The Sicilian

by Mario Puzo

  She saw that Turi Guiliano was watching her with that special light on his face that signaled desire in all men. She knew it well. Her husband’s followers often had such a look. But she knew Turi would not try to seduce her, out of respect for his mother, out of respect for her sacrifice in allowing the tunnel to be built.

  She left the kitchen and went into the small living room so that he could bathe in privacy. When she left, Guiliano stripped and stepped into the bath. The act of being naked with a woman nearby was erotic to him. He washed with scrupulous care and then put on her husband’s clothes. The trousers were a little short and the shirt was tight around his chest so that he had to leave the top buttons undone. The towels she had warmed near the stove were little more than rags, his body still felt damp, and for the first time he realized how poor she was and resolved to supply her with money through his mother.

  He called out to La Venera that he was dressed and she came back into the kitchen. She looked him over and said, “But you haven’t washed your hair, you have a nest of geckos hiding there.” She said this roughly but with a warm affection so that he did not take offense. Like some old grandmother she ran her hands over his matted hair, then took him by the arm and led him to the sink.

  Guiliano felt a warm glow where her hand had touched his skull. He quickly put his head under the faucet and she ran water over him and shampooed his hair with the yellow kitchen soap; she had no other. When she did so her body and legs brushed against him and he felt the sudden urge to pass his hands over her breast, her soft belly.

  When she finished washing his hair, La Venera made him sit on one of her black enameled kitchen chairs and vigorously dried his hair with a rough, raggedy brown towel. His hair was so long that it covered the collar of his shirt.

  “You look like one of those ruffian English lords in the movies,” she said. “I must cut your hair, but not in the kitchen. It will blow into my pots and spoil your dinner. Come into the other room.”

  Guiliano was amused by her sternness. She was assuming the role of an aunt or mother as if to prevent any show of a more tender feeling. He was aware of the sexuality behind it, but he was wary. In this area he was inexperienced and he did not want to look foolish. It was like the guerrilla warfare he waged in the mountains; he would not commit himself until all the odds were on his side. This was not scouted terrain. But the last year of commanding and killing men made his natural boyish fear seem more like a joke, the rejection by a woman not so paralyzing to his ego. And despite his reputation for chastity, he had gone to Palermo with his friends to visit prostitutes. But that was before he had become an outlaw and acquired the dignity of a bandit chief, and of course a romantic hero who would never do such a thing.

  La Venera led him into the small living room cluttered with stuffed furniture, small tables topped with black varnished wood. On these tables were photographs of her dead husband and dead child, singly and together. Some were of La Venera with her family. The photos were framed in black oval wood, the prints tinged with sepia brown. Guiliano was surprised by the beauty of La Venera in these younger, happier days, especially when she was dressed in pretty, youthful clothes. There was a formal portrait of her alone, dressed in a dark red dress, that struck him to the heart. And for a moment he thought of her husband and how many crimes he must have committed to bring her such finery.

  “Don’t look at those pictures,” La Venera said with a sad smile. “That was in a time when I thought the world could make me happy.” He realized that one of the reasons she had brought him into this room was to make him see these pictures.

  She kicked the small stool from a corner of the room and Guiliano sat on it. From a leather box, beautifully made and stitched with gold, she took scissors, razor and comb—a prize the bandit Candeleria had brought home one Christmas from one of his crimes. Then she went into the bedroom and brought a white cloth which she hung over Guiliano’s shoulders. She also brought a wooden bowl which she placed on the table beside her. A jeep went by the house.

  She said, “Should I bring your guns from the kitchen? Would you be more comfortable?”

  Guiliano looked at her calmly. He seemed absolutely serene. He did not want to alarm her. They both knew the jeep going by was full of carabinieri on their way to raid the Guiliano home. But he knew two things: If the carabinieri came here and tried to enter the barred door, Pisciotta and his men would massacre them all; and before he had left the kitchen he had moved the stove so that no one could raise the trapdoor.

  He touched her gently on the arm. “No,” he said. “I don’t need my guns unless you plan to cut my throat with that razor.” They both laughed.

