by Mario Puzo
They helped Hector Adonis get into the car and told him not to worry. The Testament would be in America within twenty-four hours and Guiliano would be safe. After the car rolled through the gates, Michael walked down to the beach with Clemenza and watched him get on the motor launch, and continued watching as the boat started its journey to Africa. "I'll be back in the morning," Peter Clemenza called out. And Michael wondered what would happen if this was the night Guiliano chose to appear.
Later he had dinner, the two old women serving him. Afterward he walked along the beach until turned back by the guards at the perimeter of the villa's estate. It was the few minutes before darkness, and the Mediterranean Sea was the deepest and most velvety blue and from beyond the horizon he could smell the continent of Africa, a perfume of wild flowers and wild animals.
Here by the water there was not the whirring of insects; those creatures needed the lush vegetation, the smoky heated air of the interior. It was almost as if a machine had stopped running. He stood on the beach feeling the peace and beauty of a Sicilian night and he pitied all the others voyaging fearfully in the darkness; Guiliano in his mountains, Pisciotta with the fragile shield of his special red-bordered pass going through enemy lines, Professor Adonis and Stefano Andolini searching for each other on the dusty roads of Sicily, Peter Clemenza riding the blue-black sea to Tunis; and where had Don Domenico Clemenza gone that he had not appeared for dinner? They were all shadows in the Sicilian night, and when they reappeared the stage would be set for the life or death of Turi Guiliano.
BOOK IV
DON CROCE
1947
CHAPTER 18
The House of Savoy's King Umberto II was a humble sweet-natured man much beloved by the people, and he had approved the referendum on whether or not Italy should remain a nominal monarchy. He did not wish to remain a king if his people did not want him. And in this he was like his predecessors. The Savoy kings had always been unambitious rulers; their monarchies had been really democracies ruled by Parliament. The political experts were sure the referendum would be in favor of the monarchy.
The island of Sicily was counted on to give heavy majorities to retain the status quo. At this time the two most powerful forces on the island were Turi Guiliano, whose band controlled the northwest corner of Sicily, and Don Croce Malo, who with his Friends of the Friends controlled the rest of Sicily. Guiliano took no part in the election strategies of any political party. Don Croce and the Mafia exerted every effort to ensure the reelection of the Christian Democrats and the retention of the monarchy.
But to the surprise of everyone, the voters of Italy swept away the monarchy; Italy became a republic. And the Socialists and Communists made such a strong showing that the Christian Democrats tottered and almost fell. The next elections might see a godless, Socialist government ruling from Rome. The Christian Democratic party began marshaling all its resources to win the next election.
The biggest surprise had been Sicily. They elected many deputies to Parliament who belonged to the Socialist and Communist parties. In Sicily a trade union was still considered the work of the devil, and many industries and landowners refused to deal with them. What had happened?
Don Croce was enraged. His people had done their job. They had made threats that frightened the villagers in all the rural areas, but obviously the threats had failed in the end. The Catholic Church had priests preaching against the Communists, and the nuns gave their charity baskets of spaghetti and olive oil only to those who promised to vote the Christian Democratic ticket. The church hierarchy in Sicily was stunned. It had distributed millions of lire in food, but the sly Sicilian peasant had swallowed the charitable bread and spit on the Christian Democratic party.
Minister of Justice Franco Trezza was angry with his fellow Sicilians too - a treacherous lot, cunning even when it brought them no profit, proud of their personal honor when they did not have a pot to piss in. He despaired of them. How could they have voted for the Socialists and Communists who would eventually destroy their family structure and banish their Christian God from all the magnificent cathedrals of Italy? There was only one person who could give him the answer to that question and the solution to the elections coming up that would decide the future political life of Italy. He sent for Don Croce Malo.
* * *
The peasants of Sicily who had voted for the left-wing parties and elected to abolish their beloved king would have been astonished to learn of the anger of all these high personages. They would have been amazed that the powerful nations of the United States, France and Great Britain were concerned that Italy was going to become an ally of Russia. Many of them had never even heard of Russia.
The poor people of Sicily, presented with the gift of a democratic vote for the first time in twenty years, had simply voted for the candidates and political parties that promised them the opportunity to purchase their own little bit of land for a minimal sum.
But they would have been horrified to know that their vote for the left-wing parties was a vote against their family structure, a vote against the Virgin Mary and the Holy Catholic Church whose holy images lit by red candles adorned every kitchen and bedroom in Sicily; horrified to know that they had voted to turn their cathedrals into museums and banish their beloved Pope from the shores of Italy.
No. The Sicilians had voted to be given a piece of land for themselves and their families, not for a political party. They could not conceive of any greater joy in life; to work their own land, to keep what they produced by the sweat of their brow, for themselves and their children. Their dream of heaven was a few acres of grain, a vegetable garden terraced on a mountainside, a tiny vineyard of grapes, a lemon tree and an olive tree.
