by Peter Watson
Silvio realized he was holding his breath. “If you do this,” he said, thinking as he went along, “the income for Quisquina will fall. We shall no longer send you oil, oranges, wine, cash.”
“There are others to take care of us, Silvio. You get as much out of our partnership as we do.”
It was true.
Silvio continued to sit for minutes. He could think of nothing to say, no fresh arguments to use. He couldn’t even think of any new insults to heap on the abbot.
He knew only one thing. That he would prefer excommunication to a life without Annunziata.
Silvio returned to the bivio in subdued spirits. As he rode through the countryside, the rocky gully of the Magazzolo River, he couldn’t help but think of what the abbot had said. But Silvio didn’t dwell directly on Father Ignazio’s words. Instead he thought about Annunziata and himself and marriage and children. Both Annunziata and he were solitary individuals, in effect with no parents or brothers or sisters or children. Until prison, he had rarely thought of family. But in Ucciardone the doctor had talked about his family, talked about it with such an ordinary, unaffected joy that Silvio had been envious in a way that he had rarely—if ever—been envious before. Afterward he had begun to notice that even the most vicious criminals in Ucciardone had families, who visited them, cared about them, despite their obvious faults.
On the ride back from Quisquina, he thought hard for the first time about Annunziata and their future together. Yes, he told himself, he did want to marry her, he did want a son. But he recognized that it was a problem, at least in Sicily. However much he loved this island, he needed to take Annunziata to America. In America, behavior that was forbidden in Sicily was accepted.
When he reached the bivio, Annunziata wanted to know what Father Ignazio had said but he pretended they had discussed various other picture collections that might be treated like di Biondi’s.
No sooner had he returned, however, than Silvio and Bastiano received a visitor. This was none other than Ruggiero Priola, from Palermo. He had plenty of news, and a new project.
Ruggiero’s news from Palermo was that Nino was truly on the mend. He would live. More, the Quarryman was learning to read and write. And he wanted to see Annunziata.
Ruggiero’s news from America was that Anna-Maria now had two children, two boys. And Angelo, surprisingly, was doing better than ever. There had been a tricky patch for some time, but an accommodation had been worked out with Liotta, who now owned half the docks. However, thanks mainly to Angelo’s new refrigerated ships and warehouses, scattered along the Mississippi, his business had continued to prosper. In fact, it had prospered to the point where, in the 1886 election, his candidate for mayor had won and he now had the police on his side. It was now Angelo who was putting pressure on Vito.
Silvio listened to Ruggiero’s stories with the occasional pang of nostalgia. From time to time he missed New Orleans, missed the bustle, the laughter, the smells, the sheer busy-ness of the city. Since the abbot’s threats, he was convinced he must take Annunziata there. As Ruggiero spoke, Silvio began thinking over what had happened in New Orleans. It was ironic: Angelo had not been in favor of refrigeration when Silvio had first mentioned it. Now it had turned around the Priola fortunes.
But Ruggiero also had a project. His family had learned, he said, that poppies were being grown in the Tavolacci area of Sicily, and a small factory had been established, at Bagheria, for refining opium. The opium bags were shipped by the Liotta family every month to Palermo, where they were loaded onto ships bound for Marseilles, the biggest market. Each load was worth a fortune. Bagheria was only a couple of miles from the coast at Porticello. Ruggiero proposed that Silvio, Bastiano, and the others hijack one of these loads and immediately transfer it to Porticello, where a ship from the Priola line would be waiting to set sail right away.
Silvio liked the plan, or most of it. He didn’t like drugs—he had seen what absinthe could do to people—but it was the timing of the raid, and the opportunity for revenge, that appealed to him. The raid could take place soon, almost certainly before Father Ignazio could get to Palermo and approach the archbishop. Silvio reckoned that if he could somehow convert this robbery into a political spectacular, which benefited a lot of other people, he could become so popular in the public’s eye that no action by the abbot or the archbishop could reverse it. Also, there was so much money in this deal that afterward maybe he and Zata could finally make the break and take off to America together. All that talk about New Orleans had rekindled the old fire.
But how could this straightforward robbery be converted into something more … political?
The answer came to him one night while he lay with Annunziata after they had made love. Sex was still so good between them, so beautiful, that every night underlined for him the importance of their relationship. They fitted together so naturally, like an almond in its shell.
His plan was cunning rather than clever—foxy, as Angie would have said. But it should work.
They would hijack the opium—but then blow up the factory at the same time. This would accomplish two things. They would have one load of opium, which was worth a small fortune. But—and this was the cunning part—they could present the explosion as a civic duty. They were against drugs and this was the way to deal with drug factories. Some of the proceeds from the sale of the opium could also go into the Bagheria area afterward. That would help, too, and damage the Liottas. That was the sweetest reason of all—to outwit them.
17
Silvio got down from his horse and stretched his back. After two days’ riding from Bagheria, he was sore, stiff, and in dire need of a drink. But the trip had been worthwhile. He had met with Ruggiero Priola in Bagheria and, discreetly, they had reconnoitered the opium factory. Silvio was forced to admit that the Liotta family had been clever. The factory was right in the middle of town, but on a side street. Its buildings formed part of a complex that included a stables and an orphanage. No one would ever think of looking there for such an enterprise. Plus, there was always so much bustle and business that visitors from out of town did not attract attention.