  And then she began to cut Turi Guiliano’s hair. She did so carefully and slowly, grasping strands to snip, then depositing the hair into the wooden bowl. Guiliano sat very quietly. Mesmerized by the tiny snipping noises, he stared at the walls of the room. On them were huge portraits of La Venera’s husband, the great bandit Candeleria. But great only in this little province of Sicily, Guiliano thought, his youthful pride already in competition with the dead husband.

  Rutillo Candeleria had been a handsome man. He had a high forehead surmounted by wavy chestnut hair carefully cut, and Guiliano wondered if his wife had cut it for him. His face was adorned with full cavalry mustaches which made him seem older, though he had only been thirty-five when the carabinieri shot him. Now his face looked down from the oval portrait almost kindly, in a benediction. Only the eyes and mouth betrayed his ferocity. And yet at the same time there was a resignation in that face, as if he knew what his fate must be. Like all who raised their hands against the world and tore from it what they wished by violence and murder, like others who made personal law and tried to rule society with it, he must come finally to sudden death.

  The wooden bowl was filling with glossy brown hair, clumped like the nests of small birds. Guiliano felt La Venera’s legs pressed against his back; her heat came through the rough cotton of her dress. When she moved in front of him to cut around his forehead she kept well away from his leg, but when she had to lean forward, the swelling of her bust almost brushed against his lips and the clean heavy scent of her body made his face as warm as if he were standing before a fire. The portraits on the wall were blotted out.

  She swiveled her rounded hips to deposit another clump of hair in the wooden bowl. For one moment her thigh rested against his arm and he could feel the silky skin even through the heavy black dress. He made his body steady as a rock. She leaned against him harder. To keep himself from pulling up her skirt and clasping those thighs, he said jokingly, “Are we Samson and Delilah?”

  She stepped away from him suddenly. And he was surprised by the tears running down her face. Without thinking he put his hands on her body and pulled her closer. Slowly she reached out and lay the silver scissors across the mound of brown hair that filled the wooden bowl.

  And then his hands were under her black mourning dress and clutching her warm thighs. She bent down and covered his mouth with hers as if she would swallow it. Their initial tenderness was a second’s spark that roared into an animal passion fed by her three years of chaste widowhood, his springing from the sweet lust of a young man who had never tasted the love of a woman but only the bought exercise of whores.

  For that first moment, Guiliano lost all sense of himself and his world. La Venera’s body was so lush, and it burned with a tropical heat that went to his very bones. Her breasts were fuller than he could ever have imagined; the black widow’s dress had cleverly disguised and protected them. At the sight of those oval globes of flesh he felt the blood pounding in his head. And then they were on the floor making love and taking off their clothing at the same time. She kept whispering, “Turi, Turi,” in an agonized voice, but he said nothing. He was lost in the smell, the heat and fleshiness of her body. When they finished, she led him into the bedroom and they made love again. He could not believe the pleasure he found in her body, and even felt some dismay at his own surr
ender and was only comforted that she succumbed even more completely.

  When he fell asleep she stared down into his face for a long time. She imprinted it on her memory in fear she would never see him alive again. For she remembered the last night she had slept with her husband before he died, when she had turned her back after making love and fallen asleep and ever since could not remember the sweet mask that comes over every lover’s face. She had turned her back because she could not bear the fearful nervousness of her husband when he was in the house, his terror of being trapped so that he could never fall asleep, the way he started up if she rose from the bed to cook or do some chore. She marveled now at Guiliano’s calm; she loved him for it. She loved him because, unlike her husband, he did not bring his guns to bed, he did not interrupt his lovemaking to listen for the sound of lurking enemies, he did not smoke or drink and tell his fears. He was gentle in his speech, but took his pleasure with fearless and concentrated passion. She rose noiselessly from the bed and still he did not stir. She waited a moment and then went out and into the kitchen to cook him her best dish.

