by Mario Puzo
The bodies were wrapped in bamboo nets and carried to a deep crevice. They were thrown in with stones tumbled down after them to keep the stench from rising, according to old superstition. This was a task for Passatempo, who robbed the bodies before he buried them. Guiliano constantly fought against his distaste for Passatempo. No amount of rationalization could turn that animal into a knight.
It was after dusk, almost seven hours later, that Guiliano’s father was finally brought into the camp. Stefan Andolini was released from his tree and brought over to the cave lit with kerosene lamps. Guiliano’s father was angry when he saw Andolini’s condition.
“But this man is my friend,” he said to his son. “We both worked for the Godfather in America. I told him he could come and join your band, that he would be well treated.”
He shook hands with Andolini and said, “I apologize. My son must have misunderstood or heard some gossip about you.” He paused for a moment, troubled. It distressed him to see his old friend so full of fear. For Andolini could barely stand.
Andolini was sure he would be killed. That this was all a charade. The back of his neck ached as the muscles tensed to receive the bullets. He almost wept at his own brashness that had made him underestimate Guiliano. The quick killings of his two picciotti had sent him into shock.
Signor Guiliano sensed that his friend was in mortal danger from his son. He said to him, “Turi, how often do I ask you to do something for me? If you have anything against this man forgive him and let him go. He was kind to me in America and he sent you a gift when you were christened. I trust him and hold his friendship dear.”
Guiliano said, “Now that you have identified him, he will be treated as an honored guest. If he wishes to remain as a member of my band he is welcome.”
Guiliano’s father was taken back to Montelepre by horse so that he could sleep in his own bed. And after he was gone Guiliano spoke to Stefan Andolini alone.
“I know about you and Candeleria,” he said. “You were a spy for Don Croce when you joined Candeleria’s band. A month later Candeleria was dead. His widow remembers you. From what she told me it wasn’t hard for me to figure out what happened. We Sicilians are good at putting together puzzles of treacheries. Bands of outlaws are disappearing. The authorities have become amazingly clever. I sit on my mountain and think all day. I think of the authorities in Palermo—they have never been so clever before. And then I learn that the Minister of Justice in Rome and Don Croce are hand in glove. And we know, you and I, that Don Croce is clever enough for both of them. So then it is Don Croce who is clearing away these bandits for Rome. And then I think soon it will be my turn to be visited by the spies of Don Croce. And I wait and I wait and I wonder why the Don is taking so long. For, with all modesty, I am the biggest prize of all. And then today I see the three of you in my binoculars. And I think, ‘Ha, it’s Malpelo again. I will be glad to see him.’ But I must kill you all the same. I won’t distress my father so your body will disappear.”
Stefan Andolini lost his fear for a moment in his outrage. “You would deceive your own father?” he shouted. “You call yourself a Sicilian son?” He spat on the ground. “Then kill me and go straight down to hell.”
Pisciotta, Terranova and Passatempo were also astonished. But they had been astonished many times in the past. Guiliano who was so honorable, who prided himself on keeping his word, who spoke always of justice for everyone, would suddenly turn and do something that seemed to them villainous. It was not that they objected to him killing Andolini—he could kill a hundred Andolinis, a thousand. But that he should break his word to his father and deceive him seemed to them unforgivable. Only Corporal Silvestro seemed to understand and said, “He can’t endanger all our lives because his father is softhearted.”
Guiliano said to Andolini in a quiet voice, “Make your peace with God.” He motioned to Passatempo. “You will have five minutes.”
Andolini’s red hair seemed to bristle all over his head. He said frantically, “Before you kill me speak to the Abbot Manfredi.”
Guiliano stared at him with amazement and the redheaded man spoke in an outpouring of words. “You once said to the Abbot that you owed him a service. That he could ask you for anything.” Guiliano remembered his promise well. How did the man know about it?
Andolini continued, “Let us go to him and he will beg for my life.”
Pisciotta said contemptuously, “Turi, it will take another day to send a messenger and get his answer back. And does the Abbot have more influence with you than your own father?”
