The Sicilian (33 page)

She was still looking at him like a cat. “And is it as good as La Venera’s?”

Turi Guiliano had never had a love affair with a young girl. He was caught by surprise, but his tactical mind processed the question quickly. Next would come questions about his love-making with La Venera. He didn’t want to hear such questions or answer them. He had not felt the love for the older woman that he felt for this young girl; still he felt a tenderness and respect for La Venera. She was a woman who had suffered tragedies and pain this young girl for all her charms had no knowledge of.

He smiled at Justina gravely. She had risen to clear the table but was waiting for his answer. Guiliano said, “La Venera was a great cook—it’s not fair to judge you against her.”

A dish went flying past his head and he began to laugh uncontrollably. He laughed with joy and delight at being part of such a domestic scene and because for the first time the mask of sweetness and docility was stripped from the young girl’s face. But when she began sobbing he took her in his arms.

They stood there in that instant silvery twilight that falls so quickly in Sicily. He murmured into her ear that peaked so rosily from her jet black hair. “I was joking. You are the best cook in the world.” But he buried his face in her neck so that she could not see his smile.

On their last night together, they talked more than made love. Justina asked him about La Venera and he told her that was the past and to be forgotten. She asked him how they would see each other in the future. He explained that he was arranging for her to be sent to America and would join her there. But her father had already told her that; she was concerned only about how they would manage to see each other before she left for America. Guiliano saw that it never occurred to her that he might not escape; she was too young to imagine tragic endings.

Her father came in the early dawn. Justina clung to Turi Guiliano for one last moment and then was gone.

Guiliano went to the chapel in the ruined castle and waited for Aspanu Pisciotta to bring him his chiefs. While he was waiting he armed himself with the guns he had hidden in the chapel.

In his conversation with Abbot Manfredi just before the wedding, Guiliano had told the old man about his suspicions that Stefan Andolini and Passatempo had had a meeting with Don Croce two days before the massacre at the Portella della Ginestra. He assured the Abbot he would not harm his son, but that it was essential he know the truth. The Abbot told him the whole story. As Turi had guessed, his son had confessed to him.

Don Croce had requested Stefan Andolini to bring Passatempo to him at Villaba for a secret meeting. Andolini had been ordered to wait outside the room where the two other men conferred. This had only been two days before the slaughter. After that May Day tragedy Stefan Andolini had confronted Passatempo, who had admitted that Don Croce had paid him a handsome sum of money to go against Guiliano’s orders and have his machine guns fire into the crowd. Passatempo had threatened that if Andolini said anything about this to Guiliano he would swear that Andolini had been in the room with Don Croce when the bargain was struck. Andolini had been too afraid to tell anyone except his father, the Abbot Manfredi. Manfredi had counseled him to keep his mouth shut. The week after the massacre Guiliano had been in such a raging grief that he was sure to execute both men.

Again Guiliano assured the Abbot that he would not harm his son. Guiliano instructed Pisciotta on what he was to do but said they would conclude the matter after Justina returned to Montelepre, after the honeymoon. He did not want to play the butcher before he played the groom.

He waited now in the chapel of the ruined Norman castle, its ceiling the blue Mediterranean sky. He leaned back against the remains of the altar, and that was how he received his chiefs when Aspanu Pisciotta led them in. The Corporal had been briefed by Pisciotta and stood where his gun could command Passatempo and Stefan Andolini. Those two men were led directly to face Guiliano before the altar. Terranova, who knew nothing, sat on one of the chapel stone benches. He had commanded the defense of the perimeter during the long night hours and he was exhausted. Guiliano had not told any of the others what he would do to Passatempo.

Guiliano knew that Passatempo was like a wild animal—he could sense changes in the atmosphere and the smell of danger as it came off other people. Guiliano was careful to behave exactly as he always had with Passatempo. He had always kept more of a distance between them than with the others. In fact he had assigned Passatempo and his band far away to control the area near Trapani, for Passatempo’s savagery disgusted him. He used Passatempo to perform executions of informers and also to threaten stubborn “invited guests” until they paid their ransoms. Just the sight of Passatempo would usually frighten prisoners and shorten negotiations, but if that was not enough, Passatempo would tell them what he would do to them and their families if the ransom was not paid, and tell them with such relish that the “guests” would stop haggling to be released as quickly as possible.

Guiliano pointed his machine pistol at Passatempo and said, “Before we part we must all settle our debts. You disobeyed my orders, you took money from Don Croce to massacre the people at the Portella della Ginestra.”

Terranova was looking at Guiliano with narrowed eyes wondering about his own safety, whether Guiliano was trying to find out who was guilty. Whether perhaps he too would be accused. He might have made a move to defend himself, but Pisciotta had also leveled his pistol at Passatempo.

Guiliano said to Terranova, “I know your band and you obeyed my orders. Passatempo did not. He endangered your life by doing so, since if I had not found out the truth, I would have had to execute both of you. But now we have to deal with him.”

