Who is Lou Sciortino? (15 page)

Frank can feel himself getting more and more nervous. He hates the old lady, the unwashed critic and the whore, hates the writer, too, and her dickhead husband, hates those cheapskate Italian producers, hates that asshole Leonard who's smiling like a faggot. Reacting to a really painful spasm in his colon, he decides he might as well destroy himself with wine, then at the last moment changes his mind and decides to destroy the whore instead, and fills her glass to the brim.
Delicious, huh? Here: drink, bitch, drink!

Then he has a sudden flash, an illumination.

“In my opinion,” he says, turning to the unwashed critic, “one of the greatest Italian directors is Franco Zeffirelli. Have you seen
Sparrow?
Images worthy of birth and … you know, like you said.”

“Aesthetic kitsch…” the pissed-off woman writer says.

“What?” Frank says.

“Well…” the unwashed critic says, “I don't know if Zeffirelli is exempt from the privileges of cinematic dynasties … He owes everything to Visconti, and—”

“Zeffirelli is one of our greatest geniuses,” Bernabei says and, to save the situation, raises his glass of wine.

“Bravo Zeffirella!” Greta says, raising her glass, which is full to the brim, and almost emptying it on the snow-white tablecloth.

“Long live Zeffirella!” Leonard says, also raising high his glass, with an amused look on his face.

“Absolutely!” Frank says, his round eyes fixed on Greta's laughing blue eyes. “They ought to show
Sparrow
in film schools … it's a moving love story against the magnificent … magnificent … backdrop of the Catanese baroque. An emotional epic, a hymn to passion set in that splendid Sicilian city! In that street … What the hell's the name of that street?”

“The one with the convent?” the old lady says.

“Exactly,” Frank says, “that street full of churches and works of art, with that gallery thing joining the two wings of the convent…” Frank mimes the two wings with a flapping motion of his arms.

“The Bridge of the Sparrow,” the old lady says, looking into Greta's blue eyes with her own dull gray eyes. “A rendezvous for lovers even today.”

“Exactly,” Frank says, exhausted.

Greta places her hand on Frank's forearm, sighs, weakens, thinks,
Why is the world so unfair and yet so beautiful sometimes, so full of … longing?
and says, “Will you take me there, Frank?”

“Where?” Frank asks, with the same radiant expression he had on that long-ago day when, as a child, he beat up Carmine Cacace's son, who was three years older than him and was always tormenting him.

“The Bridge of the Sparrow,” Greta whispers.

“Of course, sweetheart!” Frank says.

ON THE BEACH AT MARZAMEMI TWO TOURISTS ARE READING

On the beach at Marzamemi two tourists are reading, lying on chaise longues. It's obvious they're tourists, because they're reading. It's obvious Don Lou Sciortino has just finished eating, because he's drinking Brancamenta. He's sitting under a canopy where there are four tables with red checkered paper tablecloths. His table is still a mess. But Don Mimmo arrives quickly to clear it, rolling the tablecloth into a ball along with all the crumbs. Don Lou Sciortino nods. He's looking at a reinforced concrete scaffolding, an ominous sign. They've started to build even here. The earth movers and the bricklayers have already moved in. In New York, these things were the basis of Don Lou Sciortino's fortune. But here in Marzamemi he wouldn't even build a doll's house for Don Mimmo's little granddaughter. There's a small island opposite the beach of Marzamemi, with a beautiful villa on it. Whenever Don Lou thought about Marzamemi in America, he thought about Don Mimmo's little restaurant, La Tonnara, and about the villa on the island. In his mind they were the only buildings that existed. The smallest change, and Marzamemi would become like any other place.

“Who?” Pippino asks. He's known as 'U Ciantru, the Oleander, because he's as poisonous as an oleander, a plant it's best to keep away from donkeys and horses. A real expert with a knife, Pippino. In Catania, forty years ago, everybody called him 'U Nivuro, the black man, because they said he had a black heart, nobody trusted him anymore, he didn't lick anybody's ass. People said the only thing Pippino licked was the blade of his knife, but what he actually did was rub soap onto it to help it slide in easier and make the wounds burn more. One day about forty years ago, Don Lou Sciortino took Pippino aside, bought him a Fernet, down in Turi Cricuocu's bar, and said, “They tell me you're black, but to me you're like an oleander. Poisonous, sure. But my grandfather taught me you can plant oleanders in a garden, tend them, and water them.” Don Lou Sciortino's grandfather was right. Result: forty years later Pippino is still at Don Lou Sciortino's side, and everybody, in Sicily and America, calls him Don Lou's
ciantru.

