Contents
About the Author
Also by Mario Puzo
Title Page
Dedication
Book I: Michael Corleone 1950
Chapter 1
Book II: Turi Guiliano 1943
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Book III: Michael Corleone 1950
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Book IV: Don Croce 1947
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Book V: Turi Guiliano and Michael Corleone 1950
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Copyright
About the Author
Mario Puzo was born in ‘Hell’s Kitchen’ on Manhattan’s West Side and following military service in World War II, attended New York’s New School for Social Research and Colombia University. His best-known novel, The Godfather, was preceded by two critically acclaimed novels published in the early sixties, The Fortunate Pilgrim and The Dark Arena; his subsequent novels included Fools Die, The Sicilian, Fourth K and The Last Don. Mario Puzo was also the author of ten screenplays, including Superman and Superman II. For both of his screenplay adaptations of The Godfather he won Academy Awards. Mario Puzo died in 1999, leaving the completed manuscript of his last novel, Omertà.
Also by Mario Puzo
Fools Die
The Godfather
The Fortunate Pilgrim
The Dark Arena
Fourth K
The Last Don
Omertà
The Family
The Sicilian
For Carol
BOOK
I
MICHAEL CORLEONE
1950
CHAPTER
1
MICHAEL CORLEONE STOOD on a long wooden dock in Palermo and watched the great ocean liner set sail for America. He was to have sailed on that ship, but new instructions had come from his father.
He waved goodbye to the men on the little fishing boat who had brought him to this dock, men who had guarded him these past years. The fishing boat rode the white wake of the ocean liner, a brave little duckling after its mother. The men on it waved back; he would see them no more.
The dock itself was alive with scurrying laborers in caps and baggy clothes unloading other ships, loading trucks that had come to the long dock. They were small wiry men who looked more Arabic than Italian, wearing billed caps that obscured their faces. Amongst them would be new bodyguards making sure he came to no harm before he met with Don Croce Malo, Capo di Capi of the “Friends of the Friends,” as they were called here in Sicily. Newspapers and the outside world called them the Mafia, but in Sicily the word Mafia never passed the lips of the ordinary citizen. As they would never call Don Croce Malo the Capo di Capi but only “The Good Soul.”
In his two years of exile in Sicily, Michael had heard many tales about Don Croce, some so fantastic that he almost did not believe in the existence of such a man. But the instructions relayed from his father were explicit: he was ordered to have lunch with Don Croce this very day. And the two of them were to arrange for the escape from Sicily of the country’s greatest bandit, Salvatore Guiliano. Michael Corleone could not leave Sicily without Guiliano.
Down at the end of the pier, no more than fifty yards away, a huge dark car was parked in the narrow street. Standing before it were three men, dark rectangles cut out of the glaring sheet of light that fell like a wall of gold from the sun. Michael walked toward them. He paused for a moment to light a cigarette and survey the city.
Palermo rested in the bottom of a bowl created by an extinct volcano, overwhelmed by mountains on three sides, and escaping into the dazzling blue of the Mediterranean Sea on the fourth side. The city shimmered in the golden rays of the Sicilian noontime sun. Veins of red light struck the earth, as if reflecting the blood shed on the soil of Sicily for countless centuries. The gold rays bathed stately marble columns of Greek temples, spidery Moslem turrets, the fiercely intricate façades of Spanish cathedrals; on a far hillside frowned the battlements of an ancient Norman castle. All left by diverse and cruel armies that had ruled Sicily since before Christ was born. Beyond the castle walls, cone-shaped mountains held the slightly effeminate city of Palermo in a strangler’s embrace, as if both were sinking gracefully to their knees, a cord pulling tightly around the city’s neck. Far above, countless tiny red hawks darted across the brilliant blue sky.
Michael walked toward the three men waiting for him at the end of the pier. Features and bodies formed out of their black rectangles. With each step he could see them more clearly and they seemed to loosen, to spread away from each other as if to envelop him in their greeting.
All three of these men knew Michael’s history. That he was the youngest son of the great Don Corleone in America, the Godfather, whose power extended even into Sicily. That he had murdered a high police official of New York City while executing an enemy of the Corleone Empire. That he had been in hiding and exile here in Sicily because of those murders and that now finally, matters having been “arranged,” he was on his way back to his homeland to resume his place as crown prince to the Corleone Family. They studied Michael, the way he moved so quickly and effortlessly, his watchful wariness, the caved-in side of his face which gave him the look of a man who had endured suffering and danger. He was obviously a man of “respect.”
As Michael stepped off the pier the first man to greet him was a priest, body plump in cassock, his head crowned by a greasy batlike hat. The white clerical collar was sprinkled with red Sicilian dust, the face above was worldly with flesh.
This was Father Benjamino Malo, brother to the great Don Croce. He had a shy and pious manner, but he was devoted to his renowned relative and never flinched at having the devil so close to his bosom. The malicious even whispered that he handed over the secrets of the confessional to Don Croce.
Father Benjamino smiled nervously as he shook Michael’s hand and seemed surprised and relieved by Michael’s friendly, lopsided grin, so unlike that of a famous murderer.
