The prefects order the second call to be sounded.
The lights go down.
Betty whispers into Carmine’s ear, “And now I want to see what the fuck they do, those two faggots Turrisi and my father.”
The curtain opens, silence falls in the theater.
Enter Chorus.
CHORUS
Two households, both alike in dignity
In fair Verona where we lay our scene
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
Vaccalluzzo says to Paolino, “How long does it last?”
Then Lady Capulet explains to Juliet that she must marry Paris, Romeo changes his mind about Rosalina and decides to go for Juliet. He stakes out the balcony and discovers that Juliet is a Capulet, daughter of that slimeball Capulet.
“See?” says Betty at the end of the first act. “Nothing happened. Let’s go to the bar, I’m nervous.”
Carmine gets up, adjusts his cuff links, looks at Betty with contempt.
“Where’s Turrisi sitting?”
Carmine doesn’t reply, he’s heading for the foyer.
“And this is the foyer. Okay? Here we can do whatever we want. You see an angle you like? At your service. You want us to close the Corso? We’ll close it. Oh, and obviously the same thing all over Sicily. Everybody’s working with us, the mayors, the commissioners, the caterers. Oh, and in addition to locations, we can also do casting, obviously, which is a good deal, by the way. Sicilian actors will work for nothing just to have a job, if you get my drift.” Rattalina is telling the Thompson brothers why it’s advantageous to make films in Sicily. “And if you decide you want to make a series, I can get you further discounts on the prices.”
Avvocato Coco passes out at the feet of the Thompson brothers.
Rattalina, embarrassed, steps over Coco while a group of police officers come running.
Vaccalluzzo on the other hand, has remained in his box, looking down.
Like Pirrotta.
Who’s looking at him from a box not far away.
Vaccalluzzo stares back and nods.
Pirrotta stands up and bows toward Vaccalluzzo.
Vaccalluzzo turns toward Paolino. “What the fuck does Pirrotta have in mind?”
Paolino looks toward Pirrotta.
“What’s he supposed to have in mind? His funeral, no?”
Vaccalluzzo looks at Paolino. Then he hurries to the door of the box and opens it. His boys are on guard.
“Everything under control here?”
His boys nod.
Behind the scenes, everybody’s pretending nothing is up, except for Lambertini, who’s replaying the death of Juliet in two versions, the fake and the real one.
A British TV crew wants to get a close-up of Caporeale’s codpiece. “Could you lie back on that divan, please? You know, like in the famous painting,
The Origin of the World
?”
The second call sounds.
The audience take their seats for the beginning of Act Two.
The police are tense, ready to jump.
The lights go down.
CHORUS
But passion lends them power, time means, to meet
Tempering extremities with extreme sweet.
Turrisi squeezes the velvet border on the balcony of his box.
Enter Romeo.
BENVOLIO
Here comes Romeo! Here comes Romeo!
MERCUTIO
(
Looking toward the public, half squatting, with a screwing motion thrusts up his arm and then follows through with his whole body, rising off the stage in a little hop.
)
Nay, I am the very
pink
of courtesy.
ROMEO
(
Covering his crotch with both hands, then spreading them out slowly as if something were swelling in his undershorts
)
Pink in the sense of something that flowers? That explodes with the joy of springtime? Or pink like something that pricks? That
swells and stands up? Stands up like a turret? Pointed like a mountaintop? (
He joins the five fingers of his right hand and thrusts it upward.
) Or are you not speaking of an uphill struggle through nettlesome bushes?
Pause.
MERCUTIO
(
Bouncing on his knees while he moves his arm back and forward like a pendulum, a pendulum that culminates in a finger pointing toward
ROMEO)
Thou hast most kindly hit it.
ROMEO
(
Brief pause while he appears, although no one can be sure, to wink at the audience, then moves his arms in a circle and positions his hands once again on his crotch, which he clutches meaningfully
)
You want to hear my reply? It’s this great, big, pointed, sweet-smelling, flowering explosion of my great, big, hotheaded, crazy dick.
