Mario Puzo The Sicilian
Dedicated to Carol
Book I Michael Corleone 1950
Chapter 1
Michael Corleone stood on a long wooden pier in Palermo and watched as a large ocean liner was leaving for America.
He was supposed to sail on this ship, but new instructions came from his father.
He waved goodbye to the people in the small fishing boat who had brought him to this pier — the people who had guarded him all these years.
The fishing boat was following the whitish trail behind the stern of the ocean liner, like a brave little duck following its mother.
The people on board waved back — he would never see them again.
Workers in caps and baggy trousers were scurrying around the pier, unloading ships, loading trucks that were parked on a long pier.
These wiry, small people in flattened caps that covered their faces looked more like Arabs than Italians.
Among them were his new bodyguards, who would ensure his safety before he met Don Croce Malo, Saro di Capi, the head of the mafia.
Here in Sicily, they are called "Friends of Friends".
For newspapers all over the world, they are the mafia, but in Sicily the word "mafia" never leaves the lips of ordinary citizens.
Just as they will never say about Don Croce a little "Saro di Capi", but only"A kind soul".
During his two year exile in Sicily, Michael had heard many stories about the house of Croce, sometimes so fantastic that it was hard to believe in the existence of such a person.
However, the instructions received from his father were unequivocal: he was ordered to have dinner with Don Croce today.
They must agree on the escape from Sicily of the famous robber Salvatore Guiliano.
Michael Corleone couldnot leave Sicily without him.
Not more than fifty meters from the pier, a large black car was parked on a narrow street.
Three men loomed in front of him, dark rectangles against the dazzling canvas of sunlight.
Michael started toward them.
He stopped for a minute to light a cigarette and look at the city.
Palermo is located at the bottom of a bowl formed by a once active volcano, surrounded by mountains on three sides, and on the fourth it broke out to the dazzling blue of the Mediterranean Sea.
The city shimmered in the golden rays of the Sicilian midday sun.
A red light seemed to snake along the ground — it seemed that these were traces of blood spilled on the Sicilian soil for many centuries.
The golden rays of the sun caressed the majestic marble columns of Greek temples, the slender Muslim minarets, the bizarre ligature on the facades of Spanish cathedrals; on the slope of a distant hill, the gloomy battlements of an ancient Norman castle could be seen.
The legacy of the most diverse and brutal military rulers in Sicily can also be found from earlier, pre Christmas times.
There, beyond the castle walls, the pointed mountains held the slightly pampered Palermo in a deadly embrace, as if they were kneeling together in prayer, pulling a rope tightly wrapped around the neck of the city.
Above, countless reddish hawks darted across the crystal blue sky.
Michael walked over to the three men waiting for him at the end of the dock.
Faces and figures began to stand out on the black rectangles.
With each step he could distinguish them more clearly, and they seemed to part, disperse, as if they wanted to surround him from all sides when they met.
All three of them knew Michael's story.
They knew that he was the youngest son of the great American Don Corleone, the Godfather, whose power extended even to Sicily.
They knew that Michael had killed a police officer in New York, cracking down on an opponent of the Corleone empire.
They knew that because of the murder he had had to flee and hide in Sicily and that now, finally, when the matter was "settled", he intended to return home and take the place of the prince heir in the Corleone family.
They looked at Michael, at how quickly and easily he moves, how carefully he looks at everything, how exhausted he looks like a man who has known both suffering and danger.
He was certainly worthy of "respect".
When Michael stepped off the dock, the first person to greet him was a priest in a cassock that hugged his plump bodies and in a dirty felt hat.
The priest's white collar was dusted with red Sicilian dust, but the face above him looked worldly plump.
Father Beniamino Malo, the brother of the great Don Croce, was shy and pious, he was devoted to his illustrious relative, never once embarrassed that he carried the devil at his heart.
Detractors hinted that he was even passing on the secrets of confessions to Don Croce.
Father Beniamino smiled nervously as he shook Michael's hand, and seemed pleasantly surprised, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of Michael's friendly smile, which did not look at all like a killer's smile.
The second one greeted him not so cordially, although quite politely.
It was Inspector Frederico Velardi, the head of the secret police of all Sicily.
The only one of the three didnot have a welcoming smile on his face.
He seemed thin and too well dressed for a man on a government salary.
