The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

  Jano climbed out and approached Losurdo, his five militiamen flanking him. Stopping a few steps away from the gabellotto, he surveyed the entire Losurdo family lined up in support. For an instant, his eyes met Mena’s, but she quickly lowered her gaze.

  Jano pointed his club at Rosario’s chest and said, “Losurdo, I have to speak to you in private.”

  Rosario pushed aside the threatening club with a swipe of his hand.

  “Follow me,” he said, heading for the house.

  Jano motioned to his men not to move and disappeared inside the farmhouse.

  “The beauty of our land,” Jano began, “is that here secrets fly like arrows. If an act of violence happens, no one talks and everyone looks the other way, yet it is instantly known to all with the speed of light.”

  “I don’t have much time for you, Jano. Get to the point,” Losurdo said brusquely.

  “My dear Rosario, how much time you have depends on my mood.” He pulled a legal document from his shirt and showed it to the gabellotto. “See this? It’s a warrant for your arrest. For a crime that you committed nineteen years ago.”

  “Bellarato again? Jano, why are you all so determined to get me? First they tried to frame me for the slaughter of your family. Someone planted weapons from the massacre at my house. I did five years for that charge, but I had nothing to do with it, and you know it. Then the marquis’s murder. I was in the fields when they killed him, and I can prove it. You should look elsewhere for your scapegoat, Jano.”

  “This time there’s an eyewitness,” Jano insisted. “Somebody saw you kill Bellarato with your own hands.”

  The new accusation infuriated Losurdo. “That’s a lie! Why this persecution?”

  “It depends on you,” said Jano enigmatically, folding the sheet in four.

  “What do you mean it depends on me? What do you have in mind? Whom do I have to betray?” Losurdo thought Jano was asking him to testify against Prince Licata.

  “You don’t have to betray anyone. Let’s just call it a trade: I let you have your freedom in exchange for a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?” Losurdo asked suspiciously.

  “These days it’s not advisable to have your father-in-law in jail on a murder charge. For that reason, I’ll spare you.”

  Losurdo was beginning to understand.

  “Basically, I’m not asking you to do anything improper. You can continue to enjoy your lands, and we will be more than friends.”

  Rosario Losurdo went rigid. He clenched his fists to force himself not to beat the hell out of that cocky little shit in a black shirt.

  “In fact, we’ll be family! So, can I call you . . . Papa?”

  It was too much for Rosario Losurdo. He went for Jano menacingly. Jano tried to hit him with his club, but Losurdo, despite his fifty years of age, was more agile and grabbed the wood as it was being brought down on him. He twisted Jano’s wrist, forcing him to let go of it. Losurdo tossed it away and then grabbed Jano by the shirt, nearly lifting him off the ground. He was furious and could have strangled him.

  “You vicious little sewer rat, I will never give my daughter to a bastard like you, I’d rather be hanged. Blackmailing son of a bitch! How much did that fake witness cost you? I’ll give him three times what you gave him to make him testify that it was you who killed Bellarato when you were six years old!” Losurdo slapped him with such force that he knocked Jano off balance, causing him to hit his head on the table as he fell to the floor.

  A moment later, the five Black Shirts burst into the room along with Michele, Donato, Mena, and Rosita. Nunzio and Prospero were the first to enter, and when they saw Jano on the floor, rubbing his head, they rushed to pin down Rosario.

  Rosita screamed, “Leave my husband alone!”

  The shouting grew louder. Michele, Losurdo’s eldest son, put his hand on his Sanfratellano, and for a moment the knife’s long blade got everyone’s attention. He yelled, “Someone is going to get hurt! Watch out, I’m not joking!”

  Fearing reprisals against his son, Losurdo roared, “Michele, put that knife away.”

  Cosimo leveled his sawed-off shotgun at Michele. “Do what your father told you.”

  Jano got up, refusing Quinto’s help. “Calm down, nothing happened. Everybody calm down.”