The second man was not so cordial, though polite enough. This was Inspector Frederico Velardi, head of the Security Police of all Sicily. He was the only one of the three who did not have a welcoming smile on his face. Thin and far too beautifully tailored for a man who received a government salary, his cold blue eyes shot two genetic bullets from long-ago Norman conquerors. Inspector Velardi could have no love for an American who killed high-ranking police officials. He might try his luck in Sicily. Velardi’s handshake was like the touching of swords.
The third man was taller and bulkier; he seemed huge beside the other two. He imprisoned Michael’s hand, then pulled him forward into an affectionate embrace. “Cousin Michael,” he said. “Welcome to Palermo.” He drew back and regarded Michael with a fond but wary eye. “I am Stefan Andolini, your father and I grew up together in Corleone. I saw you in America, when you were a child. Do you remember me?”
Oddly enough Michael did remember. For Stefan Andolini was that rarest of all Sicilians, a redhead. Which was his cross, for Sicilians believe that Judas was a redheaded man. His face too was unforgettable. The mouth was huge and irregular, the thick lips like bloody hacked meat; above were hairy nostrils, and eyes cavernous in deep sockets. Though he was smiling, it was a face that made you dream of murder.
With the priest, Michael understood the connection at once. But Inspector Velardi was a surprise. Andolini, carrying out the responsibility of a relative, carefully explained to Michael the Inspector’s official capacity. Michael was wary. What was the man doing here? Velardi was reputed to be one of Salvatore Guiliano’s most implacable pursuers. And it was obvious that the Inspector and Stefan Andolini disliked each other; they behaved with the exquisite courtesy of two men readying themselves for a duel to the death.
The chauffeur had the car door open for them. Father Benjamino and Stefan Andolini ushered Michael into the back seat with deferential pats. Father Benjamino insisted with Christian humility that Michael sit by the window while he sat in the middle, for Michael must see the beauties of Palermo. Andolini took the other back seat. The Inspector had already jumped in beside the chauffeur. Michael noticed that Inspector Velardi held the door handle so that he could twist it open quickly. The thought passed through Michael’s mind that perhaps Father Benjamino had scurried into the middle seat to make himself less of a target.
Like a great black dragon, the car moved slowly through the streets of Palermo. On this avenue rose graceful Moorish-looking houses, massive Greek-columned public buildings, Spanish cathedrals. Private houses painted blue, painted white, painted yellow, all had balconies festooned with flowers that formed another highway above their heads. It would have been a pretty sight except for squads of carabinieri, the Italian National Police, who patrolled every corner, rifles at the ready. And more of them on the balconies above.
Their car dwarfed the other vehicles surrounding it, especially the mule-drawn peasant carts which carried in most of the fresh produce from the countryside. These carts were painted in gay, vivid colors, every inch of them down to the spokes of the wheels, the shafts that held the mules. On the sides of many carts were murals showing helmeted knights and crowned kings in dramatic scenes from the legends of Charlemagne and Roland, those ancient heroes of Sicilian folklore. But on some carts Michael saw scrawled, beneath the figure of a handsome youth in moleskin trousers and sleeveless white shirt, guns in his belt, guns slung over his shoulder, a legend of two lines which always ended with great red letters that spelled out the name GUILIANO.
During his exile in Sicily, Michael had heard a good deal about Salvatore Guiliano. His name had always been in the newspapers. People everywhere talked about him. Michael’s bride, Apollonia, had confessed that every night she said prayers for the safety of Guiliano, as did nearly all the children and young people of Sicily. They adored him, he was one of them, he was the man they all dreamed of becoming. Young, in his twenties, he was acclaimed a great general because he outfought the carabinieri armies sent against him. He was handsome and he was generous, he gave most of his criminal earnings to the poor. He was virtuous and his bandits were never permitted to molest women or priests. When he executed an informer or a traitor, he always gave the victim time to say his prayers and cleanse his soul in order to be on the best of terms with the rulers of the next world. All this Michael knew without being briefed.
They turned off the avenue and a huge black-lettered poster on a house wall caught Michael’s eye. He just had time to see the word GUILIANO on the top line. Father Benjamino had been leaning toward the window and said, “It is one of Guiliano’s proclamations. Despite everything he still controls Palermo at night.”
“And what does it say?” Michael asked.
“He permits the people of Palermo to ride the streetcars again,” Father Benjamino said.
“He permits?” Michael asked with a smile. “An outlaw permits?”
On the other side of the car Stefan Andolini laughed. “The carabinieri ride the trams so Guiliano blows them up. But first he warned the public not to use them. Now he is promising not to blow them up anymore.”
Michael said dryly, “And why did Guiliano blow up trams full of police?”
Inspector Velardi turned his head, blue eyes glaring at Michael. “Because Rome in its stupidity arrested his father and mother for consorting with a known criminal, their own son. A Fascist law never repealed by the republic.”
Father Benjamino said with quiet pride. “My brother, Don Croce, arranged for their release. Oh, my brother was very angry with Rome.”
Christ, Michael thought. Don Croce was angry with Rome? Who the hell was this Don Croce besides being pezzonovante in the Mafia?
