The prosecutor’s private office was housed in one of the spacious rooms on the first floor of a small building on Via Egadi, north of Capo Lilibeo. The windows opened directly onto the sea, offering the prosecutor a breathtaking view. Attorney Amato, when he wasn’t required at a court hearing, spent up to fifteen hours a day sitting in front of those windows, studying documents and codicils that helped him resolve claims and disputes that were almost always quite depressing. That magnificent sea, he said, was his torment: it was close at hand, but he could never enjoy it.
“Come in,” he said when he heard a knock at the office door. He’d been expecting Salemi’s mayor, and Costa was punctual as usual.
The mayor sat down before the prosecutor’s desk, while Michele, Jano, and Prospero remained standing behind him. “Mr. Amato, forgive me for coming straight to the point, but I’d like to get back to Salemi by this afternoon,” Costa began, opening his leather briefcase. “An autopsy on the alleged body of Salvatore Turrisi produced surprising results. It’s all written here in Dr. Bizzarri’s report,” he said, handing him a file, which attorney Amato proceeded to leaf through.
“The body was identified as Nicola Geraci?” he asked, after reading the document.
The mayor nodded. “But there’s something new.”
“What else have you found, Mayor Costa?”
“This man,” the latter said, pointing to Prospero Abbate behind him, “has some disclosures to make about who killed Geraci. Come forward, Prospero.”
The young man stepped up to the prosecutor’s desk as Amato settled back in his leather chair and studied him.
“What’s your name, young man?”
“Prospero Abbate, son of Corrado Abbate and Maria Pellizzeri.”
“Fine, fine,” the prosecutor interrupted. “What did you see?”
“Well, it happened nineteen years ago.”
“And how come you’re only telling us about it today, my boy?” Although Prospero was a fully mature man, the prosecutor, from the perspective of his half century of life, viewed them all as boys. His gruff tone intimidated Prospero.
“Well, actually, I was afraid.”
“Come, come, let’s hear what you saw.”
“On the afternoon when Marquis Bellarato was killed, I was at his palazzo.”
The prosecutor leaned toward Prospero. “How old were you?”
“Nineteen years ago, I was eleven,” Prospero replied firmly. “Sometimes the marquis invited us kids to the palazzo to give us some barley sugar. I was with him when Rosario Losurdo arrived.”
“Rosario Losurdo has always been Prince Licata’s gabellotto,” Mayor Costa explained.
“I know who he is!” the prosecutor replied impatiently. Then he turned to Prospero and said sternly, “Go on.”
“The marquis made me hide behind the drapes. I could hear what they were saying. I can’t remember the exact words now, it was so long ago. All I recall is that Losurdo asked him to pull out of the competition to purchase the Baucina estate; that Prince Licata would remember the favor and would someday reciprocate. Losurdo raised his voice and threatened the marquis, who laughed at his threats. The marquis then got up from his chair and shouted at Losurdo that he would never pull out.
“After that,” he went on, “Losurdo went to the fireplace, took an iron poker used to stir the fire, and struck the marquis a number of times. Before leaving, he set fire to the drapes with a smoldering log, then fled. I ran away before the rescuers showed up. I never told anyone about this.” He fell silent and looked first at Mayor Costa and then at Jano, as if seeking confirmation that he had done his job well. The two ignored him, however.
The prosecutor sank back in his chair. He thought for a few seconds. Then he looked up at Prospero. “That day, was it raining or was it sunny?” he asked shrewdly.
Prospero was taken by surprise. He had hoped his task was completed. He looked around for backup. He didn’t find it. “Well, actually . . .”
“How does that change anything, Mr. Prosecutor?” Costa intervened to help his man out of a tight spot. “Instead, he’s made some very serious allegations.”
“All too serious. Do you realize, young man”—attorney Amato turned back to Prospero—“that your words could cause people to be sentenced to death? And do you know that if it turns out that you made false accusations, you could end up in jail for more than fifteen years?”