Guiliano astonished them again. “Bind his arms and put a halter on his feet so that he can walk but not run. Give me a guard of ten men. I’ll bring him to the monastery myself, and if the Abbot does not ask for his life, he can make his last confession. I’ll execute him and give his body to the monks for burial.”
Guiliano and his band arrived at the monastery gates as the sun was rising and the monks were going out to work the fields. Turi Guiliano watched them, a smile on his lips. Was it only two years ago that he had gone into the fields with these priests, wearing his brown cloak and the crumpled black American fedora on his head? He remembered how this amused him. Who would have dreamed then of his future ferocity? A nostalgia came for those old days of peace working in the fields.
The Abbot himself was coming toward the gate to greet them. The tall black-robed figure hesitated when the prisoner stepped forward, then opened his arms. Stefan Andolini rushed to embrace the old man, kissed him on both cheeks and said, “Father, these men are going to kill me, only you can save me.”
The Abbot nodded. He held out his arms to Guiliano, who came forward to embrace him. Guiliano understood everything now. The peculiar accent on the word “Father” was not how a man addressed his priest but as a son addressed his parent.
The Abbot said, “I ask you for this man’s life, as a boon to me.”
Guiliano took the ropes off Andolini’s arms and feet. “He is yours,” Turi Guiliano said.
Andolini was sagging to the ground; the fear rushing out of his body made him weak. The Abbot supported him with his own frail frame. He said to Guiliano, “Come into my dining room. I will have your men fed and the three of us can talk about what we must do.” He turned to Andolini and said, “My dear son, you are not yet out of danger. What will Don Croce think when he learns of all this? We must take counsel together or you are lost.”
The Abbot had his own small coffee room and the three men sat comfortably. Cheese and bread were brought for the two younger men.
The Abbot turned and smiled sadly at Guiliano. “One of my many sins. I fathered this man when I was young. Ah, nobody knows the temptations of a parish priest in Sicily. I did not resist them. The scandal was covered up and his mother was married to an Andolini. A great deal of money passed and I was able to rise in the Church. But the irony of heaven no man can foretell. My son grew up to be a murderer. And that is a cross I have to bear though I have so many of my own sins to answer for.”
The Abbot’s tone changed when he turned to Andolini. He said, “Listen to me carefully, my son. For a second time you owe your life to me. Understand your first loyalty. It is now to Guiliano.
“You cannot go back to the Don. He will ask himself, Why did Turi spare your life and kill the other two? He will suspect treachery and that will be your death. What you must do is confess everything to the Don and ask to remain with Guiliano’s band. That you will give him information and serve as a link between the Friends of the Friends and Guiliano’s army. I will go to the Don myself and tell him the advantages of this. I will also tell him that you will remain faithful to Guiliano but that will not be to his disadvantage. He will think you will betray this man here who spared your life. But I tell you that if you do not remain faithful to Guiliano I will damn you to hell forever. You will bear your father’s curse to the grave.”
He addressed himself again to Guiliano. “So now I ask you a second favor, my dear Turi Guiliano
. Take my son into your band. He will fight for you and do your bidding and I swear he will be faithful to you.”
Guiliano thought about this carefully. He was sure he could, with time, secure Andolini’s affection, and he knew the man’s devotion to his father, the Abbot. The chances of betrayal were therefore small and could be guarded against. Stefan Andolini would be a valuable subchief in the operations of his band but even more valuable as a source of information about the empire of Don Croce.
Guiliano asked, “And what will you tell Don Croce?”
The Abbot paused for a moment. “I will speak to the Don. I have influence there. And then we shall see. Now will you take my son into your band?”
“Yes, by my sworn word to you,” Guiliano said. “But if he betrays me your prayers will not be swift enough to catch him on his way to hell.”
Stefan Andolini had lived in a world of little trust which perhaps was why over the years his face had become formed in such a murderer’s mask. He knew that in the coming years he would be like a trapeze artist, constantly teetering on the wire of death. There was no safe choice. It comforted him that the spirit of mercy that radiated from Guiliano’s person had saved him. But he had no illusions. Turi Guiliano was the only man who had ever made him afraid.
