Capo

by Peter Watson

  Then, quickly, Silvio raised his lupara and at the same time uttered one word: “Venduto!” This was slang for traitor, someone who had sold out.

  The shot ripped into Mancuso’s chest and throat. People screamed as his torso seemed to cave in under the onslaught of the tiny pellets. His shirt turned a deep crimson, which soon began to blacken.

  What people later remembered was that, in the complete silence that followed the single shot, there could be heard a terrible gurgling in Mancuso’s throat as he struggled to breathe. Then the gurgling turned to a short, dry, rasping sound, and then it stopped.

  At the moment when Silvio fired his lupara, the two other men who had been waiting in the café stood up and raised their guns to give protection. Now, swiftly but silently, Silvio placed his lupara on the table in front of the dead Mancuso. This was important. It showed that this was a Mafia killing, a revenge murder. Then he turned, threaded his way through the tables, and walked quickly back the way he had come.

  4

  If Silvio had ever felt worse than he did now, he couldn’t remember it. Not when he had his worst toothache. Not when he had mistakenly stepped into a boar trap. Not when he’d been fighting Alesso Alcamo and they’d both tumbled into a campfire. He had never been to sea, and this first time, he fervently hoped, would be his last. It wasn’t just that the Mediterranean was rough, though the waves were six feet high, or that the boat he was in was owned by a vaccarro, or cowman, which meant it was normally used for cattle smuggling between Sicily and North Africa, and therefore carried the dried ordure of God knows how many cows over how many weeks. No, Silvio had begun this journey feeling bad.

  The Mancuso business had gone well. Nino and Bastiano had both been delighted by Silvio’s performance. He had “made his bones,” as they said in Bivona. He was no longer a boy, but a proper soldato. The others there that day had paid tribute to his courage; and the news—and manner—of Mancuso’s killing had flashed around Sicily. The police were making a fuss, of course, but everyone else believed that justice had been done. Silvio’s use of that word venduto had been understood by everyone: Gaetano Mancuso had got what he deserved.

  But if Silvio had acquitted himself well, that didn’t mean he was happy with the consequences. He realized it was easier all around if he left Sicily with Nino. Part of him was eager to see America. Who wouldn’t want that? Like everyone else he had heard stories of the Wild West, the fantastic fortunes that were being made. But Annunziata was more important to him than America, and he was sick to his stomach at being parted from her. He had never known such a feeling.

  Then there was the sheer injustice of it all. Everything, it seemed, had been decided that evening in the abbey at Quisquina, with Father Serravalle and the Priola man from Palermo. This gnawed at Silvio’s belly. He and Annunziata had saved the day, for Christ’s sake! People might not like the fact that she and he loved each other, but if they hadn’t been doing what they were doing that night, that morning, who would have raised the alarm? Testardi! Who would have had the sense to go to the monastery and alert the abbot? Nino, and the others, owed Silvio and Annunziata their lives, certainly their liberty. Yet that debt was to be repaid by putting more than four thousand miles between them. It was enough to make anyone feel ill.

  Annunziata’s apparent acceptance of the decision only rubbed salt in Silvio’s wound. On the night before they left, he had suggested that they revisit their secret garden, at the temple, where they had begun to make love on the morning Nino was captured. If they were going to be separated, let them at least enjoy one night. But Annunziata had refused. And rather coldly. She had seemed different ever since the meeting in the monastery, more willing to accept the decisions of their elders. Instead of making the most of their last few hours together, she avoided him. He didn’t understand.

  She had been there to see him off, of course. Like all the other women, she kissed her father, then Silvio, but chastely, on the cheek. As he held her, briefly, and smelled her skin, memories of their morning together came flooding back. The softness of her lips, the fine wisps of her hair, the curve of her neck—it was unbearable to lose her. He started to tell her that, was about to announce that he would not leave her, but she had drawn back, looked at him dispassionately, and handed him a package.

  “Something to eat, on the journey.”

