Hunting Season: A Novel Read Free Page A

that.”
    “Why not?” asked Lieutenant Amedeo Baldovino.
    “Because there are only two nobles left here, myself and Barone Uccello. Everyone else—and far be it from me to offend anyone—hasn’t got the slightest connection to the nobility. Perhaps we should call our club the ‘Circle of Two Nobles and Their Relatives.’ The whole thing makes me laugh.”
    “The marchese is right!” enthusiastically replied the ex-Garibaldino Aguglia, the commendatore who was convinced that all men were almost equal. “Let’s call it the Circolo Garibaldi.”
    They began, in silence, to contemplate the proposal. Then Dr. Smecca asked to speak.
    “I don’t agree with Marchese Peluso,” he said. “Everyone should know that I speak only for myself, of course. I am not noble but, personally, I rather like being a member of the Circolo dei Nobili, whereas I couldn’t care less about belonging to some common Circolo Garibaldi.”
    As all present were applauding Dr. Smecca, Fede the surveyor came in. The hall suddenly grew silent again.
    “Nothing.”
    “Weren’t you able to talk to him?” asked Baldovino, who, after just two years in town, had become more Vigatese than the Vigatese.
    “Oh, I talked to him, all right. And he’s polite, of course, but prickly and standoffish.”
    “Yes, he certainly is standoffish,” the lieutenant seconded him. “During the entire journey here, neither Signor Colajanni nor Signora Clelia could extract a single tidbit of information from him.”
    “Why,” said Colajanni, slightly piqued, “didn’t you try to extract anything yourself?”
    “I certainly did,” said Baldovino, smiling.
    “But I did find out one thing,” the surveyor cut in, pausing slyly after making this statement. “His name.”
    “What is it?” they all asked in chorus.
    “His name is Santo Alfonso de’ Liguori.”
    Father Macaluso, who according to his custom was sitting off to the side, sulking and reading the newspaper, suddenly lit up like a match.
    “What the hell are you saying?”
    “The owner of the boardinghouse told me that was his name.”
    “The owner of the boardinghouse was pulling your leg. That’s the name of a saint!”
    “Isn’t that what I said? His name’s Santo!”
    “You nitwit! Alfonso de’ Liguori is a saint, not someone who’s first name is Santo!”
    “I beg your pardon, Father Macaluso,” Barone Uccello calmly intervened, “but is it somehow forbidden that someone should have Santo as his first name, Alfonso as his middle name, and de’ Liguori as his surname?”
    “It’s not forbidden, but it sounds like humbug to me.”
    “And did you find out how long he’ll be staying in Vigàta?” Colajanni, the postmaster, asked.
    “A fortnight. Which means I’ll have all the time I need to find out how many hairs he’s got on his ass.”
    In the end, however, he proved unable to count these hairs—to continue the metaphor—for it was the stranger himself who decided at a certain point to let everyone know who he was and what he had come to do in Vigàta.

    Having rented a cabriolet and horse, the stranger began going back and forth to Montelusa, where the administrative offices were. Here he was seen entering the Royal Prefecture, the Royal Commissariat of Police, the Royal Tax Office, and many other no less royal venues. But the purpose of this grand tour remained nevertheless unknown. One evening Santo Alfonso was seen walking around the port and speaking in a low voice with Bastiano Taormina, a man with whom it was considered unwise to break bread and whom it was better not to meet at night.
    Fede the surveyor, who had witnessed that meeting from a distance, was unable to sleep for the rest of the night, so keenly was his curiosity eating him alive. Very early the next morning, quivering inside like gelatin, he paid a visit to the fruit and vegetables shop of Bastiano Taormina.
    “And a very good morning to you, Don Bastiano!” he greeted the greengrocer, leaning on