Caporeale and Cosentino turn toward the audience while the mortar under Chartered Accountant Intelisano’s rear end begins to ignite.
It all happens in an instant.
Chartered Accountant Intelisano lifts off from the pit while Caporeale and Cosentino follow him with their eyes.
Backstage, Lambertini is listening,
She’s waiting for the next line.
She’s looking at Cagnotto.
The pause goes on longer than necessary.
Lambertini yells, “Fuck, no—not again!”
Special Agent Cavallaro runs up onstage to prevent panic. “Stay in your seats! Lights up! Lights up!”
No need for Cavallaro to say so, the lights are already coming up.
The hall sits immobile, gazing up.
Down at the feet of Special Agent Cavallaro, with a sound of bones crunching, falls Rattalina’s body.
The audience looks down toward the stage.
Chartered Accountant Intelisano descends from the plaster angels on the ceiling and comes down on top of Commendatore Calì, president of the local Rotary Club.
It’s a Beautiful Day and Villa Wanda Is Full of Cops
It’s a beautiful day and Villa Wanda is full of cops.
Turi Pirrotta is very nervous.
Wanda even more so.
Cops coming out of every room, walking all over the place, hustling around.
To say that Vaccalluzzo was pissed off was to seriously understate the matter.
First he had leaned over to see if he had seen right.
He had seen right.
Then, with his boys deployed around him, he had tried to leave, but they had stopped him and identified him. “But if you know very well who I am …” he had said to the police commissioner of Siracusa.
The police commissioner had no desire to play the fool.
Vaccalluzzo had raced down the Corso talking on his secure cell phone. “They’ve all gone nuts here. Face it, they’re going to send in the army again.”
He got to his car and that dickhead Corrado, his driver, wasn’t there.
The boys had pulled their guns.
Corrado appeared, running. “Sorry, Don Melo, there was a tourist who collapsed because of the heat.”
“Heat! Let’s get out of here!”
They got in the car, Corrado turned on the engine, and Don Melo’s Lexus went
ka-pow.
The crime scene investigation squad said that the car blew up in that unusual way because it was armored. The armored parts remained more or less whole, and the Lexus—so said the crime scene investigation squad without the least sense of humor (and without any respect for Chartered Accountant Intelisano)—had “acted like a mortar.” Vaccalluzzo’s gold left sneaker with his foot inside was found in a tree three hundred yards away, by a man whose kid had been frightened by the bang and had let go of his balloon, which got stuck in the branches.
Nobody could understand why Rattalina had chosen that particular moment to commit suicide. Zerbino had written that probably a man of the theater like Rattalina had been devastated by the havoc wrought on Shakespeare. Half of Sicily, the half that knew Rattalina, thought that was hilarious.
He had been in the box with the Thompson brothers, he had been taking them around Sicily because they wanted to shoot some movies on the island with the support of the Film Commission, and all of a sudden, said the Thompson brothers, he had looked at them with a crazy look and leaped onto the stage. Ernst, who was telling the reporters, didn’t mention that Ottone, just to be sure, had dislocated his neck before he tossed him over.
And he did well, because you can never be too sure in these matters.
Intelisano, despite the theatrical nature of his farewell, had broken just about everything there was to break, but he hadn’t croaked. While Commendatore Calì, the shock alone had finished him off.
Giacomo had said that the Imposimato brothers were to blame, that he had been specific about the diameter of the mortar and the quantity of explosive. The Imposimato brothers had blamed Giacomo, who had done his calculations on the computer, and with this fucking technology they were all going crazy, and if next time they wanted a job well done they had better rely on artisanal expertise.
Giacomo wanted to be paid in full for the job because in any case someone had been taken out, Commendatore Calì, even if—so he told Turrisi, who was haggling over the price—“on the rebound.”
The prefects had resigned, officially because they hadn’t been able to keep order, unofficially because they had started to get really freaked.