Stefan Andolini had not moved a muscle. Again he trusted to the fates. He had been faithful to Guiliano and, like those believers in God who cannot believe their God malignant, and commit all crimes in His honor, he had absolute faith he would not be harmed.

Passatempo also knew. With that deep animal instinct he sensed his death was at hand. Nothing could help him but his own ferocity, yet two guns were leveled at him. He could only play for time and make a last desperate attack. So he said, “Stefan Andolini gave me the money and the message—bring him to account,” hoping that Andolini would make a move to protect himself and that under cover of that movement, an opportunity to attack would open.

Guiliano said to Passatempo, “Andolini has confessed his sins and his hand was never on the machine guns. Don Croce deceived him as he deceived me.”

Passatempo said with brute bewilderment, “But I killed a hundred men and you never complained. And the Portella was almost two years ago. We have been together for seven years and that is the only time I disobeyed you. Don Croce gave me reason to believe that you would not be too sorry about what I did. That you were simply too soft to do the deed yourself. And what are a few people dead more or less after all the others we’ve killed? I’ve never been unfaithful to you personally.”

At that moment Guiliano knew how hopeless it was to make this man understand the enormity of his deed. And yet, why should this offend him so? Over the years had he not himself ordered deeds almost as terrible? The execution of the barber, the crucifixion of the fraudulent priest, the kidnappings, the slaughter of
carabinieri
, the merciless killings of spies? If Passatempo was a brute, born and bred, then what was he, the Champion of Sicily? He felt his own reluctance to perform the execution. So Guiliano said, “I will give you time to make your peace with God. Kneel and say your prayers.”

The other men had drifted away from Passatempo, leaving him in his own doomed circle of earth. He made as if to kneel and then his short squat form exploded toward Guiliano. Guiliano stepped forward to meet him and touched the trigger of his machine pistol. The bullets caught Passatempo in midair and yet his body hurtled forward and grazed Guiliano as he fell. Guiliano stepped away from him.

That afternoon Passatempo’s body was found on a mountain road patrolled by the
carabinieri
. Pinned to it was a short note that read,
SO DIE ALL WHO BETRAY GUILIANO
.

Book V

TURI GUILIANO AND MICHAEL CORLEONE

1950

CHAPTER 25

M
ICHAEL WAS DEEP
in sleep, then suddenly came awake. It was as if he had wrenched his body out of a pit. The bedroom was completely black; he had closed the wooden shutters to bar the pale lemon light of the moon. There was no sound, just an eerie stillness broken now by the racing of his heart. He could feel the presence of someone else in the room.

He turned over in the bed, and it seemed to him there was a lighter pool of blackness on the floor nearby. He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. The pool became the severed head of the black Madonna. He thought it had fallen off the table and the sound had brought him awake. He relaxed and smiled with relief. At that moment he heard a small rustling sound at the door. He turned toward it, and in the shadows the dim orange light of the lamp did not quite reach, he could see the dark bony face of Aspanu Pisciotta.

He was sitting on the floor with his back against the door. The mustached mouth was spread in a triumphant grin, as if to say, so much for your guards, so much for the security of your sanctuary.

Michael looked at his wristwatch on the night table. It was three o’clock. “You keep strange hours—what were you waiting for?” he asked. He got out of bed and dressed quickly, then opened the shutters. The moonlight entered the room like a ghost, appearing and disappearing. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” Michael said.

Pisciotta rolled to his feet like a snake raising its head on its body to strike. “I like to watch people sleep. Sometimes in their dreams they shout out their secrets.”

“I never tell secrets,” Michael said. “Not even in my dreams.” He stepped out on the terrace and offered Pisciotta a cigarette. They smoked together. Michael could hear Pisciotta’s chest rattle with suppressed coughs and indeed his face looked ghastly in the moonlight, the bones skeletal.

They were silent. Then Pisciotta said, “Did you ever get the Testament?”

“Yes,” Michael said.

Pisciotta sighed. “Turi trusts me more than anyone on earth—he trusts me with his life. I am the only person who can find him now. But he did not trust me with the Testament. Do you have it?”

Michael hesitated for a moment. Pisciotta laughed. “You are like Turi,” he said.

“The Testament is in America,” Michael said. “It is safe with my father.” He did not want Pisciotta to know it was on its way to Tunis simply because he did not want anyone to know.

Michael almost dreaded to ask the next question. There could be only one reason for Pisciotta to be visiting him so secretly. Only one reason he had risked evading the guards surrounding the villa; or had he been passed through? It could only be that finally Guiliano was ready to appear. “When is Guiliano coming?” he said.

“Tomorrow night,” Pisciotta said. “But not here.”

“Why not?” Michael asked. “This is safe ground.”

Pisciotta laughed, “But I got in here, didn’t I?”

Michael was irritated by this truth. He wondered again if Pisciotta had been passed in by the guards under the order of Don Domenic, or even brought here by him. “It’s for Guiliano to decide,” he said.

