Sicilian Tragedee by Ottavio Cappellani Page B

perform in dialect, the proposal explains that we need dialect actors because they are the ‘street actors’ of theater. You know, Pasolini, De Sica, neorealism, well, they all used str—”
    “I get it, Cagnotto, I get it,” says the commissioner, interrupting him. “Are you cooling off now?”
    Cagnotto doesn’t understand.
    The commissioner nods toward the air conditioner with his chin.
    Cagnotto still doesn’t get it, and so the commissioner points toward the air conditioner once again, jerking his jaw up twice in rapid succession.
    “Ah … yes, I see, yes, it’s working.”
    The commissioner is all smiles. He turns his attention back to Cagnotto’s business. He looks around on his desk but can’t find the CV. Aiming a suspicious stare at Cagnotto with one eye, he grabs a
random sheet of paper and shoves it in front of his nose, pretending it is Cagnotto’s CV.
    “Just between us, Cagnotto, we’re cutting back funds for dialect theater because the future of the slopes of Etna lies in food festivals. Don’t you read the papers, Cagnotto? Forget neorealism. You come in here and pitch me neorealism. You think that’s how a guy becomes commissioner for culture?” The commissioner tosses Cagnotto’s fake CV on the desk and snaps his fingers. Then he joins his two hands together in his lap and looks serious.
    “The future of the slopes of Etna is called oenogastronomy.”
    “Of Etna?”
    “Cagnotto. I’m amazed. You didn’t know that the future of culture is going to be in local color? Bronte pistachios, Militello sausage, fritto misto from Iacicastello? Take my word for it, money for dialect theater is going to be scarce. So do what you’re good at, that stuff, the avant-garde.”
    Cagnotto shifts in his chair. He tugs at the hem of his jacket, which has gotten stuck under his rear end. “Commissioner, look, this proposal of mine is avant-garde, I’m interested in the realism of the street, the unadorned realism of the str—”
    “Hey, I’m sorry, Cagnotto, but here I see the words dialect actors ,” says the commissioner, picking up a random page.
    Cagnotto stares at the pages of his proposal and his CV, lying on the floor.
    “I say to you Cagnotto: avant-garde. We must be experimental . This is Sicily. We have to show those cocksuckers up north what we’re capable of.”
    Cagnotto is about to say something.
    The commissioner stands and sticks out his hand. “Fine, Cagnotto. I’ve given you my advice. Now you write me a proposal with that stuff of yours, the weird stuff, and then … let me think”—the commissioner thinks—“in a few months, when the winter season is on, come back and we’ll see what we can do. Happy?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    A Patron, a Piazza, an Amphitheater
    “A patron, a piazza, an amphitheater.” Seated in the bar of the Yacht Club, Commissioner Paino is trying to explain to the Contessa what Cagnotto so desperately needs.
    Paino hunkers down into the jacket of his blue linen suit worn over a white polo shirt, glancing around with a conspiratorial air.
    The members of the Yacht Club are playing cards. Because you need a boat to be a member of the Yacht Club, everybody has one, although no one has ever seen any of them on the water. Most likely the boats are employed in betting, they probably use them like chips. The Contessa, for example, to join the Yacht Club, had bought a motorized rubber speedboat and baptized it DBMB for Divine Bianca Maria Beatrice , one of the Bourbons who had been queen of something, although many suspected the initials stood for Don’t Bust My Balls.
    Cagnotto had called the Contessa asking to see her because he wanted to ask a favor, and when you’re asked a favor, says the Contessa, it’s a good idea to get a second opinion, because the one who’s
asking you the favor isn’t likely to tell you the truth. So she’s asking Paino.
    “Falsaperla closed the door in his face,” says Paino. “Cagnotto wants to do something in dialect,