“The guy who lived on that island,” Don Lou says, jutting his chin in the direction of the little island.

Pippino is dressed in a brown suit from a department store, but he looks neater than a lot of people who have their clothes made to measure. He's got a bald skull, a round face, and an aquiline nose. He isn't tall. To look at him, you'd take him for a French choreographer, one of the few who aren't gay. Under his jacket, he's wearing a black polo shirt buttoned to the neck.

“Vitaliano Brancati,” Pippino says.

“Right,” Don Lou says.

Don Lou Sciortino retired Pippino ten years ago. Pippino lives alone in a very clean apartment, and goes on self-improving vacations, spending whole weeks in the most exclusive apartment hotels in the world, reading books.

“What's Brancati like?”

“Good,” Pippino says.

“Shall we go?” Don Lou says, looking at his watch.

Pippino leaps to his feet and looks along the boardwalk. “Whenever you like, sir.”

*   *   *

The Jaguar bumps over the dirt road. On either side, dry walls of very white stone beneath carob trees and prickly pear. Pippino parks in a patch of open ground full of the carcasses of agricultural machinery, tractor tires, lead drums. Two dogs tied to a cart snarl at them. A shabby-looking young man is trying to repair a rototiller in front of a building made out of blocks of concrete, with slabs of fibrocement for a roof. The young man drops the rototiller and wipes his hands, first on a dishrag, and then on his pants. He says, “They told me you need prickly pear. You can get all you want around here.”

Don Lou and Pippino look at him in silence, then walk slowly toward the olive grove opposite the patch of ground, until Pippino spots the manhole. It's open. Pippino makes a move like he's going in, but Don Lou stops him with a look that says,
No, I gotta go first.
Don Lou stoops to avoid banging his head. He hesitates a moment on the narrow steps and Pippino supports him, very gently and tenderly. The air-conditioning is on full strength. Jacobbo Maretta is wearing blue Bermudas and a juice-stained undershirt.

People say Jacobbo Maretta doesn't exist, that he's just an invention of Lillo Virtude, who's in Ucciardone Prison but wants people to think he's got a man on the outside. An official FBI report a while ago said he died when a motorboat sank with some Cuban businessmen on board. The whole thing stank, though. Who the fuck has ever seen a Cuban businessman? Lots of people think Jacobbo Maretta is alive and kicking, which in fact he is.

In fact, to be more specific, here's what happened: a few months before going into Ucciardone, Virtude made sure that Maretta disappeared, and spread a whole lot of contradictory rumors about his disappearance. “I need somebody on the outside. I need you.”

Now Maretta lives in this underground bunker in the countryside inland from Marzamemi. Whenever he has to go out, he takes a tractor as far as the village, where a yellow Fiat 127 is waiting to take him to a dealer in garden statues in Ispica. There he gets on a truck, changes inside it, and when he gets out, usually at Catania Airport, he's all spruced up.

“Don Lou, you really must forgive me! I haven't been out in three months, I'm turning into an animal.” Jacobbo Maretta has thick hair dyed jet-black and what looks like a fake mustache. “Pippino! Still kicking?”

Pippino's only response is to look at Don Lou. Don Lou nods to Pippino, and Pippino nods to Maretta.

“
Minchia,
they broke the mold when they made you,” Maretta says. “Pippino, you must do me a personal courtesy. I know you like getting laid, so do Jacobbo a favor: make some babies! We need more people like you!” Maretta sighs. “Don Lou, you did the right thing coming to Sicily. How's your grandson? He's a good kid, just like his grandpa … Oh, by the way, Don Lou, I wanted to ask your advice … It'll soon be time to plant beans … But you know what happens? They dry up on me! The other year my beans dried up! So how can I be sure now? It's expensive, you know, I gotta hire men to plant them, I gotta put in irrigation, water pipes … It's one expense after another … One's thing's for sure, agriculture ain't what it used to be … Fuck it, we got unions now! The men arrive on time and leave on time … and fuck, the money they make … So you know what I say? Even if I've got just one broken bean—one
fava rotta,
you know what I mean?—it isn't worth the effort! I don't like these beans, they're small, they're sad, they don't ripen … I don't trust beans anymore! Zucchini, now, they're beautiful … You eat pasta with zucchini and
ricotta salata
at Don Mimmo's?
Minchia,
Don Mimmo is still Don Mimmo!”