“No,” Pisciotta said. “I must decide for him. You promised his family he will be safe. But Don Croce knows you are here, so does Inspector Velardi. Their spies are everywhere. What do you plan for Guiliano? A wedding, a birthday party? A funeral? What kind of foolishness do you tell us? Do you think we are all donkeys here in Sicily?” He said this in a dangerous tone.

“I’m not going to tell you my plan of escape,” Michael said. “You can trust me or not as you choose. Tell me where you will deliver Guiliano and I will be there. Don’t tell me and tomorrow night I will be safe in America, while you and Guiliano are still running for your lives.”

Pisciotta laughed and said, “Spoken like a true Sicilian—you haven’t wasted the years in this country.” He sighed. “I can’t believe it will finally be over,” he said. “Almost seven years of fighting and running, of betrayals and killing. But we were the Kings of Montelepre, Turi and myself—there was glory enough for both of us. He was for the poor and I was for myself. I never believed at first, but in our second year as outlaws, he proved it to me and all of our band. Remember I am his second in command, his cousin, the man he trusts most. I wear the belt with the golden buckle as he does; he gave it to me. But I seduced the young daughter of a farmer in Partinico and made her pregnant. Her father went to Guiliano and told him the story. Do you know what Turi did? He tied me to a tree and beat me with a whip. Not in front of the farmer or any of our men. He would never expose me to such disrespect. It was our secret. But I knew if I disobeyed his orders again, he would kill me. That is our Turi.” His hand shook as he brought it to his mouth. In the fading moonlight his tiny mustache gleamed like a thin sliver of black bone.

Michael thought, What a strange story. Why does he tell it to me?

They went back into the bedroom and Michael closed the shutters. Pisciotta picked up the severed head of the black Madonna off the floor and handed it to Michael. “I threw this on the floor to wake you,” he said. “The Testament was inside, isn’t that true?”

“Yes,” Michael said.

Pisciotta’s face sagged. “Maria Lombardo lied to me. I asked her if she had it. She said no. Then she gave it to you in front of my very eyes.” He laughed bitterly. “I have been like a son to her.” He paused for a moment and then said, “And she has been like a mother to me.”

Pisciotta asked for another cigarette. There was still some wine left in the jug on the night table. Michael poured a glass for both of them, and Pisciotta drank it gratefully. “Thank you,” he said. “Now we must get down to our business. I will turn over Guiliano to you outside the town of Castelvetrano. Ride in an open car so I can recognize you, and come directly on the road from Trapani. I will intercept you at a point of my own choosing. If there is danger, wear a cap and we will not appear. The time will be as soon as dawn breaks. Do you think you can manage that?”

“Yes,” Michael said. “Everything is arranged. There is one thing I should tell you: Stefan Andolini did not keep his appointment with Professor Adonis yesterday. The Professor was very worried.”

Pisciotta was startled for the first time. Then he shrugged. “The little man was always bad luck,” he said. “Now we must say goodbye until tomorrow at dawn.” He took Michael’s hand in his own.

Michael said impulsively, “Come with us to America.”

Pisciotta shook his head. “I have lived in Sicily all of my life and I have loved my life. And so I must die in Sicily if I must. But thank you.”

Michael was strangely moved by these words. Even with his scant knowledge of Pisciotta, he sensed that this was a man who could never be transplanted from the earth and mountains of Sicily. He was too fierce, too bloodthirsty; his coloring, his voice were all of Sicily. He could never trust a strange land.

“I’ll pass you through the gate,” Michael said.

“No,” Pisciotta said. “Our little meeting must remain a secret.”

After Pisciotta had left, Michael lay on his bed until dawn, unable to sleep. He would finally meet Turi Guiliano face to face; they would travel to America together. He wondered what kind of man he would find Guiliano to be. Would he be his legend? So much larger than life that he dominated this island and affected the course of a nation? He got up from the bed and opened the shutters. Dawn was finally breaking and he watched the sun move up in the sky and throw a golden highway across the sea, and riding on that broad beam of light he saw the motor launch speeding toward the dock. He rushed out of the villa and down to the beach to greet Peter Clemenza.

They had breakfast together, and Michael told him about Pisciotta’s visit. Clemenza did not seem surprised that Pisciotta had penetrated the guarded villa.

They spent the rest of the morning making their plans for the meeting with Guiliano. There might be spies watching the villa for any extraordinary movement; a column of automobiles would surely attract attention. Also Michael would certainly be under close observation. True, the Sicilian Security Police under Inspector Velardi would not interfere, but who knew what treacheries might be afoot?

When they had finished their planning, they had lunch, and then Michael went to his room for an afternoon sleep. He wanted to be fresh for the long night. Peter Clemenza had too many details to attend to—giving orders to his men, arranging transport and briefing his brother, Don Domenic, upon his return home.

Michael closed the shutters in his bedroom and lay on the bed. His body was rigid; he could not sleep. Within the next twenty-four hours many terrible things could happen. He had a sense of foreboding. But then he weaved a dream of returning to his home on Long Island, his mother and father waiting for him at the door, his long exile at an end.