce della Sicilia
.
“This is Commissioner Paino of San Giovanni la Punta. You remember me? That time we did the finals of Queen for a Night, no, what was it called, that beauty contest we did here in the amphitheater. Certainly we’re doing it again this year! It’s called Miss Local Color and obviously we would be honored to have you as the president of the jury for the finals. No, no, don’t mention it. Listen, I wanted to give you a tip. You know Cagnotto? The avant-garde director? We’re going to do his upcoming play here in San Giovanni la Punta. The Contessa Salieri will be present too. The nobility, the slopes of Etna, you could do something like ‘Shakespeare, the aristocracy, and a weekend in San Giovanni la Punta,’ what do you think?”
 
 
Falsaperla too calls
La Voce della Sicilia
, only Falsaperla has the advertising budget of the province in hand and he speaks directly to the managing editor. “It’s Falsaperla. Cagnotto’s new performance does
not
have the sponsorship of the province. He’s doing it at San Giovanni la Punta, paid for by God knows who and I don’t want to know, and therefore, on our side, there’s no advertising coverage.”
Falsaperla grabs the remote and ups the ventilation on the air conditioner.
“Yes, we’ll be doing food festivals in the coastal towns. Uh-huh, I think we’ll advertise them. Yes, yes, the future of the slopes of Etna is definitely in local color. Food and wine, that’s right. Which brings me to something I wanted to say: I’m going to call the ad department because I think maybe it would be nice to have an insert, say eight pages, how many editorial pages could you give me? By the way, did
I say that Cagnotto’s new show doesn’t have the sponsorship of the province?”
Falsaperla tries to get his feet up on the desk. “That’s very good of you. No, no, sure, I’ve read the proposal. What Cagnotto presented was a real mess. It lacks
structure
. Structure. He’s good, of course, but there’s no structure. Otherwise, I would have sponsored him. I don’t understand how Paino could have … sure, they’re young and they want to be noticed, I know … I know … I know.”
Falsaperla gets his feet up on the desk. “I know.”
He takes the remote of the air conditioner in hand. “I know.”
 
 
At that very instant Cagnotto is looking for a parking place on Corso Sicilia. He doesn’t have a clue how you go about getting a mortgage on an apartment. He just hopes it won’t take too long. In front of him looms a giant concrete building, his bank.
Ridi, Pagliaccio
…
Ridi, Pagliaccio …
 
Seated in a leather chair in the calm of his wood-paneled study, Mister Turrisi takes refuge in opera.
The week has passed much like the equatorial climate that for some time has possessed Sicily, due to chlorofluorocarbon emissions that, according to some, are provoking the alternating blistering heat and violent downpours that make the fruits of the earth grow fat and sensual.
Similarly, Turrisi’s mood has swung from melancholy to wild ecstasy, such as he experienced as an adolescent, buffeted by hormones, in solitary afternoon pleasures, when, having stolen a motorbike and found a secret hiding place in a courtyard baked by the sun, he was unable to determine if the emotion he felt was erotic pleasure (an ineffable mystery whose existence he’d learned of thanks to the explicit stories he’d heard from older companions) or merely the result of a digestive process which had reached its natural climax.
She calls, she calls, she says she’ll call, but she doesn’t call. What the fuck was going on? He had written a letter to Milord and Milady, permission had been granted, the lunch had been a great success, and then came the mysterious call. He was certain, however, that Betty had feelings for him, and that made it possible to endure the distance between them while he waited to learn why.
Fuck if it made it possible; however, Turrisi knew that Englishmen behaved this way, they were calm and collected.
Devoting himself to Literature and the Fine Arts was the ideal way to prepare himself for their next encounter. Betty belongs to the younger generation, she hadn’t grown up, as he had, in a time when art didn’t fill your stomach, and even though the supermarkets had been full of food, the hunger in Sicily had been, how did you say? Ah, yes, atavistic. No, Betty’s generation is completely different, they all go to university, they read the newspaper, they
know
. To tell the truth, his father and Betty’s father would be the same age today, if his father hadn’t … Turrisi squelches the thought of his father. Already he’s listening to opera, all he needs now is to start thinking about his father and begin to weep right there in front of Lino.
Lino too is young, and
knows
.
… e ognun applaudirà!
Tramuta in lazzi lo spasmo e il pianto;
in una smorfia il singhiozzo e ’l dolor …
Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto …
 
