Jano promised him absolute restraint until dawn of the following day.
But Jano was untrustworthy, devious, and erratic. As mayor of Salemi, Lorenzo Costa knew it, but he also knew that to govern with a stick he needed men like Jano, and over time he had learned to tolerate his insubordination. Never would he have thought that Jano might disobey his orders in a delicate situation such as this.
Knowing what he was like, and to settle him down, the mayor suggested that he spend the evening with Carmela. At first Jano said he would follow his advice, but then, walking home, he thought about Mena . . . and then about Saro . . . and then about Peppino Ragusa, Saro’s father.
It was eight in the evening. The wind that blew from the west at dusk had weakened, while a light, persistent rain, typical of spring, had begun to fall. It was the perfect time, since at that hour the families of Salemi would be sitting around the table for their one meal of the day. Surprise was assured . . .
The temptation was too strong. In an instant, he forgot the pledge he’d made to the mayor, retraced his steps and went to call his most trusted men.
* * *
Peppino Ragusa had taken his seat at the head of the table and was cutting a crusty round loaf of bread. Annachiara was seated opposite him, near the stove, while Ester and Saro sat at either side of the table. His wife had made a thick bean soup.
That evening, as was surely the case in all the other homes in Salemi, the main topic of conversation was the discovery, made a few days earlier, that the body of Salvatore Turrisi had been mysteriously switched in the coffin.
As Ragusa was taking a second helping of soup, three forceful raps on the door made them all jump. Annachiara, frightened, looked at her husband. It certainly wasn’t the timid knocking of her husband’s friends coming for their usual lessons, and besides, the lessons had been suspended.
Peppino Ragusa stood up to get the door, but there wasn’t time because a violent mallet blow flung it wide open, and two thugs, Quinto and Cosimo, threw themselves at him, pinning him down. Ragusa struggled as hard as he could, but it was no use. An instant later, Nunzio and Ginetto came in, followed by Prospero Abbate and finally Jano. They were all in black shirts, under which they wore black turtlenecks. Saro rose from his chair and tried to help his father, but Nunzio hit him in the stomach with his club, making him double over in pain. Ester, screaming in terror, tried to embrace her mother, but Annachiara broke away to confront the man who had struck Saro. Nunzio however clubbed her right on her forehead. The woman slumped to the floor, her blonde hair bloodied, as her daughter ran to her. The sight of his wife bleeding intensified Ragusa’s efforts. Despite being fifty-two, he was still strong as a bull. He spun around, making the two who were holding him lose their balance. Then he kicked out, striking the nearest man, Quinto, causing him to release his grip. Ragusa, meanwhile, had also shaken off Cosimo, caught unaware by such unexpected force. Head down, howling like a trapped animal, Ragusa hurled himself at Nunzio, who was still ascertaining the injury done to Annachiara. Ragusa rammed him in the belly, pushing him against the table and dealing him a counterblow to the kidneys that nearly made him pass out.
But Jano and Prospero were quick and began beating the doctor with their clubs. Ester wept and screamed at them to stop. Saro, on the floor, was writhing from the blow he’d received. He did not have the strength or the courage to stand up and stop the rampage. The two went on beating Ragusa, hammering away at every part of his body: head, shoulders, kidneys, legs, the head once more, and over and over again. Until Ginetto went over and grabbed Prospero’s hand.
“Stop! Can’t you see you’ve nearly killed him?”
Jano broke off as well. Like his cronies, he was exhausted by the exertions. They were all breathing hard, and Jano slumped down on a chair.
Ester was dabbing at her mother’s wound with the edge of her dress, revealing her leg. Jano, seeing her, became excited. He got up and took a step toward her.
Ginetto, who had not participated in the brutality, seemed like the only one who’d kept his head. “Let’s go, before anyone comes.”
Jano stopped and headed toward the door. “Take him to the truck,” he said, pointing to Peppino Ragusa. Then he disappeared through the doorway.
