DIVORCE ITALIAN STYLE
Directed by
- Roast beef, sir? - Yes.
- Potatoes? - Two.
That's enough.
The serenades of the south.
The sweet, warm, exhausting Sicilian nights.
The whole time I'd been away,
the memory of those nights... or rather, of one particular night...
had filled my days with longing and nostalgia.
Agramonte: 18,000 souls,
4,300 of them illiterate.
1,700 either partially or fully unemployed.
Twenty-four churches, if I'm not mistaken,
including a few distinguished Baroque specimens of the late 1600s.
This is the Cefalù palace,
and this is my ancestors' coat of arms.
Practically the only thing my father had not yet sold.
Papa's dissolute ways,
whose nature I won't disclose out of respect for Mama,
had reduced us to living in a single wing of the palace,
while the other wing was occupied by my Uncle Calogero and his family.
But of this fateful cohabitation and its consequences, I'll speak more later.
Here's my father, Baron Don Gaetano Cefalù.
And these are his friends from the social club.
- You're looking well, Baron. - My respects, Don Gaetano.
For five seconds he was the object of their gossip.
But here they are, once again engrossed in their favorite topic: Women.
An inexhaustible subject.
In the vivid imagination of my townsmen,
women took on mythical status.
The marvelous, invisible women of Agramonte,
who hid their beauty and ardor behind the grating...
Pardon me... behind the slats of bashful shutters.
Meanwhile, Agramonte's working class
marched inexorably on toward progress.
This progress may have been a tad slow... indeed.
But the audacious trumpets of the working class
were answered by the equally loud bells of San Filmino.
Therefore, my faithful and beloved fellow citizens,
I exhort you to vote for a party that is of the people
and therefore democratic,
and therefore respectful of our Christian faith.
A party, in a word,
both democratic and Christian.
My wife, Rosalia.
Twelve years of marriage.
Donna Matilde, my mother.
My sister Agnese, unmarried and still dependent,
officially compromised... i.e., engaged... to Rosario Mulè,
of the respected firm Mulè and Sons,
a funeral parlor.
And this is Don Calogero,
intruder in the Cefalù Palace,
husband of Aunt Fifidda, my father's sister.
In a mere 15 years, this former farmer
had paid off a number of my father's rash gambling debts,
enabling him to snatch up our best plots of land.
And finally we come to Angela,
daughter of Calogero and Fifidda and thus my first cousin.
Angela attended high...
Attended a high school run by nuns in Catania.
She spent her summer vacations at home.
I loved Angela.
- Good night, Don Ferdinando. - Regards to Donna Rosalia.
- Good night. - Rest well.
Good night.
Fefè.
- You feeling all right? - I'm fine. Good night.
Fefè.
Yes?
- What is it? Aren't you well? - I'm fine.
What is it?
Do you need anything? Some warm chamomile?
I don't want anything. Go to bed.
Go to bed.
- Who's in there? - It's me, Papa.
Hurry up, please.
All right.
Gaetano, do you need me?
No, go to bed.
Get out of here!
Sorry.
I knew the garlic in the peppers wouldn't agree with you.
I told your mother so.
She says you can't cook peppers without garlic.
It's true that they're not as good without garlic.
But she should understand,
there are some things a wife understands better than a mother.
It's a matter of...
I don't know.
It's nothing I can spell out.
Don't you agree, Fefè?
I'm a little chilly. It's so cold tonight.
Rosalia, are you sick or something?
The thermometer at the club read 90º today.
Fefè, do you really love me?
Of course I do.
How much, Fefè, how much?
Your feet are so nice and cool.
And yet... she had looked in my direction.
You know what I was thinking?
I was wondering, why is it we're alive?
Have you ever wondered what the purpose of our lives is?
- No. What is it? - To love.
To love. We live to love.
- If we wasn't to love... - "Weren't". If we weren't to love.
Yes, we would wilter, like so many wiltered flowers.
I mean, wilt... that's the word.
This abysmal heat!
Do you need anything?
No. Go to sleep.
Baroness, tell him to keep his hands to himself!
You watch out, or I'll tell your father.
You know how he is.
- What can I do? - Be quiet! You're a tease.
Last night I pushed my dresser up against the door,
but the minute I turned my back...
Don Fefè, you tell him. - So don't turn your back.
Oh, my God, someone's coming!
Don Ferdinando!