* * *
Minister of Justice Franco Trezza was a native of Sicily and a genuine anti-Fascist who had spent time in Mussolini's jails before escaping to England. He was a tall aristocratic-looking man with hair still jet black, though his full beard was peppered with gray. Though a true hero, he was also a thoroughgoing bureaucrat and politician, a formidable combination.
The Minister's office in Rome was huge, with massive antique furniture. On the walls were pictures of President Roosevelt and Winston Churchill. The windows were of stained glass and outside them was a little balcony. The Minister poured wine for his honored guest, Don Croce Malo.
They sat sipping wine and talking over the political picture in Sicily and the coming regional elections. Minister Trezza voiced his fears. If Sicily continued its leftist trend at the ballot boxes, the Christian Democratic party might well lose its control of the government. The Catholic Church might well lose its legal position as the official state religion of Italy.
Don Croce did not respond to any of this. He ate steadily, and had to admit to himself that the food in Rome was far better than the food in his native Sicily. The Don bent his huge emperor's head close over his dish of spaghetti filled with truffles; the great jaws chewed steadily and inexorably. Occasionally he wiped his thin mustache with his napkin. The imperial beak of a nose stood sentinel over each new dish brought in by the servants as if scenting them for some poison. The eyes darted back and forth over the lavishly burdened table. He never said a word as the Minister droned on about momentous affairs of state.
They finished up with a huge platter of fruits and cheeses. Then over the ceremonial cup of coffee and a balloon glass of brandy, the Don made himself ready to speak. He shifted his huge bulk in the inadequate chair, and the Minister hastily led him into a drawing room with overstuffed armchairs. He ordered a servant to bring in the coffee and brandy and then dismissed him. The Minister himself poured the Don's espresso, offered a cigar which was refused, then prepared himself to hear the Don's wisdom which he knew would be to the point.
Don Croce regarded the Minister steadily. He was not impressed with the aristocratic profile, blunt thick features, the forcefulness. And he despised the Minister's beard which he thought an affectation. This was a man who could impress in Ro
me but never in Sicily. Yet this was the man who could consolidate the Mafia's power in Sicily. It had been a mistake in the old days to sneer at Rome; the result had been Mussolini and the Fascists. Don Croce had no illusions. A left-wing government could be serious about reforms, about the sweeping out of the subterranean government of the Friends of the Friends. Only a Christian Democratic government would maintain the legal processes that made Don Croce invulnerable, and he agreed to come to Rome with the satisfaction of a faith healer visiting a horde of crippled supplicants who suffered mostly from hysteria. He knew he could effect a cure.
"I can deliver Sicily to you in the next election," he said to Minister Trezza. "But we have need of armed men. You must assure me that you will not move against Turi Guiliano."
"That is the one promise I cannot make," said Minister Trezza.
"That is the one promise you must make," answered Don Croce.
The Minister stroked his small beard. "What kind of man is this Guiliano?" he asked reluctantly. "He is far too young to be so ferocious. Even for a Sicilian."
"Ah, no, he's a gentle lad," said Don Croce, ignoring the Minister's sardonic smile and failing to mention that he had never met Guiliano.
Minister Trezza shook his head. "I don't think that possible," he said. "A man who has killed so many carabinieri cannot be called a gentle lad."
It was true. Don Croce thought that Guiliano had been particularly reckless during the past year. Since the time he had executed "Father" Dodana, Guiliano had unleashed his fury against all his enemies, Mafia and Rome alike.
He had begun sending letters to the newspapers proclaiming he was the ruler of Western Sicily, let Rome do what it may. He also sent letters forbidding the carabinieri of the towns of Montelepre, Corleone and Monreale to go out on patrol in the streets after midnight. His explanation for this was that his men had to get to certain points to visit friends or family, and he did not want them arrested in their beds or shot when they came out of their houses or when he himself wished to visit his family in Montelepre.
The newspapers printed these letters with gleeful sidebars. Salvatore Guiliano forbade the cassetta. This bandit forbids the police from performing their lawful patrols in the towns of Sicily? What impudence. What colossal effrontery. Did this young man think he was the King of Italy? There were cartoons showing carabinieri hiding in an alley of Montelepre as the huge figure of Guiliano stepped majestically into the square.
Of course there was only one thing the Maresciallo of Montelepre could do. Every night he sent patrols into the streets. Every night his garrison, beefed up to one hundred men, were at alert, guarding the entries into the town from the mountains so that Guiliano could not mount an attack.
But on the one occasion he sent his carabinieri into the mountains, Guiliano and his five chiefs - Pisciotta, Terranova, Passatempo, Silvestro and Andolini - each leading a band of fifty men, ambushed them. Guiliano showed no mercy, and six carabinieri were killed. Other detachments fled from a devastating fire of machine guns and rifles.
Rome was up in arms, but it was this very recklessness of Guiliano that could serve them all now if only Don Croce could convince this eggplant of a Minister of Justice.