The car stopped in front of a block-long, rose-colored building. Blue minarets crowned each separate corner. Before the entrance an extraordinary, wide green-striped canopy lettered HOTEL UMBERTO was guarded by two doormen stuffed into dazzling gold-buttoned uniforms. But Michael was not distracted by this splendor.
His practiced eye photographed the street in front of the hotel. He spotted at least ten bodyguards walking in couples, leaning against the iron railings. These men were not disguising their function. Unbuttoned jackets revealed weapons strapped to their bodies. Two of them smoking thin cigars blocked Michael’s path for a moment when he came out of the car scrutinizing him closely—measuring him for a grave. They ignored Inspector Velardi and the others.
As the group entered the hotel, the guards sealed off the entrance behind them. In the lobby four more guards materialized and escorted them down a long corridor. These men had the proud looks of palace servants to an emperor.
The end of the corridor was barred by two massive oaken doors. A man seated in a high, thronelike chair stood up and unlocked the doors with a bronze key. He bowed, giving Father Benjamino a conspiratorial smile as he did so.
The doors opened into a magnificent suite of rooms; open French windows revealed a luxuriously deep garden beyond, which blew in the smell of lemon trees. As they entered Michael could see two men posted on the inside of the suite. Michael wondered why Don Croce was so heavily guarded. He was Guiliano’s friend, he was the confidant of the Minister of Justice in Rome and therefore safe from the carabinieri who filled the town of Palermo. Then who, and what, did the great Don fear? Who was his enemy?
The furniture in the living room of the suite had been originally designed for an Italian palace—gargantuan armchairs, sofas as long and deep as small ships, massive marble tables that looked as if they had been stolen from museums. They suitably framed the man who now came in from the garden to greet them.
His arms were held out to embrace Michael Corleone. Standing, Don Croce was almost as wide as he was tall. Thick gray hair, crinkly as a Negro’s, carefully barbered, crowned a head massively leonine. His eyes were lizardly dark, two raisins embedded on top of heavily fleshed cheeks. These cheeks were two great slabs of mahogany, the left side planed smooth, the other creased with overgrown flesh. The mouth was surprisingly delicate, and above it was a thin mustache. The thick imperial spike of a nose nailed his face together.
But beneath that emperor’s head he was all peasant. Huge ill-fitting trousers encircled his enormous middle, and these were held up by wide off-white suspenders. His voluminous shirt was white and freshly laundered but not ironed. He wore no tie or coat and his feet were bare on the marble floor.
He did not look like a man who “wet his beak” from every business enterprise in Palermo down to the lowly market stalls in the square. It was hard to believe that he was responsible for a thousand deaths. That he ruled Western Sicily far more than did the government in Rome. And that he was richer than the dukes and barons who owned great Sicilian estates.
The embrace he gave Michael was swift and light as he said, “I knew your father when we were children. It is a joy to me that he has such a fine son.” Then he inquired as to the comfort of his guest’s journey and his present necessities. Michael smiled and said he would enjoy a morsel of bread and a drop of wine. Don Croce immediately led him into the garden, for like all Sicilians he ate his meals out of doors when he could.
A table had been set up by a lemon tree. It sparkled with polished glass and fine white linen. Wide bamboo chairs were pulled back by servants. Don Croce supervised the seating with a vivacious courtesy, younger than his age; he was now in his sixties. He sat Michael on his right and his brother, the priest, on his left. He placed Inspector Velardi and Stefan Andolini across from him and regarded them both with a certain coolness.
All Sicilians are good eaters, when there is food to be had, and one of the few jokes people dared to make about Don Croce was that he would rather eat well than kill an enemy. Now he sat with a smile of benign pleasure on his face, knife and fork in hand as the servants brought out the food. Michael glanced around the garden. It was enclosed by a high stone wall and there were at least ten guards scattered around at their own small luncheon tables, but no more than two at each table and well away to give Don Croce and his companions privacy. The garden was filled with the fragrance of lemon trees and olive oil.
Don Croce served Michael personally, ladling roasted chicken and potatoes onto his plate, supervising the tossing of grated cheese on his little side dish of spaghetti, filling his wineglass with cloudy local white wine. He did this with an intense interest, a genuine concern that it was a matter of importance for his new friend to eat and drink well. Michael was hungry, he had not tasted food since dawn, and the Don was kept busy replenishing his plate. He also kept a sharp eye on the plates of the other guests, and when necessary he made a gesture for a servant to fill a glass or cover an empty dish with food.
Finally they were done, and sipping his cup of espresso, the Don was ready for business.
He said to Michael, “So you’re going to help our friend Guiliano run off to America.”
“Those are my instructions,” Michael said. “I must make certain he enters America without misfortune.”
Don Croce nodded; his massive mahogany face wore the sleepy amiable look of the obese. His vibrant tenor voice was surprising from that face and body. “It was all arranged between me and your father, I was to deliver Salvatore Guiliano to you. But nothing runs smooth in life, there is always the unexpected. It is now difficult to keep my part of the bargain.” He held up his hand to keep Michael from interrupting. “Through no fault of my own. I have not changed. But Guiliano no longer trusts anyone, not even me. For years, almost from the first day he became an outlaw, I helped him survive; we were partners. With my help he became the greatest man in Sicily though even now he is a mere boy of twenty-seven. But his time is over. Five thousand Italian soldiers and field police are searching the mountains. Still he refuses to put himself in my hands.”