“Don Mimmo seemed fine to me,” Don Lou says. “Sure, he's getting old, like the rest of us, but you can trust him. His hand shakes a little when he brings the food, but you can still trust him.”

“And Pippino, what did Pippino eat? Don't tell me, I know:
spaghetti alla pescatora
with a whole fucking lot of red chilies. By the way, what can I offer you? Of course, you just ate … Ah, how about some amaretti? I don't know, though … I've had this box here a long time … What do you think? Did they go bad? In my opinion, yes … These amaretti are stale! Forget it, let's get rid of these amaretti … Let's just get rid of them,” Maretta says, and throws away the box of amaretti with an angry, disgusted gesture. “But you're going to Catania now, right? That's good! Don Lou, please, you gotta go see Sonnino. Trust me. I've seen a lot of
picciotti
who've made their way in the world. But there's nobody else I can recommend like a son. In Catania, you gotta ask after Sonnino, you gotta send for him. Because if you need somebody you can trust, I recommend this Sonnino personally.”

“Jacobbo, it was a pleasure seeing you.”

“What are you talking about, Don Lou? You know what an honor this was for me. So if you'll allow me…” Maretta takes Don Lou's hand, kneels, and kisses it.

“Get up, Jacobbo, this time I'm the one who owes you.”

*   *   *

As they bump along the dirt road, Don Lou is lost in thought. Pippino looks straight in front of him. “You know what I think, Pippino? Maretta's starting to look just like that actor I like … what's his name?”

“Charles Bronson,” Pippino says.

“That's the one!” Don Lou says, and smiles.

Pippino smiles, too.

GIORGINO FAVAROTTA'S OLDER BROTHER, LEOLUCA FAVAROTTA

Giorgino Favarotta's older brother, Leoluca Favarotta, who was killed at the age of thirty-seven in a restaurant called La Paglia while eating spaghetti with cuttlefish ink (his face ended up in the plate and when they lifted it, it looked like the Saracen in a Sicilian puppet play), was the person Sal Scali really idolized. Always well dressed (he wore impeccable Irish linen suits even in summer), Leoluca Favarotta was a handsome guy and a great pool player.

Whenever he played at the Eden Pool Hall, a small crowd of fans would gather, among them Sal Scali, who was a child at the time. This was in 1949–50, when people were starting to like American games and drinks, and a pool hall was a magical place to a kid like Sal.

And now, fifty-four years later, on a day like today when he's got important decisions to make, where is Sal Scali? At the Eden Pool Hall, in the same room, on the now-rickety mezzanine, where Leoluca Favarotta used to run the table.

Of course, a lot of time has passed since then, and the felts are more yellow than green. The big painted wooden
SAMBUCA
signs on the walls are almost illegible, the figures on them faded: women in white dresses with parasols and gentlemen with mustaches who flirt with them, frozen forever in an image of lively chatter fueled by alcohol. The rims of these signs are full of dead flies. The manager is dozing behind a small table at the entrance. Behind him, a humming Coca-Cola machine converted to hold beer.

Uncle Sal, who's wearing a dark blue linen suit, just spoke with Frank Erra, who landed in Catania a few hours ago and immediately took refuge in the most expensive suite at the Central Palace Hotel.

Tuccio took out the cell phone, removed the SIM card, and replaced it with one of those clones with the telephone numbers of Moroccans who pick tomatoes in Pachino, then dialed the number Uncle Sal gave him and asked to speak to Frank Erra. When Chaz answered, “Hello?” at the other end, Tuccio passed the cell phone to Uncle Sal.

“This is Sal Scali,” Uncle Sal said. “Is Frank Erra there?”

“Wait,” Chaz said, polite as ever.

“Hello, Frank Erra here,” Frank said.

“This is Sal Scali,” Uncle Sal repeated. “Pleased to meet you, at least over the phone. I've heard good things about you from friends.”

“Likewise. When should we meet?”

“That's just it. I think maybe not right away … Maybe you'd like to see a bit of Catania first. But if you want to let me know where you're planning to go, I can prepare the ground, maybe tell some of my
picciotti
to put themselves at your disposal.”