  To make everything perfectly clear, Rosario explained his action to his family: “He asked for my permission to marry Mena. In return he would burn the testimony of a false witness who has accused me, saying he saw me kill Marquis Bellarato. But I had nothing to do with that murder. I will not sacrifice my daughter over such infamità—such vile infamy.”

  Jano went over to him. “Losurdo, today, here in front of everyone, I’m telling you that you will soon rot in jail, that Mena will be mine, and that I will become padrone, landowner, of the Castellana and Giovinazzo estates. Your family will be disgraced, and your wife will crawl on her knees to beg me for a crust to ease her hunger.”

  A desperate cry interrupted that grim scene. Mena fell at his feet, weeping forlornly. “Jano, have mercy! Don’t harm us, I implore you.”

  Jano took hold of her and lifted her up. “Mena, don’t despair, it’s all right. Everything will be straightened out, don’t worry. It’s just that your father’s head is harder than mine.”

  Rosita went to her daughter and snatched her out of his hands. “Jano, a curse on you,” she pronounced angrily.

  But Jano smiled and then turned back to Losurdo, who was being restrained by Nunzio and Prospero. “So, what’s your final word?”

  “You’re despicable,” Rosario Losurdo said sharply.

  Jano ordered his men to put him in irons and take him to the truck.

  * * *

  The cellar of Salemi’s town hall had been transformed by the mayor into holding cells where political dissidents could be detained along with those who had to be leaned on to extract a confession or some information.

  Losurdo was locked up in one of these cells, which was located next to the one in which Peppino Ragusa had been jailed the night before.

  The doctor had fallen into a pit of depression, unable to accept what had been done to him after his years of sacrifice to bring some small comfort to the citizens of Salemi.

  He heard another unlucky soul being put in the neighboring cell. Then the bolt slid closed and the lock clicked. When the heavy footsteps had moved off, he put his mouth close to the wall that separated him from his prison mate.

  “Peppino Ragusa here. Who are you?”

  “It’s Rosario Losurdo, Doctor.”

  “Rosario? What are you doing here?”

  “The same old story about Marquis Bellarato. They say they have an eyewitness who swears he saw me kill the marquis. It’s obvious it’s all a frame-up. I’m innocent.”

  “Being innocent is a fine predicament, because generally you have no alibi,” the doctor declared.

  “I’ll be able to show that I had nothing whatsoever to do with that murder. But I’m afraid for my family. I don’t trust those buffoons and the way they handle their power. They don’t even fear the carabinieri. By now they’ve supplanted them.”

  “Despite everything, however, we must not lose hope.”

  “But you, Doctor, why have they arrested you?”

  “They accuse me of having issued a false statement in connection with my postmortem of the charred body found in Marquis Bellarato’s palazzo. I identified it as Salvatore Turrisi, one of the marquis’s campieri, whereas it’s been ascertained that it was an attorney from Petralia Sottana, Nicola Geraci.”

  “For this they’re going to try you?” Losurdo asked incredulously.

  “They say I lied about the identification to sidetrack the investigation. But I acted in good faith. I had no wish to derail the inquiry.”

  The doctor moved away from the wall and slumped on the straw pallet, his head in his hands as he swallowed back tears.

  On the other side of the wall, Losurdo bottled up his rage, and hearing the doctor’s
anguish, felt more pity for his fate than for his own. He released his anger by punching the door violently, nearly injuring his wrist.

  That same afternoon, Rosita, accompanied by her son Michele and her daughter, Mena, climbed into the buggy and set out at a gallop for the carabinieri’s headquarters. Montalto represented the law there in Salemi, and he would have to listen to her.

  The marshal lived with his wife, Lucia, just above the station house. Lucia welcomed Rosita with a firm, compassionate embrace. News of the combat league’s arrests of Losurdo and Ragusa had already traveled through the countryside.

  Rosita confronted the marshal, coming straight to the point: “Marshal, lawfulness must return to Salemi. This morning Jano and those thugs of his came and took my husband, an upstanding man. You must do something.”

  “I’ll speak with Jano myself, Donna Rosita, but take it easy now. Come and sit down.”

