by Mario Puzo
Now though it was known to all, peasants and authorities alike, that his monastery was the headquarters of black market operators and smugglers, he was never interfered with in his illegal activities. This out of respect for his holy calling, and a feeling that he deserved some material reward for his spiritual guidance to the community.
So the Abbot Manfredi was not dismayed to find two peasant scoundrels covered with blood breaking into the sacred domain of Saint Francis. In fact, he knew Pisciotta well. He had used the young man in a few smuggling and black market operations. They had in common a sly cunning that delighted them both—one surprised to find it in a man so old and holy, the other to find it in one so young and unworldly.
The Abbot reassured the gatekeeper monk, then said to Pisciotta, “Well, my dear Aspanu, what mischief are you into now?” Pisciotta was tightening the shirt around Guiliano’s wound. The Abbot was surprised to see that his face was griefstricken; he did not think the lad was capable of such emotion.
Pisciotta, seeing again that huge wound, was sure his friend was going to die. And how could he tell the news to Turi’s mother and father? He dreaded Maria Lombardo’s grief. But for now, a more important scene would have to be played. He must convince the Abbot to give Guiliano sanctuary in the monastery.
He looked the Abbot straight in the eye. He wanted to convey a message that would not be a direct threat but would make the priest understand that if he refused he would make a mortal enemy. “This is my cousin and dearest friend, Salvatore Guiliano,” Pisciotta said. “As you can see, he has been unfortunate, and in a short time the National Police will be all over the mountains looking for him. And for me. You are our only hope. I beg you to hide us, and send for a doctor. Do this for me and you have a friend forever.” He emphasized the word “friend.”
None of this escaped the Abbot. He understood perfectly. He had heard of this young Guiliano, a brave boy well respected in Montelepre, a great shooter and hunter, manlier than his years. Even the Friends of the Friends had their eyes on him as a possible recruit. The great Don Croce himself, on a social and business visit to the monastery, had mentioned his name to the Abbot as someone it might be profitable to cultivate.
But studying the unconscious Guiliano, he was almost sure that this man would need a grave rather than sanctuary, a priest to administer the last rites rather than a doctor. There was very little risk in granting Pisciotta’s request, giving sanctuary to a corpse was not a crime even in Sicily. But he did not want to let this young man know that the favor he was about to do had such little value. He said, “And why are they searching for you?”
Pisciotta hesitated. If the Abbott knew that a policeman was dead he might refuse them sanctuary. But if he were unprepared for the search that was sure to come, he might be surprised into betraying them. He decided to tell the truth. He did so very quickly.
The Abbot lowered his eyes in sorrow for another soul lost to hell and to study closely Guiliano’s unconscious form. Blood was leaking through the shirt tied around his body. Perhaps the poor lad would die as they talked, and solve the whole problem.
As a Franciscan monk, the Abbot was filled with Christian charity, but in these terrible times he had to consider the practical and material consequences of his merciful deeds. If he gave sanctuary and the boy died, he could only come out with a profit. The authorities would be satisfied with the corpse, the family would be forever in his debt. If Guiliano recovered, his gratitude might be even more valuable. A man who could, while grievously wounded, still fire his pistol and kill a policeman was a man worth having in your debt.
He could of course deliver both of these rascals to the National Police, who would then make short work of them. But what would be the profit? The authorities could do no more for him than they were doing now. The area in which they held power was already secure to him. It was on the other side of the fence he needed friends. Betraying these youngsters would only earn him enemies among the peasants and the undying hatred of two families. The Abbot was not so foolish as to think his cassock could protect him from the vendetta that would surely follow, and also he had read Pisciotta’s mind; this was a young fellow who would go far before he trod the road to hell. No, the hatred of the peasant Sicilian could never be taken lightly. True Christians, they would never shame a statue of the Virgin Mary, but in the hot blood of vendetta they would shotgun the Pope himself for breaking omerta, the ancient code of silence to any authority. In this land with its countless statues of Jesus, there was no belief in the doctrine of turning the other cheek. In this benighted land “forgiveness” was the refuge of the coward. The Sicilian peasant did not know the meaning of mercy.