  When he left her house in the morning he went through the front door, stepping out carelessly but with guns hidden beneath his jacket. He had told her he would not stop to say goodbye to his mother and asked her to do so for him, to let her know he was safe. She was frightened at his boldness, not knowing he had a small army in the town, not noticing that he had held her door open a few minutes before he went out so that Pisciotta would be warned and would eliminate any carabinieri going by.

  She kissed him goodbye with a shyness that moved him and then she whispered, “When will you come to see me again?”

  “Whenever I come to see my mother, I’ll come to you afterward,” he said. “In the mountains I’ll dream about you every night.” And at these words she felt an overwhelming joy that she had made him happy.

  She waited until noon before she went down the street to see Guiliano’s mother. Maria Lombardo had only to see her face to know what had happened. La Venera looked ten years younger. Her dark brown eyes had black flecks dancing in them, her cheeks were rosy with color, and for the first time in almost four years she wore a dress that was not black. It was the frilly dress beribboned with velvet that a girl wears to show the mother of her lover. Maria Lombardo felt a rush of gratitude for her friend, for her loyalty and her courage and also a certain satisfaction that her plans had come out so well. This would be a wonderful arrangement for her son, a woman who would never be a traitor, a woman who could never make a permanent claim upon him. Though she loved her son fiercely she felt no jealousy. Except when La Venera told how she had cooked her best dish, a pie stuffed with rabbit meat and chunks of strong cheese riddled with fat grains of pepper, and how Turi had devoured enough for five men and sworn he had never eaten anything better in his life.

  CHAPTER 15

  EVEN IN SICILY, a land where men killed each other with the same ferocious enthusiasm with which the Spaniards slaughtered bulls, the murderous madness of the citizens of Corleone inspired a universal dread. Rival families exterminated each other in a quarrel over a single olive tree, neighbors might kill each other over the amount of water one took from a communal stream, a man could die from love—that is, if he looked too disrespectfully at a wife or daughter. Even the cool-headed Friends of the Friends succumbed to this madness and their different branches warred to death in Corleone until Don Croce brought them to peace.

  In such a town, Stefan Andolini had earned the nickname of Fra Diavalo, Brother Devil.

  Don Croce had summoned him from Corleone and instructed him. He was to join Guiliano’s band and win their confidence. He was to stay with them until Don Croce gave orders as to his future course of action. Meanwhile he was to send back information as to Guiliano’s real strength, the loyalty of Passatempo and Terranova. Since Pisciotta’s loyalty was unquestioned there remained only to evaluate that young man’s weaknesses. And if the opportunity arose, Andolini was to kill Guiliano.

  Andolini had no fear of the great Guiliano. Also, since he was redheaded, and redheads were so rare in Italy, Stefan Andolini secretly believed he had been excused from the rules of virtue. As a gambler believes his system can never lose, so Stefan Andolini believed himself so cunning he could never be outwitted.

  He picked two young picciotti to go with him, that is, apprentice killers, who had not yet been admitted to the Mafia but hoped for that honor. They journeyed into the mountain haunts of Guiliano carrying knapsacks and lupare and sure enough were picked up by a roving patrol headed by Pisciotta.

  Pisciotta listened to Stefan Andolini’s story with an impassive face. Andolini told him that the carabinieri and Security Police were looking for him because of the murder of a Socialist agitator in Corleone. This was quite true. What Andolini did not say was that the police and carabinieri had no proof and were merely seeking him for questioning. A questioning that would be more kindly than exhaustive due to the influence of Don Croce. Andolini also told Pisciotta that the two picciotti with him were men who were also being sought by the police as co-conspirators in the killing. This was also true. But as he was telling this story Stefan Andolini felt a mounting uneasiness. Pisciotta was listening with the expression of a man who has met someone he has known before or of whom he has heard a great deal.