Agnese, please.
Don Ferdinando, Agnese and I must get married.
Soon. Before Christmas.
Yes, we'll discuss it, but there's still plenty of time.
But first I have to finish mourning my poor grandfather.
Don't get any ideas. Rosario has always respected me.
I swear!
Well, I'll be going.
Excuse me.
Well, I guess I am a rather interesting man...
refined, intelligent.
But that stomach!
I'll have to cut out fats, sugars and starches.
I'll have to cut out everything!
I brought you your coffee, freshly brewed.
- Were you resting? - Yes.
Not so much. Just a bit.
What do you mean? You like it sweet.
Not anymore.
Fefè, can I have a sip? Just a tiny sip.
- There's a potful right there. - No, from your cup.
- Are you crazy? - A gray hair.
Now that I've pulled one out, seven more will grow in.
Gray temples are so distinguished. Did you know that?
Sisina, watch the wind!
The house is filling with smoke!
How many times must I tell you, idiot!
I can't help that.
You have to talk to your mother, for crying out loud!
We made soap on the 18th of last month, and it's only the 11th!
Do you know what we spend in a month just on soap?
Please, don't start this again.
What?
Can't you buy ready-made soap at the store?
If we used our heads more, we could save some real money.
Believe me, your mother's going to hear about this!
Couldn't you find some other time to make soap?
- We have to make it. - The house is filling with smoke!
We're suffocating!
Good girl, Sisina.
Sometimes we'd go to the beach in the summer.
Rosalia would bury herself in the sand for her arthritis.
Would you move my umbrella?
Oh, my God, someone's coming!
- Warm day. - Yes, quite.
We weren't doing anything wrong. I swear.
I know.
Baron, we never had that talk. I'm ready when you are.
- Christmas is still a ways off. - Right, well...
Excuse us.
Angela!
Angela, what are you doing?
Picking flowers in honor of the Immaculate Conception.
I felt like picking flowers too.
I just wouldn't know who to give them to.
You know what I mean, don't you?
Yes.
They smell so nice!
The other day as you were leaving church,
you looked at me.
Why did you look at me that way?
So you've thought about it, eh?
- Wait. - Here.
There he is. My beloved son was off picking flowers.
Got some real flowers too while he was at it.
Papa, you know how to ruin a poetic moment.
Rosalia is right.
Fefè, what lovely flowers.
Thank you, my son.
- How nice. Where'd you find them? - Over there.
Bring them closer so I can smell them.
So pretty.
MAN ORBITS EARTH
Fefè, I feel a strange dissatisfaction deep inside.
For instance, you know how much I like grapes.
Well, I like grapes most when we have none.
When we have grapes, I feel like eating pears.
Last year in Agramonte, the homicide rate was 2. 1%. That's something.
At your service, Baron. Baroness.
- Anyway, where was I? - You look like a princess!
Don Ciccio Matara, Natalino Urso's henchman,
the man who torched the Mazzalorso family's land.
Horrible things were said about Don Ciccio.
Two years ago they killed that woman Cesira,
right here on her way to church.
And no one saw a thing.
But to be beholden forever to Don Ciccio Matara...
no, no, no.
See you tonight, then.
- Where was I, Fefè? - Pears.
Right. For me it's not the grapes in themselves,
as much as my desire for them.
Like that poem I like so much,
that says Saturdays are so much better than Sundays.
Hello again.
I'll kill her!
- Gaetano! - Shut up!
I don't deserve this!
I didn't know it yet.
But that night would mark a turning point in my life.
I'll kick him out of this house!
Stop your father!
Papa, what is it?
He had the nerve to wave two 25,000-lire notes in my face!
Aunt Fifidda was calling for help. What do notes have to do with it?
I don't know. I think he's beating his daughter.
Come here, you hussy!
Fifidda, open up! It's me!
What's the scoundrel's name?
- He'll kill the poor child! - Let me in!
His name!
I'll never tell you!
Tell me the name of that scoundrel!
Stop it! Calm down!
Cover yourself up, you hussy!
Come on, let's go.
The hussy!
Excuse me.
No, not her!
What's the midwife doing here?
- I want to know her condition. - Why?
She has a lover.
Yes. Her diary's right here.
Read for yourself.
I'll kill her with my own hands!
Today it finally happened. Surrounded by all those flowers...
- Fefè, what happened? - Nothing. They're all in the next room.
