Free Sicilian Tragedee by Ottavio Cappellani

out.
    Pirrotta gives up and sits down carefully in the chair, his nervous hands stuck between his legs, his face hopeful.
    Betty comes into the room, followed by Carmine. She stares at her father distractedly.
    Her father has a dumb smile stamped on his face; shit if her mother isn’t right, thinks Betty.
    She tosses her bag on the sofa and just as casually throws herself down beside it.

    She looks at Carmine.
    Carmine raises his eyes.
    Betty takes the bell.
    Carmine sits down in a chair and crosses his legs.
    Betty rings the bell.
    Turi Pirrotta doesn’t move a muscle; he watches the performance with a dumb look. Oh, how sweet it is when the children come home. He flashes a dumb half-smile at Carmine too while he’s at it.
    The maid comes in with the double vodka and asks, “Miss ring?”
    “A cup of tea.”
    A cup of tea?
    “What do you want?”
    “Okay, I’ll have a cup of tea also, darling, with a shot of brandy in it,” says Carmine, dusting off the collar of his orange jacket.
    “Yes, miss,” says the maid, putting the double vodka down on the table in front of Pirrotta.
    Pirrotta looks at the double vodka as if he has no idea what it is.
    “Mama says you shouldn’t drink, it aggravates your diabetes.”
    Oh, Mother of God, how beautiful it would be if she went to bust the balls of Turrisi every morning. Mother of God, how beautiful.
    “Well, you won’t tell her.”
    Betty smiles. “That depends.”
    Pirrotta gives her a look like someone who’s in total agreement. “So?” he says.
    “So what?” says Betty taking a cigarette from the Altar of the Nation and lighting it with a silver skyscraper.
    “Your mother says you shouldn’t smo—”
    Betty looks up.
    Pirrotta smiles. “And so? What’s he like?”
    “Mature,” says Betty, exhaling a little cloud of smoke.
    “Oh, good, good. So he’s well behaved; that’s interesting, no?” Pirrotta looks to Carmine for help.
    Carmine’s wearing an indecipherable expression.

    Pirrotta hangs all his hopes on that indecipherable expression. “Okay, good. Um … so … will you be seeing each other again?”
    Silence.
    Carmine looks at Betty.
    Betty is trying to figure out what is that thing in her hand shaped like a lit cigarette. She tosses it in an ashtray. She stretches like a cat, mewing, takes off her shoes, tucks her feet under her thighs, and says nothing.
    Pirrotta looks at Carmine.
    Carmine doesn’t know what to say. “Uh … yeah, I guess so?” With a question mark.
    Carmine and Pirrotta stare at Betty.
    Betty is bobbing her head back and forth, trying to get the crick out of her neck.
    Pirrotta and Carmine wait impatiently.
    Betty interrupts the neck business. “What’s to look at?”
    The maid comes in with a tray.
    On the tray there’s no tea, only a cordless phone. “Mister Turrisi for the miss,” says the maid.
    Pirrotta’s mouth falls open.
    Carmine exhales.
    “Give it to me,” says Betty with a bored gesture of her hand.
    The maid steps up to Betty and with a bow hands her the cordless.
    Betty takes the phone slowly, removes an earring from one ear, throws it into a seashell made of porcelain, looks at her father, and says, “Hello?”
    Pirrotta sits very still.
    Carmine discreetly studies Betty out of the corner of his eye. He’s the kind of guy who knows women well, but Betty never ceases to surprise him.
    Betty picks up a glass slab with a piranha trapped inside. “No, I can’t come with you to the theater.”

    Pirrotta, terrorized, stares at Carmine. He turns toward Betty and goes, Yes, yes, yes , with his head.
    “No … no … no,” says Betty to the cordless.
    Pirrotta smooths out his pajama bottoms. Then he comes to a decision. He falls to his knees, puts his hands together in supplication, and gazes at his daughter screaming, Yes, yes, yes , with his head.
    Betty looks at Carmine.
    Carmine is embarrassed.
    She looks at her father, sighs, and says, “No, tonight is out of the question. Let’s talk tomorrow.