The police and the carabinieri had held a joint press conference, very mysterious, in which they had hinted that the secret services were involved.
Obviously, all eyes were on Pirrotta and Turrisi.
Today, Betty is genuinely freaked.
She’s crawled under the bed and doesn’t want to come out, although Carmine is there trying to persuade her. “Not in prison, no!” she screams while Carmine tries to reassure a carabinieri sergeant with his eyes.
In the garden, two officers are trailing Turrisi.
One of them says to him, “Don’t get any ideas, now, if you try to escape we’ll catch you and bring you back.”
The two officers start laughing.
Turrisi gives them a dirty look.
Pietro, wearing his loudest Elvis outfit, silvery fringe on the jacket sleeves and his white boots with the mirror studs, is crying behind his Ray·Bans, tears are rolling down the teardrop lenses.
Pirrotta, dressed to the hilt, sitting on the bed, stares at his shoes.
Wanda, biting her lip, approaches him and pats his head.
Pirrotta looks at her with teary eyes. “I’m going.”
“Yes.”
The Contessa, seated in the front row, is fanning herself.
Gnazia and Quattrocchi too are already seated. Gnazia’s still wearing mourning.
Quattrocchi warns her, “Gnazia, you know you’re my best friend, but don’t get any funny ideas. When Betty throws the bouquet, see, I’m going to snatch it like I was a rugby champion, and I’m not afraid of anyone, friend or foe.”
The Contessa turns and, continuing to fan, says, “Think it’s so easy, my dear?”
Carmine, on his knees, is smiling as he tries to get Betty to come out from under the bed. “Darling, marriage is not
prison
.”
The officer says to Turrisi, “Making you wait, huh? My advice to you, however, is don’t try to escape.”
Pietro puts a hand to his mouth.
Betty had wanted a
garden
wedding, like they do in American movies.
The priest wouldn’t hear of it, and so Pirrotta and Turrisi had to set up a fund for Mafia widows, and Pirrotta had to hustle to build a little chapel in the garden and have it consecrated.
Caporeale is already dressed in tights and codpiece.
Pirrotta and Turrisi have decided to offer the guests a private performance of
Romeo and Juliet.
That’s why there are so many cops.
They wanted to send a signal that the gang war was over. A trouble-free performance of
Romeo and Juliet
seemed like the best thing.
The officer says to Turrisi, “I’m sure nothing’s going to happen today, I’m sure your wedding won’t be spoiled, but tell me, how is it that you thought of a theatrical show on this occasion?”
Turrisi looks at the officer. He’s about to say something, then he turns to Pietro and asks, “Did you take care of the rings?”
Pirrotta hurries by, signaling to Turrisi.
“I’ll be right back,” he says.
An Arab-style tent mounted in the garden flaps lightly in the breeze. Individuals wearing earpieces and total black Armani stand around it, their legs apart.
Pirrotta and Turrisi go in, buttoning their jackets.
Inside, in a little sitting area with wicker furniture, is Jacobbo Maretta. Virtude’s main man. The Scarlet Pimpernel. The fugitive from justice that nobody knows if he really exists.
He exists and he’s wearing white linen. Gold eyeglass frames, dark brown lenses, hair dyed dead black, like his mustache. They make him feel like Charles Bronson.
Next to the furniture, a brazier exudes a smell of incense.
The air-conditioning is turned up to the max.
Pirrotta and Turrisi sit down in the wicker chairs.
On the table, everything a man could want to eat or drink.
“I thank you for the honor you have paid me, inviting me on this day when you celebrate old-fashioned family values,” says Maretta.
Pirrotta and Turrisi look at each other.
“Because you know, don’t you,” adds Maretta, pouring himself a J&B, “that peace in the family is all-important. You know how it is, no? The neighbors talk, people don’t mind their own fucking business, and so when you have to disagree in the family, you have to disagree discreetly. That’s how my grandmother Michela used to say, discreetly.” Maretta looks at Pirrotta and Turrisi.