Of one thing he was sure. Pisciotta would never betray him. In one of their little smuggling deals, the Abbot had arranged for Pisciotta to be arrested and interrogated. The interrogator, a member of the Palermo Security Police, not one of the carabinieri blockheads, had been subtle and then blunt. But neither cunning nor cruelty had moved Pisciotta. He had remained silent. The interrogator released him and assured the Abbot that this was a lad who could be trusted with more important errands. Since then the Abbot had always held a special place in his heart for Aspanu Pisciotta and often said a prayer for his soul.
The Abbot put two fingers in his bony shrunken mouth and whistled. Monks came running and the Abbot instructed them to carry Guiliano into a far wing of the monastery, the Abbot’s own special quarters where he had hidden deserters, sons of rich farmers, from the Italian Army during the war. Then he sent one of his monks for the doctor in the village of San Giuseppe Jato, only five miles away.
Pisciotta sat on the bed and held his friend’s hand. The wound was no longer bleeding, and Turi Guiliano’s eyes were open, but there was a glaze over them. Pisciotta, almost in tears, did not dare to speak. He wiped Guiliano’s forehead, which was running with perspiration. There was a blue tinge to the skin.
It was an hour before the doctor arrived and, having observed a horde of carabinieri scouring the mountainside, was not surprised that his friend, the Abbot, was concealing a wounded man. This did not concern him; who cared about the police and government? The Abbot was a fellow Sicilian who needed help. And who always sent him a basket of eggs on Sunday, a barrel of wine for Christmas and a young lamb for Holy Easter.
The doctor examined Guiliano and dressed the wound. The bullet had gone through the belly and probably torn up some vital organs, certainly hit the liver. A great deal of blood had been lost, the young lad had a ghostly pallor, the skin all over his body was bluish white. Around the mouth was that circle of white the doctor knew so well as one of the first signals of death.
He sighed and said to the Abbot, “I’ve done all I can. The bleeding has stopped, but he’s already lost more than a third of his blood, and that’s usually fatal. Keep him warm, feed him a little milk and I’ll leave you some morphine.” He looked down at Guiliano’s powerful body with regret.
Pisciotta whispered, “What can I tell his father and mother? Is there a chance for him?”
The doctor sighed. “Tell them what you like. But the wound is mortal. He’s a strong-looking lad so he may live a few days more, but it’s wise not to hope.” He saw the look of despair in Pisciotta’s eyes and the fleeting look of relief on the Abbot’s face and said with ironic humor, “Of course in this holy place there could always be a miracle.”
The Abbot and the doctor went out. Pisciotta leaned over his friend to wipe the sweat from his brow and was astonished that in Guiliano’s eyes was a hint of mockery. The eyes were dark brown but edged with a circle of silver. Pisciotta leaned closer. Turi Guiliano was whispering; it was a struggle for him to speak.
“Tell my mother I will come home,” Turi said. And then he did something Pisciotta would never forget in the years to follow. His hands came up suddenly and grabbed Pisciotta by the hair of his head. The hands were powerful; they could never be the hands of a dying man. They yanked Pisciotta’s head down close. “Obey me,” Gui
liano said.
The morning after Guiliano’s parents called him, Hector Adonis arrived in Montelepre. He rarely used his house in Montelepre. He hated the place of his birth in his young manhood. He especially avoided the Festa. The decorations always distressed him, their brightness seemed to him some evil disguise for the poverty of the town. And he had always endured humiliations during the Festa—drunken men jeering at his short stature, women giving him amused contemptuous smiles.
It did not help that he knew so much more than they did. They were so proud, for instance, that every family painted its house the same color their fathers had. They didn’t know that the color of the houses gave away their origins, the blood they had inherited from their ancestors along with their houses. That centuries ago the Normans had painted their houses white, the Greeks always used blue, the Arabs various pinks and red. And the Jews used yellow. Now they all considered themselves Italian and Sicilian. The blood had become so intermingled in a thousand years that you could not identify the owner of a house by his features, and if you told the owner of a yellow house that he had Jewish ancestors you could get a knife in your belly.