“Then there is nothing I can do for him,” Michael said. “My orders are to wait no more than seven days, then I must leave for America.”
And even as he said this he wondered why it was so important for his father to have Guiliano escape. Michael desperately wanted to get home after so many years of exile. He worried about his father’s health. When Michael had fled America his father had been lying, critically wounded, in the hospital. Since his flight his older brother Sonny had been murdered. The Corleone Family had been engaged in a desperate battle for survival against the Five Families of New York. A battle that had reached from America into the heart of Sicily to kill Michael’s young bride. It was true that messengers from his father had brought news that the old Don had recovered from his wounds, that he had made peace with the Five Families, that he had arranged for all charges against Michael to be dropped. But Michael knew that his father was waiting for him to come to be his right-hand man. That everyone in his family would be anxious to see him—his sister, Connie, his brother Freddie, his foster brother, Tom Hagen, and his poor mother, who would certainly still be grieving over the death of Sonny. Michael thought fleetingly of Kay—would she still be thinking of him after his vanishing for two years? But the crucial thing was: Why was his father delaying his return? It could only be for something of the utmost importance connected with Guiliano.
Suddenly he was aware of Inspector Velardi’s cold blue eyes studying him. The thin aristocratic face was scornful, as if Michael had shown cowardice.
“Be patient,” Don Croce said. “Our friend Andolini still serves as contact between me and Guiliano and his family. We will all reason together. When you leave here, you will visit Guiliano’s father and mother in Montelepre, it is on your way to Trapani.” He paused for a moment and smiled, a smile that did not break the massiveness of his cheeks. “I have been told of your plans. All of them.” He said this with peculiar emphasis, but, Michael thought, he could not possibly know all the plans. The Godfather never told anyone all of anything.
Don Croce went on smoothly. “All of us who love Guiliano agree on two things. He can no longer stay in Sicily and he must emigrate to America. Inspector Velardi is in accord.”
“That is strange even for Sicily,” Michael said with a smile. “The Inspector is head of the Security Police sworn to capture Guiliano.”
Don Croce laughed, a short mechanical laugh. “Who can understand Sicily? But this is simple. Rome prefers Guiliano happy in America, not screaming accusations from the witness cage in a Palermo court. It’s all politics.”
Michael was bewildered. He felt an acute discomfort. This was not going according to plan. “Why is it in Inspector Velardi’s interest to have him escape? Guiliano dead is no danger.”
Inspector Velardi answered in a contemptuous voice. “That would be my choice,” he said. “But Don Croce loves him like a son.”
Stefan Andolini stared at the Inspector malevolently. Father Benjamino ducked his head as he drank from his glass. But Don Croce said sternly to the Inspector, “We are all friends here, we must speak the truth to Michael. Guiliano holds a trump card. He has a diary he calls his Testament. In it he gives proofs that the government in Rome, certain officials, have helped him during his years of banditry, for purposes of their own, political purposes. If that document becomes public the Christian Democratic government would fall and we would have the Socialists and Communists ruling Italy. Inspector Velardi agrees with me that anything must be done to prevent that. So he is willing to help Guiliano escape with the Testament with the understanding that it will not be made public.”
“Have you seen this Testament?” Michael asked. He wondered if his father knew about it. His instructions had never mentioned such a document.
“I know of its contents,” Don Croce said.
Inspector Velardi said sharply, “If I could make the decision I would say kill Guiliano and be damned to his Testament.”
Stefan Andolini glared at the Inspector with a look of hatred so naked and intense that for the first time Michael realized that here was a man almost as dangerous as Don Croce himself. Andolini said, “Guiliano will never surrender and you are not a good enough man to put him in his grave. You would be much wiser to look after yourself.”
Don Croce raised his hand slowly and there was silence at the table. He spoke slowly to Michael, ignoring the others. “It may be I cannot keep my promise to your father to deliver Guiliano to you. Why Don Corleone concerns himself in this affair, I can’t tell you. Be assured he has his reasons and that those reasons are good. But what can I do? This afternoon you go to Guiliano’s parents, convince them their son must trust me and remind those dear people that it was I who had them released from prison.” He paused for a moment. “Then perhaps we can help their son.”
In his years of exile and hiding, Michael had developed an animal instinct for danger. He disliked Inspector Velardi, he feared the murderous Stefan Andolini, Father Benjamino gave him the creeps. But most of all Don Croce sent alarm signals clanging through his brain.
All the men at the table hushed their voices when they spoke to Don Croce, even his own brother, Father Benjamino. They leaned toward him with bowed heads waiting for his speech, they even stopped chewing their food. The servants circled around him as if he were a sun, the bodyguards scattered around the garden constantly kept their eyes on him, ready to spring forward at his command and tear everyone to pieces.
Michael said carefully, “Don Croce, I am here to follow your every wish.”
The Don nodded his huge head in benediction, folded his well-shaped hands over his stomach and said in his powerful tenor voice, “We must be absolutely frank with each other. Tell me, what are your plans for Guiliano’s escape? Speak to me as a son to his father.”
