The Family Corleone

by Mario Puzo

  A burst of laughter came from the kitchen, followed by Sandra leaving the room red faced. She started up the stairs, probably to the bathroom. Vito hadn’t heard the exchange, but he knew without having to ask that one of the women had said something rude and sexual in nature about Sandra and Santino. Such exchanges had been going on since the announcement of her engagement to Sonny and would continue through to the wedding and honeymoon and beyond. He stayed out of the kitchen when the women were in there cooking and chattering. Sandra on her way up the stairs ran into Tom on his way down. Tom took her hands in his, kissed her on the cheek, and the two of them started in on a conversation of sufficient interest that they both wound up sitting on the steps, talking animatedly. This conversation, Vito knew, would be about Santino. He’d been holed up in his apartment for more than a week, and Sandra wanted him to see a doctor, as did Carmella—and of course he wouldn’t go. He’s stubborn like a man, Vito had heard Carmella tell Sandra earlier in the day. Now Tom held Sandra’s hands in his and reassured her. Sonny will be fine, Vito could hear Tom saying without actually hearing him. Don’t worry about him. Carmella had pressed Vito to make Sonny visit a doctor, but Vito had refused. He’ll be okay, he’d told her. Give him time.

  In the kitchen, someone turned on the radio—probably Michael—and Mayor LaGuardia’s staticky voice entered the house, instantly annoying Vito. While the rest of the city and the country were rapidly moving on from the parade massacre, writing it off to a bunch of crazed Irishmen who hated Italians for taking their jobs—which was the line a handful of well-paid newspapermen were pushing—LaGuardia wouldn’t let it go. He talked like he’d been the one who’d been shot. In the newspapers and on the radio, he went on about “the bums.” Vito was weary from it, and when he heard him start in again, saying something about “arrogance” and again the word “bums,” he slid out from under Connie, put her down next to Lucy, and went into the kitchen to turn off the radio. He was surprised to find that it was Fredo who had turned the thing on, but not surprised that he wasn’t listening. When Vito turned it off, reaching around Fredo, where he sat at the table between Genco’s and Jimmy’s wives, no one even seemed to notice. “Where’s Michael?” he asked Carmella, who was at the stove with Mrs. Columbo. Carmella was stuffing the braciol’, and Mrs. Columbo was shaping meatballs in the palms of her hands and dropping them into a hissing frying pan. “Up in his room!” Carmella said, as if angry. “His head in a book, just like always!” When Vito started out of the kitchen on his way to see Michael, Carmella called after him. “Make him come down!” she said. “It’s not healthy!”

  Vito found Michael in his bed, lying on his belly with a book propped open on his pillow. The boy turned his head when Vito entered the room. “Pop?” he asked. “What’s Mom mad about? Did I do something?”

  Vito sat beside Michael and patted his leg in a way that told him not to worry, no one was mad at him. “What are you reading?” he asked.

  Michael turned onto his back and placed the book on his chest. “It’s a history of New Orleans.”

  “New Orleans?” Vito said. “What are you reading about New Orleans for?”

  “Because,” Michael said. He folded his hands over the book. “It’s the place where there was the largest mass lynching in the history of the United States.”

  “That’s terrible,” Vito said. “Why are you reading about that?”

  “I think I might do my report on it.”

  “I thought your report was on Congress.”

  “Changed my mind,” Michael said. He slid the book off his chest and sat up against his headboard. “I don’t want to do that one anymore.”

  “Why not?” Vito asked. He laid a hand on Michael’s leg and watched the boy’s expression. Michael only shrugged and didn’t answer. “So now you’re doing a report about colored people getting lynched in the South?” He yanked his tie up and stuck out his tongue, trying to make the boy laugh.

  Michael said, “Wasn’t colored people, Pop. Was Italians.”

  “Italians!” Vito leaned back and gave Michael a look of disbelief.

  “The Irish used to run the docks in New Orleans,” Michael said, “until the Sicilians came along and took most of the work away from them.”

  “Sicilians have worked the ocean for thousands of years,” Vito said.

  “Everything was okay,” Michael went on, “until Italian gangsters came along, probably Mafia—”

  “Mafia?” Vito interrupted. “What Mafia? Is that what your book says? There’s no such thing as the Mafia, at least not here in America.”

  “Well, gangsters, then, Pop,” Michael said, and it was clear he wanted to finish his story. “Gangsters shot the police chief, and then when they were acquitted—”

  “Acquitted,” Vito said, seizing on the word. “So they didn’t do it, right?”

  “Some of them were acquitted,” Michael explained, “but probably these gangsters did it. So a mob of citizens went on a rampage and broke into the jail, and they lynched all the Italians they could find. Eleven Italians lynched at once, and most of them were probably innocent.”

  “Most of them?” Vito said.

  “Yes,” Michael said. He met Vito’s eyes and seemed to be watching them carefully. “It was probably just a handful of gangsters that caused the whole thing.”

  “Oh,” Vito said. “I see.” He returned Michael’s gaze until finally the boy looked away. “And this is what you want to do your report on,” he said.