I'll go take a look.
Today it finally happened. Surrounded by all those flowers...
we met, and...
But it's too marvelous for words.
Now I'm his forever!
My sweet love...
beaten, humiliated, examined.
The smile on that witch's face when she said to your father,
"Undefiled".
Undefiled.
My poor Angela.
You're a flower.
A delicate lily.
Why are you crying?
Why?
Aren't you cold?
Look what he did to me.
But I didn't say a word about us.
My love.
I'm leaving. I'm going away.
They're sending me back to school.
No, we mustn't.
Angela, you're mine!
She left the next day on the 10:20 bus,
accompanied by two nuns from the Convent of the Seven Sorrows.
Good-bye, my love.
That same week, in Catania,
the trial of Mariannina Terranova was starting,
who had committed a crime of passion.
I'm sure you remember the hullabaloo in the press.
The two-timing victim, Vito Cafiero, a 24-year-old student.
The pathetic figure of the killer, Mariannina Terranova,
his 26-year-old common-law wife.
Mariannina had taken a train
and gone to empty her gun into the body of her beloved
as he left a movie theater in Catania.
The collective honor of the south had found its heroine.
Mariannina Terranova, where did you get the murder weapon?
- He gave it to me. - Who's "he"?
Him. He said: "If I ever cheat on you, kill me with this".
And then?
And then... he destroyed my honor.
Good for you, Mariannina!
Remove that woman!
Gentlemen of the jury.
"Lips once kissed long for more".
But I say, paraphrasing a much more lofty and sacred text,
"He who looks at a woman with desire
has already sinned in his heart".
So while the train carried Mariannina Terranova to her fateful destination,
unstoppable as the destiny that drove her on.
This poor, diminutive creature of the south.
Wrapped in the age-old dark shawl,
symbol of our women's modesty,
wringing her hands in her lap,
her womb condemned by God
to suffer the divine pangs of motherhood,
while the train raced on as in an inescapable nightmare,
the rhythmic thrust of the pistons pounding
in the delirious ears of poor, ruined Mariannina...
"Dishonored, dishonored, dishonored".
Honor, my friends. What is honor?
Shall we accept the definition given by the venerable Tomaseo
in his monumental dictionary of the Italian language:
"The moral and civic attributes that render a man respectable
and respected in the society in which he lives"?
Or shall we throw that out like some worn-out, useless thing?
Letters! Letters written by anonymous but symbolic hands.
Illegible letters that would offend the dignity of this courtroom.
Blunt and concise, like this one,
which in one word renders poor Mariannina's fate:
"Cuckoldess"!
Or this one, which uses a crude image to express the nefarious thought.
Cuckold! Dishonored!
The Cefalù family name, my lineage, sullied by a tramp!
Tramp.
Let's take a look.
Here we are.
Article 587 of the Penal Code:
"He who causes the death of spouse, daughter or sister
upon discovering her in illegitimate carnal relations
and in the heat of passion caused by the offense to his honor
or that of his family will be sentenced to three to seven years".
Three to seven years. Let's see.
I'm 37 years old. Seven more makes 44.
Angela is 16, plus seven...
Wait a minute.
Seven years is the maximum.
Terranova... No, her crime can't be considered the same.
The law is clear. It considers the jealousy of the woman,
but it doesn't protect her honor.
EIGHT YEARS FOR MARIANNINA MORAL INSULT MITIGATES SENTENCE
FOR NATIVE OF AGRAMONTE WHO WAS SEDUCED AND ABANDONED
Eight years.
That's certainly quite a stretch of time,
but she's a bricklayer's daughter.
She's vulgar, ignorant, ugly. A common-law wife!
Whereas I'm a gentleman, with a college degree,
an exemplary husband of almost 15 years.
An aristocrat!
Yes, gentlemen of the jury, an aristocrat.
These are dark times, full of greed and cynical scientific materialism.
But aristocrats are not aristocrats for nothing. No, sir!
But I'm certainly not going to hark back to the Crusades.
No, let's stick to the facts.
Gentlemen of the jury,
is there anything in the letter of the law
that does not perfectly fit this man's tragic situation?
Was there not the heat of passion? Was his honor not offended
the instant he discovered his beloved spouse
swooning in her lover's arms?
A lover for Rosalia... who could it be?
He'd have to be hand-picked.
Someone I could bring into the house. Into her bed.