From that day Stefan Andolini was a member of Guiliano’s band. And in the years to come he became so known for ferociousness and religious piety that his nickname, Fra Diavalo, became famous all over Sicily. The piety came from the fact that every Sunday he went to Mass. He usually went in the town of Villaba, where Father Benjamino was the priest. And in the confessional he told the secrets of Guiliano’s band to his confessor to be relayed to Don Croce. But not the secrets Guiliano ordered him not to tell.
BOOK III
MICHAEL
CORLEONE
1950
CHAPTER 16
THE FIAT SKIRTED the town of Trapani and took a road along the beach. Michael Corleone and Stefan Andolini came to a villa, larger than most, with three outlying houses. There was a wall around the villa with only a gap left on the beach side. The gate to the villa was guarded by two men, and just inside Michael could see a wide fat man dressed in clothes that looked alien in this landscape: a sport jacket and slacks with an open, knit polo shirt. As they waited for the gate to open Michael saw the grin on the man’s broad face and was astonished to see it was Peter Clemenza.
Clemenza was the chief underling of Michael Corleone’s father back in America. What was he doing here? Michael had last seen him that fatal night when Clemenza had planted the gun he had used to assassinate the police captain and the Turk, Sollozzo. He had remembered the look of pity and sadness on Clemenza’s face at that moment over two years ago. Now Clemenza was genuinely overjoyed to see Michael. He pulled him out of the tiny Fiat and almost crushed him in a bear hug.
“Michael, it’s great to see you. I’ve been waiting for years to tell you how proud I am of you. What a great job you did. And now all your troubles are over. In a week you’ll be with the family, there’ll be a great feast. Everybody’s waiting for you, Mikey.” He stared into Michael’s face fondly while holding him within his two massive arms, and as he did so he made an assessment. This was no longer just the young war hero. During his time in Sicily the boy had grown into a man. That is to say, Michael’s face was no longer open; it had the proud closed look of the born Sicilian. Michael was ready to take his rightful place in the family.
Michael was happy to see Clemenza’s huge, bulky form, his broad heavily featured face. He asked for news of his family. His father had recovered from the assassination attempt, but his health was not good. Clemenza shook his head mournfully. “It never does anybody any good when they get holes punched in their body, no matter how good they recover. But it’s not the first time your father was shot. He’s like an ox. He’ll be okay. Sonny getting killed, that’s what did the damage to him and your mother. It was brutal, Mikey—they cut him to pieces with machine guns. That wasn’t right, they didn’t have to do that. That was spite work. But we’re making plans. Your father will tell you when we get you home. Everybody is happy you’re coming back.”
Stefan Andolini nodded to Clemenza; they obviously had met before. He shook hands with Michael and said he had to leave—there were things he had to do back in Montelepre. “Remember this, whatever you may hear,” he said, “that I always remained faithful to Turi Guiliano and that he trusted me to the end. If he is betrayed it is not I who will have betrayed him.” He stuttered with sincerity. “And I will not betray you.”
Michael believed him. “Won’t you come and rest and have something to eat and drink?” he asked.
Stefan Andolini shook his head. He got into the Fiat and drove back out the gates which immediately clanged shut behind him.
Clemenza led Michael across the open grounds to the main villa. There were armed men patrolling the walls and on the beach where the estate was open to the sea. A small dock stretched toward the faraway coast of Africa, and tethered to the dock was a large sleek motorboat flying the flag of Italy.
Inside the villa were two old crones dressed in black without one color of light on their persons, their skin dark with the sun, black shawls over their heads. Clemenza asked them to bring a bowl of fruit to Michael’s bedroom.
The terrace of the bedroom looked over the blue Mediterranean Sea which seemed to part in the middle when hit by a shaft of morning sunlight. Fishing boats with bright blue and red sails bobbed on the horizon like balls skipping over the water. There was a small table on the terrace covered with a heavy dark brown cloth, and the two men sat on the chairs around it. There was a pot of espresso and a jug of red wine.
“You look tired,” Clemenza said. “Get some sleep and then I’ll spell everything out for you in detail.”
