by Peter Watson
“If I help you, it means giving up my free time.”
“Yes.”
Silvio said yes anyway. He realized he’d been maneuvered into this position, outthought yet again. But he liked the doctor and the way Giaccone forced him to think. From then on he spent his Sunday mornings in the prison hospital learning some of the skills that Tolmezzo might have taught him had the Orestanos not interfered. He learned how to dress wounds, stitch cuts, manipulate bones that were dislocated, apply plaster of paris, and much else. This produced an unexpected dividend one day at the quarry when an explosion had gone wrong and some stones had fallen on a guard, breaking his leg. Silvio had been able to manipulate the guard’s bones back into their original positions, thus easing the pain the man suffered, and minimizing blood loss, very possibly saving the man’s life in the process—at least, that was what Giaccone said later. There was now no talk among the guards of whipping Silvio into shape. In fact, a flask of wine had found its way into his cell that night.
Some other prisoners, intrigued and not a little suspicious of his relationship with the doctor, had questioned him about the books he was lent. Since none of these men could read, Silvio petitioned the prison governor to be allowed on certain evenings to read aloud to other interested prisoners. Once everyone got over the novelty of this, it proved very popular.
It took Silvio months before he noticed he was beginning to feel less sorry for himself. The doctor was clever, like Vito Liotta, but in a very different way. He, too, had the brains of a bishop.
Silvio had reached the end of the corridor.
Although he was free of the black depression of the early months, he was still a prisoner. The four years he had so far spent in Ucciardone had been a waste; he could never have those years back.
At the end of the corridor there was an iron grille. He waited while it was unlocked. Now he and the guard descended a metal staircase to the level below. It reminded him faintly of the staircase on the Syracusa, which led from one immigrant deck to another. That happened often nowadays: bits of his narrow, constricted life in prison evoked some part of his past. That’s all he had—a past.
They reached the floor below and another iron grille. This, too, was unlocked. He was led across the main reception hall to a metal door.
“Stand there,” said the guard, indicating a spot some distance away.
Silvio obeyed.
The guard then approached the door and lifted a small flap over a spy hole. He appeared satisfied by what he saw inside, for he unlocked the door and held it open. He nodded Silvio through. “Half an hour, no more.”
Silvio walked through the doorway, which was then locked behind him. He had been in this room before, several times, and knew it contained one window, barred of course, a table and two chairs, a tin ashtray, and nothing else. It was painted green and smelled of cigarettes. Visitors were told they must take away the remains of any cigarettes that were smoked during the interview.
The opportunity to smoke was one of the best things about these interviews, and for that reason alone, Silvio was looking forward to meeting Smeralda. It went some way toward making up for having his peace disturbed.
But his visitor wasn’t Smeralda. It was Annunziata.
For a moment he was speechless. There had been no word from her while he had been in jail—and he couldn’t blame her. She was married, with a child. He had nearly been married. Like the roads at Bivio Indisi, their lives had gone separate ways.
Annunziata looked pale, drawn, but still very, very beautiful, her blond hair pulled straight back in a way that emphasized the spectacular bone structure of her face.
He was nervous, not knowing how to greet her, but she came toward him and held her face up for him to kiss her cheek. Her skin was as soft as ever.
They sat down. She fumbled in a bag and took out some cigarettes. “Here.”
He held them and lit one, never taking his eyes off her. She had filled out, had bigger hips, woman’s hips. But it was her face that was most changed, her eyes especially. He couldn’t make out whether they were harder or more fearful.
“You’re in black,” he said, noticing her clothes for the first time.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Gino took little Nino to Palermo, to show his family. There was a cholera outbreak.…”
Silvio was shocked. “Both of them?” he said softly.
She shook her head. “No, only little Nino caught the cholera. But … but, after he died, Gino went crazy. He blamed himself. He cried, he drank.” She sighed. “And he got careless. There was a robbery, near Caltanissetta. Gino lost his temper, gave away his position. He was shot.” Through her tears she looked at Silvio. “I think Gino wanted to die. Oh, Toto! He loved his son more than he loved me.” She held her hand to her eyes, to stem the tears.
“Zata, I’m sorry. What can I say?” No wonder she looked drawn.
He had to help her. He had never seen her cry like this. It was terrible, worse than being in pain himself. “Zata … I never stopped … you know … it was just—”
“No!” Annunziata held out her hand for him to stop. Her other hand still covered her face to hide her tears. “Toto,” she managed softly, between tears. “No, please. I’m here for a reason. We don’t have much time.”
He said nothing, allowing her to try to compose herself. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and then dried her hands on her skirt. When, finally, she looked at him, he thought he had never seen anyone so sad.
When at last she spoke, her voice was uncertain. “Last … last week … my father was shot in Bologna Jail—”
“No! No!” Silvio stood up, sending his chair clattering across the floor. “Zata! Zata!” He went to her, but again she held out her arm, to stop him.
“Toto, listen, please. It’s important.” Insistently, she pushed him away from her. “Listen to what I have to say. Please.”
For a moment he stood over her. But her tears had dried now. Her weak moment was over. “Sit down, Toto.” She was gentle but she meant it.