The orphanage was the only problem, as far as Silvio could see. However, when he compared notes with Priola, he discovered that the next load of opium would be in the factory during the time of the Feast of St. Joseph, the local patron saint. From nine-thirty in the morning until well into the afternoon, the orphans would be at the cathedral, then at the festivities celebrating this annual event. It meant that the factory had to be blown during the day rather than at night.
Now that he was back from Bagheria, his enthusiasm for the new plan lifted his spirits. They could finally outfox the Liottas.
As he approached their rooms he was thus disconcerted to find Annunziata a changed woman. Normally, she would throw her arms about him, hug him, and offer to fetch him a glass of wine. This time she watched him walk up to her without smiling. As he went to kiss her she stood unflinching and did not part her lips.
“Zata? What’s the matter?”
For a moment they just stood staring at each other, at arm’s length. Then he said, more gently, “Annunziata, tell me. What is the matter?”
For reply she suddenly raised her fists and began to flail at him, bouncing blows off his chest and shoulders. He resisted her easily, and hugged her to him. He was surprised to see that she was crying.
“Zata! Zata! Please. What is it? Why are you crying?”
She stopped trying to fight, and sagged in his arms. But still she sobbed. “You lied to me. You lied about what Father Ignazio said. I know everything. I know that you argued, I know that you didn’t discuss what you said you discussed—and I know about his threat to excommunicate us. Oh, Silvio! Can he do it? Can he? Can he?”
So that was it. Velono! The abbot had been spreading his poison. Silvio held Zata to him and kissed her hair. Then he led her into the room, where he made her sit down. He poured them both some wine. It was dusk. Quietly he explained
about the opium factory, his plan to blow it up and then to announce what he had done. He explained that the publicity, and the popularity that would result from such an act, could put him, and Annunziata, beyond the reach of either the abbot or the archbishop.
He could see from her eyes that she wanted to believe him. “But what about Smeralda, and the other women? They are never going to forgive us.”
“They never mattered before.”
“I thought it would pass. I thought that they would eventually drop their opposition. Nighttime always passes. But these last months have only hardened them. If the abbot and the archbishop side with them, if we are excommunicated … I’d die. What would Father say?”
Silvio held Annunziata close. “Zata, I told the abbot I wouldn’t leave you. We spoke as men and I told him I have a physical need for you. We fit together like trees by a river. I make you this promise. If my plan here in Sicily works, we shall go to America. The church doesn’t matter in America. No one need know you are my cousin. I promise. I’ll be able to wear the ring you gave me, and I’ll buy a ring for you.”
She smiled then, and nodded her head.
But that night, after they had made love, he found that she was crying again.
The most dangerous time for the mafiosi was weddings. The presence of a large group of men and women at a church was clearly risky. Silvio was therefore uneasy when, two days before the Bagheria project, the wedding of Domenico Garisi and Maria Cattarelli took place in the church of the Madonna dell’Olio.
There was another reason for Silvio to dread the wedding: Father Ignazio was officiating.
However, as he had agreed to be best man, there was no getting out of it. He had been surprised by Domenico’s invitation. The groom had always been close to Alesso Alcamo, but recently, since the success of Silvio’s plans as sottocapo, they had grown less intimate.
It was very hot as the procession trooped up the track to the chapel. Armed men stood on the ridges at either side, ready to give the alarm and to fire the first shots if they were needed.
The abbot was already in the chapel when the procession came to a halt in front of the wooden door, which had a statue of the Madonna above it. The guards on the ridges remained where they were, and another group of obviously armed men stood nearer the church. No chances were being taken.
Father Ignazio made a fuss of Domenico and Maria and then, swinging the incense burner, led the way into the church. There was no music but there were many flowers. As best man, Silvio followed Domenico. Maria had four bridesmaids, but Annunziata—very pointedly—had not been asked. Silvio knew that had hurt her.
She sat now, on the groom’s side rather than the bride’s, and well to the rear of the nave, next to one of the stone columns that supported the roof, under the gallery. It would have looked bad if she hadn’t come, but now that she had, she kept her distance.
Though there was no musical accompaniment, hymns were sung and everyone joined in lustily. The abbot had a fine speaking voice, which lent confidence to Domenico and Maria in their responses. In no time they were husband and wife.
Then, as usual, the abbot asked everyone to be seated for the wedding address. Silvio found two chairs for the bride and groom so they could sit in the place of honor, in the middle of the aisle. He himself sat in the front pew.
“Friends,” boomed the abbot, looking around the church. “What a glorious day. What wonderful sunshine, what a heavenly breeze on the hillside today, what perfect conditions for this, the most agreeable and mysterious sacrament known to man. What a gift from God to Maria and Domenico, who can now start their life together without any shadow over them, literally or metaphorically.
“Like many of you, I have known Domenico since he was a little boy and was frightened of men who wore black robes and had beards. Monks can be pretty terrifying, I know.”
Everyone smiled.