“It’s the truth, your honor,” Costa interjected. “Before coming here, I took the trouble to verify his account. I should tell you that I discovered that Prince Licata, at the time, was head of a cooperative that was in line to purchase the lands of an estate. The same estate that Marquis Bellarato, in partnership with a cousin, was interested in. Licata’s cooperative, however, did not have the money to pay off the balance on the option, which as it happened was due to expire the very day the marquis was killed. I ascertained that the marquis would have paid off his option to purchase the lands the following day. But he was never able to do so because he was murdered by Losurdo, Licata’s right hand. I repeat, the very afternoon prior to the expiration.”
“And why was the body of Nicola Geraci also found there? He was a representative of the socialist leagues of Petralia Sottana, it says here,” attorney Amato asked, indicating the mayor’s file. “What did he have to do with it?”
“Nothing, Mr. Prosecutor. I learned that Nicola Geraci, during a public meeting at Salemi’s town hall, had seriously affronted Prince Licata, threatening him with death. Instead he was the one to die. The plan devised by Prince Licata and his gabellotto was flawless. He would get rid of the marquis and Geraci in one fell swoop. After the marquis, Losurdo killed Geraci as well and threw him into the flames at the palazzo. He was even indirectly helped by Dr. Peppino Ragusa, who apparently examined the corpses and established the identity of the second body as that of a certain Salvatore Turrisi. By doing so, he sidetracked the investigation. For that matter Turrisi also had a reason to hate the marquis. He went around saying that the marquis had unjustly accused him of killing a young shepherd boy. In fact, after that day, Salvatore Turrisi disappeared from town as well and was never seen again. Licata must certainly have paid him to leave the country and to cover his tracks.”
The attorney thought the theory sounded plausible. But Prospero’s testimony was false. The prosecutor’s instinct never betrayed him. “These are grave accusations,” he said. “I’ll have to think about the matter, study the evidence. It means going after an aristocrat, a person highly esteemed and respected by the entire town. Accusing him of being the man behind two murders. You can’t smear someone so lightly, based on a memory of something that happened nineteen years ago.”
“Mr. Prosecutor, I would like to leave this office today with the arrest warrants.” Costa, though he was younger than the prosecutor, exuded an undisputed authority. “As mayor, to insure public order, I ask you not to disappoint me. You know that in Rome there is only one thing he’s a stickler for: order! I therefore request this authorization, to be able to carry out my command the best way I can. I myself will assume full responsibility for the consequences of such an act. You will not be involved in it; you have my word.”
* * *
The mayor returned to Salemi that afternoon with three arrest warrants in hand: one for double murderer Rosario Losurdo; the second for the man behind him, Prince Ferdinando Licata; and the third for the Jew Peppino Ragusa, for his complicity.
All the way back, he and his men thought about the most spectacular way to slam those three in jail, especially Prince Licata, u patri. For the town and the surrounding countryside, the arrest would be a signal of the party’s extraordinary strength. Mussolini himself, when he learned of it, would congratulate them. Maybe he would even invite them to Rome. For all these reasons, Jano was against handing over the prince on a silver platter to the carabinieri at the local headquarters, who by law should be the ones to execute the arrest warrant.
“We did all the work,
and Marshal Montalto will be the one to benefit from it,” Jano grumbled for much of the trip.
In the end, he managed to extract the mayor’s promise to allow the combat league to make the arrests.
Jano could already see himself on the front page of every newspaper in the realm.
Sometimes fools are content with little, and for Jano, who had never had anything in his life and who in one night had been deprived of his entire world, those arrests would serve perfectly well.
Chapter 21
– 1921 –
Summer was over, and autumn was spreading its warm amber tones over the fields and woods.
At the station, Chief Brigadier Mattia Montalto was contemplating for the hundredth time the anonymous lined paper and the words that had alerted them to the massacre. He had attempted to gather handwriting samples from several persons in town whom he suspected might have composed the note. He was sure that whoever had written the tip-off must have seen the attackers; he was mathematically certain that there had been more than one. But it was difficult to determine whose writing it was, partly because he was not a handwriting expert.