His cold blue eyes betrayed his kinship with the Norman conquerors.
Inspector Velardi had no love for an American who had killed a high ranking policeman.
From this, and in Sicily, you can expect something in the same spirit.
Velardi shook Michael's hand as if crossing swords.
The third was taller and larger — next to the other two, he seemed huge.
Gripping Michael's arm tightly, he pulled him to him and wrapped him in a hug.
"Brother Michael," he said, " welcome to Palermo.
He looked at Michael with a friendly but wary look.
— I'm Stefan Andolini, your father and I grew up together in Corleone.
I saw you in America as a child.
Remember me?
Oddly enough, Michael remembered.
For Stefan Andolini — the rarest case for a Sicilian is red.
This was his curse, since the Sicilians consider Judas red.
And it was impossible to forget his face.
The mouth is huge, irregular in shape, with thick lips that look like pieces of meat with blood, above it are hairy nostrils and deep — set eyes.
Although he was smiling, his face suggested murder.
When Michael looked at the priest, he immediately understood what was going on.
But the presence of Inspector Velardi surprised him.
Andolini, performing family duties, diligently explained to Michael the official status of the inspector.
Michael was wary.
What is he doing here?
Velardi was considered one of the most ruthless hunters on Salvatore Guiliano.
The Inspector and Stefan Andolini clearly did not like each other; they behaved with exaggerated politeness, like people preparing for a deadly duel.
The driver opened the car door.
Father Beniamino and Stefan Andolini patted Michael lightly on the shoulder and forced him to sit in the back.
Father Beniamino, with Christian humility, insisted that Michael sit by the window, and he in the middle, because then Michael would be able to see the beauty of Palermo.
Andolini was the third in the back seat.
The inspector had already managed to jump into the car next to the driver.
Michael noticed that he was holding the door handle so that he could open it instantly.
A thought flashed through Michael's mind: perhaps Father Beniamino had climbed into the middle so as not to become a target.
The car, like a big black dragon, slowly made its way through the streets of Palermo.
Along the avenue there were elegant houses in the Moorish style, massive public buildings with Greek columns, Spanish cathedrals.
Private houses, painted blue, white, and yellow, had balconies on their facades, and flowers hanging from them formed another road over their heads.
It would have been a charming sight, if not for the detachments of the Carabinieri the Italian state police who stood at every corner with rifles at the ready.
The Carabinieri were also on the balconies above.
Their car was clearly distinguished among the carts, especially rural ones, drawn by mules, mostly carrying fresh food from the villages.
These wagons — every detail of them, down to the spokes and shafts — were painted in cheerful, bright colors.
On the side walls of many of them are images of knights in helmets and kings in crowns: scenes from the legends of Charlemagne and Roland, these ancient heroes of Sicilian folklore.
But on some of the carts, under the image of a handsome young man in moleskin trousers and a white tank top, with pistols in his belt and a rifle over his shoulder, Michael saw an inscription in two lines, which always ended in large red letters GUILIANO.
During his exile in Sicily, Michael had heard a lot about Salvatore Guiliano.
His name was in the papers all the time.
People were talking about him everywhere.
Michael's wife Apollonia once admitted that she prays for Guiliano every night, almost all the children and youth of Sicily prayed for him.
They adored him — after all, he was one of them, such they all dreamed of becoming.
Although he was not even thirty, he was considered a great military commander, as he managed to overcome the detachments of the Carabinieri sent against him.
Guiliano was handsome and kind, for he distributed most of his criminal earnings to the poor.
He was noble and never allowed the members of his squad to molest women or priests.
If an informer or traitor was executed, he always gave the victim to pray and purify his soul in order to come to an agreement with the rulers of the other world.
Michael already knew all this.
They turned off the avenue, and Michael's eyes were attracted by a huge inscription written in black letters on one of the houses.
He had time to notice the word "Guiliano"in the top line.
Father Beniamino leaned over to the window and said — " This is one of Guiliano's proclamations.
Despite everything, he still rules at night in Palermo.
— What's it about?"
Michael asked.
"He allows the people of Palermo to ride the trams again," Father Beniamino replied.
— Does he allow it?
Michael smiled.
— Does the robber allow it?
Stefan Andolini, on the opposite side of the car, laughed.