He picked up the chair and sat down.
She waited for him to be seated, then took a deep breath. “He’s still alive, just I went to see him. He was too weak to say anything, but I know he recognized me. No one has been arrested, but we understand that a few days ago a man called Concetto Pianello was transferred from Bologna Prison to Padua. Now, Pianello’s brother, Natale—”
“Is Liotta’s consigliere. I know. Jesus! Liotta is responsible for this attack. Why?”
“I’m telling you what Bastiano says, and Father Ignazio. Vito Liotta believes in making unexpected moves. No one thought he would touch my father in prison, so that made him an easy target. It was a way of putting pressure on Angelo—showing that no one in the Priola family is safe. He’s showing how wide his powers are now, what a long reach he has. Also, there was always the chance that my father would escape, and return to America, for vengeance.”
Silvio was stupefied. He was also close to tears himself. Nino near death! He couldn’t take it in. Liotta must be sick. Except that he wasn’t sick, he was evil. More than a fox, un squalo. A shark. What was Angelo thinking now? Was he safe?
“How about Angie?” he said softly. “Any news?”
“So far as we know, Angelo is fine.” For a moment Annunziata fell silent. There was only the sound of Silvio breathing cigarette smoke into the room. Then she spoke again. “Toto, I was sent this time because they felt it was safer, but also because … well, because Bastiano wanted to shock you.”
Silvio stopped smoking.
“After the attack on my father, we believe your life may be in danger, too. You and my father killed three Orestanos in the Atlantic Ocean, and two Cataldos in New Orleans. Neither of these families will be happy until you are both dead. Liotta may be clever enough to get to you in jail.”
Sono bersaglio, he thought. I’m a target. Silvio had reached this conclusion himself only moments before Annunziata had said it.
“Toto, we can’t let you be killed. I can’t lose another man.” She tried to smile, a feeble smile. “I have a message for you, from Father Ignazio. He has a plan to help you escape.”
The quarry was less than two miles from Ucciardone, half an hour’s walk in the early morning and a bit longer in the evening, after a hard day. Cloudy or chilly days were always preferable to sun, and rain was best of all, because then the quarrying was canceled and the prisoners got to lie in bed all day.
But today, the day, the sun was shining remorselessly and the reflected heat, from the rough stone walls of the quarry itself, only made matters worse. It was barely eleven-thirty but Silvio was already drenched with sweat.
The hard-labor gangs were divided into groups of ten, each with two guards, each guard having a pistol and a whip to enforce his authority. Today there were four gangs scattered about the quarry, two of them hacking at the walls, dislodging the rocks, one gang inspecting them and sorting them according to color—brown, gray, or white—and a fourth gang loading them onto carts. A five-minute break was allowed every hour.
Silvio knew what was coming and the knowledge made him sweat even more. Annunziata had visited him again twice since their first meeting. Each time she had more specific information about the plan, which had been conceived by the abbot and Silvio’s uncle, Bastiano. The problem with the plan was that it was extraordinarily risky, and if it failed, Silvio would surely be made to suffer. He would undoubtedly be moved to the mainland, but before that the prison guards would certainly beat him, maybe even kill him.
In their subsequent meetings Annunziata had looked less strained than on the first occasion—animated even. Silvio wondered whether this was because she still cared for him. He found he was recovering his old feelings for her. There were still thorns on the gorse bush, as they said in the hills. Annunziata’s skin was still the color of almonds, and although she had been married, she had not lost that virginal quality that had first drawn him to her. Then he checked himself. He had cheated on Annunziata, deceived and misled her. Was she now getting her own back? Was there really a plan to help him escape, or was she making it all up, to build up his hopes and then dash them? At the end of their last meeting he had put the question to her. As a reply, she merely stood up, leaned forward, and kissed him on the lips.
He was just twenty minutes from knowing what the truth was, one way or the other.
Everything depended on whether the guards acted true to form. Normally, at noon, the gangs stopped, ate their lunch where they were working, but were allowed to sit down. The guards, however, liked to eat all together. In practice, this meant that seven guards sat down with one another, while one of them, the unlucky one, patrolled the four gangs. From the point of view of the guards, this wasn’t much of a risk. There was only one way out of the quarry, and that led past where they were having lunch.
But—and this was the important part—they usually had lunch at the same place, where the stones had been arranged in such a way that they could sit around a large rock that served as a table.
Twelve o’clock arrived. There were hardly any shadows now and everyone was feeling the heat. The senior guard blew his whistle and all the prisoners stopped work. Each man carried his own piece of bread and cheese, and flask of water. They all found stones to sit on and began to eat quickly. The food was hardly appetizing, but as soon as it was finished they could stretch out on any flat ground and snatch twenty minutes’ rest.
But Silvio only nibbled his bread. He had in the preceding days established a routine of eating more slowly than everyone else. If he finished his food and didn’t lie down, it would seem odd. But the last thing he wanted right now was to be flat on the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye he looked at the guards. Were they going to their usual spot to eat? They hadn’t moved yet. Three or four of them were standing arguing about something. Two others were also talking together, at some distance from their colleagues. Why didn’t they go to their normal spot?