But who could it be?
I bought her that dress in Catania,
and took her for a stroll for a specific reason.
- Baroness. - Professor.
- My respects. - No, the professor won't work.
- Fefè, everyone's looking at me. - No, they're not.
I wanted to see if those well-rounded hips,
that had clinched my proposal of marriage...
I was young and inexperienced then.
Anyway, I wanted to see if Rosalia's hips still attracted men's attention,
and in effect, it seemed they did indeed.
You must be warm.
No, not the marshal. Certainly no one related to the law.
Absolutely not Don Ciccio Matara.
I can feel a draft.
Perhaps an artistic type,
a soul mate.
I wonder if Tonino Gambacurta would be suitable.
What a lovely voice Tonino has.
What?
Poor boy.
Why "poor boy"?
Don't you know?
Definitely not Tonino.
Good night.
If you don't say it, I can't go to sleep.
Yes, I love you. Good night.
How much, Fefè?
Why?
Enough!
Ferdinando.
Mama's brought you some breakfast.
- Do it for me. - Go away!
- Be patient. - I always have to suffer.
One day he's all sugar and honey, and then all of a sudden...
Rosalia, keep one thing in mind: He loves you.
That much is certain.
What are you yelling about? Go away!
Animal.
What are you looking at? I'm talking to you.
Idiot!
Carmelino.
I saw you yesterday, Rosalia, during the procession.
You were as beautiful and pure as the Virgin Mary.
I wanted to die on the spot.
To die with that image of you in my soul,
with this immense desire to know you were mine,
which life will never grant me.
Believe me, Rosalia. I'm afraid I'll lose my faith.
No, I'm not blaspheming.
But yesterday, when I saw you, so beautiful and bold...
Like a young pagan goddess...
Desert of El Alamein, Saturday, May 29, 1942,
20th year of the fascist era.
Rosalia, I swear if I make it out of this hell alive,
if this rotten war spares me and I make it back,
you'll be mine forever.
Carmelo Patanè. Of course! Declared missing in Africa.
He was even listed on the monument to the fallen in the piazza,
but his name was later removed.
Carmelo Patanè, godson of the old priest.
Tramp!
Good morning.
- The service is over. - But I just saw someone go in.
A painter restoring some works of art. But if it's urgent, I suppose...
Just a few minutes. A quick visit.
Go ahead.
That section was completely ruined.
Look, Don Ferdinando. That rosette merits restoring.
And look over there.
- He's quite good. - Yes, he's very good.
By flattering Patanè's silly vanity,
it was easy to lure him to my house
on the pretext of requesting his expert advice
on some crusty old frescoes on the living room ceiling.
Just as I suspected.
Some ignorant 19th-century iconoclast, with a view to...
How can I say... improving his abode,
had someone paint over the original 17th-century decorations
with these... if you'll forgive me...
These absurd and quite revolting scenes of hunting and feasting.
Yes, that makes sense.
They say the Cefalùs were avid hunters, avid eaters,
and avid... well, just avid.
With all due respect, Baron, it was sacrilegious on your ancestors' part.
- I hope it can be fixed. - Perhaps.
You've gone mad, Fefè. It's all junk!
No. Actually, I had in mind...
I mean, if he thinks it's worth it. - Well, it's a matter of...
Pardon me.
As I was saying. They would be of great value,
if properly restored.
Idiot!
But they had pretended not to know each other.
Perhaps the time had come for me to make up with Rosalia.
Come in.
Rosalia, it's me. I'm sorry.
Forgive me. Be patient with me.
You really must excuse me. I have a terrible headache.
Oh, I'm sorry. Just a kiss, then.
Good night.
Carmelo is fine.
Perfect.
The next day, on the pretext of taking care of some old taxes,
I went to Catania.
I was dying to see Angela.
I also had to make a very important purchase.
Let's try recording something.
- Say something. - I don't know what to say.
The first thing that comes to mind.
Go ahead!
- Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury. - You're not a lawyer, are you?
Now listen to this gem. It's perfect.
Just listen.
Perfect, isn't it?
Waiter.
Take a nice bottle of wine to the attorney.
Fate seemed to lay one favorable sign after another at my feet.
"Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury".
Thank you, my friend!
What a nice man.
What a great face.
So handsome.
Good day, my dear friend!
Sister.
Angela, what an unexpected pleasure.