— The fact is that the Carabinieri ride on the trams, and Guiliano blows them up.
At first, he warned residents not to use trams.
And now he promises not to blow it up again.
Michael asked dryly, " Why does Guiliano blow up trams that are used by policemen?"
Inspector Velardi turned his head.
— Because Rome foolishly arrested his father and mother for collaborating with a known criminal, their own son.
The Republic has not abolished the fascist laws.
"My brother Don Croce has arranged for their release," Father Beniamino said, not without pride.
"Oh, my brother was very angry with Rome.
My God, Michael thought, was Don Croce angry with Rome?
What the hell did this Don Croce mean, except that he was a pezzonovante, the leader of the mafia.
The car stopped in front of a pink building a whole block long.
Each of its corners was decorated with blue turrets.
In front of the entrance, with a wide green striped awning stretched over it, which read "Hotel Umberto", two doormen in dazzling uniforms with gold buttons stood.
But this splendor did not attract Michael's gaze.
With a practiced eye, he scanned the street in front of the hotel.
I noticed at least a dozen guards walking in pairs or leaning on the metal railing.
These people did not hide what they were here for.
Revolvers were visible under the unbuttoned jackets.
When Michael got out of the car, two of them, with thin cigars in their teeth, blocked the passage for a moment, looking at it carefully, as if calculating what kind of grave they would need.
They ignored Inspector Velardi and the others.
When their group entered the hotel, the guards blocked the entrance behind them.
Four more people, who were in the lobby, led them down a long corridor.
They carried themselves as proudly as if they had served in the emperor's palace.
The end of the corridor was blocked by a double massive oak door.
The man sitting in the high, throne like chair got up and unlocked the door with a bronze key.
He bowed, giving Father Beniamino a conspiratorial smile as he did so.
A suite of magnificent rooms opened before them; behind the open windows stretched a magnificent garden, from which the fragrance of lemon trees wafted.
As they entered, Michael noticed that there were two men on duty at the door on the inside.
Michael wondered why Don Croce was being so guarded.
He is a friend of Guiliano, but he is also a confidant of the Minister of Justice in Rome, so he has nothing to fear from the Carabinieri who filled Palermo.
Then who and what is the great don afraid of?
Who is his enemy?
The living room furniture was once intended for an Italian palace CU there were giant sized sofas, long and wide like ships, massive marble tables, as if stolen from museums.
They served as a good background for the person who came out of the garden to meet them.
He opened his arms to Michael Corleone.
Standing up, Don Croce was almost the same in width and height.
The massive lion's head was crowned by carefully trimmed thick, gray haired, curly, like a Negro's, hair.
His eyes are dark, like a lizard's, like two raisins inserted above his fleshy cheeks.
These cheeks are two large pieces of mahogany; the left one is smooth, the other is swollen, with a fold.
The mouth was surprisingly neat, with a thin mustache above it.
The main thing in the face was a large, humped nose, like an emperor's.
However, everything below this imperial head belonged to a peasant.
His powerful waist was encircled by huge, ill fitting trousers with wide light suspenders.
He was wearing an enormous, freshly laundered, but not ironed shirt.
There was no tie or jacket, and he was walking on the marble floor with bare feet.
He did not look at all like a man who "pecked" from every business enterprise in Palermo, right down to the last market stand in the square.
It was hard to believe that he was responsible for a thousand deaths.
That Western Sicily is ruled more by him than by the Roman government.
And that he was richer than the dukes and barons who owned huge estates in Sicily.
Impulsively hugging Michael, he said — " I knew your father when we were still children.
I am glad that he has such a good son.
Then he asked how the guest got to him and if he needed anything.
Michael smiled and said that a piece of bread and a drop of wine would suit him.
Don Croce immediately took him to the garden, because, like all Sicilians, he ate as much as possible in the open air.
The table was set by the lemon tree.
It shone with exquisite glass and snow white tablecloths.
The servants pushed back the wide bamboo chairs.
Don Croce was briskly and courteously seating the guests at the table; he looked younger than he really was, and he was already in his seventh decade.
He placed Michael on his right hand, and his brother, the priest, on his left.
Inspector Velardi and Stefan Andolini were placed opposite and generally treated them with some coldness.
All Sicilians are lovers of food, and one of the few jokes that people allowed themselves about Don Croce was that he would fill his stomach first, and then go to beat the enemy.
