TE23 Double Feature

A Conspiracy of Talkers

Gaetano Savatteri

Pino was still asleep, but his breathing had become labored. Vincenzo got up and turned to his son, touching his forehead: it was soaked. Maybe the boy was dreaming. At the touch of his hand, the child turned, a brief moan escaping his lips. “Vincenzo, what is it?” His wife had awakened. “Nothing. Pino’s sleeping.” “So let him sleep.” Whispers in the little room, the sounds of their breathing and those of their three sons. “Is it raining?” asked Maria. Vincenzo went to the door. “No, it’s stopped.” “Come back to bed. It’s cold.” Vincenzo Picipò stepped over his eldest son, sleeping on a wooden trunk by the door. “Does it still hurt?” “No, it’s nothing.” “Vincenzo, you have to let it go, those people are arrogant.” 328

“I know what I’m doing. You don’t have to tell me.” “All right, fine, but don’t shout or you’ll wake up Pinuzzo.” They were in bed, the blankets feeling heavy and damp on top of them. Eyes open, looking up at the ceiling. His wife stared at him. “Are you upset?” “Why should I be upset?” “You’re not sleeping.” “So what? I don’t have to go down to the mine tomorrow.” His wife didn’t respond. She knew Vincenzo didn’t have to go down to the mine. He hadn’t worked for four months. She knew that when Vincenzo wasn’t working, bad things happened. He was hotblooded, and when there was no money, his blood boiled until even at night she would feel him moving, squirming, grinding his teeth. Vincenzo Picipò was an unlucky man. And his character didn’t help. He was fourteen years old when, true to form, he stabbed a cart 329