… and all will applaud!
Make mock of pain and tears;
And grin with sighs and woe …
Laugh, Clown, for your broken heart …
The recording is from the famous production with Maria Callas (soprano) in the role of Nedda, Giuseppe Di Stefano (tenor) as Canio,
Tito Gobbi (baritone) as Tonio, and Rolando Panerai (baritone) playing Silvio.
Turrisi nods as he follows the libretto and the music, seated on the edge of his chair, his hands clasped at his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles, his eyelids heavy. Turrisi, deep in his heart where it is difficult to dissemble, above all to himself, thinks that Ruggero Leoncavallo’s
Pagliacci
is just a story about Nedda, an actress and a slut, who has married a miserable two-timed comedian, Canio, so she can use him. Nedda won’t go to bed with Tonio (a hard-up case who tries it on because he knows she’s a slut) because he’s an intellectual but a little bit of an asshole, while at the same time she wants to go to bed with Silvio, the peasant, who’s totally dumb but has a nice body because he works in the fields.
However, Turrisi is convinced that there must be something more to the story, I mean, how could a guy become an opera composer just by telling the story of a common slut?
However, opera is full of sluts. That’s the impression he has gained since he began to learn about this new art form. He knows that this impression is due to the fact that he grew up with a mother who was obsessed with postwar hardship, who was always saying, “It’s macaroni that’ll fill your stomach.” But now Turrisi can’t wait to connect to the new generation. And so he has hired a consigliere, Lino Marchica, a
deep
young man with a university education, who’s instructing him in opera. Turrisi is not ashamed of his own ignorance. After all, his ignorance has not prevented him from owning a bank in London. But he knows it’s right to get advice from those who know better.
Studying opera. There couldn’t be a better way to spend his time in order to impress Betty Pirrotta, who, Turrisi is certain, is fed up with living at home with that arriviste father of hers who drove a cement-mixer in his youth, and with Milady, who had gone to work at a glove factory, when nobody, not even in Sicily, had bought a glove in years.
He and Lino had studied the
Cavalleria rusticana
,
La Bohème
, and now they are studying
Pagliacci
. Lino had explained to him that you said it like that,
Pagliacci
, without the article. Turrisi takes the stereo remote that’s sitting between his legs and lowers the volume. It’s the signal that he wants an explanation.
Lino, who looks like he’s about twenty, rimless glasses, a mass of dark curls, a narrow tie with a white, short-sleeved shirt, sits in front of him on a sofa covered with books. He looks at Turrisi and scratches his head. Pietro had found him Lino. It was amazing how many people Pietro had gotten to know selling sandwiches at Pietroburger.
Turrisi nods, he’s ready to listen.
“Pagliacci
deepens opera’s
verismo
tradition, which begins to focus more attention on the conditions of Southern Italy,” Lino begins.
“Right!” says Turrisi, giving the armchair a whack.
He looks at Lino, decides his reaction was a little over the top, flashes a polite smile, and says, “Right!” but this time with his voice lowered and with a little punch of his right fist onto his left palm. Yes, that’s better.
“It was staged in 1892 at the Teatro dal Verme in Milan, with Arturo Toscanini conducting. Other works of the period that belong to the same school of
verismo
, inspired by Giovanni Verga, include
Mala Pasqua!
by Stanislao Gastaldon, an opera that follows the same plot as
Cavalleria rusticana
but which had little success.”
“The same as Mascagni’s?”
Lino nods.
“Poor bugger. With that name. Go on, go on.”
“
Mala vita
by Umberto Giordano …”
“Shit,
Mala Pasqua
,
Mala vita
, sounds like
crime
opera.” He sniggers.
Lino’s expression doesn’t change.
Turrisi stops laughing. He coughs. “No, no, you’re right,” he says.
“Vendetta sarda, un mafioso …”
Turrisi’s about to say something.
Lino interrupts him. “Never mind.”
Turrisi nods.
“Pagliacci
was inspired by a true story, which Leoncavallo probably heard from his father, a Calabrian magistrate.”
“Magistrate?”
“Magistrate,” says Lino, looking bored.
“Calabrian?”
Lino nods
yes
again.
Turrisi makes a disgusted face.
“It seems to refer to a crime that took place at Montalto Uffugo.”
“What a dumb name. Go on, please.”
“A company of jugglers and acrobats had come to town and a servant of the Leoncavallo family, a man named Gaetano, began to pursue one of the actresses. Her jealous husband slit both their throats on the night of Ferragosto.”
“Impossible!” Turrisi gives an
impossible!
shake of his head.
“Impossible?”
“You think Leoncavallo would write an
opera
about an actress getting it on with a servant?”
Lino makes a funny face. He thinks. “But—”
“Never mind, go on, go on … with a name like
Gaetano
!” Turrisi flashes a superior smile.
“The poetics of
Pagliacci
are spelled out in the prologue, in the voice of Tonio …”
Turrisi drops his eyelids to half mast again. “Tonio,” he says, nodding. “Now, there’s a name that belongs in an opera, not like Gaetano.”
Lino picks up a book. He flips through it looking for the right page.
“Here it is:”
Io sono il Prologo
poiché in scena ancor
le antiche maschere mette l’autore,
in parte ei vuol riprendere
le vecchie usanze, e a voi
di nuovo inviami.
Ma non per dirvi come pria:
Le lacrime che noi versiam son false!
Degli spasimi e de’ nostri martir
non allarmatevi! No! No!
 