Nevertheless, for some time now his suspicions had been pinned on a certain Michele Fardella, a charcoal burner who, tired of slogging away eight months a year in the forest cutting wood to make charcoal, had recently begun working for Captain Costa of the Royal Guard.
With the help of Salemi’s schoolteacher, Montalto was able to leaf through the notebooks of all the children attending elementary school, one of which, it turned out, had a page torn out. It just happened to belong to Margherita Fardella, Michele’s younger sister.
Montalto then had Vice Brigadier Trigona pick up Fardella and bring him to the station. It was the third time he’d been summoned, and Fardella, a quick-tempered type with little respect for authority, did not hide his resentment.
“Brigadier, if you have some accusation to make against me, say so. But stop treating me like a criminal!” he griped as he entered the station.
“Fardella, no one is accusing you of anything,” Montalto said calmly. “But I am conducting an investigation, and it is my right to question you.”
“So go ahead and ask me. What else do you want to know?”
Montalto held up the lined sheet of paper in front of him. “Did you write this note?”
Michele Fardella rolled his eyes to heaven. “My God, Brigadier, still the same old story about that note? I already told you the last time, it wasn’t me who wrote it. I can’t write, understand? Or even read.”
“Fardella, you’d better tell me the truth. Because I found the notebook whose page you tore out . . .” He paused a moment to keep the suspect on tenterhooks. Then he concluded, “The notebook belongs to your sister.”
Michele Fardella managed to remain impassive, but he lowered his eyes to the floor. Montalto understood that he would not say another word. If he talked, he was a dead man. Whoever had ordered that massacre would have no qualms about killing him.
“All right, then: if you won’t talk, you’ll spend a few days in a cell to loosen your tongue.” So saying, he nodded to the vice brigadier, who took Fardella by the arm and led him to a holding cell.
* * *
As usual, word of Fardella’s arrest spread within minutes. That evening, Chief Montalto, as he did every evening before returning home for dinner, stopped by the Circolo Vittorio Emanuele, the club where the town’s prominent figures habitually met to rehash the day’s events.
He found Baron Francesco Adragna there who, along with Don Antonio and Count Calogero Colonna, was listening to Vito Bonanno read aloud from the Avanti!, the official newspaper of the Italian Socialist Party.
As soon as Montalto entered the room, Bonanno stopped reading. “Chief, come in, sit down, listen to what that idiot Salvemini wrote.”
“Who is he, one of your buddies, Don Bonanno?” Montalto joked.
“Actually, he’s someone we’d gladly see hanged from a tree,” Count Colonna explained.
“Listen to what he says; he tears everything down . . .” Vito Bonanno went back to reading the article:
“The Italian capitalist class is a recent phenomenon. In particular, the newly rich created by the war, whom the common people call ‘sharks,’ are coarse individuals, both intellectually and morally. These profiteers were not satisfied with making the workers see reason. Instead, they’ve decided to destroy the workers’ organizations. The landowners have been even more brutal than the industrialists.”
He stopped reading and turned to his companions, saying, “He’s talking about us here.” Then he continued:
“As a result of centuries-old tradition, landowners have been accustomed to considering themselves the absolute masters of their lands while treating the peasants like beasts of burden.”
“The fucking bastard!” fumed Baron Adragna. Turning to Don Antonio, he added, “Pardon my language, Don Antonio, but they come up with some doozies, these anarchists.”
“They too—” Bonanno began, but his reading was once again interrupted.
“He’s still talking about the landowners,” Baron Adragna clarified. Bonanno went on:
“They too wanted to take revenge on the slaves who had dreamed of becoming masters and had rushed to join the fascist ranks. Fear of the social order being overturned is great for these landowners and fear is a bad counselor. The professional military men who organize and run the fascist squads have injected their mentality into the fascist movement, and with it a methodical brutality that prior to this year was unknown in the Italian political struggle.”