But then the larger group started to walk toward their “table,” still arguing as they went. The others followed, leaving one guard, a small, swarthy man, to oversee the gangs. He was a long way from Silvio. That made it more risky.
Silvio started on his cheese. His hands were clammy with sweat.
The guards were sitting down. One, two, three, four. Three of them were still arguing, still standing. The ones who were seated took out their food, which was much the same as what the prisoners had but with fresh tomatoes added and a little wine. The wine was against regulations, but this was Sicily and who was to know?
Finally, the three other guards all sat down together. The seven were in place. Silvio, nibbling his cheese, now transferred his attention to the small guard overseeing the gangs. He was coming toward Silvio, but slowly, and was a good thirty yards away. That was a lot of ground to cover, when the time came.
Silvio alone knew, or thought he knew, that only feet away from the guards were seven sticks of dynamite. The fuse was buried under more rocks, which were strewn apparently haphazardly across the ground but in fact had been arranged by Bastiano and his men to conceal the wire. Somewhere, out of sight above the lip of the quarry, Bastiano and the others were waiting for the right moment.
Except that now was the right moment and nothing had happened.
Had Annunziata misled him? Was this all a cruel joke?
Or were they waiting for the small guard to move closer to Silvio, making his job easier? But the guard wasn’t moving and time was passing. Worse, he could now see that one of the men at the “table” was getting up. That would—
A wave of warm air swept across his face—blast. Milliseconds later he heard the explosion, which was amplified as it reverberated around the walls of the quarry. Immediately, a huge cloud of dust filled the area. Stones and even boulders were lifted into the air, and were now falling all around. Silvio was on his feet and running toward the small guard. He had to cover the thirty yards before the other man recovered from the shock and drew his gun.
Silvio was halfway toward him before the guard adjusted to the fact that all his colleagues were badly injured or dead. Then he saw Silvio heading his way, realized what was happening, threw down his whip, and reached for his gun.
Ten yards to go. The guard’s hand was on the butt of the pistol.
Five yards. He was raising the barrel.
At three yards Silvio jumped. The man’s arm was lifted, the barrel pointing at Silvio’s chest. Silvio was too late.
He jerked himself to one side, but even as he did so the bullet slammed into his shoulder. His body swiveled in midair from the impact. A hot tide of pain flooded his entire arm. Even so, he landed on the guard, sending him crashing to the floor. The pain made Silvio cry out. Tears filled his eyes and made his cheeks sticky as they mingled with the dust on his face.
But he forced himself to his feet. He couldn’t get caught now. After what had happened, life in Ucciardone wouldn’t be worth living.
The small guard wasn’t moving. There was blood by one of his ears. He had hit his head when he had fallen and was unconscious.
Silvio looked about him. The smoke from the explosion was beginning to clear and he could see his fellow prisoners standing up, dazed, but rapidly taking in the fact that they were unguarded. The guards at the “table” were all slumped over. One, or maybe two, moved, but only barely.
Silvio was breathing in short bursts. The pain in his shoulder made him start to groan.
Then, through the clearing smoke and dust, he saw a figure on horseback. He began to move toward it, trying to raise his good arm, to show where he was, who he was.
The figure came toward him. The pain in his body was growing worse. He was losing a lot of blood. For a delirious moment he thought that the figure on horseback was Nino. Then it looked like the priest, Father Livesey. No! Finally he saw that it was his uncle, Bastiano, smiling. Then he fainted.
“Careful. Careful! Pull the bandage
back slowly. I’ve been bleeding, and it will have stuck to my flesh.”
“I’ve tended wounds before, you know.” Annunziata looked down at Silvio, lying on the bed, and smiled.
He smiled back, but briefly. He was sweating with pain. He had lost a lot of blood in the quarry, and a two-day journey on horseback hadn’t helped. They had traveled to the bivio via Sambuca, moving at night. They were now waiting for the doctor to arrive, from Bivona.
“Who … whose bed is this?”
“Mine.”
“There’ll be blood on the sheets.”
“It will wash out.”
“Where … where will you sleep?”
“Don’t worry about me. Here, drink this.”
“What is it?”
“Warm brandy.”
“I haven’t had brandy for four years.”
“Then it might help knock you out.”
He took the glass, sipped the brandy, and then downed the rest in one gulp. He looked up at Annunziata, the flesh on his face glistening with sweat. “It’s good to be here. I wasn’t … I wasn’t sure the plan was real….”
“Why not, Toto? Why wouldn’t it be real?”
He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He opened them again. “I thought it might be a trick, that you were …”
He fell asleep.
When he awoke—how many days later he didn’t know—the light told him it was very early morning or the hour before dark. But the deep silence everywhere meant it could only be morning. The doctor had arrived at some point—that he remembered—and fixed his shoulder, stopping the bleeding and strapping the bones tightly so that they would knit together. Silvio was now more comfortable and the sweating was subsiding. But he still grew very tired. Being hit at close range by a bullet had taken a lot out of him.
Even so, he felt different this morning. For a start, he felt hungry, which hadn’t happened before. Some line had been crossed.