I am the Prologue
since on the stage today
the author uses ancient masks,
partly to revive
the old customs, and to
send me to you anew.
But not to say as once was done:
The tears we shed are false!
Of the pain and of our martyrdom
have no fear! No! No!
Lino looks at Turrisi.
“No! No!” says Turrisi, alarmed. “For God’s sake.”
Lino looks at his shoe. “The author’s intentions could not be more different from what we see in, for example, Shakespeare’s
Tempest
, when Prospero lays down his mantle, saying …” Lino looks for the book:
Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch’d
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely ordered that there is no soul—
No, not so much perdition as an hair
Betid to any creature in the vessel
Which thou heard’st cry, which thou saw’st sink.
Turrisi’s mouth falls open. “But wait, we haven’t studied
The Tempest
yet.”
“Yes, we did. We studied all the works of Shakespeare.”
“Sure, we did Shakespeare, but we didn’t do
The Tempest
.”
“Um …”
Turrisi looks at the young man, then looks at his watch. “Okay, I’ve got another appointment now.”
Lino shrugs. He picks up his books while Turrisi says, “Excellent, very good. Nice,
Pagliacci
.”
Turrisi gets up from his chair in excellent spirits, singing,
Ree-dee Pagliac-cio
, under his breath. From time to time Lino has this habit of playing literary critic and starts laying on such quantities of bullshit that Turrisi can’t take it. The idea here is to get the bare bones, they can do criticism another day.
Lino goes out with his books under his arm.
Turrisi slams the door behind him, hurries over to the stereo, fiddles with the knobs, and sits down in his armchair. Forget about literary criticism, he knows better. Opera should be memorized. He once met a guy in Catania who knew every opera in existence by heart, and the guy sat there for hours in Cosimo’s bar listening to romantic arias about ill-fated lovers. Ill-fated lovers are very popular with young people.
Forget about literary criticism.
Turrisi closes his eyes and, following the melody with his mouth pursed up in a heart shape, purrs:
Stridano lassù, liberamente
lasciati a vol, a vol come frecce, gli augel …
Crying on high, flying
free, flying like arrows, the birds …
Turrisi’s face clouds for a moment.
Betty hasn’t called.
Art is the ideal cure for a heart sick with love, no doubt about it. But how perfect it would be to be able to resolve matters of the heart the same way you resolved business matters.
A little bomb, a nice explosion, and you never had to worry about it again.
He softens once more.
Lasciateli vagar per l’atmosfera
questi assetati di azzurro e di splendor
seguono anch ’essi un sogno una chimera
e vanno, e vanno, fra le nubi d’or.
 
Let them roam the air
hungry for blue skies and for splendor
they too chase a dream, a chimera
diving, diving, among the golden clouds.
 
Curtain.

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