Luka's exercise books were sent flying across the room with a curse. He was always at the bottom of his class, and Giorgio, on this afternoon, his last afternoon, had wagged a finger, admonishing him. "If you don't read, you won't learn that there is a world beyond this place. It's so big, Luka, and without knowledge it will overpower you. You'll never make anything of yourself."
Laughing, Luka replied that there was no need for him to acquire knowledge; he could always ask Giorgio for it.
This was the moment Giorgio had dreaded. "No, Luka, I won't always be here."
"Bullshit! After Rome you will run with me."
Giorgio patted his bed. "Sit! You lazy slob, sit. I'm going to read to you, Luka, and no, it's not your favorite, Signor Anon."
He was referring to the time when he had asked Luka who his favorite poet was, and Luka had replied in all seriousness that someone called Anon wrote the best stuff. So Signor Anonymous had become one of their many private jokes.
Luka had spent many hours listening to Giorgio reading Byron's The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair, and Lara-, they'd even waded through The Siege of Corinth and wept together over Werner, but the ease and fluency of the beautiful verse were beyond Luka's grasp. He had moaned that the only reason Giorgio read Byron was that the poet had been a cripple, too.
Giorgio opened a thin, leather-bound book, but before he could begin reading Byron's Don Juan, Brother Louis tapped on the door and ushered Giorgio's father into the room. His presence meant only one thing: There was less time than Giorgio had hoped.
Luka was asked to leave the room, but he was not concerned as he presumed they were there to finish the arrangements for the long-awaited trip to Rome. Giorgio saw the gleeful way he scurried out and called after him, "Read Rupert Brooke tonight!"
To the astonishment and embarrassment of old Brother Louis, Luka yelled back, "Brooke was a fairy," as he ran down the corridor so as not to be caught.
Giorgio lay back, gasping for breath. Paying no attention to his father, he spoke to Brother Louis, "Forgive my incorrigible friend. The Faerie Queene was written by Edmund Spenser."
Exhausted, he closed his eyes, his white moon face glistening with sweat. He had nothing to say to his father or to the cloying old Louis with his smell of mold and mothballs and his clinking rosary. Their presence tired him, and he was too drained even to talk.
All Giorgio wanted was to be left in peace. He let rip the longest and loudest fart he could muster, one that he knew Luka would have applauded, in the hope that its pungency would make the men leave the room. It did.
Later that afternoon, eager for news, Luka peeked around Giorgio's door and became concerned at the state of his friend. The effort of holding out his hand to Luka seemed too much for him.
Luka held the tiny, soft hand gently in his own, whispering, "What is it?"
"I'm dying, Luka, I'm sorry."
The two boys who had blasphemed against the Virgin Mary, who had delighted in giving the finger to the figure of the bleeding Christ on the cross in the monastery chapel now prayed to them not on their knees but cradled in each other's arms. Luka's arm lay lightly across his beloved friend's body, his head so close that he could hear the fragile heart with the hole he was so sure could be repaired. He gave his word that they would never be parted; he was sure that because they had prayed so seriously, God would be kind. He would give them time; they would always be together. By morning Giorgio was dead.
A month after Giorgio's death his father took Luka to be educated in America. Luka took with him Giorgio's collected works of Lord George Gordon Noel Byron, but he never read another line of poetry.
Years later Luka returned to Sicily and saw to it that Carlo Luciano and his little brother, Nunzio, embraced in death. The two sweet, sleeping children would never know the terror of staring, open eyes, of feeling cold, lifeless fingers. They would always be together.
Guido had been wakened by the sound of Luka's high-pitched laugh. He had come to the edge of the courtyard but dared not pass through the gate. He watched for a while, then returned to his cell. At five in the morning he crossed the courtyard again. Luka was still there, now on his hands and knees, pressing down the earth. Guido moved on, toward the kitchens. About to enter, he paused; the lid of one of the garbage cans was only balanced on top, not clamped down. In the heat of the day the flies would gather like clouds. He lifted the lid and discovered torn newspapers, which he took back to his cell.
