Capo

by Peter Watson

  He was right. Silvio should have spotted the flaw in the youth’s story. He had only himself to blame.

  “You are nothing to us, Sylvano—you understand that, don’t you? You don’t matter. We want Nino.”

  Silvio said nothing.

  “He won’t come down here, of course. We’ve heard he’s locked away, doing a soft job in the casino.”

  “You’ll never get to him.” Silvio spat the words out. “He’s too clever for you.”

  “Most of the time I might agree with you, Sylvano. But don’t talk too big. This time we’ve thought things through—and we’re going to borrow one of Nino’s own tricks. Maybe we can’t get to him on the upper deck, not without a lot of trouble anyway, but there is one way to ensure he comes down here.”

  Onofri Orestano looked down at Silvio and smiled, but it was a cold smile. He put his hand inside his jacket and took out a knife. “We’re going to send him a scalp.”

  Sweat broke out on Silvio’s forehead. He was suddenly as frightened as he had ever been. He could hear his heart beating against the deck. It almost drowned out the sound of the ship’s engines.

  He was tempted to struggle, to make it as hard as possible for Onofri Orestano, but he knew it would do no good, there were too many of them. He needed to think.

  The others crowded around now, all grinning. They were about to watch some real sport. Two men sat on one of Silvio’s legs, a burly redhead on another. A fifth man knelt on his left arm, a sixth on his right.

  Silvio was crying now. He could neither speak nor think.

  “Shall we pull the last bit of skin, rather than continue cutting? Make it quicker. Is that kinder?” Onofri sighed grimly, as if he were beginning to make even himself feel sick. “Okay. Enough talk. Make sure you’ve got him firm. He’ll probably squirm like the devil.”

  Silvio felt the weight on him suddenly increase as everyone obeyed Onofri Orestano. It was as if he were being crushed into the deck. A seventh man, whom Silvio couldn’t see, grabbed his hair from behind him and pulled his head down so that his skull was on the deck. Onofri was still seated astride him, pressing down on his stomach, polishing his knife. Silvio could just see him out of the corner of his eye.

  “You know more about this than I do, Randazzo,” crowed Onofri. “How long does it take to scalp someone? A minute? Five minutes? Half an hour? Do I start from the front or the back? The side maybe? How much bone do I take?”

  Silvio couldn’t speak. He was trying hard to think.

  “Come on, Randazzo. How long did it take with that English priest? Did he scream? Was there much blood?”

  Silvio felt the hard blade against his hair. He tried to scream, but the sound that came out was merely a sob. He felt Onofri slice through his hair and into his skin with the tip of the blade, and now he really did scream. Pain spread down his head like scalding water. Through the pain he felt the knife sawing backward and forward. It scraped against the bone of his skull. Pain billowed through his head and warm, sticky blood dribbled onto his neck.

  Drying tears caked his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Mucus clogged his nostrils. He couldn’t lose his scalp. He couldn’t!

  People were leaning forward to relish the damage. The knife sawed back and forth. The burly redhead sitting on his right leg was edging forward more than most. In his urge to see Silvio’s scalp torn free—and the bloody bone below—he had temporarily shifted his weight. Though his head was being pressed to the floor, though blood and tears mingled at the edge of his eye, where the bridge of his nose formed a lip, Silvio could see along the deck—to the next set of straw mattresses, and a sulfur fire burning nearby. He saw his chance. He wouldn’t get a second one.

  Another stroke of the knife cut into his flesh. A fresh wave of hot pain flowed over him like blood on fire. He had never known such agony. And then a wave of anger spread over him, in the wake of the pain, and even hotter. Suddenly, and with a superhuman effort, he arched his spine, forcing the man astride him to slide some way off him and to stop cutting while he regained his balance.

  “Hold him!” shouted Orestano. “He’s slippery, hold him!”

  At the same time Silvio lashed out with his right leg, dragging it clear of the red-haired malandrino who was sitting on it. He aimed his foot at the sulfur fire.