Aspanu Pisciotta lived in a white house though he looked more like an Arab. The Guilianos’s was predominantly Grecian blue, and Turi Guiliano’s face was truly Greek, though he had the body of the lusty large-boned Normans. But apparently all that blood had boiled together into something strange and dangerous to make the true Sicilian, and that was what had brought Adonis to Montelepre today.
The Via Bella was straddled at each corner by a pair of carabinieri, grim faced, holding rifles and machine pistols at the ready. The second day of the Festa was beginning but this part of town was curiously deserted and there were no children on the street. Hector Adonis parked his car in front of the Guiliano house, up on the strip of sidewalk. A pair of carabinieri watched him suspiciously until he got out of the car, then smiled with amusement at his short stature.
It was Pisciotta who opened the door and led him inside. Guiliano’s mother and father were in the kitchen waiting, a breakfast of cold sausage, bread and coffee on the table. Maria Lombardo was calm, reassured by her beloved Aspanu that her son would recover. She was more angry than fearful. Guiliano’s father looked more proud than sad. His son had proved himself a man; he was alive and his enemy was dead.
Again Pisciotta told his story, this time with comforting humor. He made light of Guiliano’s wound and very little of his own heroism in carrying Guiliano down to the monastery. But Hector Adonis knew that helping an injured man over three miles of rough terrain must have been grueling for the slightly built Pisciotta. Also, he thought Pisciotta skipped over the description of the wound too glibly. Adonis feared the worst.
“How did the carabinieri know enough to come here?” he asked. Pisciotta told him about Guiliano giving up his identity card.
Guiliano’s mother broke out in lamentation. “Why didn’t Turi let them have the cheese? Why did he fight?”
Guiliano’s father said harshly to his wife, “What would you have him do? Inform on that poor farmer? He would have disgraced the family name forever.”
Hector Adonis was struck by the contradiction in these remarks. He knew the mother was much stronger and more fiery than the father. Yet the mother had uttered the words of resignation, the father the words of defiance. And Pisciotta, this boy Aspanu—who would have thought he would be so brave, to rescue his comrade and bring him to safety? And now lying so coolly to the parents about the hurt their son had suffered.
Guiliano’s father said, “If only he had not given up his identity card. Our friends would have sworn he was in the streets here.”
Guiliano’s mother said, “They would have arrested him anyway.” She began to weep. “Now he will have to live in the mountains.”
Hector Adonis said, “We must make certain the Abbot does not deliver him to the police.”
Pisciotta said impatiently, “He will not dare. He knows I’ll hang him in his cassock.”
Adonis gave Pisciotta a long look. There was a deadly menace in this young boy. It was not intelligent to damage the ego of a young man, Adonis thought. The police never understood that you can, with some impunity, insult an older man who has already been humiliated by life itself and will not take to heart the small slights of another human being. But a young man thinks these offenses mortal.
They were looking for help to Hector Adonis, who had helped their son in the past. Hector said, “If the police learn his whereabouts, the Abbot will have no choice. He is not above suspicion himself in certain matters. I think it best, with your permission, to ask my friend, Don Croce Malo, to intercede with the Abbot.”
They were surprised that he knew the great Don, except for Pisciotta, who gave him a knowing smile. Adonis said to him sharply, “And what are you doing here? You’ll be recognized and arrested. They have your description.”
Pisciotta said contemptuously, “The two guards were scared shitless. They wouldn’t recognize their mothers. And I have a dozen witnesses who will swear I was in Montelepre yesterday.”
Hector Adonis adopted his most imposing professional manner. He said to the parents, “You must not attempt to visit your son or tell anyone, even your dearest friends, where he is. The police have informers and spies everywhere. Aspanu will visit Turi at night. As soon as he can move I’ll make arrangements for him to live in another town until this all quiets down. Then, with some money, things can be arranged, and Turi can come home. Don’t worry about him, Maria, guard your health. And you, Aspanu, keep me informed.”
