by Peter Watson
The police made occasional forays against Nino, operating at the insistence of this or that politician, as often as not from mainland Italy. These forays never succeeded. Nino always knew when the police were coming for him, thanks to the shepherds and the system of whistled warnings they had devised. Sometimes he vanished; sometimes the platoons were ambushed and the survivors sent back the way they had come. Over the years the Quarryman’s reputation rose; he not only seemed invulnerable to attack, but his occasional distribution of largesse brought him a larger and larger following among the peasants and tenant farmers on the hillsides.
Then Taddeo Panero, an Italian judge, was sent to Sicily to clear up Mafia crime. Two suspected mafiosi in Palermo were arrested for extortion, and Panero seemed to have convincing evidence. It was the first step in his cleanup campaign. What Panero did not know was that one of the suspects, a doctor, had delivered two Priola babies: he was therefore protected. The explosion that rocked Panero’s hotel had all the hallmarks of the Quarryman’s work. The judge was not just killed but dismembered. A report in Corriere di Palermo said that his head was recovered more than fifty feet from his hands. In the upside-down world of Sicily, this added to Nino’s stature and put the Priolas in debt to him.
It was soon after this time that Nino, now in his mid-thirties, came to be respected as a Don, not just a feared leader but a respected dispenser of favors and of justice. The nearest town to the bivio was Bivona, and Nino sometimes went there to dine, or to use the brothel. The police in the area had been paid off, so it was safe for a night or two at a stretch. Once it became known in the malavita, the world of the mafiosi and their friends, that Nino was in Bivona, people began to come to him with their problems.
In the early days a young schoolteacher had approached him. She reported that the school piano had been stolen, so there was no music in the school and daily worship was impaired. Nino had nodded, and whispered, “Sono un uomo accomodante. I am an easy man to deal with.” He found the piano, had it returned, then broke the fingers of the two young men who had taken it. However long they lived, they would never be able to make music. The elemental justice of this maneuver endeared Nino to the locals. Word spread that no one who came to Don Bivona for help went away empty-handed.
It was his political status that eventually led him to the idea of kidnapping an absentee landlord. These were extremely unpopular people in Sicily; although they lived elsewhere, they often milked the land of its resources. That the landlord chosen was an English priest was more or less accidental—as was the taking of an American artist who was not a friend of the priest’s but just happened to be traveling with him. They had been kidnapped one day on their way from Valledolmo to the sulfur mines near Fontana Murata, which the priest owned and the artist wanted to sketch. Unfortunately for them, the Quarryman had planned a spectacular coup to demonstrate once again to the people that he was unquestionably the Don.
The Café Bivona, on the town’s main square, was not a grand affair like some of the cafés in Palermo, but it was the best that Bivona had to offer. There were a few tables outside, where Silvio had always sat after his rare visits to the church on the opposite side of the square. He had always been aware that some sort of business went on in the back of the café, but now, for the first time, he was finding out exactly what it was.
Since Silvio’s return from Palermo, his mission successfully accomplished, Nino Greco had taken to him as if he were his own son. He had loved the fact that Silvio had hidden the priest’s scalp and the wrapping paper in the braided tail of the mule. “That took brains and balls,” he had said, putting his arm around Silvio’s shoulder and hugging him. “We know you have the blood.” And he had moved his young protégé out of the house in the bivio where the children lived, installing him in the quarters where the single men lived. He had given him his own mule and a gun. Bastiano was teaching Silvio how to shoot.
Best of all, Silvio had been allowed to accompany Nino on this visit to Bivona, a visit Nino now made every Sunday in the company of half a dozen bodyguards. Two of those men, Silvio knew, were stationed at the entrances to the town, on the main road. Two more were seated here at the café, at tables outside. And another two, of which Silvio was one, were sitting at tables adjacent to Nino’s. In Silvio’s case, this had obviously been arranged so that he could watch and learn.
