On Nicolas and Letizia’s wedding day, there was only one snag, though the young groom knew nothing about it. Letizia had woken up at five in the morning to allow the hairdresser and the beautician to do their job, but her mother understood that the bride was worried about something.
“What’s wrong, my love, this is the happiest day of your life, aren’t you satisfied?”
Letizia had shooed all the other women out of the room and had told her mother, through her tears: “Ma, I’m wearing a white dress…” And she pointed to the rounded belly that the Empire-style gown was softly sheathing. Her mother had shaken her fire-red dome of blazing hair and held her daughter to her breast. “Letizia, beautiful, your mamma’s heart and soul, but is that why you’re crying?” she’d asked, her heart melting at her daughter’s concern. “The only purity that matters is what’s in your heart,” she’d explained, as she petted her darling. Letizia had smiled, dried her tears, and that was the end of it.
They got married at the church in Forcella. Nicolas had wanted “a red carpet like at the Oscars,” and hand in hand with Letizia, he walked the red carpet through a crowd of people who wanted to make that day unforgettable, with Maraja and his bride.
“Long live the newlyweds!” the paranza shouted. “Long live Maraja! Long live Letizia!”
Letizia was thrilled, and every so often Nicolas turned around to look at her, to bolster her confidence. Then the priest uttered the familiar formula of the ritual: “Nicolas, do you take Letizia to be your lawfully wedded wife, and do you promise to be true to her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, and to love and honor her all the days of your life?” Nicolas almost didn’t let him finish, and said: “I do, by all that I hold unholy!” unleashing the hilarity of the members of the paranza in the front rows: “Epic Nico’!”
After the ceremony, family and friends went on to the New Maharaja. The newlyweds arrived an hour later, in a silver Rolls-Royce Ghost. Oscar had arranged to cover the entire parking plaza in front of the club with red carpet, and there, gathered in a semicircle, the guests burst into thunderous applause when Nicolas—who had chosen formal attire, complete with a cutaway swallowtail frock coat and white tie—stepped out of the Rolls and went around to open the door for Letizia.
Everyone was there. The families, down to every last member, the mothers in filmy gowns, the proud fathers, the grandfathers, the friends of the paranza—some in pinstripes, others in black suits with Air Jordans on their feet. In the front row, ’o Cicognone and Aucelluzzo could be seen. Also, here and there, prominent soccer players with wives squeezed into minidresses, and rappers in tracksuits. And Professoressa Cicatello was there, too, off to one side, keeping a low profile, but overjoyed, as if Nicolas had been one of her students on graduation day. She was holding a box with handsome sky-blue giftwrapping, and Nicolas was afraid that she had decided to give him a piece of Capodimonte porcelain.
Still, there was nothing that could ruin the joy of that day, neither the grueling and mind-numbing church ceremony nor the even longer picture-taking session, least of all a damned porcelain ballerina. It was a day of celebration, meant of course to consecrate the creation of a new family, but also to commemorate his victory over Micione. The paranza reigned and prospered over the center of the city. They’d struggled and labored and now they’d succeeded. He’d succeeded. He looked at his men: Briato’, Tucano, Lollipop, Pesce Moscio, Drone. And yet, as he looked at them, he also saw the ones who were missing—Dentino, Stavodicendo, Drago’, Biscottino. He’d lost almost half of his brothers, and those losses hadn’t been pretty. Not to mention Christian.
“Aren’t we going in, sweetheart?” asked Letizia, finally at peace.
No, nothing could ruin their party. He locked arms with his wife and together they entered the New Maharaja in a shower of rose petals, without even noticing that among the waiters bowing their heads as they went by were Susamiello, Pachi, and Risvoltino. They had shown up at the club a couple of hours earlier with a group of friends, in accordance with Briato’s orders, and they hadn’t objected in the slightest as they were being issued their uniforms, in fact, quite the opposite: “Ua’, so are we dressing up as waiters so we can infiltrate the wedding and stand guard as secret sentinels?” Susamiello had asked. Briato’ had burst out laughing, slapping him on the back in a way that accentuated the S-shape of that unripe, twisted body: “You’re dressing up as waiters so you can lay out the silverware and bring food to the table!”
The newlyweds started dancing, while the guests all took seats at the tables and the paranza sang the hook of the song that was blasting out insanely loud, at full volume.
Abbasc’addu me m’par’ GTA!
NAP’L’!
Mena was fluttering in her flowered dress from one table to another, and she even let Lollipop steer her out onto the dance floor. Every so often she’d shoot a quick glance at the corner table where the man who was still technically her husband was sitting. She thought she was going to have to argue with Nicolas to get him to invite his father, but instead he had replied unassumingly: “Already taken care of, Ma.”
It was a big party. There was laughter and tears of joy, hugs and kisses, passionate dancing and romantic dancing, hymns to a prosperous future and to goals achieved. And then, in the end, came the time for the presents.
Nicolas and Letizia took a seat on the little sofa of the private room, ready to offer their thanks for the silver sets that would be merely a prelude to the envelopes stuffed with cash.