The missing sections frustrated him, but he pored over the rest of them, then returned them to the can. He could see Luka working, and under the pretext of taking clean sheets for his bed, he went into his cell.
He searched quickly. There were few places to hide anything, and he soon found the missing articles. He scoured them, nervous of being caught, and quickly replaced them. When Luka walked in, he had his hand on the clean sheets, about to strip the bed.
Guido flushed guiltily. "Ah, you are here. ... I have brought you clean sheets."
"Thank you. I can change the bed myself. I know where the laundry is. There is no need—"
"Oh, but you are a guest. I insist."
He lifted the mattress to pull the sheet free. He did not see the gun case, but Luka did. He moved quickly, gripping Guido's wrist until it hurt. "Please leave my room."
Shaking, Guido stared into Luka's brilliant blue eyes. He could not draw himself away. Slowly Luka released his grip.
Guido rubbed his arm vigorously. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to intrude. Forgive me."
Luka's eyes did not waver from Guido until the door closed behind him. He waited a few moments. Then in two strides he was by the bed. He threw the mattress aside; he had to find another hiding place, and fast.
The chapel was dark. Luka crept between the familiar worn benches and reached the altar. After looking quickly around, he stepped into the crypt.
The ten-foot-high cross was more than a foot thick. It was held against the wall by two heavy wooden battens. Deftly he climbed up, tucked the gun case into position, and was just sliding back down the cross when the door creaked open. There was a muffled howl and the sound of hasty steps.
Brother Louis ran this way and that, straight into the wall at one point, before he was able to reach the corridor. Arms flapping in panic, he ran, calling for Father Angelo. "Christ has risen. ..."
Between bouts of hysterical weeping and praying, he insisted that he had seen the figure of Christ at the back of the crypt. No one paid him much attention; these states of his were not uncommon. The last time he had insisted he had seen a circus in the courtyard.
With Louis in such a state, Luka had a perfect excuse for not going to confession. He had been lucky but he believed his luck was running out. Returning to his cell, he pulled out the newspaper articles and knew immediately that they had been touched.
His anger at this discovery turned into disbelief as he read one of the articles, then checked the date. The headline read
LEGAL LOOPHOLE CAUSES UPROAR IN COURT.
Emanuel's telephone in Palermo had not stopped ringing for hours. In a state of exhaustion, he gestured for his assistant to answer it while he continued his harassed conversation with two of the prosecution team.
"The judge will surely chuck it out. It's utter madness, insanity. ..."
Dr. Inzerillo tried to calm Emanuel. "The judge can't. He's got to get the government to agree. They can't pass it, believe me."
"Jesus Christ, how long will it take?"
"As long as the government takes to make the deci- · »
sion. . . .
Emanuel wanted to weep. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. "Have the press got hold of it? Is it in print?"
Dr. Inzerillo nodded. "You bet, they ran from the courthouse before the defense counsel had stopped speaking. It'll be on the television news. Where are you going?"
"There's someone I have to tell, Luciano's widow."
Graziella had just returned from Mario Domino's funeral. She had therefore not
been in the court that afternoon, nor had she read the newspapers.
Emanuel straightened his tie, checked his hair, then drove up the long approach to the Villa Rivera. He felt sick to his stomach.
Graziella offered wine, but Emanuel refused. He seemed unable to sit still; he had taken his pen from his pocket and was tapping it on the polished surface of the dining-room table.
"Signora, I wanted to see you, to tell you personally. . . . Today there was a new development in the court."
He adjusted his tie again and took a deep breath. "I don't know if you are aware of the fact, but here in Italy there is a law stipulating that no man can be held in prison for more than eighteen months without trial. As you know, the court process has been lengthy; hundreds of men have been charged, some separately, some in groups. The law says that it is every prisoner's right to have all his statements and the charges against him read aloud in court before sentences can be handed down. Today the defense counsel demanded that this be done. Do you understand?"