As they had sat down Nino reached forward to a jar of olives, took one out, and held it up. “See that?” he said gently. “Soft on the outside, hard in the middle. That’s how a man should be, a leader. Remember that.” He smiled, and slipped the olive into his mouth.
For the past hour Nino had received a stream of visitors. Silvio had never heard his uncle referred to before as “Don Bivona” or “Capo,” as all the visitors addressed him. They had been respectful, arriving one at a time and speaking in low voices so that none of the business carried forward to the tables on the piazza.
The first man in the café this morning was Calogero Lanzone, a farmer who complained to Don Bivona that the farmer upstream from him had dammed the Simeto River, preventing enough waters from reaching the Lanzone pastures. Plants had withered and sheep and goats had gone dry. Could anything be done?
Nino said he felt sure the other farmer would see reason. Then he paused.
Nino was a good listener, Silvio decided. He sat perfectly still while people outlined their troubles, his hand over his mouth maybe, or resting his chin on his fist. But he never took his eyes off the person talking to him; he studied their faces, his gaze unblinking. He was forcing them to be truthful.
When he spoke he never raised his voice. Before he said anything he would always drum his fingertips on his lips. The ring on his little finger would sometimes catch the light. Unlike most people, Nino was comfortable with pauses. Now he waited for the other man to speak.
Lanzone then announced that a relative of his was in the police at nearby Cammarata. He could vouchsafe that if ever Don Bivona needed help there, this relative would oblige.…
Nino drummed his fingers on his lips again. He must have judged this an appropriate response, for he now assured Lanzone not to worry. His waters would be restored to him. Then he spoke the words that, before long, Silvio would come to associate with Nino. “Non e il sangue di gallo”—“This is not cock’s blood.” Silvio knew that at certain churches in Sicily the statues of saints would sometimes “bleed,” from their sorrows for mankind, and be bandaged. The blood-soaked bandages would then be sold, for a lot of money, as holy relics that might work miracles. In fact, the whole business was faked; the blood was cock’s blood. Nino was saying that his promise was real, no pretense.
Lanzone required no explanation. He simply thanked Nino and left.
Another person who approached the Capo was Maria Camastra, a middle-aged woman whose daughter, she said, had been made pregnant by the son of Luca Mancuso, who owned a vineyard in Borgo Regalmici. The son, Gaetano, was refusing to marry Maria’s daughter, thus dishonoring the family.
Nino hesitated: a difficult problem. Luca Mancuso was a rich and powerful landowner, un pezzo grosso, a big shot. And surely Maria Camastra’s daughter had been foolish.
Yes, said Maria, but she was only eighteen, and did not Don Bivona also have a daughter of eighteen?
The point hit home. Nino paused.
Then Maria Camastra announced that she was a cleaner in the mayor’s office in Santo Stefano, the regional capital where the police headquarters were located. Might it not be useful for the Don to have a pair of eyes and ears in such a sensitive spot?
Nino nodded and whispered, “I am an easy man to deal with.” Maria Camastro smiled back. Nino said he would speak to Luca Mancuso. “No cock’s blood.” Maria Camastra was satisfied.
But Silvio’s biggest shock came when Frederico Imbaccari entered the café. He was the manager of a bank in Santo Stefano, a small man but expensively dressed in a silk shirt and elegant shoes. He offered Nino a basket of oranges. Nino accepted but le
ft them on the table.
“What may I do for you, Mr. Imbaccari? I’m flattered that a bank manager should call on me.”
Imbaccari nodded. “I have a problem, Don Bivona. But I approach you not as a bank manager, rather as a man. Five years ago Vito Raffadali, a cousin of mine, bought land from me. He did not pay me any money at the time. The land was not planted and we agreed that Vito would grow orange trees and that when they began to bear fruit he would sell the oranges and start to pay me back. The trees are now mature, he is making money from the sale of oranges, but he refuses to pay me.” He gestured to the oranges in the basket on the table. “He has threatened me and says that if I go to court he will tell my wife about my mistress in Cammarata.”