Michael glanced quickly at Inspector Velardi. He would never speak frankly, before the head of the Security Police of Sicily. Don Croce understood immediately. “Inspector Velardi is completely guided by my advice,” he said. “You may trust him as you do me.”
Michael raised his glass of wine to drink. Over it he could see the guards watching them, spectators at a play. He could see Inspector Velardi grimace, not liking even the diplomacy of the Don’s speech, the message being clear that Don Croce ruled him and his office. He saw the frown on the murderous huge-lipped face of Stefan Andolini. Only Father Benjamino refused to meet his gaze and bowed his head. Michael drank the glass of cloudy white wine and a servant immediately refilled it. Suddenly the garden seemed a dangerous place.
He knew in his bones that what Don Croce had said could not be true. Why should any of them at this table trust the head of the Security Police of Sicily? Would Guiliano? The history of Sicily was larded with treachery, Michael thought sourly; he remembered his dead wife. So why was Don Croce being so trustful? And why the massive security around him? Don Croce was the top man of the Mafia. He had the most powerful connections in Rome and indeed served as their unofficial deputy here in Sicily. Then what did Don Croce fear? It could only be Guiliano.
But the Don was watching. Michael tried to speak with the utmost sincerity. “My plans are simple. I am to wait in Trapani until Salvatore Guiliano is delivered to me. By you and your people. A fast ship will take us to Africa. We will of course have the necessary papers of identity. From Africa we fly to America where it has been arranged for us to enter without the usual formalities. I hope it will be as easy as they have made it sound.” He paused for a moment. “Unless you have another counsel.”
The Don sighed and drank from his glass. Then he fixed his eyes on Michael. He started to speak slowly and impressively “Sicily is a tragic land,” he said. “There is no trust. There is no order. Only violence and treachery in abundance. You look wary, my young friend, and you have every right. And so, too, our Guiliano. Let me tell you this: Turi Guiliano could not have survived without my protection; he and I have been two fingers on one hand. And now he thinks me his enemy. Ah, you can’t know what sorrow this brings me. My only dream is that one day Turi Guiliano can return to his family and be acclaimed the champion of Sicily. He is a true Christian and a brave man. And with a heart so tender that he has won the love of every Sicilian.” Don Croce paused and drank off a glass of wine. “But the tide has turned against him. He is alone in the mountains with barely a handful of men to face the army that Italy sends against him. And he has been betrayed at every turn. So he trusts no one, not even himself.”
The Don looked at Michael for a moment very coldly. “If I were completely honest,” he said, “if I did not love Guiliano so much, perhaps I would give advice I do not owe you. Perhaps I should say, in all fairness, go home to America without him. We are coming to the end of a tragedy which in no way concerns you.” The Don paused for a moment and sighed again. “But of course, you are our only hope and I must beg you to stay and help our cause. I will assist in every way, I will never desert Guiliano.” Don Croce raised his wineglass. “May he live a thousand years.”
They all drank and Michael calculated. Did the Don want him to stay or to desert Guiliano? Stefan Andolini spoke. “Remember we have promised the parents of Guiliano that Michael will visit them in Montelepre.”
“By all means,” Don Croce said gently. “We must give his parents some hope.”
Father Benjamino said with a too humble insistence, “And perhaps they will know something about the Testament.”
Don Croce sighed. “Yes, Guiliano’s Testament. He thinks it will save his life or at least avenge his death.” He spoke directly to Michael. “Remember this. Rome fears the Testament, but I do not. And tell his parents what is written on paper affects history. But not life. Life is a different history.”
THE ROAD from Palermo to Montelepre was no more than a one-hour drive. But in that hour Michael and Andolini went from the civilization of a city to the primitive culture of the Sicilian countryside. Stefan Andolini drove the tiny Fiat, and in the afternoon sun his close-shaved cheeks and chin blazed with countless grains of scarlet hair roots. He drove carefully and slowly, as men do who have learned to drive motor vehicles late in life. The Fiat panted as if short of breath as it wound uphill through the enormous range of mountains.
At five different points they were stopped by roadblocks of the National Police, platoons of at least twelve men backed by an armored car bristling with machine guns. Andolini’s papers got them through.
It was strange to Michael that the country could become so wild and primitive such a short distance from the great city of Palermo. They passed tiny villages of stone houses that were precariously balanced on steep slopes. These slopes were carefully gardened into terraced narrow fields growing neat rows of spiky green plants. Small hills were studded with countless huge white boulders half-buried in moss and bamboo stalks; in the distance they looked like vast unsculptured cemeteries.
At intervals along the road were holy shrines, padlocked wooden boxes that held statues of the Virgin Mary or some particular favored saint. At one of these shrines, Michael saw a woman on her knees praying, her husband sitting in their donkey-drawn cart guzzling a bottle of wine. The donkey’s head drooped like a martyr’s.
Stefan Andolini reached over to caress Michael’s shoulder and said, “It does my heart good to see you, my dear cousin. Did you know that the Guilianos are related to us?”
Michael was sure this was a lie; there was something in that foxily red smile. “No,” he said. “I only knew the parents worked for my father in America.”