And now he was sitting with a blissful, contented smile, holding a knife and fork at the ready while the servants brought food.
Michael looked around the garden.
It was surrounded by a high stone wall, and at least a dozen guards sat at small tables, but no more than two at each, and far enough away so as not to bother Don Croce and his interlocutors.
The garden smelled of lemon trees and olive oil.
Don Croce personally treated Michael: he put fried chicken and potatoes on his plate, watched as the spaghetti was sprinkled with grated cheese on another smaller plate, filled his glass with a cloudy white wine of local production.
There was a sincere concern in his actions, an interest in making sure that his new friend ate and drank well.
Michael was hungry, he hadnot touched food since the morning, so Don kept giving him treats.
At the same time, he carefully watched the meal of the other guests, and at a sign from him, the servant kept refilling a glass or filling an empty plate.
Finally, they finished their meal, and while sipping coffee, Don prepared to get down to business.
"So you're going to help our friend Guiliano escape to America," he said to Michael.
"Those are my instructions," Michael said.
— I must ensure that he comes to America without any misadventures.
Don Croce nodded, his large mahogany face wearing the sleepy, satisfied expression of a glutton.
His vibrating high pitched voice clearly did not match his face and body.
— Your father and I have agreed on everything, I had to give you Salvatore Guiliano.
However, nothing in life goes smoothly, something always happens.
Now it's hard for me to keep my promise.
He held up his hand, not letting Michael interrupt him.
— And it's not my fault.
I have not changed my position.
But Guiliano doesnot trust anyone anymore, not even me.
For many years, from the very first day when he was outlawed, I helped him survive; we acted together.
With my help, he has become the most famous person in Sicily, even though he is only twenty seven years old now.
But his time has passed.
Five thousand Italian soldiers and policemen are scouring the mountains.
And he still refuses to rely on me.
"Then there's nothing I can do for him," Michael said.
— I have been ordered to wait no more than seven days, after which I must go to America.
But even as he said this, he could not understand why Guiliano's escape was so important to his father.
After so many years of exile, Michael wanted to go home terribly, he was worried about his father's health.
When he escaped from America, his father was lying seriously injured in the hospital.
After his escape, Sonny's older brother was killed.
The Corleone family was fighting a desperate struggle for existence with the Five families of New York.
The struggle that spread from America to the very center of Sicily, where Michael's young wife was killed.
However, messengers from his father brought news that the old don had recovered from his wounds, that he had reconciled with Five families and arranged for Michael to be cleared of all charges.
Michael knew that his father was waiting for his arrival and wanted to make him his deputy.
That the whole family is burning with impatience to see him his sister Connie, brother Freddie, half brother Tom Hagen and the poor mother, who is probably still mourning Sonny's death.
One thing remained unclear: why was his father delaying his return?
The reason could only be something extremely important related to Guiliano.
Suddenly Michael noticed how intently Inspector Velardi's cold blue eyes were studying him.
There was a look of contempt on his thin, aristocratic face, as if Michael had shown cowardice.
"Be patient," Don Croce said.
— Our friend Andolini serves as a liaison between me, Guiliano and his family.
Let's think it over together.
On the way from here, you will visit Guiliano's father and mother in Montelepre this is on the way to Trapani.
He paused for a moment and smiled — the smile didnot even reach his fat cheeks.
— I was told about your plans.
Everyone.
He said it emphatically, but, Michael thought, it is unlikely that he is privy to all the plans.
The Godfather never told anyone everything.
And Don Croce continued in an even voice: "All of us who love Guiliano agree on two points.
He can no longer stay in Sicily and must emigrate to America.
Inspector Velardi thinks the same.
"Even for Sicily, it's strange," Michael said with a smile.
- The inspector is the head of the secret police and is obliged to capture Guiliano.
Don Croce laughed a short, mechanical laugh: "Who can understand Sicily?
But in this case, everything is simple.
Rome prefers Guiliano to live quietly in America, rather than shouting accusations from the dock in a Palermo court.
It's all politics.
Michael was stumped.
He was very uncomfortable.
The situation did not develop according to plan.
— Why would Inspector Velardi want him to disappear?"
A dead Guiliano poses no danger.
"That's my business," Inspector Velardi said contemptuously.