“It’s unfortunate you are so vulnerable. Vito Raffadali obviously knew about your mistress before he took over the land. He never intended to repay you.”
Imbaccari lowered his eyes. “I realize that now.”
Again, Nino let the silence hang between them.
“It is a matter of respect, Don Bivona. I would like the land back, because Vito has behaved badly, but am happy to let you have the crop of oranges for, say, five years.”
Nino considered this. “Tell me about your wife.”
Imbaccari looked sharply at Nino but then said, “She is a good woman. Very religious. She assists at the orphanage in Santo Stefano. We are happy. She knows nothing of Rosa in Cammarata but … that is only once a week.”
Nino turned to Silvio. “You’ve been listening all morning. Now you understand what I do. Most of the people have simple problems, as you can see. The solutions are easy, once an agreement had been reached. But this … situation … is more delicate.”
Was Nino asking for advice? He did take advice, occasionally. For example, he had got the idea to scalp the priest from an old friend, a mafioso who had been to America but been forced to flee home again. The man had returned full of tales about American Indians and their exotic war rituals. Silvio asked himself again: Was Nino asking for advice on this occasion? And from a seventeen-year-old? He was suddenly nervous. No, he thought on reflection, Nino wasn’t asking for advice exactly, but he was expecting Silvio to react. That’s why Silvio had been brought along this morning. Nino had known something like this might happen. It was, in its way, a test. He had been tested before, particularly when he’d taken the package to Palermo, but this was different. The other test had been about courage—balls. This was about brains.
He looked at the Don. He had to say something quickly. “Wouldn’t it be fair,” he whispered, “if the orphanage benefited in some way?”
Nino eyed him, then smiled and nodded. “You’re right.” Almost under his breath, half to himself, he added, “I can just hear your father saying that.” For a moment Nino seemed lost in thought. Then he turned back to the banker.
“Very well. I’ll speak to Vito Raffadali. I think I can make him understand. No cock’s blood. You will have your land back. But I’ll take only half your oranges, and only for three years.”
Imbaccari blinked in surprise.
“I want you to give the other half, for the full five years, to the orphanage where your wife does such good work. And make sure they know that the proceeds come with my blessing. Is that clear?”
“Of course, of course.” Imbaccari beamed. “A beautiful solution, if I may say so.”
After Imbaccari had left, Nino turned to Silvio. “You did well. Maybe, maybe, you can take over from me someday. Remember that, but don’t let it go to your head.” He gestured out to the square, where Imbaccari had disappeared. “No one goes away a mani vuote, empty-handed. That’s important.” He reached forward and took an orange from the basket Imbaccari had left. He cut through it with the knife he always carried, and held out one half of the fruit. The color of the flesh was orange shot through with deep red. “Look,” he said softly. “Listen to an older man. Learn from his mistakes. In Sicily, even the oranges bleed.”
“Rhum! Rhum! Get down! I’m so sorry, Sir Rupert. He gets so excited by visitors.” Harriet Livesey rose from her seat in the drawing room of Cadogan Gardens and lifted the highland terrier away from the baronet’s ankles. Sitting down again, with the dog on her lap, she began to pour the tea. “Thank you for coming to see me, so soon after Prime Minister’s Questions.”
Sir Rupert Farrar nodded. “It is the least I can do, Harriet, as your friend and MP. I’m only sorry you couldn’t be there yourself.”
She handed him some tea. “How did it go, in the House?”
“Well, I think. It was quite full, and both sides were united. Gladstone raised the matter right at the beginning of business. The leader of the opposition has a deep voice, but he had to shout to make himself heard. And he spoke of his own and his colleagues’ ‘deep sense of outrage’ at what you were made to go through. Members were very supportive, stamping their feet and shouting ‘Hear, hear’ all through what he had to say. Gladstone reminded the House that the Italian government had promised to help find Henry, when he was first kidnapped, and again when the first ransom note was received, but have actually done very little.”