  Sono profugo? he had asked himself. Am I a refugee? He put the package in his bag. He was traveling with an old leather bag that had been given to him by Bastiano, who had said, “This was your father’s, Silvio. I always admired it when we were boys, and he gave it to me on my twenty-first birthday. Now it’s yours.”

  It took Nino and Silvio two days to trek across country to the coast, near Secca Grande. With so many troops out looking for Nino, they had to travel at night. Ruggiero Priola helped them to choose the south coast as the place to embark from. It was far from Palermo and Messina, Sicily’s two large towns, and much easier to avoid being spotted.

  They found the vaccarro’s boat easily enough, beached in a small bay about three miles west of Secca Grande. The voyage had so far taken four hours, in very rough seas, and Silvio—and Nino, for that matter—were much the worse for wear. Silvio didn’t dare even think of food, and opening Annunziata’s package was out of the question. He sat on a bench at the rear of the barge and prayed that the seas would quiet down. Nino sat opposite Silvio. The vaccarro himself stood in the stern of the boat, steering by means of a huge wooden tiller. He had a crew of two who kept a lookout; the coast guards were active all around Sicily.

  The seas did not quieten, but the constant rocking had one good effect: around four that morning, Silvio fell into a deep sleep. It was his usual dream, with one or two refinements. He was with Annunziata but they were children. They were out riding, on mules, near Vallelunga, when Annunziata’s mule suddenly bolted. Silvio gave chase, and began to catch up. But, as always, just as he was drawing level a rock appeared and his horse stumbled, and he fell to the ground, screaming. Sometimes the screaming woke him. This time, as the horse crashed against the rock, Silvio saw that the rock had a face. The face of Gaetano Mancuso.

  He awoke briefly at one point, to feel the hot sun on his face. He roused himself enough to take in the fact that the sea was still as unpleasant as before, that others in the barge, including Nino, were also sleeping, and he lay back down again.

  The second time he awoke he was being prodded by the vaccarro. “Get up,” the man said bluntly. “It’s time.”

  Silvio swung his feet off the bench and sat up. It was dark but there was a full moon. In the far distance he could see land and, directly ahead, perhaps two miles away, there was a huge oceangoing liner, its white, green, and red livery sparkling under its own illumination. Nino came up to him. He looked different now, younger. He had shaved off his beard. But his thick black eyebrows still gave him an air of menace. “That’s Levanzo,” he said, waving to the dark landmass where a few lights flickered. Silvio knew Levanzo was an island off the western tip of Sicily, but he had never been there. “And that’s the Syracusa,” said Nino, turning toward the liner. “We’ll be going aboard in half an hour. She’s taking us to America.”

  “They’re stopping the ship for us?” Silvio was impressed.

  “This is the Priola line. Part of the family. We may have to hide for a bit, but we should be safe enough. And she’s a proper liner, not just an immigrant ship.”

  Silvio had seen such ships before, at anchor in Palermo, but he had never imagined he would travel in one.

  “Won’t there be police on board? Won’t they see us?”

  “Sbirri? No. Government officials—one or two, I’m told. But they all owe their livelihoods to the Priola family. There’s more money in it for them if they make it easy for us. After all, Italy wants to be rid of me. They’re only helping.” He grinned down at Silvio.

  As they came closer to the Syracusa Silvio saw she had four funnels and five rows of windows in the hull. She was enorm
ous. He also noticed that she was not actually stationary but steaming ahead slowly, just enough to keep her stable. A gangway had been lowered to sea level, and one or two heads poked above the railings at the edge of the deck—night owls naturally intrigued to know what this unscheduled rendezvous was all about.

  The barge approached the Syracusa from behind. Three men stood on the small platform that formed the bottom lip of the gangway, two of them holding long poles with hooks on them. The third man wore a white uniform: an officer. Though the seas were calming, the barge rolled violently at times as it slowed to draw alongside the gangway. The vaccarro waved Nino and Silvio over to the starboard side of the vessel, ready to jump when they got close enough. “It’s too rough to tie up,” he shouted. “As soon as they get their hooks onto us, jump. They won’t be able to hold it for more than a few moments.”

  Silvio picked up his bag and gripped it hard.