11 Si, I understand. I studied the law before I was married. Do you know about Mario Domino?"
"Please, Signora Luciano, let me finish. Forgive me, but my time is very limited, and I must get back. The majority of the prisoners have been held for a considerable time; for example, Paul Carolla has been in jail for more than sixteen months."
Her voice was hoarse, her eyes frightened as she interrupted. "How long will it take for these statements to be read?"
Emanuel licked his lips. "At a low estimate, more than one and a half years. If the law is upheld, most of the men will have to be freed."
"Paul Carolla?"
"Si, signora, Paul Carolla would be freed."
She sat back in her chair and lifted her hands in a gesture of disbelief. Emanuel continued. "That is why I am here. I wanted to assure you that everything possible is being done. However, the judge does not have the power to dismiss these demands; the matter has to be turned over to the government. It will be up to it to make the final decision. I am sure, signora, very sure, that it will refuse. The trial will continue as if nothing had occurred, until we hear from the judge."
Graziella rose to her feet. Her control was superhuman. "I am well aware of how the government works. . . . Thank you, signor, for having the decency to come and see me personally. As you said, you are very busy, so I do not wish to delay you any longer. ..."
Adina entered the hall as soon as she heard the bell ring, but Graziella was already ushering Emanuel out. As the door closed behind him, he was still apologizing.
Graziella beckoned to Adina to follow her. "I must contact all my daughters; they must be here. They must return to Palermo immediately." Her face was like a mask. "They are going to free Paul Carolla."
Paul Carolla sat opposite his visitor and talked to him via the telephone.
"I'm gonna walk. They got no fuckin' chance, an' it's all legal. Two more months an' my time is up. Are my guys worth their fuckin' dough? You should have been in court, fuckin' uproar."
Enrico Dante's smile froze on his face. He had been running Carolla's businesses, handling the contracts, the transfer of the money, and siphoning much into his own pockets in the certainty that Carolla would never be freed. He would have a lot of explaining to do.
"Eh, you okay? What's the matter?"
Dante's voice was an octave higher than usual. "Nothin',
Paulie, it's the best news, maybe make up for some of the bad—"
Carolla's face changed; the ratlike eyes hardened. "Everything gain' through okay? You got problems?"
"No, no, everything's on course, just gonna be a bit of delay. The lawyer, the Lucianos' executor, he's dead."
"Who the fuck bumped him off?"
"It was a heart attack. So until the replacement takes over, we can't move. We got deeds but no signatures, an' Domino had agreed prices but nothin's signed and sealed. . . . We got in first, but this'll give the other families time to move in."
"I was first, you mean. I've been buying up Luciano's territory for fuckin' years, an' he never realized. How long before you know?"
"I dunno."
"Well, find out, I want that waterfront, the docks. I'm not interested in all the other crap. Get movin' on it. Up the price if necessary, right? Everythin' else okay?"
"Sure, we got no problems."
"Good . . . Now, listen, what d'ya know about a cop called Pirelli?"
Dante squinted and dabbed at his neck with a handkerchief. "Pirelli? Never heard of him."
"He keeps asking to see me, wants to question me about that Paluso kid. . . . You know, the jail cleaner's kid that got blown away. How come I'm gettin' more information inside this shithole than you're gettin' outside?"
"I was in Rome."
Carolla stared hard, saw that Dante was uncomfortable. "Well, just as long as you're not spreading my dough around, you'll be okay."
Dante pushed his chair back, but Carolla snapped that he wasn't through yet. "My kid, Luka, he got back to the States?"
"I haven't beard nothin' about him," Dante confessed.
Carolla banged the glass between them with his fist. "Find out. I don't want him anywhere near. I'm gonna walk outta here, hear me? Check it out an' do it fast."
Commissario Joseph Pirelli had reinterviewed every suspect, checked every statement, and all he had come up with so far, after questioning the one witness to the shooting of little Julio Paluso, was that the driver of the unidentified car was possibly young, might have been blond, and was perhaps wearing mirrored sunglasses. That was why the witness hadn't seen his face. . . .