* * *
Violence exhilarated Jano. It gave him the impression he could dominate others’ lives; it made him feel like a god.
Later he knocked gently at Carmela’s door. The woman opened it in her dressing gown and flinched at seeing the mask of hatred his distorted features wore.
“Well? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said as he entered.
“What are you doing here? Today isn’t Saturday.”
“Are you expecting someone else? Is that how you come to open the door, dressed like that? What would your husband say?” he asked coldly, pushing her into the room and closing the door behind him.
Offended, she tried to slap him, hissing “I’m not a whore!” But he stopped her wrist. “I’m just your whore,” she whispered. His only answer was a slap that knocked her to the floor. The woman curled up, rubbing her cheek. “Bastard!” she spat at him.
Jano leaned over her, turning her over on her belly. He pulled off her dressing gown, and then grabbed the shoulder straps of her nightgown and tore it off with a quick tug, leaving her completely naked.
“You don’t even sleep with panties on,” he said admiring her round buttocks.
She turned around brazenly, hiding her nipples with one arm, but revealing the thick bush of dark pubic hair. Jano feasted his eyes on her soft, sinuous curves. Carmela was a magnificent example of a southern woman, with an amber complexion, strong hips, a narrow waist, round motherly breasts, and an inviting, plump belly.
The young man, now in his socks and undershirt, greedily devoured her most intimate parts, biting her until he made her scream out, not caring what the neighbors might hear or say.
* * *
That night was interminable for Jano. Despite the craving that filled him with fury and desire, he was unable to satisfy his lover’s lust. He tried and tried repeatedly, numerous times, to enter her, but always failed miserably and sometimes even comically. Eventually he fell asleep, exhausted by the tension, the impotence, and an entire bottle of red wine.
That night was interminable for Peppino Ragusa as well. His face swollen, every part of his body aching, he spent the long hours on the floor of a cell set up in a room in the town hall, adjacent to the combat league’s command center.
It was also interminable for the five Black Shirts who had been ordered by Jano not to let their prisoner out of sight. An hour before dawn, they would have to prepare to carry out the other two arrests.
But that night was interminable for some mysterious individuals as well, who roamed around town until it was nearly dawn and then disappeared under the cover of darkness.
* * *
A timid tap at the door made Carmela jump as she lay on the bed. For her too, it had been a hellish night, filled with remorse and rage over a fate that had taken her husband far from home and that had not even given her the comfort of a child. A rotten destiny that had led her to know a nasty character like Jano, who would be hard to get rid of.
When she heard another knock on the wooden door, this time louder, she shook Jano firmly in an attempt to wake him and bring him round from the alcohol he’d guzzled the night before.
Finally, the young man came to. His temples were pounding, but he managed to sit up, his legs dangling over the side of the bed.
Meanwhile, the knocking at the door continued.
Jano remembered that they were supposed to go arrest Prince Licata and his gabellotto, Losurdo. It was already dawn, and he dejectedly took note of his physical and mental states.
“I’ll go make you some coffee,” Carmela told him, slipping her nightie and worn dressing gown back on.
Jano got out of bed and dragged himself to the door. His mouth was furry, his head heavy, and he was furious at
what had happened the night before with Carmela. Or rather what had not happened.
He opened the door, and there stood his five trusty companions in crime. He didn’t notice that their faces were more haggard than his.
“A quick coffee, and I’ll be right with you, comrades,” he said absently. He started to go back inside, but Nunzio grabbed his arm and stopped him. “Jano, something terrible has happened,” he said in the grimmest tone possible.
Jano broke free of his grip. “What are you talking about?” His guilty conscience led him to think, terrified, that all of Salemi had already heard about his breach of promise. “Who’s going around spreading that crap?”
“What crap?” Nunzio was at a loss to follow his train of thought.
Jano calmed down. “So what do you mean?” he asked warily.
“Something awful happened at the cemetery. The caretaker is still in shock. We have to hurry there.” Behind him Jano saw the other four, their moods blacker than their shirts.