  The two vessels edged closer. The men on the platform stretched out their poles, ready to clamp the side of the barge the moment they were able to. But then suddenly the swell struck them hard. It lifted the barge up and carried it toward the Syracusa. The barge hit the side of the liner about thirty feet behind the gangway, and Nino and Silvio leaped back from the gunwale to avoid being crushed. There was a loud thud, and the vaccarro let the wind out of his sails.

  “I’m going to try it a little faster now,” the vaccarro growled. “Sea’s too high for a slow approach.”

  This time they accelerated toward the gangway as if they were going to sail straight through it. Nino and Silvio stood on the gunwale, ready to leap backward if the sea caught them unawares. A roll hit them when they were still about twenty yards from the Syracusa, but then, in the trough that followed, the barge accelerated still more until it was slightly ahead of the gangway. Then its sails were slackened deliberately, and as if by a miracle the barge slipped back through the water directly alongside the gangway.

  Silvio went first, throwing his bag, then himself, at the officer on board the huge liner. Nino, perhaps because he kept hold of his bag, wasn’t as quick. He tried to step onto the platform rather than jump, and in the moment that he hesitated, the barge was pulled away from the ship. The sailors were forced to let go. Nino realized he had to jump, but landed just short of the gangway and had to be grabbed and dragged aboard by the officer. Nino flopped onto the platform, panting, and glared at Silvio. Then he pushed past and strode up the gangway steps. Silvio and the two Syracusa crew members followed.

  When they reached the top they were met by another officer and a small group of passengers, who stared at them in silence. The officer said two words to Nino, “Follow, me,” before he turned on his heel and pushed past the gathered crowd. Nino and Silvio were led along the deck toward the stern, through a doorway marked CREW ONLY, then down some stairs. At the bottom of the first flight they turned back on themselves and went down another flight. They descended four flights of stairs in all, the air getting steadily warmer as the Syracusa picked up speed.

  Eventually, they turned left into a narrow corridor, and stopped halfway along. The officer opened a door and showed them into a tiny cabin, with two beds, a cupboard, a table and porthole. It was cramped, but they would have fresh air.

  “We are two officers short this trip. Lucky for you, or it would have been the immigrant deck. Stay here. Those are strict orders from the captain. He will see you as soon as he can.” The officer looked at Nino. “I will arrange for you to be sent something to eat. But you must stay here, for the time being. Is that clear?”

  Nino nodded. “Is there a toilet?”

  “At the end of the corridor. Use it as little as possible.” Then he was gone.

  Nino headed for the door. “I’ll use the toilet first,” he said. He went out.

  Silvio opened his bag and started to take out what clothes he had packed. A couple of shirts, two pairs of trousers … he didn’t have a lot. He also came across the food package that Annunziata had given him. He had all but forgotten it. It was wrapped in an old newspaper.

  Odd. Annunziata had said it was food, yet the package felt solid. He hadn’t noticed that before. Silvio unwrapped the paper and took out what was inside. It was a box, made of wood. He opened the box. Inside was a ring.

  A set of knuckles rapped on the door and a voice could be heard in the corridor outside. “Gentlemen, may I come in?”

  “Be my guest!” growled Nino.

  A tall, cadaverous-looking man with a prominent Adam’s apple appeared. His uniform was entirely white.

  Nino and Silvio rolled off their beds and sat looking up at their visitor. Other crew members stood behind him.

  “Gentlemen, I am the first officer. We are now in the Atlantic Ocean. We passed the lights of Gibraltar about three hours ago, as perhaps you noticed. The captain has instructed me to tell you that you may now be allowed outside your quarters, but—” He raised his voice as smiles spread across Nino’s and Silvio’s faces and they immediately made to move out of the cramped confines of their cabin. “But he would prefer you moved about the ship as members of the crew, as officers.” He turned to the men behind him and held up a pair of white trousers. “We have some spare uniforms here. Please try them on. The captain would like to see you on the bridge as soon as you are dressed, to double-check that you look the part.” Then he took more clothes from his men and threw a bundle onto Nino’s bed.