  The others had reinforced their weight on Silvio and he was again pushed down onto the deck. But he had hit the contraption the sulfur was contained in, and smoldering pieces like cinders had been sent flying across the gallery. Two landed on one of the mattresses, which immediately began to smoke, then crackle with flame.

  Orestano, sitting on Silvio’s chest, screamed: “The fire! Someone put out the fire!” He stopped cutting and looked back over his shoulder again. Flames had erupted in profusion from the straw mattress and were licking at the bed above. A black, acrid smoke began to fill the gallery. “Water!” shouted Orestano. “Someone get water.” He might have stopped cutting but he hadn’t budged.

  Others began to move away, but not the men sitting on Silvio.

  The bed above the first one had caught fire, and the smoke was spreading badly. People were beginning to cough.

  “Hold him!” shouted Orestano. “Don’t let him squirm.”

  But Silvio wasn’t squirming. He was shouting. “Fire!” he yelled. “Fire! Fire! Fire!”

  “Don’t move!” screamed Orestano at the others. “Hold him!”

  Now a third bed caught fire and the smoke grew denser than ever. Other immigrants, not part of Silvio’s reception committee, were also shouting. Several people began to cough all at once.

  Suddenly a bell rang, and Silvio heard running feet. The weight on his body began to ease. He saw now, from his position next to the deck, that three sailors had arrived. They carried buckets of water. Some of the men who had been sitting on him were trying to keep their bodies between him and the sailors, to hide what they were doing.

  Now Silvio lunged again with his leg, and succeeded in knocking over one of the buckets of water.

  “Hey!” grunted one of the sailors, and turned.

  Silvio arched his body again, and screamed, “Help! Help!”

  The sailor took in what was happening. So far as he could see, an officer was on the deck, being beaten up by immigrants. While all this took place the other sailors had managed to soak the burning mattresses in water. A mixture of black smoke and steam filled the gallery, stinging the eyes and clogging the nostrils.

  “Get the duty officer!” the sailor shouted to one of the others. “Hurry up.”

  He stood in front of the people who were trying to shield Silvio from view. “Get out of the way,” he ordered. “I said: Get out of the way.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, a few of the men moved. Others held their ground. Onofri Orestano still sat on Silvio, but he now had less support.

  “Give me the knife,” said the sailor, addressing Orestano. He held out his hand.

  Defiantly, Orestano juggled the knife, tossing it so that he held not the handle but the blade. Then he threw it, aimed it, at one of the wooden supports of the bunks. It stuck, quivering, in an upright.

  Then he lifted himself off Silvio.

  Two more sailors arrived, and an officer. “What’s going on here?” the officer demanded.

  “These people tried to start a fire, sir,” said the sailor who had rescued Silvio. “And I found them assaulting this officer. With a knife.”

  Silvio had clambered to his feet. Blood caked and matted his hair, ran down the back of his neck, and stained his tunic.

  The officer stepped toward him. “Do I know you?” he said.

  Pain throbbed in Silvio’s head. His skull seemed about to crack. It was as if he had sulfur inside his brain. He didn’t dare feel his head; he was terrified of the damage that had been done. He felt sick. Dimly he remembered what the captain had said, that people joined the ship every voyage. “I’m the new assistant medical officer,” he gasped, swaying slightly. The acrid smoke on top
of the pain made him feel very peculiar. “I help Dr. Tolmezzo.”

  “I think you need to see him yourself,” said the officer, but Silvio never heard him. He had fainted.

  6

  Silvio leaned over the rail of the Syracusa and looked down at the ocean slipping by. The water was dark green, like cypress trees in shade. Nino stood next to him. Silvio’s head was bandaged, and although Tolmezzo had dressed the wound, the pain still throbbed all the way through to the bone. At least there would be no permanent damage, the doctor had said. “Just a scar where only your barber is likely to see it.”

  Nino had been furious when he learned of the attack largely because of the lapse in security. The Orestanos had somehow found out in advance that Nino was to be onboard the Syracusa and had some of their soldati smuggled onto the ship, intent on pursuing the old vendetta. From now on, Nino said, Silvio stayed with him.