How are you? You've grown.
A terrible thing has happened.
Papa was here yesterday. I wrote you a letter.
Good morning, Sister.
- Mother, this is my uncle. - I'm her mother's brother. May I...
I'm sorry, but not in public.
Come to the institute Sundays or Thursdays.
Let's go.
In line, girls. Move!
Is she studying hard?
Sisina? Is there any mail?
Mama! Rosalia!
Where is everybody?
Oh, my God!
Don Ferdinando, despite how it looks...
- Is nobody home today? - They're all at Aunt Fifidda's.
- They've been fighting all day. - Why?
She's my sister, you understand? Keep your hands off her!
She's my wife too. And she's killing me!
I'll do as I please in my house.
It'll be yours when you pay for it. Scoundrel!
As long as I'm here it's mine. And I'll do as I like.
I'll take care of my own affairs.
I decide about my daughter's life!
You're a greedy scoundrel! You want to marry her off for money!
His own daughter! Disgusting!
- Coward! - Money grabber!
You're just a coward!
But I'll be yours or no one's.
Ferdinando, my beloved.
If our love cannot be, no other will ever take its place.
In my heart I'll always be yours.
I'll pray for you as long as I live.
Who, gentlemen of the jury,
in this rapid summary of the facts,
could even vaguely imagine the horror caused
by the spectacle of the two lovers lying there,
disgustingly entwined in the vile enactment of their sin.
There, on the couch, in his very own house!
He was shocked. He searched for an explanation.
Perhaps he hoped for a miracle to erase the sight from his eyes!
Or perhaps he searched for words...
Words that could express his pain.
Instead, he found a weapon.
An old pistol, forgotten for who knows how long in some side table...
Instead, he found a weapon.
An old pistol, forgotten for who knows how long
in an old rococo credenza
of 18th-century Neapolitan design, perhaps rebuilt in the 19th.
Carmelo Patanè began work at 10:00 a.m. on July 12.
It felt almost like a solemn ceremony,
with her, him and me,
all of us very excited but restrained.
And Sisina was there, too.
Well, I guess I'll put on my smock.
Will you excuse me?
Yes, but first drink your coffee. Please sit down.
Thank you. With pleasure.
- Sugar? - Thank you.
- One or two? - Two.
- Would you like a pastry? - No, thank you.
They're homemade. Very special. My wife made them.
In that case, I'd love one.
Sisina, go on.
Get going.
Well, I'll excuse myself.
Please finish your coffee.
Besides, you haven't had your pastry. Excuse me.
You're looking well, Rosalia.
So are you, Carmelo.
It's been so long.
Yes, it has.
BARON CEFALÙ, OPEN YOUR EYES!
YOUR WIFE IS CHEATING ON YOU UNDER YOUR VERY OWN ROOF!
A FRIEND.
Premature, I know. But I was hoping for the best.
Patanè was a very shy man.
And Rosalia was disgustingly faithful.
In three meetings, nothing at all had happened.
Or practically nothing.
You know, I'd like to... Perhaps I'm being foolish.
Perhaps I could... I don't know... help you a little.
You could help me a lot, Rosalia.
But please understand:
Just as friends.
I'd like to sit here and watch while you work.
Why that sad look now?
It's nothing.
Yes, Rosalia.
The tempera mixture with the water color and the oil-
Why are you laughing?
Please, don't laugh. You're driving me mad.
I'm sorry.
Won't you forgive me?
I'd better not come here anymore.
Believe me, it's better.
Sisina, take this plate away.
Nothing concrete happened that day either.
But Rosalia had changed.
She was especially kind to me,
almost as if already asking
forgiveness for something.
Rosalia, the head.
No, thank you. I don't feel like it.
Too bad. You like it so much.
Aren't you feeling well?
Rosalia saying no to a fish head?
A sign of definite progress!
Does your head still hurt?
The doctor says this migraine could become chronic.
Too bad. Good night.
This is good, very good. But be careful.
Mustn't appear too resigned. I'll let out a sigh.
- I'm sorry, Fefè. - It's all right. Sleep.
It's so hot today,
but it's nice and cool in here.
Why do you look at me like that?
I'd like to paint your portrait one day.
Paint you as a madonna.
Or a harem girl.
Have you never painted me from memory?
Yes, a thousand times. Everywhere I go.
During these long years, no matter where I was.