  “I’m not wearing any ridiculous uniform,” Nino grumbled. “You all look like candles in a cathedral.”

  The officer’s mouth tightened. “These are my orders, Signor Greco. The captain agreed to alter course to pick you up. He has kept you cooped up in here for your own safety. There was always the possibility that we might have been intercepted by a British naval vessel off Gibraltar. If passengers had seen you on deck, someone might have said something to the British and we’d all have been in trouble. You might have been taken off and, most likely, sent to England and hanged. But even now the captain is not prepared to have you roaming about the ship, where you might be recognized. If the Americans hear of it, they would not take kindly to such license.… Now—do I leave these uniforms here, for you to try on, or shall I take them with me, locking the door as I go? The choice is yours.”

  Nino glared at the officer. He clenched his fist. He had large, rather protruding ears, and when he was angry his jaw moved involuntarily, the movement spilling over to his ears. There was a red spot below one of his eyes. Finally he reached across the bed, picked up some of the clothes in the bundle, and tossed them at Silvio.

  The officer smiled grimly and said, “Get changed and stay here. I’ll be back in ten minutes to take you to the captain.” He went out.

  Silvio was more than thankful that Nino, on this occasion at least, had kept his temper. Their two days cooped up together had, perhaps inevitably, produced an intimacy that Silvio could never have imagined. It had fascinated and at the same time frightened him. All they could do while they were caged up was talk. Silvio had always known the bare outlines of Nino’s life, but in the confines of that cabin on board the Syracusa, he had been spared no detail of the Quarryman’s story. He desperately needed some fresh air.

  And now he was dressed. There was a small mirror in the cabin, not sufficient for him to view his whole uniform, but he could see enough to know that it suited him. Nino was less impressive in his uniform—the close-fitting tunic made his head look enormous—but it would have to do.

  They grinned at each other, then Silvio said, “Surely I’m too young to be an officer?”

  Nino shrugged. “Let’s hope the captain’s thought of something. Otherwise, lie about your age.”

  There was a knock on the door and the real officer shouted, “Ready?”

  Nino swung open the door and the two of them stood for inspection. The officer looked them up and down, sniffed, and then said, “You’ll do. Follow me.” He turned and marched down the corridor.

  Much to Silvio’s satisfaction,
the officer first took them back on deck. The weather was fine, but a strong breeze was blowing from the southwest. The Syracusa was pitching as well as rolling. She was hundreds of yards long, with a metal deck. There was a strong smell of paint and the entire superstructure was made of metal. How on earth did she float? Silvio didn’t want to think about it.

  The first deck they came to, the lowest, was crowded, but as they mounted the stairways the other decks became progressively less so. Silvio caught sight of saloons, dining rooms, bars, but they kept climbing until they reached the top deck. Here it was really blustery. One last stairway brought them to the outside part of the bridge, which hung out over the edge of the ship.

  At the top of the stairs, the officer stopped and turned. “Wait here,” he shouted, to make himself heard. “I’ll see if the captain is ready to receive you.”

  They stood on the edge of the bridge, their hair flapping in the breeze, gazing down to the sea. The Syracusa was moving through the ocean at about eleven knots, carving a wide green-and-white wake.

  The door to the main part of the bridge opened and a man of about fifty beckoned them forward. The captain was a large individual, tall and wide, with a dark beard that ringed his face, and a huge stomach. He had a voice to match: big and booming.

  Nino and Silvio stepped into the bridge, where the captain stood to one side. Three sailors, boys really, no older than Silvio, stood next to three separate steering wheels. Silvio had no idea these liners had more than one wheel. It made sense, he supposed, if one should fail in a storm.

  “Come in and let me look at you,” the captain said.

  They stood before him.

  “Hmm. Hardly perfect, but you’re here at the request of Signor Angelo Priola, so we’ll have to make the most of it. Quite frankly, it would have been better for me, for all concerned, if you two had kept out of sight for the entire voyage, but Signor Priola’s daughter is on board, and she has requested that you both join her table this evening. Fewer questions will be asked if you appear as officers.”