“Are you nuts? We have two arrests to make.”
“First we have to stop at the cemetery,” Nunzio insisted.
“Jano, get dressed and let’s go, there’s no time to lose,” Ginetto urged.
Irritated by their air of mystery, Jano lost his patience. “Enough! Will someone tell me what happened?”
The five imperceptibly stepped back, as if fearing to incur their leader’s wrath. But no one dared say another word.
“The truck is ready and waiting. We have to get going, Jano,” Prospero said, indicating the pickup a few yards away.
Jano was furious over the way they were acting. Carmela appeared behind him and handed him a cup of steaming coffee. “What’s going on?” the woman asked predictably.
Jano drank the coffee and lit a cigarette. “You’ll find out later. Today they’ll be talking about us on the radio, you’ll see.” He gave her back the cup and followed his trusty Black Shirts to the truck.
* * *
Salemi’s small cemetery was on a hill not far from town. The road spiraled up through a wooded area of pines and evergreen oaks, circling the hill until it reached a clearing in front of the cemetery gate, whose architrave was carved with the words Domus mortis. The cemetery spread out for almost two and a half acres, and alongside the monumental tombs of Salemi’s noble and most prominent families were graves with marble headstones, belonging to middle-class people; and those of the poorest individuals, recognizable by a simple wooden cross bearing only the deceased’s name and dates of birth and death.
Jano had failed to get a single word out of his men to explain the reason for their detour. They would only shake their heads.
Prospero stopped the truck in front of the gate, and everybody got out and headed into the cemetery.
Jano still didn’t understand. “So what are we supposed to look for?”
Finally, Nunzio got up his nerve. “Come on, Jano, take us to your mother’s grave.”
Jano balked. “What does this have to do with my mother?”
“Nothing to do with your mother, God rest her soul,” Nunzio reassured him. “But let’s go.”
Jano stopped delaying. He walked briskly toward the low wall that marked the boundary of the cemetery to the east. By now light had overcome the darkness, even though the sun had not yet appeared on the horizon. The five men followed Jano, flanking him right and left. Jano spotted his mother’s gravestone.
The headstone was where it should be, but a mound of fresh earth testified that someone had been digging there.
With his heart in turmoil, Jano approached the edge of the pit. He looked down and saw the wood of the coffin. “Bastards! Bastards!” he yelled.
“But everything seems all right,” Ginetto said hastily.
“Yeah, let’s close it up; some idiot had fun shoveling dirt last night,” Nunzio added.
“Damn them! It’s a sacrilege!” Jano kept ranting as Nunzio tried to calm him down.
Then Jano suddenly darkened. “Wait a minute,” he said in a low voice. “The lid was disturbed . . .
It’s been unhinged!” he yelled.
“No, how could they?” Ginetto tried to deny the evidence.
“Look, take a good look!” Jano pointed to a corner of the coffin, where it was obvious that the lid did not line up with the edge of the box. “Over there. Ginetto, go see.”
“But—” Ginetto tried to object.
Jano, in a tone that wouldn’t take no for an answer, bound him to his duty: “I order you to go down there!”
Ginetto, with the help of Prospero and Quinto, lowered himself into the grave. He bent over the coffin. Reluctantly, he touched the lid, which was indeed only resting on the edge of the box.
“It was opened, wasn’t it?” Jano, beside himself, shouted from above.
Ginetto gripped the edge of the lid with both hands and tried to lift it. As soon as he tilted it up, it slipped out of his hands, which were slimy from the damp earth, and slid to the side, revealing the interior of the coffin.
A horrific sight paralyzed Jano and his men.
A huge sow hacked in two and still bleeding had been placed over the skeletal remains of Jano’s mother. The stench of rotting flesh made Ginetto puke, spewing vomit over the sow and the corpse.
The son’s bloodcurdling scream resounded far off in the valley. His companions gripped him forcefully and held him down to keep him from bashing his head against the marble headstone in a fit of mad rage.