"Trust me," Don Croce said to Minister Trezza. "Guiliano can serve our purposes. I will persuade him to declare war on the Socialist and Communist parties in Sicily. He will attack their headquarters, he will suppress their organizers. He will be my military arm on a broad scale. Then of course my friends and myself will do the necessary work that cannot be done in public."
Minister Trezza did not seem shocked by this suggestion, but he said in a supercilious voice, "Guiliano is already a national scandal. An international scandal. I have on my desk a plan from the Chief of Staff of the Army to move in troops to suppress him. There is a price of ten million lire on his head. A thousand carabinieri have been alerted to move to Sicily to reinforce the ones already there. And you ask me to protect him? My dear Don Croce, I expected you to help deliver him to us as you helped with the other bandits. Guiliano is the shame of Italy. Everyone thinks he must be eliminated."
Don Croce sipped his espresso and wiped his mustache with his fingers. He was a little impatient with this Roman hypocrisy. He shook his head slowly. "Turi Guiliano is far more valuable to us alive and doing heroic deeds in his mountains. The people of Sicily worship him; they say prayers for his soul and his safety. There is not a man on my island who will betray him. And he is far more cunning than all those other bandits. I have spies in his camp, but such is his personality that I don't know how loyal they are to me. That is the kind of man you talk about. He inspires affection from everyone. If you send your thousand carabinieri and your army and they fail - and they have failed before - what then? I tell you this: If Guiliano decides to help the leftist parties in the next election, you will lose Sicily and therefore, as you must surely know, your party loses Italy." He paused for a long moment and fastened his gaze on the Minister. "You must come to an accommodation with Guiliano."
"And how would all this be arranged?" Minister Trezza asked with the polite, superior smile that Don Croce despised. It was a Roman smile and the man was Sicilian born. The Minister went on. "I have it on good authority that Guiliano has no love for you."
Don Croce shrugged. "He has not endured for the last three years without being clever enough to forget a grudge. And I have a connection with him. Doctor Hector Adonis is one of my people, and he is also Guiliano's godfather and most trusted friend. He will be my intermediary and make my peace with Guiliano. But I must have the necessary assurances from you in some concrete form."
The Minister said sarcastically, "Would you like a signed letter saying I love the bandit I'm trying to catch?"
It was the Don's greatest strength that he never took notice of an insulting tone, a lack of respect, though he stored it away in his heart. He answered quite simply, his face an inscrutable mask. "No," he said. "Simply give me a copy of your Army Chief of Staff plans to mount a campaign against Guiliano. Also a copy of your order to send a thousand carabinieri reinforcements to the island. I will show them to Guiliano and promise him you will not implement the orders if he helps us to educate the Sicilian voters. That will not incriminate you later on - you can always claim that a copy was stolen. Also I will promise Guiliano that if the Christian Democrats win the next election, he will receive a pardon."
"Ah, that no," Minister Trezza said. "A pardon is beyond my powers."
"A promise is not beyond your powers," Don Croce said. "And then if it can be done, very well. If you find it impossible, I will tell him the bad news."
The Minister saw the light. He saw, as Don Croce intended him to see, that in the end Don Croce must be rid of Guiliano, that the two of them could not exist together in Sicily. And that Don Croce would take all the responsibility for this, that the Minister need not concern himself in solving the problem. Certainly promises could be made. He had only to give Don Croce copies of the two military plans.
The Minister pondered his decision. Don Croce lowered his massive head and said softly, "If the pardon is at all possible I would urge it."
The Minister was striding up and down the room thinking out all the complications that could arise. Don Croce never moved his head or body to follow his movements. The Minister said, "Promise him the pardon in my name, but you must know now it will be difficult. The scandal may be too much. Why, if the newspapers even knew that the two of us met they would flay me alive and I would have to retire to my farm in Sicily and shovel shit and shear sheep. Now is it truly necessary for you to have copies of those plans and my order?"
"Nothing can be done without them," Don Croce said. His tenor voice was as powerful and convincing as that of a great singer. "Guiliano needs some proof that we two are friends and some prior reward from us for his services. We accomplish both when I show him the plans and promise that they will not be implemented. He can operate as freely as before without having to fight an army and extra p
olice. My possession of the plans verifies my connection with you, and when the plans do not go into effect, it will establish my influence with Rome."
Minister Trezza poured Don Croce another cup of espresso. "I agree," he said. "I trust in our friendship. Discretion is all. But I worry about your safety. When Guiliano performs his task and is not pardoned, surely he will hold you responsible."
The Don nodded his head but did not speak. He sipped his espresso. The Minister was watching him intently and then said, "The two of you cannot exist together on such a small island."
The Don smiled. "I will make room for him," he said. "There is plenty of time."
"Good, good," Minister Trezza said. "And remember this. If I can promise my party the votes of Sicily in the next election, and if then I can solve the problem of Guiliano with glory to the government, there is no telling how high my rise will be in the rule of Italy. But no matter how high, I will never forget you, my dear friend. You will always have my ear."