  Lucia brought a tray with liqueur glasses and a bottle of rosolio. She poured a little and handed the glasses to Rosita and the men. Mena was too young to drink.

  “Those men are worse than wolves. They sink their teeth into your neck and never let go. Marshal, you have to take Rosario under your protection. You’re the only one I trust.”

  Then Michele chimed in: “Excuse me, Marshal, but shouldn’t it be you who makes arrests? What do the combat leagues have to do with it?”

  “We had to make an agreement with them. The leagues handle politicos and dissidents. We carabinieri take care of ordinary crimes.”

  “Exactly, that’s what I’m saying. Why are they involved in carrying out an arrest on a murder charge?” Michele, getting worked up, rose from his chair. “That’s your job!”

  “Yes, it’s true, they’ve overstepped their bounds. I’ll go and request that they hand them over to me. I promise.”

  “When will you do that?” Rosita insisted.

  “As soon as I assemble my men.” Marshal Montalto knew he was going to encounter trouble. “It’s likely, however, that they had orders from Mayor Costa.”

  “Naturally, their worthy accomplice!” Michele spat.

  Rosita spoke again. “Marshal, Jano must be stopped. He has his sights set on her”—she gestured to Mena sitting nearby, silent and frightened—“and he’s created all this mayhem to extort Rosario’s consent to marry her.”

  “So that’s what it’s about?” Lucia asked, stunned. “This young man is a disgrace to the whole town!”

  “He’s been buzzing around the farm like a hornet for some time now,” Rosita kept pressing him. “Marshal, I’m afraid one of my sons might do something foolish.”

  “If I see him around the farm again, I’ll shoot him,” Michele threatened boastfully.

  “Young man, you won’t shoot anybody!” the marshal admonished. Then, approaching Mena, he asked, “Is what they’re saying true?”

  “Jano is a bully,” Mena replied. “Once, when I went to bring lunch to Michele and Donato, he climbed onto the buggy. We were alone, and he tried to kiss me. But I made him behave.”

  “Scumbag!” Michele snarled.

  “Easy now, let’s not get excited,” Marshal Montalto was now really worried. “I’ll speak to Jano myself. But don’t do anything on your own, or the results may be tragic. Listen to me, Michele. You’re in charge of the family now. Don’t do anything crazy.”

  The young man, who had only recently turned twenty-one, nodded, his head bowed as if accepting the responsibility the marshal had just placed on him.

  * * *

  After that first stop, Rosita continued on to the home of Dr. Ragusa.

  As soon as Annachiara opened the door and saw her standing there, she burst into uncontrollable weeping. The two women held each other in a long, sisterly embrace. Annachiara could not stop sobbing. She was genuinely touched by Rosita’s visit. Ester went to her mother and handed her a handkerchief, as Saro led Mena and Michele inside.

  “Don’t cry, Annachiara. I’ve already been to see Marshal Montalto. He’ll set everything straight, you’ll see,” Rosita told her as she went in and sat down at the dining table.

  “You don’t know how much I appreciate this gesture of yours, Rosita,” Annachiara said, wiping her eyes and smoothing back the blonde curls that had come loose when they embraced.

  “We have to help each other. Those swine have it in for our men. But we’ll give them a dose of their own medicine.”

  “We’ve lost everything. They treat us like lepers.” Annachiara was about to burst into tears again.

  Mena went over to Saro. “I’d like some water.”

  “Come with me, Mena.”

  They went into the big kitchen, and Saro picked up a glazed earthenware jug. He tipped it over slowly to pour water into a glass, but the pitcher was empty. He smiled at his oversight. “I’ll go to the well and get some,” Saro said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Mena said simply.

  Saro’s heart jumped. They went out the back of the house and headed toward the well. Beside it stood a flourishing fig tree that in summer offered a pleasing canopy of shade known throughout the neighborhood.

  “My mother is inconsolable,” said Saro, his heart clamoring, taking the metal pail as Mena held the rope.

  “Mine, instead, is like a man,” Mena said with a smile. “If it were up to her, she would already have bumped off all the mayors and fascists in the surrounding area.”

