The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

  This time it was Mena who felt embarrassed. “Is that what I said?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t remember.”

  “I meant just what I said.” Her voice cracked a little, and Saro noticed it.

  For a few moments, the two young people stared intensely into each other’s eyes.

  “You know what I say? You can go wherever you like, Saro Ragusa.” With that, Mena turned around and walked off, mingling with the other guests.

  * * *

  Jano, trailed by his three bloodhounds, entered the doctor’s home without waiting for an invitation from the hostess, not giving a damn about the rules of hospitality. “Well, well. I see that you continue to hold subversive meetings, Dr. Ragusa, even though you’ve already received a warning from the mayor. Am I right?”

  Annachiara, with her innate cordiality, invited Jano to come have a seat. “Jano, Nunzio, can I offer you some of our wine? Sit down, our house is your house.” So saying, she went to the cupboard to get some glasses and a bottle.

  But Jano’s voice made her freeze. “Don’t bother, Annachiara. We’re not here to have a drink. Or at least we won’t be the ones drinking.” His jeering smile was imitated by the other three militiamen, who threw him looks of complicity. “I repeat. Don’t you know that it’s forbidden to hold seditious meetings? What are you cooking up?” he asked, turning to the four villagers sitting at the end of the table.

  Mimmo Ferro, the one who least feared Jano’s authority given the many times he had seen him drunk, replied sarcastically, “Anyone who has a clear conscience either has a bad memory or has never used his conscience. My dear Jano, we are guilty like every man who breathes on this earth.”

  “You’re being a smart-ass, right, Mimmo?”

  Turi Toscano came to the aid of his companion. “Jano, you know very well why we come here to the doctor. Certainly not for a revolution.”

  “At first I didn’t even know how to do arithmetic,” Pericle, the charcoal burner, added.

  Annachiara had brought four glasses and was filling them with wine.

  “But I know that the doctor doesn’t only teach you to count and read, isn’t that so, Dr. Ragusa?”

  He bowed his head, refusing to defend himself. He had nothing to say to the thug.

  Jano pounded his fist violently on the table, making Annachiara cringe. “Answer me when I ask you a question!” One of the glasses toppled, and wine spilled onto the table. Jano reared back and stood up so he wouldn’t get wet. He was furious. “In any case, your time has come, dear doctor. I know all about what you do during your meetings. The multiplication table is just an excuse. What interests you is putting socialist ideas in the heads of these dunces. You, Doctor, are plotting against the regime. For that alone, I could throw you in jail.”

  “I am at your disposal, Jano,” Ragusa finally spoke up. “Go ahead and throw me in jail. You don’t have a shred of evidence to prove what you say. You’ll look like a fool in front of everyone, as usual.”

  Jano rushed at him and struck him on the face with the club he always carried with him. Annachiara threw herself at Jano, screaming, but Ginetto stopped her, pulling her away. Mimmo Ferro tried to interfere, but Nunzio shouldered him, knocking him to the floor. A stream of blood ran down Ragusa’s face. Turi, Pericle, and Ottavio Gravina tried to reach the door, but Prospero blocked their way out.

  “The party isn’t over, and you want to leave already?” Jano barked at the three men. “I need witnesses. Someone will have to report what happens to those who oppose us.”

  Ragusa wiped his wound with his shirtsleeve.

  At a sign from Jano, Nunzio and Prospero pinned the doctor’s arms. He tried to free himself, but they were stronger, and after a while he stopped struggling. Annachiara kept screaming at them to leave him alone.

  Jano appeared with a bottle in his hands. Annachiara saw him and let out a piercing shriek. Ginetto shook her forcefully to silence her, and when that didn’t work, punched her in the face, knocking her out. Ragusa, seeing his wife on the floor, began thrashing about furiously again, yelling “Killers! Killers!” Nunzio and Prospero were having a hard time restraining him, so they threw him to the ground and held him down.

  Jano went over, grabbed him by the hair, and lifted his head. Then he shoved a bottle of salt water into his mouth and began forcing him to gulp it down.