He embraced the mother and father. Maria Lombardo was still weeping when he left.
He had many things to do—most importantly to get word to Don Croce and make sure that Turi’s sanctuary remained safe. Thank God the government in Rome did not offer rewards for information on the murder of a policeman, or the Abbot would have sold Turi as quickly as he sold one of his holy relics.
Turi Guiliano lay on the bed without moving. He had heard the doctor pronounce his wound mortal, but he could not believe he was dying. His body seemed suspended in air, free of pain and fear. He could never die. He did not know that great loss of blood produces euphoria.
During the days, one of the monks tended him, fed him milk. Evenings, the Abbot came with the doctor. Pisciotta visited him in the night and held his hand and nursed him through the long evil hours of darkness. At the end of two weeks, the doctor proclaimed a miracle.
Turi Guiliano had willed his body to heal, to materialize the lost blood, to meld together the vital organs that had been torn by the steel-jacketed bullet. And in the euphoria inspired by the draining of the blood from his body he dreamed of future glory. He felt a new freedom, that he could no longer be held accountable for anything he did from this time on. That the laws of society, the stricter Sicilian laws of family, could no longer bind him. That he was free to commit any act; that his bloody wound made him innocent. And all this because a foolish carabiniere had shot him over a piece of cheese.
For the weeks of his convalescence, he played over and over in his mind the days he and his fellow villagers had congregated in the town square waiting for the gabellotti, the overseers of the large land estates, to pick them out for a day’s work, offering starvation wages with the contemptuous take-it-or-leave-it sneer of men who had all the power. The unfair sharing of crops that left everyone impoverished after a year’s hard work. The overbearing hand of the law which punished the poor and let the rich go free.
If he recovered from his wound, he swore he would see justice done. He would never again be a powerless boy at the mercy of fate. He would arm himself, physically and mentally. Of one thing he was sure: He would never again stand helpless before the world, as he had before Guido Quintana, and the policeman who had shot him down. The young man who had been Turi Guiliano no longer existed.
At the end of a month, the doctor advised another four weeks of rest with some exercise, and so Guiliano donned a monk’s h
abit and strolled around the grounds of the monastery. The Abbot had become fond of the young man, and often accompanied him, telling stories about his youthful travels to far-off lands. The Abbot’s affection was not lessened when Hector Adonis sent him a sum of money for his prayers for the poor and Don Croce himself advised the Abbot that he had an interest in the young man.
As for Guiliano, he was astonished at how these monks lived. In a countryside where people were almost starving, where laborers had to sell their sweat for fifty cents a day, the monks of Saint Francis lived like kings. The monastery was really a huge and rich estate.
They had a lemon orchard, a scattering of stout olive trees as old as Christ. They had a small bamboo plantation and a butcher shop into which they fed their flock of sheep, their pen of piglets. Chickens and turkeys roamed at will, crowds of them. The monks ate meat every day with their spaghetti, drank homemade wine from their own huge cellar, and traded on the black market for tobacco, which they smoked like fiends.
But they worked hard. During the day they labored barefoot in cassocks tucked up to their knees, sweat pouring down their brows. On their tonsured heads, to protect them from the sun, they wore oddly shaped American fedoras, black and brown, which the Abbot had acquired from some military government supply officer for a cask of wine. The monks wore the fedoras in many different styles, some with the brims snapped down, gangster style, others with the brims flapped upward all around to form gutters in which they kept their cigarettes. The Abbot had come to hate these hats and had forbidden their use except when actually working in the fields.
For the second four weeks, Guiliano was a fellow monk. To the Abbot’s astonishment he worked hard in the fields and helped the older monks carry the heavy baskets of fruit and olives back to the storage shed. As he grew well, Guiliano enjoyed the work, enjoyed showing off his strength. They piled his baskets high and he never let his knees buckle. The Abbot was proud of him and told him he could stay as long as he liked, that he had the makings of a true man of God.