Free Sicilian Tragedee by Ottavio Cappellani Page B

“Bringing Shakespearean theater back to its origins, just as you have restored me to mine. We must resist being determined by our respective social statuses, Bobo. What you said to me at Capomulini struck me … struck me deeply. You, salesclerk, and me, director: Are we going to be limited by these definitions?”

    Cagnotto smiles to himself, continues. “Are we once again going to allow social position to negate our desire? Again? Then what was the use of Shakespeare? Nothing. Bobo, I’m going to stage the play in which the Bard taught us to overcome social convention, in which he showed us that the power of love cannot be thwarted by society’s rules. Bobo, I’m going to do Romeo and Juliet. Me, Capulet, you, Montague; the theater is there to teach us. We must not fall into the trap of conformism.”
    Bobo looks at his salad. He shivers.
    Cagnotto nods at his ham hock.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    Betty Is Counting the Toes on Her Feet
    Betty is counting the toes on her feet.
    Carmine is certain. At first, it looked like she was merely checking the condition of her toenail polish. But instead, Betty (Carmine is sure of it) is actually counting the toes on her feet. She’s keeping count with her index finger, her face absorbed in her task.
    Betty sometimes goes off in her own world like this, doing apparently strange things. Carmine knows that in moments like this Betty is planning something. Getting deeply involved in apparently innocuous activities is her way of camouflaging herself.
    The bright pink polish the same color as her dress.
    “You want to talk?”
    “Four, five, si … about what?”
    Carmine sighs.
    Betty shrugs her shoulders. She rests her chin on her knuckles and gazes into the void with excessive interest.
    “Sweetheart, look, you don’t have to explain to me, but give me
at least a clue. That’s all I need, just enough to satisfy my curiosity. What are you planning to do?”
    “You’re curious?”
    Carmine reflects. “Yes.”
    “That’ll teach you not to help me when I need you.”
    “I must have been distracted.”
    “You weren’t one little tiny dick distracted.”
    Carmine gets up. He checks his fly. “Okay, so, see you later.”
    Betty stares at him.
    Carmine smiles. “Don’t get them in trouble.”
    “Who?”
    “See you later.” Carmine struts out, both injured party and victorious.
    Betty watches him, making a so what? face. “Asshole. What the fuck does he know? Faggot.”
    She checks, stretching her neck, that Carmine has really gone, then gets up on tiptoes to see that nobody else is around.
    Back on the sofa, she takes the cordless and stares at it dumbly.
    “Oh, yes,” she says. She grabs her bag, takes out a slip of paper, and punches in a number.
    “Alf … Mister Turrisi, no … ah … listen, you must forgive me for bothering you, yes, yes”—Betty makes a face, rolling her eyes as if to say, Shit, what a jerk this Turrisi —“the fact is”—Betty turns conspiratorial—“no, no, you mustn’t call me at home, no, of course I don’t mind, but my father, um, I beg you, don’t even call me on the cell phone, my father checks the incoming calls and what if I forget to delete them? I beg you, please don’t get me in trouble, no, no texting either. Oh, God, I’ve got to get off now. I’ll call you back.”
    Betty hangs up. She tosses the cordless to the other end of the sofa and sits back down.
    Wanda makes her imperial entrance into the sitting room, followed by her assistant, who is weighed down with packages. She drops, exhausted, into a chair, takes off her shoes, massages her feet
and her swollen ankles, flashes a smile at her daughter, glances with distaste at her assistant, and tells her, “Fine, we’re finished for the day, give the stuff to the maid.” She waits until the young woman is gone, then gets up and hurries over to her daughter’s side, hugs her happily, cheek to cheek, sits back down, smiles, and says, “Tell me. Everything.”
    “You want