  The salt water had the same effects as castor oil, but in addition caused a feeling of nausea that lasted several days.

  Ragusa, in part due to his position, in part because of the deluge of water he was forced to swallow, began coughing to expel the liquid from his nose and other parts of his body. But Jano’s job was finished only once the bottle was empty. Finally, Nunzio and Prospero let go of him. Ragusa, in a pool of filth, wheezed and went on vomiting, while Annachiara remained unconscious. The four friends were stunned and crushed by such callous cruelty.

  Jano pulled an embroidered cloth off the table and wiped his hands with it. “Remember what you saw. And tell everyone that this is what’s in store for the Duce’s enemies.” With that, he threw down the cloth and walked out, followed by his comrades.

  * * *

  At that moment at the farm, Rosita—Signora Losurdo, recognized as one of the best cooks in town—entered the party room carrying a huge fig and honey tart, borne with the care generally bestowed on newborns. Mena accompanied her mother with a bunch of teaspoons, while her brother Donato carried a stack of dessert plates.

  Rosario Losurdo, like most of the gabellotti in Sicily, had become a powerful figure in the town, and the Limoges porcelain service with gold trim had been one of his wife’s first acquisitions once they became rich. The crostata was cut, and plates flew from hand to hand.

  Mena cut the last slice and personally took it to Saro. “Enjoy it, Saro, because in America there are no women who know how to make desserts this good,” she told him wryly, handing him the plate.

  “Your mother is a great baker,” Saro said, licking his fingers, sticky with honey.

  “Actually, I made the tart. My mother helped me, but I was the one who made it!”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “You’re a phenomenon! I’ve never eaten anything so delicious.”

  Mena smiled, and Saro impulsively gave her a peck on the cheek, but his fig-and-honey-smeared lips left a mark that he clumsily tried to wipe off using the edge of his shirt.

  The young woman drew back, amused. “Saro, stop that. You’re hopeless.” Then she took a handkerchief and wiped the traces of the tart off her cheek.

  “Sorry, Mena,” he said sheepishly, embarassed and blushing.

  “What’s going on here?” Rosario Losurdo had witnessed the scene from across the room. Mena was still his little girl, and he didn’t care for that behavior at all. His stern tone made Saro spin around hastily; when he saw the girl’s father, he gave a start that was almost comical.

  “Don Rosario—what’s going on?” All he could do was repeat the question the host had asked.

  Mena shook her head, smiling. “Papa, what do you think is going on? Saro is about to leave, and we were saying good-bye.” She pushed her father toward their guests. “Go back to your friends.”

  Rosario Losurdo had a soft spot for his little Mena. Only she would dare to be impertinent toward him.

  Saro held out his hand to say good-bye to Losurdo. “Baciamo le mani—my respects—Don Rosario.”

  The man shook his hand, giving him a look that spoke volumes. When he released Saro’s hand, he realized it was sticky with honey. He casually wiped it on his pants and walked away, proud of the “Don” that until then no one had ever afforded him.

  Mena, who had noticed the little mishap, burst out laughing. “You’re really impossible.” She took Saro by the hand and dragged him across the room, toward the door. “I’m sorry, but you really must go now. Otherwise if my father realizes I fooled him, I’m finished!”

  “Sorry,” Saro stammered.

  “If it was up t
o him, he’d keep me inside one of those glass bell jars we put patron saints in.”

  “He’s not all wrong. Who knows how many guys make eyes at you.”

  “Oh, loads of them, I’d say.”

  They both smiled. Upon reaching the door, they faced each other, and suddenly their expressions turned serious. Mena made an imperceptible movement, her face moving closer to his. A few very long seconds went by. Then Saro took her hands, deliberately ending that magical moment.

  “I really should go.” So saying, he rested his lips gently on Mena’s palms and let them linger there a second or two. Then, without turning around, he moved off into the evening shadows.

  On the way back, Saro shivered with pleasure at the thought of having touched Mena’s delicate skin. The girl was the daughter of Losurdo, the richest gabellotto in Salemi. And he was merely the son of a dirt-poor Jewish doctor.