  He demanded to see the captain and had returned with the news that for the rest of the crossing, he and Silvio would constitute one of the two-man night watches, patrolling the decks from eleven at night until six in the morning to make sure everyone was where they were supposed to be, that no one was falling or being pushed overboard, or breaking into someone else’s cabin. They would sleep during the days, then begin work after dinner. It suited them and it suited the captain, since they would still spend most of the time out of the way of the bulk of the passengers.

  “It’s eight-fifteen,” said Nino gently. “Do you still feel sick, or do you want dinner?”

  After he had fainted, Silvio had spent the afternoon in bed.

  “No, the sickness has worn off. I’m dying for a plate of pasta.”

  “Come on, then. Let’s see what this Priola woman is like.”

  Nino led the way along the deck and they went inside. He pushed against the door to the saloon—and a world that Silvio had never imagined opened up before him. Above the chatter of people, he could hear a piano. A welter of colors greeted him—the maroon velvet of ladies’ dresses, the deep green of huge plants, the white of linen tablecloths, the crystal of wine decanters. The floor, apart from the dance area, was carpeted, the chairs were upholstered in velvet, the walls were veneered in wood and boasted huge mirrors in which Silvio could see that his new, blood-free tunic was a shade too large for him. The ceiling was gilded and the supporting pillars were inlaid with bronzed seashells and topped by spread eagles. They were a long way from the bivio.

  “May I help you?” said a waiter. “Only selected crew are allowed in here.”

  Silvio was too awed to speak, but Nino said, “Anna-Maria Priola is expecting us.”

  “Oh. Very well. This way.”

  The waiter led them directly across the dance floor. Silvio’s bandaged head was on full display. He wanted to run but didn’t dare.

  They approached a table set for eight that had two spare places. A woman of about twenty-three rose to greet them. “Good evening,” she said in a quiet but clear voice, and held out her hand to Nino. “I am Anna-Maria. You must be Nino and this … this must be Silvio.” She shook Silvio’s hand. “I had heard how handsome you were, but it’s always nice to have it confirmed in the flesh.” She gave him a warm smile.

  Anna-Maria Priola was tall, with curly fair hair and a prominent bosom, much of which was on show. And she was suffused by the most delicate perfume. Silvio had never known a woman could smell so wonderful.

  “Nino, you sit next to me, please. Silvio could sit over there. We’ll talk later.”

  Silvio found himself disappointed not to be sitting next to Anna-Maria. Although she was a total stranger, she was in theory family, or almost. She was not beautiful in an obvious way, but she had a face you wanted to look at, a face that changed all the time and according to your point of view. Her nose was too strong, the eyebrows too heavy, the eyes too knowing. But she carried her body well. He studied the two women he would be sitting between: they seemed harmless enough—older, too old to be interested in him, and vice versa. One was fat, with a shiny skin. She had dark hair that was pinned up but somehow tumbled down again. The other woman was even older, in her late forties maybe, but she was handsome, with high cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose.

  They both welcomed him with huge smiles. After he had seated himself and a menu had been placed in front of him by a hovering waiter, the handsome one said, “Two questions, obviously. Your name and what happened to your head?”

  “Sylvano Randazzo, but everyone calls me Silvio.” He had already thought about the second question, which was obviously going to come up. He had decided it was best to make light of it. “I’m afraid I banged it in the lifeboat practice the other day. I cracked the bone, and tore the skin. I’ll live,” he joked, wondering where, exactly, Onofri Orestano was at this moment, and what he might be doing.

  “What would you like to eat, sir?” The waiter had returned.

  What could Silvio do? Unable to read, he stared blankly at the menu.

  “Why don’t you have the soup, and then I would recommend the veal.” It was Anna-Maria.

  “Yes, yes.” He shot Anna-Maria a grateful smile. She nodded back. “I’ll have the soup and the veal.”