"But Don Croce loves him as if he were his own son.
Stefan Andolini glared at the inspector.
Father Beniamino lowered his head and took a sip from his glass.
But Don Croce looked sternly at the inspector: "We are all friends here, we must tell Michael the truth.
Guiliano holds a marked card.
He has a diary, which he calls his Will.
It contains evidence that the government in Rome — some officials helped him when he was robbing, in the name of his own goals, political goals.
If this document becomes known, the government of the Christian Democrats will fall and Italy will be ruled by socialists and communists.
Inspector Velardi agrees with me that everything possible should be done to prevent this.
So he is ready to help Guiliano escape with the Will, provided that it is not published.
"Have you seen this will? " asked Michael.
I wonder if my father knew about this.
Such a document was never mentioned in the instructions.
"I know its contents," Don Croce said.
"If it were up to me, I'd have Guiliano killed, and I donot care about the Will," Inspector Velardi said sharply.
Stefan Andolini looked at the inspector with such frank and violent hatred that Michael realized that this man was as dangerous as Don Croce himself.
Andolini said — " Guiliano will never give up, and you are not the person who will put him in the grave.
Better take care of yourself.
Don Croce raised his hand, and there was silence at the table.
He spoke slowly, addressing Michael and ignoring the others, " I may not be able to keep my promise to your father and I will not give Guiliano to you.
Why Don Corleone is involved in this case, I can not say.
There is no doubt that he has his own reasons, and good reasons.
But what can I do?
This afternoon, go to Guiliano's parents, convince them that their son should trust me, and remind these nice people that it was I who released them from prison.
He paused.
"Maybe then we can help their son."
During his exile and wanderings, Michael developed an animal instinct — a sense of impending danger.
He did not like Inspector Velardi, he was afraid of the cruel Stefan Andolini, Father Beniamino made him shudder.
But the most disturbing signals to his brain came from Don Croce.
Everyone sitting at the table, even Sobs don Croce's brother in law, Father Beniamino, lowered his voice when talking to him.
They crouched down to him, waiting for his words, even stopped chewing.
The servants hovered around him as if around the sun, the guards scattered around the garden did not let him out of sight, ready to jump up on command and tear anyone to pieces.
"Don Croce, I'm here to follow your wishes," Michael said carefully.
The don nodded his large head with satisfaction, folded his hands on his stomach in a dignified manner and said in a loud tenor: "We must be absolutely frank with each other.
Tell me, how do you plan to get Guiliano out?
Talk to me like a son to his father.
Michael glanced at Inspector Velardi.
He will never be frank in the presence of the head of the secret police of Sicily.
Don Croce immediately understood everything.
"Inspector Velardi follows my advice in everything," he said.
— You can trust him as much as you can trust me.
Michael raised his glass of wine to his lips.
Over its edge, he could see the guards watching them the audience at the performance.
He noticed the contorted face of Inspector Velardi, who did not like the don's words, for all their diplomacy; it was clear from them that Don Croce commanded both him and his service.
Michael saw the disapproving expression on Stefan Andolini's cruel, big lipped face.
Only Father Beniamino, not wanting to open up under his gaze, sat with his head bowed.
Michael drank a glass of cloudy white wine, and the servant immediately refilled it.
Suddenly, the garden seemed like a dangerous place to Michael.
He felt in his gut that what Don Croce had said could not be true.
Why should all of them at this table trust the head of the secret police of Sicily?
And will Guiliano trust him? "
The history of Sicily is full of betrayal, " Michael thought grimly.
He remembered his murdered wife.
So why is Don Croce so trusting?
And why are there such security measures around it?
Don Croce is the head of the mafia.
He has the most influential connections in Rome, and, in fact, he is the unofficial representative of the government in Sicily.
Then what is Don Croce afraid of?
He could only be afraid of Guiliano.
But Don was watching him closely.
And Michael tried to speak as sincerely as possible: - My plan is very simple.
I'll be waiting in Trapani for Salvatore Guiliano to be brought to me.
You and your people.
A speedboat will take us to Africa.
Of course, we will have the relevant documents.
From Africa, we will fly to America, where everything is organized so that we pass border control without the usual formalities.
I hope it will be simple.
He paused.
- If you have no other idea.