“As I did,” Andolini said. “We helped build your father’s house on Long Island. Old Guiliano was a fine bricklayer, and though your father offered him a place in the olive oil business, he stuck to his trade. He worked like a Negro for eighteen years and saved like a Jew. Then he came back to Sicily to live like an Englishman. But the war and Mussolini made their lire worthless and now he owns only his house and a small piece of land to farm. He curses the day he left America. They thought their little boy would grow up a prince and now he is a bandit.”
The Fiat had stirred up a cloud of dust; alongside the road growths of prickly pears and bamboo had a ghostly appearance, the pears in their clusters seeming to form human hands. In the valleys they could see the olive groves and grapevines. Suddenly Andolini said, “Turi was conceived in America.”
He saw Michael’s questioning glance. “Yes, he was conceived in America but born in Sicily. A few months’ wait and Turi would be an American citizen.” He paused for a moment. “Turi always talks about that. Do you really think you can help him escape?”
“I don’t know,” Michael said. “After lunch with the Inspector and Don Croce, I don’t know what anything means. Do they want me to help? My father said Don Croce would do so. He never mentioned the Inspector.”
Andolini brushed back his thinning hair. Unconsciously his foot pressed down on the gas pedal and the Fiat scooted forward. “Guiliano and Don Croce are enemies now,” he said. “But we have made plans without Don Croce. Turi and his parents count on you. They know your father has never been false to a friend.”
Michael said, “And whose side are you on?”
Andolini sighed. “I fight for Guiliano,” he said. “We have been comrades for the last five years and before that he spared my life. But I live in Sicily and so cannot defy Don Croce to his face. I walk a tightrope between the two, but I will never betray Guiliano.”
Michael thought, What the hell was the man saying? Why couldn’t he get a straight answer from any of them? Because this was Sicily, he thought. Sicilians had a horror of truth. Tyrants and Inquisitors had tortured them for the truth over thousands of years. The government in Rome with its legal forms demanded the truth. The priest in the confessional box commanded the truth under pain of everlasting hell. But truth was a source of power, a lever of control, why should anyone give it away?
He would have to find his own way, Michael thought, or perhaps abandon the mission and hurry home. He was on dangerous ground here, there was obviously some sort of vendetta between Guiliano and Don Croce and to be caught in the vortex of a Sicilian vendetta was suicidal. For the Sicilian believes that vengeance is the only true justice, and that it is always merciless. On this Catholic island, statues of a weeping Jesus in every home, Christian forgiveness was a contemptible refuge of the coward.
“Why did Guiliano and Don Croce become enemies?” Michael asked.
“Because of the tragedy at the Portella della Ginestra,” Andolini said. “Two years ago. After that it was never the same. Guiliano blamed Don Croce.”
Suddenly the car seemed to drop almost vertically, the road was descending out of the mountains into a valley. They passed the ruins of a Norman castle, built to terrorize the countryside nine hundred years ago and now crawling with harmless lizards and a few stray goats. Down below, Michael could see the town of Montelepre.
It was buried deep in the closely surrounding mountains as if it were a bucket hanging in the bottom of a well. It formed a perfect circle, there were no outlying houses, and the late afternoon sun bathed the stones of its walls with dark red fire. Now the Fiat was coasting down a narrow twisting street and Andolini braked it to a stop where a roadblock manned by a platoon of carabinieri barred their way. One motioned with his rifle for them to get out of the car.
Michael watched Andolini show his documents to the police. He saw the special red-bordered pass that he knew could only be issued by the Minister of Justice in Rome. Michael had one himself which he had been instructed to show only as a last resort. How did a man like Andolini get such a powerful document?
Then they were back in the car and rolling through the narrow streets of Montelepre, so narrow that if a car came from the opposite direction they could not pass each other. The houses all had elegant balconies and were painted different colors. Many were blue, a few less were white and there were some painted pink. A very few were yellow. At this time of the day the women were inside cooking dinner for their husbands. But no children were in the streets. Instead, each corner was patrolled by a pair of carabinieri. Montelepre looked like an occupied town under martial law. Only a few old men looked down from their balconies with faces of stone.
The Fiat stopped in front of a row of attached houses, one of which was painted a bright blue and had a gate in which the grillwork formed the letter “G.” The gate was opened by a small wiry man of about sixty who wore an American suit, dark and striped, a white shirt and a black tie. This was Guiliano’s father. He gave Andolini a quick but affectionate embrace. He patted Michael on the shoulder almost gratefully as he ushered them into the house.
Guiliano’s father had the face of a man suffering the awaited death of a loved one terminally ill. It was obvious he was controlling his emotions very strictly, but his hand went up to his face as if to force his features to keep their shape. His body was rigid, moving stiffly, yet wavering slightly.
They entered a large sitting room, luxurious for a Sicilian home in this small town. Dominating the room was a huge enlargement of a photograph, too fuzzy to be recognizable, framed in oval cream-colored wood. Michael knew immediately this must be Salvatore Guiliano. Beneath, on a small round black table, was a votive light. On another table was a framed picture defined more clearly. Father, mother and son stood against a red curtain, the son with his arm possessively around his mother. Salvatore Guiliano looked directly into the camera, as if challenging it. The face was extraordinarily handsome, like that of a Grecian statue, the features a little heavy as though wrought in marble, the lips full and sensual, the eyes oval with half-closed lids set wide apart. It was the face of a man without self-doubt, determined to impose himself upon the world. But what no one had prepared Michael for was the good-humored sweetness of that handsome face.
