by Mario Puzo
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 Guili
ano 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.
They were all waiting for him to answer. Michael had no intention of telling them his final plans, but he knew he must tell them something. Guiliano’s mother was staring at him intently. He spoke directly to her. “It’s very simple,” Michael said. “First I must warn you I can wait no longer than seven days. I have been away from home too long and my father needs my help in troubles of his own. Of course you understand how anxious I am to return to my family. But it is my father’s wish that I help your son. My last instructions from the courier were that I visit Don Croce here, then proceed to Trapani. There I stay at the villa of the local Don. Waiting there will be men from America whom I can trust absolutely. Qualified men.” He paused for a moment. The word “qualified” had a special meaning in Sicily, usually applied to high-ranking Mafia executioners. He went on. “Once Turi comes to me he will be safe. The villa is a fortress. And within a few hours we will board a fast ship to a city in Africa. There a special plane waits to take us immediately to America and there he will be under my father’s protection and you need fear for him no more.”
Hector Adonis said, “When will you be ready to accept Turi Guiliano?”
Michael said, “I will be in Trapani by early morning. Give me twenty-four hours from then.”
Suddenly Guiliano’s mother burst into tears. “My poor Turi trusts no one any longer. He will not go to Trapani.”
“Then I can’t help him,” Michael said coldly.
Guiliano’s mother seemed to fold up with despair. It was Pisciotta unexpectedly who went to comfort her. He kissed her and held her in his arms. “Maria Lombardo, don’t worry,” he said. “Turi still listens to me. I will tell him we all believe in this man from America, isn’t that true?” He looked at the other men inquiringly and they nodded. “I will bring Turi to Trapani myself.”
Everyone seemed content. Michael realized that his cold reply was what had convinced them to trust him. Sicilians all, they were suspicious of a too warm and human generosity. On his part, he was impatient with their carefulness and the disarray of his father’s plans. Don Croce was now an enemy, Guiliano might not come to him quickly, indeed might not come at all. After all, what was Turi Guiliano to him? For that matter, he wondered again, what was Guiliano to his father?
They were ushering him into the small living room where the mother served coffee and anisette, apologizing that there was no sweet. The anisette would warm Michael for his long night journey to Trapani, they said. Hector Adonis took a gold cigarette case out of his elegantly tailored jacket and offered it around, then put a cigarette into his own delicately cut mouth and so far forgot himself that he leaned back in his chair so that his feet no longer touched the floor. For a moment he looked like a puppet dangling from a cord.
Maria Lombardo pointed to the huge portrait on the wall. “Isn’t he handsome?” she said. “And he is as good as he is beautiful. My heart broke when he became an outlaw. Do you remember that terrible day, Signor Adonis? And all the lies they tell about the Portella della Ginestra? My son would never have done such a thing.”
The other men were embarrassed. Michael wondered for the second time that day what had happened at the Portella della Ginestra but did not want to ask.
Hector Adonis said, “When I was Turi’s teacher, he was a great reader, he knew the legends of Charlemagne and Roland by heart and now he is one of the myths himself. My heart broke, too, when he became an outlaw.”
Guiliano’s mother said bitterly, “He will be lucky if he remains alive. Oh, why did we want our son born here? Oh, yes, we wanted him to be a true Sicilian.” She gave a wild and bitter laugh. “And so he is. He goes in fear of his life and with a price on his head.” She paused and then said with fierce conviction, “And my son is a saint.”
Michael noticed that Pisciotta smiled in a peculiar way, as people do when listening to fond parents who speak too sentimentally about their children’s virtues. Even Guiliano’s father made a gesture of impatience. Stefan Andolini smiled in a crafty way and Pisciotta said affectionately but coolly, “My dear Maria Lombardo, don’t make out your son to be so helpless. He gave better than he received and his enemies fear him still.”
Guiliano’s mother said more calmly, “I know he’s killed many times, but he never committed an injustice. And he always gave them time to cleanse their souls and say their last prayers to God.” Suddenly she took Michael by the hand and led him into the kitchen and out onto the balcony. “None of those others really know my son,” she said to Michael. “They don’t know how kind and gentle he is. Maybe he has to be one way with other men, but he was his true self with me. He obeyed my every word, he never said a harsh word to me. He was a loving dutiful son. In his first days as an outlaw he looked down from the mountains but could not see. And I looked up and could not see. But we felt each other’s presence, each other’s love. And I feel him now tonight. And I think of him alone in those mountains with thousands of soldiers hunting him down and my heart breaks. And you may be the only one who can save him. Promise me you will wait.” She held his hands tightly in her own and tears streamed down her cheeks.
Michael looked out on the dark night, the town of Montelepre nestled in the be
lly of the great mountains, only the central square showing a pinpoint of light. The sky was stitched with stars. In the streets below there came the occasional clank of small arms and the hoarse voices of patrolling carabinieri. The town seemed full of ghosts. They came on the soft, summer night air laden with the smell of lemon trees, the small whirring of countless insects, the sudden shout of a roving police patrol.
“I’ll wait as long as I can,” Michael said gently. “But my father needs me at home. You must make your son come to me.”
She nodded and then led him back to the others. Pisciotta was pacing up and down the room. He seemed nervous. “We have decided that we must all wait here until daybreak and curfew is over,” he said. “There are too many trigger-happy soldiers out there in the dark and there could be an accident. Do you object?” he asked Michael.
“No,” Michael said. “As long as it’s not too much of an imposition on our hosts.”
They dismissed this as irrelevant. They had stayed up through the night many times when Turi Guiliano had sneaked into town to visit his parents. And besides they had many things to talk about, many details to settle. They got comfortable for the long night ahead. Hector Adonis shed his jacket and tie but still looked elegant. The mother brewed fresh coffee.
Michael asked them to tell him everything they could about Turi Guiliano. He felt he had to understand. His parents again told him what a wonderful son Turi had been always. Stefan Andolini told about the day Turi Guiliano had spared his life. Pisciotta told funny stories about Turi’s daring and sense of fun and lack of cruelty. Though he could be merciless with traitors and enemies, he never offered an insult to their manhood with torture and humiliation. And then he told the story of the tragedy at the Portella della Ginestra. “He wept that day,” Pisciotta said. “In front of all the members of his band.”
Maria Lombardo said, “He could not have killed those people at Ginestra.”
Hector Adonis soothed her. “We all know that. He was born gentle.” He turned to Michael and said, “He loved books, I thought he would become a poet or a scholar. He had a temper, but he was never cruel. Because his was an innocent rage. He hated injustice. He hated the brutality of the carabinieri toward the poor and their obsequiousness toward the rich. Even as a boy he was outraged when he heard of a farmer who could not keep the corn he grew, drink the wine he pressed, eat the pigs he slaughtered. And yet he was a gentle boy.”