Pirelli had so far not managed to arrange an interview with Carolla, but given the possibility of Carolla's being freed, he had put the pressure on and been rewarded with a six o'clock meeting—along with Carolla's lawyer.
The meeting took place in a guarded room. Carolla was already seated when Pirelli entered.
The inspector briefly acknowledged Dr. Ulliano, Carolla's attorney, who embarked on a small, helpful speech about how his client had already assisted in every way possible in a case that obviously had nothing to do with him whatsoever since he was locked in his cell at the time of the crime.
Pirelli lit a cigarette and tossed the match in the ashtray. "I am fully aware of Signor Carolla's incarceration, but we have important new evidence that could involve Signor Carolla. We now have a good description of the killer."
Pirelli saw the dark eyes harden, the quick glance from Carolla to his attorney. He continued. "You stated that Giuseppe Paluso was cleaning the cell, with the door open. You asked if he would take a message out, is that correct? Knowing it was against the law?"
Carolla pursed his lips. "Look, you got my statement. I admitted I wanted the guy to take out a message—"
"Just the one message, or did you hope Paluso would become a regular carrier?"
Carolla leaned forward. "You read my statement; it's all in my statement. I wanted to get a message to my business associate. That was all."
"And when Paluso refused?"
Carolla laughed and spread his fat hands. "I got uptight, I admit it. I said a few things, maybe made a few threats. You get that way inside."
"So you made a few threats?" Pirelli turned the pages of Carolla's statement, then picked up a notepad. " 'You got family. You got a wife. You got—' Do I need to continue? You admit you made these threats?"
Carolla shrugged and shot another glance at Ulliano. "Like
I said, in the heat of the moment I might have said certain things, but I don't remember."
Pirelli's voice was very soft. "You don't-remember. You made a threat against a man's wife, his family, and two days later, two days, his nine-year-old son, nine years old, Signor Carolla, was shot at point-blank range. It blew his head off. Have you seen the photos?"
He pushed the gruesome picture of the murdered child across the table, but Carolla averted his face, turning to Ulliano. "What the fuck is this? Get this guy outta here."
"I s
ay when this interview is over, Signor Carolla, I say, understand? You made a threat, and two days later—"
"I had nothin' to do with that fuckin' kid. You know what it's been like for me in this pigsty? Since that happened, I can't even take a shower without some fucker wants to slit my throat. I can't eat—"
"But you admit it's a coincidence? Now, we have recordings of all your telephone conversations with every visitor. . . . Did you at any time mention this, shall we say, 'problem' you were having with the cleaner?"
Carolla rose to his feet. "I've had enough. This is bullshit. You say you got a witness, a suspect; then you know I'm innocent. I got an alibi, one you nor anyone else can do anything about. Go bring in your witness, and go fuck yourself."
With care Pirelli packed away his papers. "Thank you for your time, Signor Carolla. I will need to question you again."
After Carolla had been taken back to his cell, Pirelli stayed in the room. He had gained nothing but a gut feeling that Carolla had ordered the boy's death. He had no recordings of the visits, none existed. But now he would check and double-check every single person who had visited Carolla since the time of his arrest.
Carolla's paranoia increased as alone in his cell, he went over everything Pirelli had said. He clenched his fists and punched at the wall until his knuckles bled, seeing his son's face in the concrete. Then he banged on his cell door. He had to make a phone call.
Teresa was out of breath as she reached her apartment door. The elevator was yet again out of order. No amount of tenants' complaints seemed to get it fixed. Clutching a bag of groceries, she fumbled for her keys, then jammed her elbow against the doorbell.
It rang and rang until finally she dumped the shopping bag on the floor and searched her handbag. The door opened, and Rosa stood there, a towel wrapped around her head.
"Didn't you hear the bell?"
"I was washing my hair."
Teresa kicked the door shut behind her. Rosa made no effort to help her with the shopping bag but went straight back to the bathroom.
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