There were other pictures of him with his sisters and their husbands, but these were almost hidden on shadowy corner tables.
Guiliano’s father led them into the kitchen. Guiliano’s mother turned from the cooking stove to greet them. Maria Lombardo Guiliano looked much older than the photograph of her in the other room, indeed looked like some other woman. Her polite smile was like a rictus on the bone-set exhaustion of her face, her skin chapped and rough. Her hair was long and full over her shoulders but streaked with heavy ropes of gray. What was startling was her eyes. They were almost black with an impersonal hatred of this world that was crushing her and her son.
She ignored her husband and Stefan Andolini, she spoke directly to Michael. “Have you come to help my son or not?” The other two men looked embarrassed at the rudeness of her question, but Michael smiled at her gravely.
“Yes, I am with you.”
Some of the tension went out of her, and she bowed her head into her hands as if she had expected a blow. Andolini said to her in a soothing voice, “Father Benjamino asked to come, I told him you did not wish it.”
Maria Lombardo raised her head and Michael marveled at how her face showed every emotion she felt. The scorn, the hatred, the fear, the irony of her words matching the flinty smile, the grimaces she could not repress. “Oh, Father Benjamino has a good heart, without a doubt,” she said. “And with that good heart of his he is like the plague, he brings death to an entire village. He is like the sisal plant—brush against him and you will bleed. And he brings the secrets of the confessional to his brother, he sells the souls in his keeping to the devil.”
Guiliano’s father said with quiet reasonableness, as if he were trying to quiet a madman, “Don Croce is our friend. He had us released from prison.”
Guiliano’s mother burst out furiously, “Ah, Don Croce, ‘The Good Soul,’ how kind he is always. But let me tell you, Don Croce is a serpent. He aims a gun forward and slaughters his friend by his side. He and our son were going to rule Sicily together, and now Turi is hiding alone in the mountains and ‘The Good Soul’ is free as air in Palermo with his whores. Don Croce has only to whistle and Rome licks his feet. And yet he has committed more crimes than our Turi. He is evil and our son is good. Ah, if I were a man like you I would kill Don Croce. I would put ‘The Good Soul’ to rest.” She made a gesture of disgust. “You men understand nothing.”
Guiliano’s father said impatiently, “I understand our guest must be on the road in a few hours and that he must eat something before we can talk.”
Guiliano’s mother suddenly became quite different. She was solicitous. “Poor man, you’ve traveled all day to see us, you had to listen to Don Croce’s lies and my ravings. Where do you go?”
“I must be in Trapani by morning,” Michael said. “I stay with friends of my father until your son comes to me.”
There was a stillness in the room. He sensed they all knew his history. They saw the wound he had lived with for two years, the caved-in side of his face. Guiliano’s mother came to him and gave him a quick embrace.
“Have a glass of wine,” she said. “Then you go for a walk through the town. Food will be waiting on the table within the hour. And by that time Turi’s friends will have arrived and we can talk sensibly.”
Andolini and Guiliano’s father put Michael between them and strolled down the narrow, cobbled streets of Montelepre, the stones gleaming black now that the sun had fallen out of the sky. In the hazy blue air before twilight, only the figures of the National Police, the carabinieri, moved around them. At every intersection, thin snakelike alleyways ran like venom off the Via Bella. The town seemed deserted.
“This was once a lively town,” Guiliano’s father said. “Always, always very poor, like all of Sicily, a lot of misery, but it was alive. Now more than seven hundred of our citizens are in jail, arrested for conspiracy with my son. They are innocent, most of them, but the government arrests them to frighten the others, to make them inform against my Turi. There are over two thousand National Police around this town and other thousands hunt Turi in the mountains. And so people no longer eat their dinner out of doors, their children can no longer play in the street. The police are such cowards they fire their guns if a rabbit runs across the road. There is a curfew after dark, and if a woman of the town wants to visit a neighbor and is caught they offer her indignities and insults. The men they cart off to torture in their Palermo dungeons.” He sighed. “Such things could never happen in America. I curse the day I left.”
Stefan Andolini made them pause as he lit a small cigar. Puffing, he said with a smile, “Tell the truth, all Sicilians prefer smelling the shit of their villages to the best perfumes in Paris. What am I doing here? I could have escaped to Brazil like some others. Ah, we love where we are born, we Sicilians, but Sicily does not love us.”
Guiliano’s father shrugged. “I was a fool to come back. If I had only waited a few more months my Turi would have been an American by law. But the air of that country must have seeped into his mother’s womb.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Why did my son always concern himself with the troubles of other people, even those not related by blood? He always had such grand ideas, he always talked of justice. A true Sicilian talks of bread.”
As they walked down the Via Bella, Michael saw that the town was built ideally for ambush and guerrilla warfare. The streets were so narrow that only one motor vehicle could pass through, and many were only wide enough for the small carts and donkeys Sicilians still used for the transport of goods. A few men could hold back any invading force and then escape to the white limestone mountains that encircled the town.