I even made a quick sketch of you at Eptismania,
on a Corinthian capitol, I remember.
All over the place, really:
On marble tabletops, in coffee shops and bars.
I did one in Panarea, where I get away now and then.
It's still there, in an old fisherman's hut.
Do you know Panarea?
No. Is it pretty?
Sea. Rocks. Nature.
I'd love to see those portraits.
A journey back in time.
In search of lost dreams.
I beg of you, Carmelo.
Who is it?
I've brought you some lemonade.
Good.
That idiot's always in the way!
Warm, isn't it?
I imagine everyone's asleep.
The baron and baroness are sleeping, aren't they?
At this hour everyone's asleep.
- Good. - Except me.
- Don't you ever nap after lunch? - Never.
I used to, once in a while,
after straightening up the kitchen.
But now...
Now?
I can't sleep anymore...
even at night.
Let me look at you.
Antonello da Messina.
Those adolescent martyrs typical of Antonello.
Come on. Hold still.
Is that scoundrel trying to corrupt my servant?
I'd like to paint your portrait someday.
Sisina, go to the drugstore and get me some aspirin.
How's the work going, Professor?
It's going well. Not bad.
Good. Keep it up.
Thank you, Baron. Thank you.
- In the name of the Father... - Father, I've committed a grave sin.
And the Holy Ghost.
Now, who is he?
Father, do you know Antonello?
Antonello who?
No, must not be from this parish.
No, Father. He's from Messina.
You had to go all that way to get into trouble?
- No, Father, I don't know him. - So who is this Antonio?
Antonello.
No, the professor mentioned him to me.
What professor?
Don Carmelino, your godson.
Let me see if I understand. "He" is Carmelino?
Yes, Father.
You wretched girl! He's married, with three kids!
Why weren't you wearing a ring?
Impostor!
Calm down, Sisina. Stop shouting.
I don't wear a ring because it's unfashionable in the city.
If you're married you should wear a ring. How's a girl to know?
Calm down.
Don't yell, Sisina.
Calm down, please.
Married with three children. Keep calm.
Let's consider things in light of these new developments.
He knows that the servant knows, therefore he's nervous.
Let's see.
Let me put myself in his shoes for a moment.
Just for a moment.
I have to tell you something right now.
I've hesitated to tell you. But it's very important.
What is it? Are you ill?
Come, lie down on the couch.
Rosalia, I'm unworthy of your love. I've lied to you.
I let you think I was a free man.
I'm not single, Rosalia.
I'm married just like you.
I've betrayed the solemn oath I took 12 years ago.
Forgive me.
But the man you see before you is still the loneliest man alive.
I swear it!
My poor Carmelino.
My love!
Yes, Papa.
Is someone in there with you?
No. Why would anyone be in here with me?
I thought I heard...
Go to bed, Papa. Sleep well.
Damn it.
Matilde. Donna Rosalia. Baron.
Good-bye once again.
My love!
No, don't go! Come here.
I love you!
You're mine.
Nothing in this world can stop our love.
You and I are alone. Alone!
We've waited 12 years for this moment without knowing it.
- Admit it. - Yes!
Well, then? My life!
Not like this. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow. But first promise me something.
Anything at all. But why tomorrow?
Tomorrow is Thursday, isn't it?
I was thinking that tomorrow...
Tomorrow... a promise.
What promise? And why tomorrow?
TOMORROW
TODAY
Preceded by scandal, controversy, protest, critical outcry and hosannas,
a sensational film had opened in town.
The priest of San Filmino railed against it,
warning his flock to boycott it,
but to little effect.
Orgies worthy of Tiberius!
Wife-swapping! Striptease! Let's go, guys!
We'd never seen anything like it.
Not even all the chairs from the bar piled into the theater
could hold the huge audience that assembled.
They even came from the countryside,
riding for miles on horseback,
making the gentlemen of Agramonte anxious for their wives' virtue.
Finally, Don Ciccio Matara took over organization of the event,
and with great efficiency, I might add.
Papa, three hours locked up with all those people?
I just couldn't bear it.
Have you really got another headache?
Then I'll stay home too. - No, there's no need.
I'll just take an aspirin and go to bed.
You go ahead.
Oh, what a headache.
- Pickles get you too excited. - And you should know.
The older you get, the dirtier your mind gets!
Sisina, take these away.
Leave your door open tonight and I'll tell you all about the movie.