“Maria I have known less long, only since she was a pretty twelve-year-old who sang beautifully at birthday parties. She is still as pretty, but, like all women, has given up birthdays.”
Laughter.
“I am thus as overjoyed as any of you by these events today, and absolutely delighted that I have been able to play a small part in helping these two achieve happiness on this earth. I also bring a blessing from someone you all know and miss as much as I do—Nino Greco.”
A buzz went around the church. Most of them had never known a leader like Nino. He was obviously in better health, and that cheered them.
The abbot went on.
“I cannot, however, let this opportunity—this wedding—slip by without addressing more serious matters. Marriage is a serious business. It is also a sacrament. That is to say, it is holy, sanctioned by God Himself. It is not for us, mortals on this earth for but a limited time, to question the sacraments. We should accept them, respect them, enjoy them, and not rebel against them.”
Silvio was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Sono ribelle? he asked himself. Am I the rebel? He hadn’t expected this. Was the abbot about to take their quarrel public, albeit in an indirect way?
“None of us is perfect. All of us go to confession, admit that we have done wrong, and ask for forgiveness. Now, forgiveness is a marvelous human quality, itself a form of love. God is merciful, just as Jesus was merciful. It is one of the qualities that separates us from the animals. But when we ask forgiveness, and receive it, it is not one-sided. It is a form of contract, for we are expected to change our behavior.
“In our lifetimes, we all make mistakes, and we all have to change. Some changes are more painful than others. But change is the essence of life, change within the framework provided by God and by nature. None of us can break that contract with the Lord, the contract which says that we are better than the animals, that we can forgive errors in others and be forgiven errors we ourselves make provided, provided always that we abide by the rules of nature.
“And the rules of nature? What are they? Well, first and foremost they are the Ten Commandments. Thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife … you all know them as well as I do. Better. But the rules of nature do not stop there. They govern much else in our everyday life. Fields must be left fallow every few years, or they tire and cannot produce the goodness we need to live on. Parents look after their children, partly in order that children, later in life, can look after their parents. Relations between animals and human beings are an abomination, and against the rules of nature. And so are relations between members of the same family.”
There, he had said it. The atmosphere was very tense now. No one moved, or said a word. Silvio didn’t dare look to right or left, nor could he bring himself to look at the abbot. He was livid. The abbot would be made to pay for this breach of confidence, for attacking his conduct in so public and dramatic a way.
But the abbot hadn’t finished. “This is in some ways the most pathetic aberration of all. It is pathetic because—”
Suddenly there was a commotion in the church. A noise came from the back, someone muttering and others answering back. Silvio heard the sounds of feet shuffling, and a Bible or a hymn-book falling to the floor. He sensed others turning round and plucked up the courage to do so himself.
He was just in time to see Annunziata marching back down the aisle to the main door. Everyone watched her go, including the abbot, who trailed off in midsentence. Annunziata reached the back of the church, pulled open the door, and slammed it shut behind her.
She wasn’t in the room. Or anywhere in the bivio. Or by the river. That left the giardino segreto.
By the time he reached it, he was sweating and out of breath. It was a hot day and he had scratched himself on the branches of the olive trees as he had hurried up the hill. He flopped onto the cool shaded moss to regain his breath. Annunziata sat with her legs drawn up to her chin, which rested on her knees. Her arms hugged her shins. She had been crying.
Silvio let some time elapse before he spoke. An eagle soared overhead, rid
ing the currents of air. Goats bleated on the far side of the valley, on the slopes of the Indisi mountain. He licked the blood from one of the scratches on his wrist.
“Zata,” he finally said, speaking softly. “That was horrible, I know. I didn’t see it coming, and I blame myself. I should protect you from harm. But think of this. I have never known such happiness as these past weeks, with you. You are the only person I have ever loved, Zata. I loved my parents, but as a boy, a child. That was very different. I am fond of Smeralda and Bastiano, but … it doesn’t compare.”
A breeze disturbed Annunziata’s hair and she pushed back a wisp that had fallen over her face.
“We’re different, you and me, Zata. Different from the others—”
“Are we?” Suddenly she turned toward him and spoke vehemently. “You are, maybe. You’ve been to America. You were born strong, or learned to become strong, after your parents were killed.” Zata’s mouth was turned down and her bottom lip was quivering. She was close to tears again. “What about me? I’m not strong. I know you think I’m strong, Toto, and I’m strong when I’m with you, but …” She trailed off.
“You are strong, Zata. I’ve seen the way the others look at you, listen to you. There’s never been a woman here like you.”
“Anyone can think things, Toto, even women.” She wiped her eyes. “Look at the way we all live.” She shook her sad head. “I’ve always wanted to break away, but I was never strong enough. When Gino took little Nino to Palermo, we said it was to show him off to the relatives—but there was another reason. I wanted Gino to get a job there. I wanted to live in Palermo, to send Nino to school maybe. Maybe Gino would sail on a boat to America, see what it was like.” Her shoulders sagged. “Look what happened. If I hadn’t wanted what I wanted … little Nino would still be alive.” The tears were pouring down her cheeks now, but she smiled. “Gino would be alive, of course, and I wouldn’t have known lovemaking with you.”