* * *
Lavinia Licata saw on the horizon the great cloud of dust raised by the wheels of the Black Shirts’ truck. From that distance, she could hear them singing their infantile, seditious anthem. The men sounded as though they were out on a school field trip, and yet, armed with clubs and muskets, they were able to terrorize people. More so because their foolish actions were dictated by their immaturity rather than their aggressive natures.
When the truck came to a stop with a great screeching of brakes, Jano jumped down from the running board and headed resolutely toward the door of Licata’s palazzo. He banged on the door several times with his club, while the other men joined him, taking their places around him. Ginetto, Nunzio, Prospero, Quinto, and Cosimo knew that they were making an arrest that would have all of Sicily talking about them for years to come.
“Prince Licata, open up!” Jano shouted at the top of his lungs. He was infuriated and had yet to fully vent his rage over the affront that had been done to him. A supreme offense for any human being, but unimaginable for a son in Sicily.
He continued banging furiously on the wooden door. The sound of a bolt sliding open was heard on the other side; then two burly campieri appeared. The older of the two was Bettino, whom Jano had already had the misfortune of meeting some time ago. The two men looked threatening, like a dark sky before a storm lets loose, and were armed with double-barreled hunting rifles.
“Take me to your boss, now,” Jano ordered impatiently.
But Bettino, a good several inches taller than him, put out a hand to bar the way. Meanwhile, the other campiere had stepped aside to make way for Lavinia, who appeared behind them. The woman stopped in the middle of the doorway, and the younger campiere stood protectively beside her.
“If you are looking for my brother, I will tell you that he left last night for one of his regular trips to Europe. You will have to return in a year or so,” she said very calmly.
“Are you fucking with me?” Jano had thrown all caution to the wind.
Offended by his language, the woman pursed her lips and turned to go back into the palazzo. But Jano, more enraged than ever, overtook her and, pushing her aside, broke into the house, followed by three of his men.
Bettino and the other campiere immediately reacted by cocking their rifles, but Lavinia, with an imperious wave of her hand, indicated that they should let them enter. Cosimo and Prospero remained outside, holding off the two campieri with their muskets, so they wouldn’t move.
Jano and the three other Bla
ck Shirts searched every corner of the palazzo, but there was no sign of the prince. Lavinia had been telling the truth: evidently Licata had gone on a long journey, given that his clothes were gone from the closets.
Chapter 23
– 1939 –
No one in town would ever have imagined that Ferdinando Licata, u patri of the entire community, would one day be forced to flee Salemi to avoid arrest or imprisonment. But the prince was despised by Mayor Costa and even more so by Jano, who basically viewed all aristocrats and those in power as the origin of his troubles. The young man would surely have subjected him to the infamy of the dreaded “box” in order to humiliate him and make him see who was now in command in Salemi.
Licata would never stand for such an affront. Consequently, after displaying his power to Jano by violating his mother’s grave, he planned to leave for America that very night.
A Florio steamer sailed every two weeks from Palermo, headed for America. He would return once things had changed. After assigning his sister Lavinia blank power of attorney, the prince left Salemi with a heavy heart.
* * *
That same morning, Jano Vassallo hurried to Rosario Losurdo’s farm. Prince Licata’s gabellotto was third on the list of those he had to arrest. Now he was afraid he wouldn’t find him. If Losurdo had learned from some friend of a friend that he was making those arrests, he too would have gone into hiding and would never be found.
Though he’d been warned by the prince, Rosario Losurdo had not wanted to abandon his lands. He had thanked the prince but told him that he would not budge from his farm. He had had nothing to do with the death of Marquis Pietro Bellarato nineteen years ago.
And so Losurdo was actually waiting for the Black Shirts to turn up, standing in the yard of his farmstead surrounded by his children and the peasants who helped him work his lands. The arrival of the combat league’s truck was heralded by the sputtering of its old engine.
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