Captain Lorenzo Costa of the Royal Guard entered the room in time to hear the last lines of the article. When Bonanno finished reading, he broke in, drawing everyone’s attention. “These subversives will all end up hanged.”
“Captain, would you like a marsala?” Baron Adragna went to the bar where he filled a glass with the fragrant wine.
“Italy needs stability and order. And only we can guarantee both,” said the captain as he took the glass offered by the baron.
“Of course, to implement these assurances, someone may end up with a broken head.” Count Colonna said, smiling.
Antonio Grassa, a liberal, was more caustic: “When you begin putting up with something, first it becomes tolerable and after a time even normal. We must be careful not to get too used to broken heads, otherwise one of these days we’ll find our own broken.”
“You gentlemen don’t have to worry, because we are there for you,” the captain assured them, sipping his glass of marsala. Then he approached Montalto. “Chief Montalto, if you will allow me?” the captain said, inviting him to step aside.
“Excuse me, I’ve been summoned,” Montalto joked as he took his leave from the other guests and followed Captain Costa into one of the club’s sitting rooms.
“Forgive me, Chief, I know you’ve arrested Michele Fardella. He’s a good man, fearless. He hasn’t done anything,” Captain Costa insisted in no uncertain terms.
“I’m sure it was he who threw the note about the massacre into the station house,” Montalto replied curtly.
“That old story again . . . I’ve told you what I think. I believe that Prince Licata and his gabellotto Losurdo are implicated in the affair. Why won’t you listen to me?”
“Prince Licata would never do such a thing.”
“He wouldn’t, but his gabellotto would. Do you want to bet that Losurdo is hiding something? Why don’t you search his farm?”
“On what grounds?” said Montalto.
“Come up with something. Don’t take it out on Fardella. He can never tell you the names of those responsible for the massacre, because if he does, he’s a dead man. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not. But if Michele Fardella witnessed the massacre, he also knows who was responsible for it,” the chief brigadier insisted.
“Assuming what you say is true, Fardella will never talk,” Captain Costa repeated. “Listen to me. Release him.
I need people like him.” He paused, then went on as if he had found a solution. “Tell you what, you give me Fardella, and I’ll find you the one responsible for the massacre.”
“Captain Costa, you’re mistaking me for one of those gang leaders. I’m a chief brigadier. I can’t make pacts like that. If we carabinieri could name a price for our actions, some would cost more, others less. But we pay for them all with a single currency: courage.”
“Bravo, Chief, you’ve learned your lesson well. I respect your point of view. But I ask you for the last time: release Fardella; he doesn’t know anything.”
Montalto calmly adjusted his cap. “Fardella will be held for the time prescribed by law, not a minute less, not a minute more.” So saying, he turned and, after saying good-bye to the other men, left the club.
Chapter 22
– 1939 –
The greatest delusion about violence is believing that it can defeat evil, whereas in reality it leads to more violence.
That was the case for Jano. Witnessing the massacre of his family had affected his mind like a drug, one that had intoxicated him and that he could not do without.
As bitter fate would have it, the person responsible for the massacre was the very man he most admired, Lorenzo Costa, the man who referred to him as his right hand, second only to Michele Fardella. If Jano had known the truth, the sorry circumstances of a lot of people in Salemi would certainly have been different. But the secret of that night in late July was guarded by only two people, bound together by a covenant of blood.
So though Jano was able to wrest permission from the mayor to have his combat league carry out the three arrest orders, the mayor demanded a pledge from him in return: he was to begin the operation the following day at dawn, to avoid any possible disturbance by the citizens. In short, he wanted the three accused men to be arrested with absolute discretion, without the drum-beating spectacle that Jano had in mind. He had to preserve order, above all else. With the arrest of the prince and his gabellotto, the social equilibrium would be upset and this could lead to all sorts of uncontrollable consequences.
The Prince Page 17