  “Maybe,” Michael answered, looking up at him again, a note of hardness in his voice. “Maybe Italian American veterans of the Great War. That’s something else that I think is interesting. There were a lot of Italian American heroes in that war.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Vito said, and then he said, “Michael…,” as if he might explain something to him, but paused and only watched the boy in silence before he patted him gently on the cheek. “Every man has his own destiny,” he said, grasping the child’s face in his hands and pulling him close for a kiss.

  Michael looked as though he was struggling with himself. Then he leaned forward and embraced his father.

  “Come down and join the family when you’re finished your reading.” Vito pulled himself up from the bed. “Your mother’s making braciol’—” He kissed his fingertips to indicate how good it would be, the braciol’. “Oh,” he added, as if he had just remembered, “I got this for you.” He removed a card from his pocket with a personal note to Michael, encouraging the boy in his studies, signed by Mayor LaGuardia. He handed it to Michael, ruffled his hair, and left him alone.

  29.

  Sonny had just poured a glass of water from a crystal decanter when a stocky, well-dressed guy with a beak of a nose put a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Hey, Sonny,” the guy said, “how much longer they gonna be in there?”

  “I know you?” Sonny asked. Clemenza and Tessio were talking nearby, along with a small crowd of friends and associates of the six dons meeting in the adjacent conference room, the five New York dons and DiMeo from New Jersey.

  “Virgil Sollozzo,” the guy said, and offered Sonny his hand.

  Sonny shook his hand. “They’re just finishing up.” He lifted the glass of water. “My father’s doing so much talking, he’s gotta oil the pipes.”

  “Any problem, Sonny?” Clemenza asked. He and Tessio came up behind Sollozzo and stood one on either side of him. Clemenza had a silver tray in hand, piled high with prosciutto and capicol’, salami, anchovies, and bruschetta.

  “No problems,” Sonny answered. He glanced at the lavish spread of food and drink laid out on a long table, and the men in chefs’ suits with ladles and spatulas in hand, serving the crowd. “Pop outdid himself,” he said. “This is some feast.”

  “That for your father?” Tessio asked, gesturing to the glass of water in Sonny’s hand.”

  “Yeah. Gotta oil the pipes,” Sonny said.

  “Eh!” Clemenza said, pointing to the conference room with h
is tray. “Avanti!”

  “I’m going!” Sonny said. “Madon’!”

  In the conference room of Saint Francis’s, beneath the portraits of saints decorating the walls, Vito was still talking. He sat at the head of the table in an ordinary chair—the throne Mariposa had commanded was nowhere in sight—facing Stracci and Cuneo on one side of the table, Tattaglia and DiMeo on the other, and Barzini at the opposite end. Vito waved for Sonny to bring him the water. Sonny placed the glass in front of his father and then took his place with the other bodyguards standing back against the wall.

  Vito took a sip of water and then folded his hands on the table. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I believe we have achieved great things here today. Before we finish our discussions, I want to say again, on my family’s honor, and to give you my word—and with me, my friends, you know my word is as good as gold. I give you my word now that the fighting is over. I have no wish to interfere in any way with the business of any man present here.” Vito paused and looked from man to man at the table. “As we have agreed,” he continued, “we will meet once or twice a year to discuss any difficulties our people may have with each other. We’ve made certain rules and we’ve come to agreements, and I hope we will all abide by those rules and agreements—and when there are problems, we can meet and resolve them like good businessmen.” At the word businessmen, Vito tapped the table with his finger for emphasis. “There are five families in New York now,” he went on. “There are families in Detroit and Cleveland and San Francisco, and throughout the country. Eventually all these families—all of them that will abide by our rules and agreements—should be represented on a commission that will have as its most important purpose keeping the peace.” Vito paused, again looking from man to man around the table. “We all know,” he said, “that if we have more massacres like those that marred our recent parade, or like the savagery going on now in Chicago, our futures are doomed. But if we can conduct our business peacefully, we will all prosper.”

  When Vito stopped to take a drink of water, Emilio Barzini pushed his chair back and stood with his hands resting on the tabletop, his fingers on the gleaming wood surface as if it were a piano keyboard. “I want to say here in the presence of all the great men assembled at this table, that I stand with Don Corleone and that I swear to abide by the agreements made here today—and it is my hope now that you will all join me in taking an oath to abide by what’s been agreed upon here today.”

  The others at the table nodded and murmured their ascent, and it looked as though Phillip Tattaglia was about to stand and make his pledge—but Vito spoke first, cutting him off. “And let us now too swear,” Vito said, his eyes on Barzini, “that if ever again anyone has anything to do with an infamitá like the parade massacre, a crime in which innocents were murdered, among them a mere child—if ever again any one of us threatens innocents and family members in such an atrocity, there will be no mercy and no forgiveness.” When all the men at the table applauded Vito, whose voice had been more passionate than at any other time in the long meeting, when Barzini too applauded, though a second later than the rest of the men—after all the men had applauded and each of them had spoken up and sworn to abide by the decisions reached in their meeting, then Vito continued. He pressed his hands together as if in prayer and interlocked his fingers. “It is my greatest wish to be thought of as a godfather, a man whose duty it is to do my friends any service, to help my friends out of any trouble—with advice, with money, with my own strength in men and influence. To everyone at this table, I say, your enemies are my enemies, and your friends are my friends. Let this meeting ensure the peace between us all.”