They descended into the central square. Andolini pointed to the small church that dominated it and said, “It was in this church that Turi hid when the National Police tried to capture him that very first time. Since then, he has been a ghost.” The three men watched the church door as if Salvatore Guiliano might appear before them.
The sun dropped behind the mountains, and they returned to the house just before curfew. Two strange men were waiting inside for them, strangers only to Michael, for they embraced Guiliano’s father and shook Stefan Andolini’s hand.
One was a slim young man with extremely sallow skin and huge dark feverish eyes. He had a dandyish mustache and an almost feminine prettiness, but he was in no way effeminate looking. He had the air of proud cruelty that comes to a man with a will to command at any cost.
When he was introduced as Gaspare Pisciotta, Michael was astonished. Pisciotta was Turi Guiliano’s second in command, his cousin and his dearest friend. Next to Guiliano, he was the most wanted man in Sicily, with a price of five million lire on his head. From the legends Michael had heard, the name Gaspare Pisciotta conjured up a more dangerous and evil-looking man. And yet here he stood, so slender and with the feverish flush of the consumptive on his face. Here in Montelepre surrounded by two thousand of Rome’s military police.
The other man was equally surprising but for a different reason. At first glance, Michael flinched. The man was so small that he could be taken for a dwarf but had such dignified bearing that Michael sensed immediately that his flinching might give mortal offense. He was dressed in an exquisitely tailored gray pin-striped suit, and a wide, rich-looking silver-toned tie rode down his creamy white shirt. His hair was thick and almost white; he could be no more than fifty years of age. He was elegant. Or as elegant as a very short man could be. He had a craggy, handsome face with a generous but sensitively curved mouth.
He recognized Michael’s discomfort and greeted him with an ironic but kindly smile. He was introduced as Professor Hector Adonis.
Maria Lombardo Guiliano had dinner set out on the table in the kitchen. They ate by a window near the balcony where they could see the red-streaked sky, the darkness of night snuffing out the surrounding mountains. Michael ate slowly, aware they were all watching him, judging him. The food was very plain but good, spaghetti with the black inky sauce of squid and rabbit stew, hot with red pepper tomato sauce. Finally Gaspare Pisciotta spoke in the local Sicilian dialect. “So, you are the son of Vito Corleone who is greater even than our own Don Croce, they tell me. And it is you who will save our Turi.”
His voice had a cool mocking tone, a tone that invited you to take offense if you dared. His smile seemed to question the motive behind every action, as if to say, “Yes, it’s true you are doing a good deed, but for what purpose of your own?” Yet it was not at all disrespectful, he knew Michael’s history, they were fellow murderers.
Michael said, “I follow my father’s orders. I am to wait in Trapani until Guiliano comes to me. Then I will take him to America.”
Pisciotta said more seriously, “And once Turi is in your hands, you guarantee his safety? You can protect him against Rome?”
Michael was aware of Guiliano’s mother watching him intently, her face strained with anxiety. He said carefully, “As much as a man can guarantee anything against fate. Yes, I’m confident.”
He saw the mother’s face relax, but Pisciotta said harshly, “I am not. You put your trust in Don Croce this afternoon. You told him your plan of escape.”
“Why should I not?” Michael fired back. How the hell did Pisciotta know the details of his lunch with Don Croce so quickly? “My father’s briefing said that Don Croce would arrange Guiliano’s delivery to me. In any case I told him only one escape plan.”
“And the others?” Pisciotta asked. He saw Michael hesitate. “Speak freely. If the people in this room cannot be trusted then there is no hope for Turi.”
The little man, Hector Adonis, spoke for the first time. He had an extraordinarily rich voice, the voice of a born orator, a natural persuader of men. “My dear Michael, you must understand that Don Croce is Turi Guiliano’s enemy. Your father’s information is behind the times. Obviously we can’t deliver Turi to you without taking precautions.” He spoke the elegant Italian of Rome, not the Sicilian dialect.
Guiliano’s father broke in. “I trust Don Corleone’s promise to help my son. Of that there can be no question.”
Hector Adonis said, “I insist, we must know your plans.”
“I can tell you what I told Don Croce,” Michael said. “But why should I tell anyone my other plans? If I asked you where Turi Guiliano was hiding now, would you tell me?”
Michael saw Pisciotta smile with genuine approval of his answer. But Hector Adonis said, “It’s not the same thing. You have no reason for knowing where Turi hides. We must know your plans to help.”
Michael said quietly, “I know nothing about you.”
A brilliant smile broke across the handsome face of Hector Adonis. Then the little man stood up and bowed. “Forgive me,” he said with the utmost sincerity. “I was Turi’s schoolteacher when he was a little boy and his parents honored me by making me his godfather. I am now a Professor of History and Literature at the University of Palermo. However, my best credentials can be vouched for by everyone at this table. I am now, and have always been, a member of Guiliano’s band.”
Stefan Andolini said quietly, “I too am a member of the band. You know my name and that I am your cousin. But I am also called Fra Diavalo.”
This too was a legendary name in Sicily that Michael had heard many times. He has earned that murderer’s face, Michael thought. And he too was a fugitive with a price on his head. Yet that afternoon he had sat down to lunch next to Inspector Velardi.