Don sighed and took a sip from his glass of wine.
Then he fixed his gaze on Michael.
And he spoke slowly, with emphasis.
"Sicily is a tragic island," he said.
- There is no trust here.
There is no order.
a nice person.
And with such a sympathetic heart that he won the love of all Sicilians.
Don Croce paused and finished his glass.
- But fate turned its back on him.
With a handful of men in the mountains, he confronts the army that Italy has sent against him.
And at every corner he is betrayed.
So he doesnot trust anyone, not even himself.
For a moment, Don looked at Michael with an icy stare.
"I'll be completely frank, — he said.
— If I didnot love Guiliano so much, I would probably give advice that should not be given.
Perhaps I should have said with all bluntness: go to America without him.
We are coming to the end of a tragedy that does not concern you in any way.
Don paused and sighed again.
— But, of course, you are our only hope, and I must ask you to stay and help our cause.
I will support Guiliano in every possible way and will never leave him.
Don Croce raised his glass.
- Yes, he lives a thousand years.
They all drank, and Michael had to wonder: does Don want him to stay or to leave Guiliano?
Stefan Andolini spoke up — " Remember, we promised Guiliano's parents that Michael would visit them in Montelepre.
"I will," Don Croce said softly.
— We have to somehow reassure his parents.
Father Beniamino said with an emphasis that did not fit in with his humility: "Maybe they know something about the Will.
Don Croce sighed.
- Yes, Guiliano's will.
He thinks it will save his life, or at least avenge his death.
And he said, speaking directly to Michael: "Remember this.
Rome is afraid of the Will, but I am not.
The journey from Palermo to Montelepre took no more than an hour by car.
But during this hour, Michael and Andolini from urban civilization fell into the primitive conditions of the Sicilian province.
The tiny Fiat was driven by Stefan Andolini, and in the afternoon sun, his smooth shaven cheeks and chin shone with countless reddish hair roots.
He drove the car carefully and slowly, like a person who has learned to drive a car at an elderly age.
The Fiat was panting as it climbed over the high passes, as if it didnot have enough breath.
On the road, they were stopped by ambushes of the national police detachments of at least twelve people with armored cars bristling with machine guns.
The documents that Andolini had were working flawlessly.
It seemed strange to Michael that at such a small distance from a big city, the area looked so wild and pristine.
They passed small villages where houses built of stone balanced precariously on steep slopes.
These slopes were carefully cultivated and turned into narrow fields on terraces, where green pointed plants grew in neat rows.
The small hills were strewn with countless huge white boulders, half buried among moss and bamboo; from a distance, they looked like huge cemeteries without tombstone sculptures.
Along the road, at some distance from each other, there were chapels — wooden boxes locked with a padlock, and inside there were statues of the Virgin Mary or some saint.
At one of these chapels, Michael saw a woman on her knees she was praying, and her husband was sitting in a cart pulled by a donkey, and was pulling wine from a bottle.
Stefan Andolini put his hand on Michael's shoulder and said — " It's nice to see you, my dear brother.
Do you know that the Guiliano family is related to us?
Michael was sure it was a lie — there was something in the red haired man's fox like grin that said it.
"No, — he said.
— All I know is that Guiliano's parents worked for my father in America.
"So am I —" Andolini said.
— We helped build your father a house on Long Island.
Old Guiliano was a wonderful bricklayer, and although your father offered him to participate in the olive oil business, he remained in his profession.
He worked like a Negro for eighteen years and saved like a Jew.
Then he returned to Sicily to live as an Englishman.
However, the war and Mussolini turned his lira into nothing, and now he has only a house and a small piece of land.
He curses the day he left America.
They thought that their boy would grow up and become a prince, and he became a robber.
The Fiat was raising a cloud of dust; the thickets of wild pears and bamboo along the road looked like ghosts, clusters of pears looked like lowered hands.
Olive groves and vineyards could be seen in the valleys.
Suddenly Andolini asked — " Do you really think you're going to help him escape? "
— After lunch with the inspector and Don Croce, I do not know what is what.
Do they want me to help?
My father said that Don Croce would do everything.
He never once mentioned the inspector.
Andolini pushed back his thinning hair.
Unconsciously, he pressed the gas pedal, and the Fiat rushed forward.
"Guiliano and Don Croce are enemies now," he said.