  Before Vito was finished, the men at the table rose from their seats to applaud him. He raised his hand, asking for silence. “Let us keep our word,” he said, with a tone that suggested he had only a few more things to say before he was finished. “Let us earn our bread without shedding each others’ blood. We all know that the world outside is heading to war, but let us, in our world, go in peace.” Vito raised his glass of water, as if in a toast, and took a long drink as the men at the table again applauded before they each approached him to shake his hand and share a few final words.

  Sonny at his post against the wall watched his father shake hands and share embraces with each of the dons. When it was Barzini’s turn, Vito embraced him as if he were a long-lost brother, and when Vito turned him loose from his embrace, Barzini kissed him on the cheek.

  “You’d think they were the best of friends,” Sonny said to Tomasino, who had come up alongside him and joined him in watching Vito and Emilio.

  “They are,” Tomasino said, and he patted Sonny on the back. “It’s over now. We all gotta play nice.” He winked at Sonny. “I’m gonna go have a drink with my new buddy Luca,” he added. He rubbed the scar under his eye and laughed before he headed for the door and the feast.

  Sonny looked once more at Barzini and Tattaglia talking with his father, and then he followed Tomasino out the door.

  By the time the last of the others had left Saint Francis, the sun was low over the rooftops. Straight lines of light came in through a pair of windows and lit up the remnants of antipasto plates and trays of meats and pasta. Only the Corleone family remained, and they, too, were about to leave. Vito had pulled up a chair behind the table, at its center, and Genco and Tessio sat to the left of him, while Sonny and Clemenza were seated to his right. Jimmy Mancini and Al Hats and the others were outside, getting the cars—and for a minute the room was quiet, even the ordinary city sounds of traffic momentarily stilled.

  “Look at this,” Clemenza said, breaking the silence. He pulled an unopened bottle of champagne from out of a crate under the table. “They missed one,” he said, and he wrapped a cloth napkin over the cork and went about loosening it as the others watched. When it popped, Tessio arranged five clean glasses on a tray, took one for himself, and slid the rest in front of Vito.

  “It’s been a good day.” Vito took a glass and let Clemenza fill it for him. “Now we’re the strongest family in New York,” he said, as Clemenza went about pouring champagne for all. “In ten years, we’ll be the strongest family in America.” At that, Tessio said, “Hear, hear,” and the men all lifted their glasses and drank.

  When the room fell silent again, Clemenza stood and looked at Vito as if he was uncertain about something. He hesitated before he said, “Vito,” and his tone suggested great seriousness, which made eyes open, since it was an unusual tone for Clemenza. “Vito,” he repeated, “we all know that this is not what you wanted for Sonny. You had different dreams,” he said, and nodded, acknowledging his don. “But now that things have gone the way they’ve gone, I think we can all be proud of our Santino, who has so recently made his bones and showed his love for his father and so joins us in our world, in our business. You’re one of us now, Sonny,” Clemenza said, addressing him directly. He lifted his glass and offered Sonny a traditional toast. “Cent’anni!” he said. The others, including Vito, repeated after him, “Cent’anni!” and emptied their glasses.

  Sonny, not knowing how to respond, said, “Thank you,” which brought loud laughter from everyone but Vito. Sonny’s face turned red. He looked at his glass of champagne and drank it down. Vito, seeing Sonny’s embarrassment, took his son’s face roughly in his hands and kissed him on the forehead, which brought applause from the others, followed by backslapping and embraces, which Sonny returned gratefully.

  SUMMER 1935

  30.

  At her kitchen sink scrubbing black off the bottom of a pan she’d scorched the night before, Eileen didn’t know what bothered her more, the poor ventilation in her apartment, which turned the place into a sauna whenever the temperature went into the nineties, as it had on this sunny mid-June afternoon; the wobbling rattle from the table behind her of a cheap Westinghouse fan, which did nothing more it seemed than create a mild disturbance in the pool of hot air sitting over the kitchen; or Caitlin’s whining, which had been going on all day
about one thing and then another and then the next. Currently, the stickers in her sticker book weren’t sticking because of the heat. “Caitlin,” she said, without looking up from her work, “you’re a hairsbreadth away from a good spanking if you don’t stop your whining.” She had meant for her warning to be seasoned with a touch of affection, but it hadn’t come out that way at all. It had come out nasty and mean.

  “I’m not whining!” Caitlin answered. “My stickers won’t stick and I can’t play with it this way!”

  Eileen covered the bottom of the pan with hot soapy water and left it to soak. She took a second to still the anger that gripped her, and then faced her daughter. “Caitlin,” she said, as sweetly as she could manage, “why don’t you go outside and play with your friends?”

  “I don’t have any friends,” Caitlin said. Her bottom lip was trembling and her eyes were full of tears. The summery yellow dress she’d changed into only an hour earlier was already soaked with sweat.

  “Sure you have friends,” Eileen said. She dried her hands on a red dish towel and offered Caitlin a smile.