Nicolas had seen the paranza disappear midway through that ritual, and he’d envied them their freedom. He, too, would gladly have ducked out of that boring situation, but he couldn’t. But when he saw them reappear, with Tucano and Lollipop carrying a large cardboard box, he understood that the time had come for their wedding present.
They set the box down in front of the newlyweds and he saw that it was moving as if it were alive.
“There’s no way we’re getting another dog, my love, let me tell you,” Letizia said, but Tucano reassured her: “Oh, come on, who do you take us for? We don’t give replica gifts, you know. There’s Skunk already, and she’s more than enough!”
Still, the box kept moving, and when Letizia heard those words, rather than relax she got more worried. While she held her belly with one hand, Lollipop and Tucano lifted the flaps of the carton.
Nicolas leaned over, at last a gift that aroused his curiosity at least somewhat; the expression on his face was one of heartfelt surprise: “Ua’,” he shouted.
The tiger was a frightened cub with a sweet face, and was now lying at the bottom of the box with its large paws side by side, as if waiting for a cuddle. Nicolas reached out his hand and unhesitatingly stroked its head, pressing his thumb onto the stripes that grew denser toward the top of its head. The animal put up no resistance.
Letizia had stood up and, still holding her belly, taken two steps back. “What are we going to do with this wild animal, Nico’? Where are we going to keep it?”
“On the roof, my love,” Nicolas replied. “We’ll have a cage built.”
Lollipop launched a full-throated chant of “Long live the newlyweds, long live the tiger,” and the New Maharaja echoed with the cheers and applause. Nicolas lifted the tiger so that Letizia could pet it, too, but she recoiled, because the last thing she wanted was that wild animal next to her belly.
Sveva, though, hand in hand with Pesce Moscio, envied Letizia that gift and started scratching the tiger cub behind the ears, whispering sweet words to it.
“The guy at the circus who sold it to me told me you need to feed it milk,” said Tucano, who had gone to get the tiger to bring it to the party. Drone walked over to a young matron who was pushing a stroller back and forth, and returned with a baby bottle. While Tucano was feeding the tiger, thereby attracting flocks of young women who were dying to take a selfie with the cub, the DJ had already started the music and the party continued.
“Wait, is this tiger a boy or a girl?” Drone asked at a certain point, his head tipped to one side to peek between the animal’s legs and answer his own question.
Tucano glared daggers at him, as if he’d doubted his own son. But then the doubt began to make its way into his mind, too, and together they started trying to determine the tiger’s gender.
“Huh … now that you mention it, this tiger doesn’t have a dick,” they all agreed.
“You’re right, it doesn’t have one,” Lollipop confirmed.
“But it has a pair of balls,” Tucano pointed out.
“Call whoever sold you the tiger!” Carlito’s Way suggested, and Tucano took his suggestion immediately.
“Hey, did you sell me a tigress?” he shouted into the iPhone, and then, after a couple of “Ah, ah, I understand’s,” in a steadily descending tone, he ended the call and loudly announced: “He says that he has a retractile penis.”
“It has what?”
“Yeah, just like Pesce Moscio!” And everyone burst out laughing, even Pesce Moscio.
“So what are we calling him?”
“Napule,” Nicolas promptly replied. “Naples, because Naples is a tiger.”
“Ua’,” said Tucano, and climbed up on a table to declaim: “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” and then jumped down to join the paranza’s group hug: “Together! Together! Together!”
The party lasted until dawn, until there was no one at the New Maharaja but the Piranhas and Susamiello with the other kids, who were all in the kitchen cleaning up. Nicolas, exhausted, had just taken Letizia to bed. One last toast with his friends, and he’d join her. Sitting on the usual low couch, he had Briato’ pass him the tiger cub. The animal snuggled up tamely to its master, but then with a swipe of the paw, it clawed him under the ear. An inch-long red stripe sank into Nicolas’s neck, and he instinctively released his grip. Finally free, the young tiger started running through the club, pursued by the members of the paranza, who, half drunk and half exhausted, clumsily tried to catch it. They managed to flush him out from under an amplifier after a good ten minutes. Nicolas had remained seated on the couch, and when Tucano brought the tiger cub back to him, he was afraid the Maraja was going to slaughter the poor animal. Instead Nicolas pulled his bloodstained hand away from his neck and showed the wound to the rest of the paranza.
“Ua’, that’s too cool! The tiger cut!”
“I want it, too!” said Lollipop, and knelt down before the tiger.
“Scratch me, scratch me, little tiger cub!” cried Tucano, shoving Lollipop aside, because, all things considered, he was the one who’d had the idea of the tiger in the first place. The young tiger tried to back into Nicolas’s arms, but then it sensed that its new owner was pushing it forward and it lunged with a razor-claw that sliced open Tucano’s eyebrow.
“Ua’, that bastard practically took out my eye,” Tucano shouted to a general burst of laughter.
And in the early light of dawn, the paranza set out in the Rolls-Royce. Heading for the emergency room.