Sicilian Tragedee by Ottavio Cappellani Page A

keeps the machine purring.
    “We’d rather you continue with experimental theater,” the commissioner is telling him as he flips through some papers: Cagnotto’s CV and his new proposal.
    Cagnotto’s benevolent smile hardens on his face. He tilts his head to one side. He doesn’t know what to say.
    The commissioner burrows in the piles on his desk to find the remote control for the air conditioner. He picks it up and fiddles with it, pointing it upward toward the machine.
    Cagnotto looks upward.
    “You know what I mean, no?” says the commissioner, shaking the remote.
    “Um …”
    The commissioner makes a no with his head, it’s not clear whether to the remote or to Cagnotto.
    The commissioner is wearing a summer jacket in a check pattern, a shirt of red stripes, and a multicolored regimental tie.
    Cagnotto is hypnotized by all the colors.
    He’s also strangely fascinated by the extremely long hairs that sprout from the commissioner’s ears.
    “You know, the dialect theater companies won’t like it, they’re in trouble—”
    “But—”
    “Listen, Cagnotto!” snorts the commissioner tossing the remote on the desk, “what’s all this about dialect theater?” The commissioner grabs the phone and punches a button. “You made your name
in avant-garde theater, read this, it’s your CV. And let me say, you wouldn’t have a CV like this if we hadn’t helped out.” The commissioner slams down the phone. He gets up. He looks at Cagnotto and walks resolutely toward the door. Cagnotto notices that the commissioner’s sleeves reach down almost to his fingernails. The commissioner opens the door wide. “Gnazia-a-a, how does this fucking air conditioner work?”
    With the door wide open a gust of air comes in and lifts Cagnotto’s CV off the table, sending it sailing past his nose.
    Cagnotto follows with his eyes.
    Gnazia comes in sighing.
    “Why didn’t you answer the intercom?” the commissioner asks her.
    “Huh? I was on the phone.”
    “And what were you doing on the phone?”
    Gnazia stares at the commissioner with contempt.
    The commissioner is silent.
    Cagnotto decides there must be something going on between Gnazia and the commissioner. Only a guy who’s involved could be so silent.
    “So what’s wrong now?”
    “That thing”—the commissioner indicates the air conditioner—“doesn’t work.”
    “What do you mean, it doesn’t work?” Gnazia strides to the commissioner’s desk, takes the remote in hand, stares at it, looks up at the air conditioner, looks at the window, sees the drapes that are swirling around, and throws Cagnotto an investigatory look as if to say, Did you open the windows?
    Gnazia tugs at her skirt, walks firmly toward the windows, and closes them, being sure to make a lot of noise. “The air conditioner works fine but the windows have to be kept closed or the heat comes in from outside.”

    “And who opened the windows?” the commissioner says.
    Gnazia eyes the commissioner with loathing and goes out without saying another word.
    The commissioner heads over to the windows and makes sure they are shut tight. He has to think of everything around here!
    He goes back to his desk.
    Cagnotto still has the courteous smile glued on his face.
    The commissioner gazes at Cagnotto with a who the fuck is this? who let him in here? look. “So where were we? Okay. So what’s this about dialect theater? You need to keep doing that stuff, the avant-garde, and that other stuff, experimental theater, otherwise they’ll say the government isn’t responsive to young people.”
    The commissioner nods to himself with conviction. Everyone knows that young people matter. “And anyway, I’d have a revolt on my hands from the dialect theaters all over the province. It’s not like you can just get up in the morning and bang! improvise dialect theater.”
    The commissioner waves his hand as if to say, Are you going nuts here?
    “But, Commissioner, it’s not my idea to have them