“I could use it,” Michael said. “But first, tell me, is my mother all right?”
“She’s fine,” Clemenza said. “She’s waiting for you to get home. We can’t disappoint her, it would be too much for her after Sonny.”
Michael asked again, “And my father, he’s completely recovered?”
Clemenza laughed; it was an ugly laugh. “He sure is. The Five Families will find out. Your father is just waiting for you to get home, Mike. He’s got big plans for you. We can’t let him down. So don’t worry too much for Guiliano—if he shows up we’ll take him with us. If he keeps screwing off we leave him here.”
“Are those my father’s orders?” Michael asked.
Clemenza said, “A courier comes by air every day to Tunis and I go over by boat to talk to him. Those were my orders yesterday. At first Don Croce was supposed to help us, or so your father told me before I left the States. But you know what happened in Palermo after you left yesterday? Somebody tried to knock off Croce. They came over the wall of the garden and killed four of his bodyguards. But Croce got away. So what the hell is going on?”
Michael said, “Jesus.” He remembered the precautions Don Croce had taken around the hotel. “I think that was our friend Guiliano. I hope you and my father know what you’re doing. I’m so tired I can’t think.”
Clemenza rose and patted him on the shoulder. “Mikey, get some sleep. When you wake up you’ll meet my brother. A great man, just like your father, just as smart, just as tough, and he’s the boss in this part of the country, never mind Croce.”
Michael undressed and got into bed. He had not slept for over thirty hours and yet his mind jumped and would not let his body rest. He could feel the heat of the morning sun though he had closed the heavy wooden shutters. There was a heavy fragrance of flowers and lemon trees. His mind worked over the events of the past few days. How did Pisciotta and Andolini move around so freely? Why did Guiliano seem to have decided Don Croce was his enemy at this most inappropriate of times? Such an error was not Sicilian. After all, the man had lived seven years in the mountains as an outlaw. Enough was enough. He must want to live a better life—not possible here, but certainly in America. An
d he definitely had such plans or he would not be sending his fiancée, pregnant, to America before him. The clarifying thought struck him that the answer to all this mystery was that Guiliano was bent on fighting one last battle. That he did not fear to die here on his native ground. There were plans and conspiracies spinning out to their final conclusions that he, Michael, could not be aware of, and so he must be wary. For Michael Corleone did not want to die in Sicily. He was not part of this particular myth.
Michael awoke in the huge bedroom and opened the shutters, which swung outward to a white stone balcony glittering in the morning sun. Below the balcony, the Mediterranean Sea rolled like a deep blue carpet out to the horizon. Streaks of crimson laced the water, and on these boats fishermen sailed out of sight. Michael watched them for a few minutes, utterly bewitched by the beauty of the sea and the majestic cliffs of Erice up the coast to the north.
The room was full of huge rustic furniture. There was a table on which stood a blue enameled basin and a jug of water. Over a chair there was a rough brown towel. On the walls were paintings of saints and the Virgin Mary, with the infant Jesus in her arms. Michael washed his face and then left the room. At the bottom of the stairs Peter Clemenza was waiting for him.
“Ah, now you look better, Mikey,” Clemenza said. “A good meal to give you back your strength and then we can talk business.” He led Michael into a kitchen that held a long wooden table. They sat down and an old woman in black appeared magically at the stove and poured two cups of espresso and served them. Then just as magically she produced a platter of eggs and sausage which she put on the table. From the oven came a great sun-shaped brown-crusted loaf of bread. Then she disappeared into a room beyond the kitchen. She did not acknowledge Michael’s thanks. At that moment a man entered the room. He was older than Clemenza but looked so much like him that Michael knew immediately that this was Don Domenic Clemenza, Peter Clemenza’s brother. Don Domenic was attired much differently. He was in black velvet trousers that tucked into sturdy brown boots. He wore a white silk shirt with ruffled sleeves and a long black vest. On his head was a short-billed cap. In his right hand he carried a whip which he threw into a corner. Michael rose to greet him and Don Domenic Clemenza took him into his arms with a friendly embrace.