Pirrotta and Turrisi nod.
“Because if not, then it’s better to get divorced. Am I right?”
“Right you are!” says Pirrotta.
Turrisi merely nods.
“Exactly. My grandmother was a true Catholic. However, for her, silence was golden. Shit, she was like the thing, the Indian chief, what was his name? Saskatchewan? No, no, Sitting Bull. “If there has to be nastiness in the family, divorce is better.”
“Let’s not speak of divorce on this happy day. We couldn’t agree more.”
Maretta looks at his whiskey. “You must apologize on my behalf to the police outside if I don’t go out, but you know how it is, no? What a life I lead! It’s got to the point where the sunlight gets to me. I’ve become, how do you say,
photophobic
. So I can’t go out.”
“Please don’t worry,” exclaims Pirrotta.
Maretta looks at him. “I’m not worrying, I’m saying it to be polite. Alfio!” Maretta turns toward Turrisi. “What the fuck happened in Noto?”
Turrisi looks at Pirrotta.
Pirrotta nods.
Maretta has turned to the younger of the two to get an explanation. That’s a good sign.
Turrisi lowers his eyes. “Your Honor must excuse us if we didn’t contact you sooner, but we didn’t think they would go so far.”
Maretta nods. He takes a cube of ice from the bucket, puts it in his glass, and moves his head, indicating he should continue.
“We didn’t think that Vaccalluzzo, after having taken out Falsaperla on my side and Paino from my future father-in-law, would go and get involved in this fuckup in Noto. We thought he’d remain silent, follow orders, and that we could come to an agreement.”
Maretta raises his voice. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand fuck-all!”
Turrisi looks at Pirrotta.
Pirrotta makes a sign with his head that he shouldn’t worry.
Turrisi understands. Maybe he shouldn’t speak so explicitly.
“We’re becoming a family,” says Turrisi, “me with Signor Pirrotta and Signor Pirrotta with me.”
Maretta makes a face that says,
Wow, how interesting, this is a wedding, so what do you expect?
“And in the family, it’s right that one person should give a hand to another.”
Maretta is forced to nod agreement.
“So when we saw that what was happening was happening, we thought we should do something about it immediately. Do you like the Lexus as a car? I have to say I don’t care much for that car. There was a guy I knew who had an armored one, but I didn’t care for it.”
“The Lexus,” says Pirrotta.
Turrisi nods.
Maretta takes off his sunglasses. “Now, to me, I always thought the Lexus was a nice, quiet car.”
“No, sir!” exclaims Turrisi. “Actually, it’s extremely noisy.”
Maretta scratches behind one ear. He nods to himself. “And who was he, this fellow you knew who had the Lexus?”
Turrisi looks at Pirrotta.
Pirrotta nods.
“He was called Vaccalluzzo,” says Turrisi.
Maretta looks at Turrisi, then he looks at Pirrotta. He thinks, swirling the ice in his glass. Then finally he says, “Fine. This Vaccalluzzo, I don’t know him. If you tell me the Lexus is a noisy car, that’s fine. By the way, how is this fellow with the Lexus?”
“Not so good,” says Pirrotta.
“Very sorry to hear that,” says Maretta. “But what can I do? Can I do anything? Any way I can be of help?”
Pirrotta goes
no
with his head.
Maretta’s face is pained. “Everyone suffers his own setbacks, what can I say? As the saying goes, when the Pope dies, they elect a new one. You two are becoming part of the same family, right?”
Pirrotta and Turrisi nod.
“And you’re not people who go out and besmirch the family, right?”
“You can bet on that,” says Pirrotta.
Maretta smiles. “What, now I’m not going to trust Riddu?”
Pirrotta lowers his eyes.
“May this marriage be blessed by the Lord,” says Maretta. “By the way, I brought a little something for the families.” Maretta twists around on the wicker sofa, trying to grab his wallet.