  Gradually, as the meal passed, he began to relax. The handsome older woman was the Italian wife of an American politician in Savannah, Georgia, and she was returning from a visit to her mother in Naples. The fat woman was an Italian opera singer who was going to America on tour. As Silvio had hardly led the kind of life calculated to teach him about either American politics or opera, the evening could have been awkward. As it was, his own appearance sparked much of the conversation.

  “Are you Sicilian, Silvio?” the politician’s wife had asked soon after the soup was served.

  “Yes.”

  “Then, seeing your head bandaged, I cannot help but ask what you think of the actions of your fellow Sicilian, the Mafia bandit, the Quarryman. Didn’t he cut off the scalp of someone he kidnapped? Is it true that a lot of Sicilians support him?”

  Silvio was aware that conversation had stopped elsewhere at the table. Both Anna-Maria and Nino were staring at him.

  “It’s true that a lot of Sicilians support him, yes. That’s the easy part of the answer.”

  “Why is the other part difficult? You don’t condone what he did, do you?”

  Sono prete? Silvio thought to himself. Am I a priest? Why are they listening to me all of a sudden? Careful now. “I think that taking the hostages was a mistake. I think that scalping the Englishman was a bigger mistake.” He could say that now with heartfelt certainty. “But crimes like this are not so simple. Sicily is different from the rest of Italy—actually, many Sicilians believe the island isn’t part of Italy at all.”

  “It is true,” intervened the opera singer, not a moment too soon, from Silvio’s point of view. “Different operas are popular there—and they often cheer for the bad man, for instance the duke in Rigoletto. They do it just to be different and to show contempt for what is truly Italian.”

  “But the Quarryman, as they call him, is not a politician, he is just a common criminal,” the other woman observed.

  Silvio could sense Nino getting angry and realized he had to do or say something that would help them get away from this conversation.

  “He’s not a common criminal, surely. Whatever you think of his methods, he does give money and food to poor people. But tell me”—he tried to change the tone of his voice, to indicate he was changing the subject—“I read somewhere, in one of the Italian papers, that the Quarryman sent his portrait to England, and of course there’s a portrait painter on board. Who has had their portrait made so far?” He turned to the politician’s wife. “You are very beautiful. Hasn’t he already asked you to sit for him?”

  She smiled. “A pretty speech. When you get tired of the sea, you can always try politics.”

  Everyone laughed. The awkwardness had passed. Anna-Maria chose this moment to rearrange the seating of her table, moving the men around so
that Silvio now sat next to her.

  “Thank you for the help with the menu,” he whispered.

  “That’s all right. Now you can do me a favor. Ask me to dance.”

  “I can’t dance.”

  “Don’t be silly. There’s no such thing as not being able to dance.”

  She stood up and led the way to the tiny dance floor. Fortunately it was already fairly full and they were able to stand more or less still and simply sway in time to the piano. The music was lazy; Silvio fancied it must be American.

  “Another reason for dancing is to get away to talk privately.”

  “About what?”

  “You did well. You were very quick just now. Tell me, what are you going to do in America?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. I didn’t want to come, but I was made to.” Silvio wasn’t sure he should be saying all this, but it was too late now.

  “You don’t want to go to America? You’ll love it. Why stay in Sicily? What’s there?”

  Something held Silvio back from mentioning Annunziata. In the cabin before dinner, while he and Nino were washing, Nino had told him that Anna-Maria’s father, Angelo Priola, was a powerful man in New Orleans, un pezzo grosso, and that Silvio should do nothing to annoy her. On the contrary, they should both go out of their way to be nice to her, for if she recommended them to her father, they might soon get jobs in his business in New Orleans. It was a good sign that she had invited them to her table, Nino had said, and they should do nothing to jeopardize their good fortune.

  “I know Sicily,” Silvio said at length. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You’re running away, forced to run away. That’s what’s wrong with it. There’ll always be violence in Sicily. It’s too remote, too poor, too self-willed to be any other way.” Suddenly she changed the subject. “Do you smoke?”