  Andolini said that he had come into the mountains in the hope of joining Guiliano’s band. And then he played his trump card. He had the stamp of approval from Guiliano’s father himself. He, Stefan Andolini, was a cousin of the great Don Vito Corleone, in America. Pisciotta nodded. Andolini went on. Don Vito Corleone had been born an Andolini in the village of Corleone. His father killed, himself hunted as a boy, he had escaped to America where he had become the great Godfather. When he had returned to Sicily to wreak vengeance on his father’s murderers, Stefan Andolini had been one of his picciotti. Thereafter he had visited the Don in America to receive his reward. While there he had met Guiliano’s father who worked as a bricklayer on the Don’s new mansion on Long Island. They had become friends, and Andolini, before he came into the mountains, had stopped in Montelepre to receive the blessing of Salvatore Guiliano Senior.

  Pisciotta’s face became thoughtful as he listened to this story. He distrusted this man, his red hair, his face of a murderer. And Pisciotta didn’t like the look of the two picciotti with Malpelo, for so he called him in the Sicilian style.

  Pisciotta said to him, “I’ll take you to Guiliano, but keep your lupare strapped to your shoulders until he’s spoken to you. Don’t unsling them without permission.”

  Stefan Andolini grinned widely and said with the utmost affability, “But I recognized you, Aspanu, I trust you. Take my lupara off my shoulder and your men can do the same with my picciotti here. After we speak with Guiliano I’m sure he’ll return our guns.”

  Pisciotta said, “We’re not pack animals to carry your weapons for you. Carry them yourselves.” And he led the way through the mountains to Guiliano’s hideout on the edge of the cliff overlooking Montelepre.

  More than fifty of the band were scattered around the cliff cleaning guns and repairing equipment. Guiliano was seated at the table, watching through his binoculars.

  Pisciotta talked to Guiliano before he had the new recruits brought forward. He told all the circumstances and then he said, “Turi, he seems a little ‘moldy’ to me.” “Moldy,” the Sicilian idiom for a man who informs.

  “And you think you’ve seen him before?” Guiliano asked.

  “Or heard of him,” Pisciotta said. “He is familiar to me somehow, but redheaded men are rare. I should remember him.”

  Guiliano said quietly, “You heard about him from La Venera. She called him Malpelo—she didn’t know his name was Andolini. She told me about him too. He joined her husband’s band. A month later her husband was ambushed and killed by the carabinieri. La Venera didn’t trust him either. He was full of little tricks, she said.”

  Silvestro came over to them. “Don�
�t trust that redhead. I’ve seen him at Palermo headquarters for private visits with the Commandant of Carabinieri.”

  Guiliano said, “Go down to Montelepre and bring my father here. Meanwhile keep them under guard.”

  Pisciotta sent Terranova to fetch Guiliano’s father and then he went to the three men, who were sitting on the ground. He bent down and picked up Stefan Andolini’s weapon. Members of the band encircled the three men like wolves surrounding a fallen prey. “You don’t mind if I relieve you of the task of caring for this weapon now?” Pisciotta asked with a grin. Stefan Andolini looked startled for a moment, his face twisting into a grimace. Then he shrugged. Pisciotta tossed the lupara to one of his men.

  He waited for a few moments, making sure his men were ready. Then he reached down to take the lupare from Andolini’s two picciotti. One of them, more from fear than malice, pushed Pisciotta away and put his hand on his shotgun. In the next moment, quickly as a snake baring its tongue, a knife appeared in Pisciotta’s hand. His body darted forward and the knife cut the picciotto’s throat. A fountain of pink blood burst into the clear mountain air and the picciotto slumped over on his side. Pisciotta was straddling his body, leaning down, and another quick stroke finished the job. Then, with a series of quick kicks, he rolled the body into a gully.

  The other men of Guiliano’s band had sprung to their feet leveling their guns. Andolini, sitting on the ground, raised his hands in the air and looked around him beseechingly. But the other picciotto lunged for his weapon and tried to bring it around. Passatempo, standing behind him and grinning with enjoyment, emptied his pistol into the man’s head. The shots echoed through the mountains. They all remained frozen, Andolini pale and shaking with fear, Passatempo holding his pistol. And then Guiliano’s voice from the edge of the cliff said quietly, “Get rid of the bodies and tie that Malpelo to a tree until my father comes.”