Let's go, Gaetano.
Good-bye, Rosalia.
Good evening, Baroness.
Did you ask Sisina to stay home and keep you company?
No, I'd rather she didn't.
But the idiot says she's made some kind of vow.
- Minors under 16 can't get in anyway. - That's right.
- Take care of yourself, okay? - Yes, dear.
Good night.
And have a good time.
I'm coming.
Let's go, Fefè!
My cigarettes.
It has to happen here. Not in our room.
She wouldn't be capable of that.
A great-looking specimen.
But I can tell she has no soul.
The odious images conjured up by that anonymous letter tormented him.
With great reluctance, he gave in to the impulse
to run home and see for himself.
Though he felt it too insulting to his beloved life companion,
a gnawing suspicion had taken hold of his tortured mind.
His hesitant and uncertain steps led him along the fateful path to his home,
where all seemed normal, tranquil and peaceful.
What if he's already inside? Those snakes!
Good heavens! Where's she going?
And why does she have a suitcase?
The 9:43 train!
The gun!
Curse them!
To the station!
I could catch them with suitcases at the station.
That could count as catching them in the act.
It has to count. It has to!
He'd found the house empty, the nest deserted.
Overtaken by a natural impulse for revenge, he ran like a madman
toward the station. Faster and faster. On and on!
To kill... perhaps.
But perhaps also in desperate hope of catching his unfaithful spouse
and stopping her from leaving. Who knows?
But when he saw them there together,
her and her lover...
The 9:43 train. Right on time.
Curse them!
The next day, a sleepy calm reigned in Agramonte,
as if nothing had happened.
The adulterers' elopement had unhinged part of my plan.
"He who causes the death of spouse, daughter or sister,
upon discovering her in illegitimate carnal relations,
and in the heat of passion caused by the offense to his honor, etc."
The law was exceptionally clear on this matter.
"Heat of passion" equals "catching them in the act" plus "offended honor".
Therefore, having failed to catch them in the act,
I'd have to lay it on thick with the offended honor,
so the heat of passion could reach the intensity required by the law.
I then remembered a few tricks I'd learned in the military.
104.
Why?
Why did you abandon me?
Dr. Talamone was the biggest gossip in town.
Public opinion held my stock in a definite decline.
In fact, it took a nosedive.
My friends from the social club
at first adopted an attitude of pained and vivid compassion.
But only at first.
He's locked himself in there since that tragic day.
He won't see anyone or eat anything. My poor son.
If this man had discovered his wife in flagrant adultery,
then yes, gentlemen of the jury, he might have killed.
But not after the fact. Not in cold blood.
He couldn't give chase to the adulterers
inflamed with hatred.
No, gentlemen of the court.
He lay there
in a state of dumb despondency that numbed his senses.
Fefè, eat something for your mama.
No, go away.
Leave me alone.
Meanwhile, rumors spread through town like an oil spill.
All sorts of things were said,
the substance of which could be summed up a single word:
Cuckold.
Now we see the results of such shameless pictures.
Unworthy mystifications of art,
that flaunt and exalt sin. Debauchery and immorality.
It's a point of fact that historically, even here in the south,
which I'm pleased to visit for the first time,
the moment's come to face the age-old problem of women's emancipation
as it's been confronted and solved, for example,
by our Chinese brothers.
Therefore, I invite you to express your democratic opinion on these facts.
In other words,
what is the calm, objective judgment that Mrs. Cefalù deserves?
Whore!
Finally, the anonymous letters began.
In Agramonte the anonymous letter is a prized handicraft.
We start practicing as children on sheets torn from notebooks,
graduating to polished specimens forged by expert adult hands.
In this orgy of accusation, mockery and defamation,
we'd all been lumped together.
Not only had I been dishonored, but the entire Cefalù household:
Living members, future descendants, and anyone associated with us.
Even future generations in any way related to the Cefalù name
saw their very existence threatened.
In short, everyone was brought into it, without exception,
including the servants.
But for me, those letters were worth their weight in gold.
I cataloged them in the most meticulous fashion.
"Cuckold".
"Cuckold". Good.
"We stand behind you".
"Mulè and Sons regrets..."
I'll let him know he's a coward!
- Coward! - Calm down.
Forget that gravedigger!
No one will want his sister now!
He's dishonored us all!
Coward!
My son!