“Quite right,” muttered Harriet “I’m pleased he took such a strong line.”
“Oh, but I haven’t told you the best part,” replied Farrar. “He even referred to the piece of paper the … the scalp was wrapped in. The one … with the drawing.”
Harriet nodded, but looked away in distaste.
“‘This common criminal is toying with the British government,’ Gladstone said. He slapped the dispatch box with his fist—quite a display for him. He said he wanted action from the prime minister, not more words. Quite a performance.”
“But what did Disraeli do?” Rhum had quietened down and Harriet placed him on the carpet.
Farrar smiled. “Disraeli can be a pugnacious brute at times, but today he began gently, agreeing with Gladstone that you have been treated abominably. He even said he was revolted by what had happened, and, incidentally, he told the House that you have received a letter of condolence from the Queen. Is that true?”
Harriet nodded. “Her Majesty is most considerate.”
Farrar held out his cup for more tea. “Well, as usual, the prime minister manipulated the House superbly. After he referred to the Queen, he hesitated. There was complete silence in the House. Then he said, quite quickly, ‘Condolences are not enough.’ Last Friday, he said, when he had first heard of this development, he had sent for the Italian ambassador. He had told him in no uncertain terms, he said, that the Italian government had promised help but actually had done nothing. It appeared that Rome had no power over Sicily. He had then insisted that unless Signor Falfani had an answer for him today he felt sure the Commons would support more direct action on our part.”
Harriet looked intently at Farrar. “Such tough language,” she said softly. “How did the Italians respond?”
“I thought myself that this has all the makings of an international incident,” Farrar said smoothly. “Anyway, according to Disraeli, Signor Falfani had been to see him again, this morning. The ambassador had heard from Rome, he said. The essence of the Italian response is that a regiment of the Lazio Brigade, numbering four hundred and eighty-four men and presently stationed near Caserta in the south of the country, will be transferred to Sicily before the weekend. They will disembark at Trapani, at the western tip of the island, where their specific task will be to capture the brigand known as the Quarryman and free Father Livesey.”
Harriet sighed. “How long has it been, Rupert? Nearly three months? Three months of worry, sleepness nights … But now there’s to be action. I suppose the Italians mean what they say this time?”
Farrar set down his cup. “Your instincts are right, Harriet. When the Italian ambassador came to see him, Disraeli told him that his message seemed to indicate a readiness on the part of Rome, at last, to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation. However, Disraeli also told His Excellency that he had, in the meantime, reminde
d himself of the Royal Navy’s dispositions in the Mediterranean. The Royal Navy! Can you believe it? Anyway, Disraeli went on to say that we have the cruiser Hook, in Tripoli, and the destroyer Clarendon, in Gibraltar. Telegrams had been sent to each about an hour before the session, ordering them both to Sicily. Harriet, my dear, they should be in Sicilian waters by the weekend. Between them they have an able-bodied complement of nearly three hundred men. The prime minister says he told Falfani that unless the Italian government is as good as its word this time, and the Lazio regiment really does arrive in Sicily according to the timetable Falfani had promised, then Her Majesty’s government would give orders for the crews of the Hook and Clarendon to put ashore and do the job instead. You can imagine how well that went down with Falfani. Disraeli smiled at that point. Falfani assured him, he said, that such action on our part would not be tolerated in Italy but that in any case it would not be necessary, because the Roman government fully intended to act as it had promised.
“And there the matter rests, Harriet. The government will monitor the situation closely, and if it needs to take action, it will. Either way, my dear, this is the beginning of the end for Antonino Greco.”
3
“Toto! Toto! Birthday boy, wake up!”
“Annunziata?” Everyone called him Silvio except Nino, who called him Sylvano, and Annunziata, who called him Toto, her private name since childhood. Why she did it and what it meant he had long since forgotten.
“Hurry,” she whispered. “You’re wasting time.”