  Surely Losurdo had very different ambitions for his daughter; he’d better get her out of his mind. With these thoughts swirling in his head, Saro reached his house and saw a knot of people in front of the half-open door. He immediately realized that something serious had happened.

  As soon as people noticed him, the group parted to let him through. Saro saw his mother lying on the bed. Mimmo Ferro and Turi Toscano were sitting at the foot of the bed, while his father was bent over his mother, giving her an injection. As soon as his sister Ester saw him come in, she ran crying to him and threw her arms around him.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. But Ester was sobbing and couldn’t get out a word. Saro broke out of her embrace and demanded to know what had happened to his mother. Then he noticed how disheveled his father was, his shirt wet and soiled with blood and vomit, his hair dirty. Moaning, Annachiara turned her head to one side, opened her eyes, and saw Saro. She moved a hand weakly to touch him, and her son rushed to her and held her close.

  “Mama . . .” He managed to choke back the lump that had formed in his throat. The woman seemed to feel better at the sight of her husband, who had remained beside her. Her gaze also took in Mimmo and Turi at the foot of the bed, and Ester, crying distraughtly. She closed her eyes again, and the sedative’s action made her sink into a dreamless sleep.

  Saro got up. The room was in complete disarray, a pool of water on the floor, a bottle upended. He turned to his father. “Who did this to you?” Ragusa didn’t answer.

  “It was Jano. Him and his Black Shirts,” said Mimmo.

  “I’ll kill him!” cried Saro.

  But his father took him by the shoulders and gripped him firmly. “Calm down. You’re not killing anyone. We have to pretend that nothing happened. We have to disappear. They’re the stronger ones now. Not even the carabinieri can do anything against the fascist combat league.”

  Chapter 7

  – 1939 –

  Prince Ferdinando Licata was pessimistic about the island’s future. Not a day passed when he didn’t hear about some injustice, some abuse, suffered by the poor at the hands of those who held political and administrative power in the town. Fascism had put men lacking any moral value in positions of control, crushing admirable men of profound ethics and demoting them to marginal roles.

  In its own small way, Salemi itself was a perfect example of how corrupt the regime was. The town’s mayor, Lorenzo Costa, was said to have ruthlessly wiped out entire families, and had appointed a pitiable misfit, Jano Vassallo, perpetrator of ill-advised, reckless actions, as head of the town militia. Now, though, that psychopath had begun to exceed all limits, and some residents of Salemi felt the need to redraw the boundaries of common civic decency.

  With these thoughts in mind, Prince Ferdinando Licata decided to confront Jano and his notorious associates. Not just because Dr. Peppino Ragusa was a dear friend but also for his own mysterious reasons that were buried in the depths of his heart. Otherwise he never would have stooped to come to terms with such a mediocre individual as Jano.

  The libertarian spirit and profound sense of justice that flowed in the prince’s veins came from his great-grandfather, a Londoner named Frederick Leicester, who at the end of the eighteenth century, following in the footsteps of those who made the grand tour of Europe, had traveled far and wide throughout Italy. Finding in Sicily not only the colors and landscapes he had been seeking but love as well, the young Leicester decided to remain there for the rest of his life. When the birth of his son, Ferdinando’s grandfather, was recorded, his surname was misspelled, thanks to an error by the registry clerk, though some said it was to deny his past: from Leicester it became Licata, and so from that day forward, Sicily acquired a new pedigree of princes.

  When Ferdinando Licata was still a child, his family was struck by a tragedy. While traveling to Palermo, both parents were killed by a gang of bandits during a robbery. From then on, his grandfather and his sister, Lavinia, served as father and mother to him.

  Thanks to his abilities and educational preparation, Ferdinando had been able to skillfully manage the few lands inherited from his grandfather. For many years, he was considered an excellent match by blue-blooded, Sicilian young ladies. But Licata was very reserved, not believing in marriage and, though he’d had numerous lovers, he’d always managed to escape being shackled by a wife.

  He was also a great diplomat and had always avoided disputes with his neighbors and the various “dons” of the surrounding area. He had never wanted to get mixed up with them, men whom he considered extremely coarse and uncultured.

