TE23 Double Feature

A Conspiracy of Talkers

Gaetano Savatteri

driver who wouldn’t give him a ride. Luckily the carter survived, but from that day on the courts and the carabinieri never gave Vincenzo a moment of peace. Eventually they sent him to the prison farm in the Tremiti Islands — thirteen months away from home. His oldest boy, Angelo, was only two. And she, carrying the baby, would go to harvest wheat in the countryside outside of town, her eyes glued to the hazelnut trees where Angelo fell asleep, worn out by the heat. She was afraid the snakes would bite him, attracted by the lingering smell of her milk. The streets were quiet. Until an hour ago they kept hearing hurried steps, urgent voices. There was trouble in the town, but Maria was unaware of it. She was too anxious to think about what was going on outside. Vincenzo had come home with a swollen eye, his left cheek marked by a cut. Stinking of wine. Unwilling to explain, he only muttered some insult and then got into bed. The neighbors, women who were visiting Maria, rushed off, put out by the man’s behavior. He was always ill mannered, but this was really too much. A night of bad things and wicked deeds. And Maria remained anxious until Angelo came home 330

— he was fifteen now and thought he was a man and came home late every night. Only then had Maria shut the door, with relief. “What time is it?” muttered Vincenzo. “I can’t tell from here.” Vincenzo got out of bed, cursing. “Do you have to use such language?” Picipò didn’t answer. He was by the clock. “It’s midnight.” Steps outside the door. A fist rapping on the door, then pounding. Pounding again. “Picipò, open up. It’s me, the chief.” Pino awoke, coughing. Maria sat up in bed. Vincenzo opened the door. The cold rain-soaked air rushed into the room, wrenching the other

two boys from their sleep. “What’s going on, Chief ?”

In the dim light from the street, the chief ’s outline filled up the doorway. He shoved Vincenzo aside, a flash of metal in his fist. 331