- Rosario left you. - Yes, he left me.
Did he tell you in person?
No, he sent this letter. Read it.
I'm sorry, Agnesina. I'm really sorry.
You're a cuckold, and proud of it!
Lower, ever lower.
Let's sink into the mud up to our necks.
Everyone shunned him openly
because he'd been branded by the most vile disgrace possible.
I was a leper. I might as well have had the plague,
like a character from a novel by Manzoni.
Hear the latest news on the cuckold front!
My respects, Don Ferdinando.
Interesting.
Up until then, no one had bothered telling me
where the hell the two runaways had holed up.
And this was rather annoying, because I, the wounded party.
Couldn't go about openly gathering information.
I was supposed to just suddenly up and disappear.
Don Ciccio Matara, with his circle of mysterious friends,
might be able to help me.
But the initiative clearly had to come from him.
To be honest, that day I got the feeling he might be leaning in that direction.
Dear Papa and Mama,
today I took my Latin exam, and it went quite well.
"Dear Papa and Mama".
That means...
Help!
Matilde, help!
Calogero!
Help!
Carmela!
It's Calogero!
Gaetano! Matilde!
Call the doctor, quick!
You slug!
Me?
Why?
Holy Mother of God!
Quick, a glass of water!
- What is it? - Something terrible's happened.
Ferdinando, my love,
a friend told me what happened to you.
My love, I wish I were there to share your every pain.
But it can't be.
Perhaps we're being punished for our sin.
Perhaps this is a sign our love will never be blessed.
Forever yours no matter what happens... Angela.
What a tragedy.
Poor guy's heart just gave out.
But you mustn't take it too hard.
We all knew Don Calogero had a heart condition.
Now it's time for you to make a move, Don Fefè.
Your family was well respected. The entire town is waiting.
Couldn't you... Do I make myself clear?
We've called certain friends into action.
Give me 24 hours.
We'll find out where they are.
Have courage.
Are you Baron Don Ferdinando Cefalù?
My name is Immacolata Patanè.
I'm his wife.
I came all the way from Catania to find out what you intend to do.
I really don't...
Yes, now I'd been provoked.
Gravely provoked, I might add.
Don Ciccio Matara had kept his promise.
Immacolata!
- What have you done? - Nothing.
I avenged my honor.
But...
What about mine?
BARON CEFALÙ KILLS WIFE CAUGHT HIDING OUT WITH LOVER
In this picturesque corner of Sicily, many have died in the name of honor.
Poor Rosalia, you didn't deserve it.
But I know you rest in peace, with your naïve little dreams.
I really did love you in my own way.
But you were too much.
You would ask, "How much do you love me?"
You were hungry for love, my poor Rosalia.
Too hungry.
ONE LAW FOR ALL
There's not much to say about the trial. It went much as I expected.
Gentlemen of the jury...
The attorney, De Marzi, was brilliant, impassioned and sarcastic.
Moving and moved.
He played the entire scale of emotions with confident precision.
He didn't go so far as to mention the Crusades,
but he did cite Othello and our countryman Turiddu.
Mama was there.
Crying, the poor soul.
Yes, even I was close to tears.
Then he brought my father into it:
A debauched corrupter of innocents,
undoubtedly infected with some unmentionable disease,
producer of debts and bastards galore.
Clearly, grave hereditary dysfunction
could be added to my wounded honor.
Finally, he produced the widow Patanè.
He couldn't produce her children, as they were still very young.
And the penal code forbade it.
But he showed us their pictures.
The image of those poor orphans helped my case to no end.
I don't really know why.
Perhaps because in Italy, children...
Well, children will always be children.
Silence! His Honor is entering the courtroom.
In the name of the Italian people...
Three years. The minimum.
Actually, a little less than the minimum. I received a small pardon.
I won't say I'd predicted it, but I was sort of counting on it.
On average there's a pardon every three years, so it was my due.
I can't say it was a pleasant three years, but it's behind me now.
I was suddenly seized by a strange fear.
- Waiter, take care of the bill. - Thank you, sir.
During those months I'd received letters from Angela.
But only a few. And they were rather vague.
She always said she prayed for me and made constant vows.
Perhaps it was the natural shyness of our southern women.
Or perhaps...
No, it couldn't be. That would be too unfair.
He's here!
My beloved son!
A FEW MONTHS LATER
Yes, life begins at 40.
It really is true.