  * * *

  One Sunday morning at a little past six, Prince Ferdinando Licata stationed himself near the drinking trough two blocks away from where Carmela Petrulli lived. He knew—the whole town knew—that every Saturday night Jano sneaked into Carmela’s house and left early the next morning at dawn. Carmela was not the town prostitute, but one of several war widows, another victim of the emigration that had depopulated many of the towns in Sicily in the 1920s.

  At the customary time that Sunday morning, Carmela’s door opened, and Jano slipped out furtively. He drew a black cloak over his shirt, also black, which he now wore like a second skin.

  Ferdinando Licata’s dark horse was drinking at the trough when Jano came around the corner. Though he was startled to see the prince, he concealed it. Licata, on the other hand, pretended to be surprised at running into him at that hour.

  “Jano, it’s too late to go hunting and too early if you’re not going hunting. What are you doing here at this hour on a Sunday?” he asked, tugging the horse.

  “Hey, Prince, I already shot my load, with all due respect.” He quickened his pace without stopping, but the prince was swift and came up beside him, leading his horse by the bit.

  “Do you know what’s tragic about aging? It’s not so much actually being old, as one might think, but being still young in your mind and all your senses.” The prince touched his arm and stopped the horse, forcing Jano to stop as well.

  “You young people see us old and graying now, but our desires, our will to act, is exactly as it was when we were twenty. How old are you, Jano?”

  Taken aback by the question, Jano answered almost automatically, “Twenty-four.”

  “Congratulations.” He started walking again, and this time it was Jano who followed him. He wanted to see what the prince was driving at with that gibberish. “Very few young men get to where you are at your age, Jano. You’re clearly destined for a rewarding future. You deserve it, evidently.”

  “But?” Jano beat him to it, showing an uncommon intelligence.

  “It’s true, there is a but,” the prince agreed, realizing that he was not dealing with an ignorant thug, as he had always thought. “You see, in life, we may care little about people, but we will always need a friend. It is essential to have someone you can trust.”

  “Prince, why are you giving me this sermon?”

  “Jano, I can see that you are also a fine young man, and I want to offer you my friendship.”

  “That’s very flattering, Prince Licata. And
what do you want in return?”

  “Well, it doesn’t exactly work that way.” Ferdinando Licata was beginning to lose patience with the young man and his blunt, insolent ways. “Let’s say that if we were to become friends, my friends would automatically become your friends, and, conversely, your friends would become part of my world. Do you understand what I’m offering you, Jano?”

  “I’ll become a prince?” Jano was beginning to act disrespectfully, but Ferdinando pretended not to notice.

  “There’s a friend of mine, Dr. Peppino Ragusa, whom I believe has been denounced as a subversive. There is nothing more unfortunate than an accusation like that. The doctor is a fine man, as demonstrated by the fact that all these years he’s worked unstintingly for the good of us all, never asking anything in return. If the doctor were to decide to leave Salemi”—the prince kept pressing—“it would be a great misfortune for the entire community. For our town physician has also taken the trouble to teach reading and arithmetic to our peasants who’ve never gone to school.”

  “Yes, but he also puts revolutionary ideas in their heads. He preaches socialism, the sharing of land, he’s against the Duce. How can an individual like that be your friend?” Jano wasn’t aware that he had raised his voice.

  “But what harm could he do? I myself don’t see eye to eye with him, but he’s absolutely harmless. Jano, promise me you’ll leave him in peace.”

  “He’s a dirty Jew besides,” was Jano’s only reply. “The Jewish race is the cause of all evil. After the Great War, it led to the Russian Revolution, it advanced communism.”

  “You imbecile, don’t you understand that those are just stereotypes?” Ferdinando Licata realized that he wouldn’t make any headway with Jano.

  The young man, not at all intimidated, replied just as aggressively, “Prince, don’t you understand that you aristocrats have had your day? For you and everyone like you, it’s over! The fascist revolution has brought you to your knees. We’re the ones who now impose order and command respect in the cities. No other power can exist within the fascist state!”