  “I can’t see your mother in the role of dark avenger.” Saro smiled too as he lowered the pail into the well. “Are you like her?” he asked after a moment of silence.

  But Mena didn’t answer. She continued letting out the rope that Saro held firmly in his hands. “Saro, how old are you?” she asked him out of the blue.

  “Me?”

  “Do you see anyone else around?” she teased.

  Saro’s heart was about to burst. “Twenty-one,” he said, as he began hauling up the pail full of water.

  “And at your age you’re not married?”

  Not only was Saro still unmarried, but he was still a virgin. Despite the fact that all his friends had already been to the prostitutes in Marsala more than once.

  Mena’s question made him blush. “What kind of question is that to ask?”

  “Answer me.”

  “No, I’m not married. Do you see any wife around here?” Saro playfully answered.

  “Well, there could be,” Mena murmured softly.

  The rope slipped through the young man’s hands, and the pail fell into the water with a splash. He almost lost the rope altogether. Mena burst out laughing, covering her mouth with pale, slender hands that had not yet been ruined by heavy farm work.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “I would never do that, Saro,” she said, pronouncing his name with sincere fervor.

  The two gazed into each other’s eyes, not moving; enjoying that moment of intimacy. Mena was the first to break the spell: “Pull up the water.”

  Saro recovered the pail and poured water into the pitcher that Mena was holding; placing her lips on the rim, the young woman took a long drink. A trickle of water dripped onto her blouse and slid down her chest. When she was done she handed the jug to Saro, turning it around so that he could drink from the same place she had. Saro gripped the pitcher and drank, placing his lips exactly where Mena had rested hers, without once taking his eyes off Mena’s green gaze.

  “Let’s go back now,” the girl said and started out, followed by the young man.

  Saro stored that meeting in his heart as one of the most intense moments of his life. Mena too would never forget it.

  * * *

  The following day, Jano went to the town hall to report the arrests of Rosario Losurdo and Dr. Ragusa to the mayor. But Lorenzo Costa received him with an expression that did not bode well. Michele Fardella, the mayor’s trusted shield, was also present.

  “You disobeyed my orders,” the mayor began, coming straight to the point. “I told you to make the arrests all together, at
dawn.”

  “That’s just what I did,” Jano said, trying to appease him.

  “No!” yelled Costa, banging his fist on the desk and rising from his chair. “You did not do that! You’re a liar and, what’s more, unreliable, since you don’t follow orders!” When Costa got angry, he made the windowpanes tremble.

  “It’s unfair of you to say that.”

  “You couldn’t wait until dawn, no! You had to hurry and arrest the doctor so you could have your little satisfaction over Saro, right? Couldn’t you have waited?”

  Jano, stammering, didn’t know what to say to justify himself.

  “You gave the prince a chance to get away! Losurdo would have skipped out too, if he wasn’t the idiot he is.” The mayor strode around the office as Jano, dazed, stood in the center of the room. He hung his head, annoyed by the presence of Fardella, who was laughing quietly to himself.

  “Tell me, what am I going to do with you?” Costa asked as he walked over to him. “Go ahead, you may speak now.”

  “I arrested the doctor and Losurdo.”

  “That much I already knew. Tell me something I don’t know.” Costa was now having fun with his subordinate. He threw a knowing glance at Fardella, who responded with the same crafty look.

  “They’re in a cell. In the basement of the building.”

  “I already knew that too. I’m the mayor of this shitty town, and the least I can do is be aware of who is in my building.”

  “The prince left for Europe and will be back in a year.”

  “That’s what they made you believe. Prince Ferdinando Licata is still in Sicily, and perhaps not too far from here.” Costa always knew what he was talking about.

  But the discussion was interrupted when someone knocked at the door. The figure of Montalto appeared unexpectedly in the doorway.

  “Come in, Chief,” Costa said amiably.

  The marshal entered the room and got straight to the reason for his visit. “You’re the very man I was looking for, Jano, and it’s appropriate that the mayor be present.”