— But we developed a plan without Don Croce's participation.
Turi and his parents are counting on you.
They know that your father never cheated on a friend.
"Whose side are you on? " asked Michael.
Andolini sighed.
"I fought for Guiliano," he said.
— We have been comrades for the last five years, and before that he saved my life.
But I live in Sicily and I canot ignore Don Croce.
I walk a tightrope between them, but I will never betray Guiliano.
What the hell was he talking about, Michael thought.
Why is it impossible to get a direct answer from anyone here?
Because this is Sicily, he reasoned.
Sicilians are terribly afraid of the truth.
For thousands of years, tyrants and inquisitors have tortured them to get the truth.
The government in Rome, with its legal apparatus, demanded the truth.
The priest in the confessional squeezed out the truth under the threat of eternal damnation.
The truth was a source of power, a lever of control — so why should a person blurt it out?
"I should find some way out myself," Michael thought, " or give up this mission and hurry home."
Here he was in dangerous territory.
There was clearly some kind of vendetta between Guiliano and Don Croce, and getting caught up in the whirlwind of a Sicilian vendetta was suicidal.
For the Sicilian believes that revenge is the only true form of justice, and that it should always be ruthless.
On this Catholic island, where figurines of a weeping Christ are in every house, Christian forgiveness is the despicable refuge of a coward.
— Why did Guiliano and Don Croce become enemies?
"Because of the tragedy at Portella della Ginestra," Andolini said.
- Two years ago.
After that, everything changed.
Guiliano accused Don Croce.
Suddenly, the car seemed to fall almost vertically: the road from the mountains descended into the valley.
They passed the ruins of a Norman castle, built nine hundred years ago to terrorize the province; now harmless lizards crawled on it and stray goats wandered.
Below, Michael saw Montelepre.
The town lay deep among the surrounding mountains, like a bucket at the bottom of a well.
It formed a smooth circle; none of the houses protruded beyond its edge, in the rays of the late afternoon sun, their walls blazed with a dark red fire.
And now the Fiat is already making its way through a narrow, winding street, and Andolini stops it in front of a roadblock guarded by a platoon of Carabinieri.
One of them waved his rifle at them to get out of the car.
Michael watched as Andolini showed the documents to the police.
He saw a special pass with a red border, which, as he knew, could only be issued by the Minister of Justice in Rome.
Michael himself had the same one, but he could only show it, according to the instructions he received, as a last resort.
How could a man like Andolini have obtained such an all powerful document?
They got back into the car and drove on through the narrow streets of Montelepre, so narrow that if an oncoming car had appeared, they would not have separated.
The houses with elegant balconies were painted in different colors.
Many - in blue, less often in white and pink.
And very few - in yellow.
At this time, the women were inside, preparing dinner for their husbands.
But there were no children on the streets either.
Instead, there were carabinieri on duty in pairs at every corner.
Montelepre looked like an occupied city under siege.
Only a few stone faced old men looked out from the balconies.
The Fiat stopped in front of a row of houses, one of which was a bright blue color, with the letter "G" forged on the gate.
The gate was opened by a short, wiry man of about sixty in an American dark striped suit, white shirt and black tie.
It was Guiliano's father.
With a quick movement, he hugged Andolini tightly.
He patted Michael on the shoulder almost gratefully as he led them into the house.
They entered a large living room, too chic for a Sicilian house in such a small town.
In the room, a large photograph in an oval cream colored wooden frame, too blurry to make out the image immediately, attracted attention.
Michael immediately realized that it must be Salvatore Guiliano.
A lamp burned on a small round black table under it.
On the other table, a framed photograph was visible in a clearer frame.
Father, mother and son stood against the background of a red curtain, the son protectively put his arm around his mother.
Salvatore Guiliano looked straight at the camera with a challenge.
The face was surprisingly beautiful, like a Greek statue, the features were slightly heavy, as if carved from marble, the lips were full and sensual, oval eyes with half closed lids were set far apart.
The face of a man who is confident in himself, who has decided to make the world take account of himself.
But Michael did not expect that this beautiful face would be so soft.
Father Guiliano led them into the kitchen.
Guiliano's mother, standing at the stove, I looked back to greet them.
Maria Lombarde Guiliano looked much older than in the photo in the room — rather, she seemed to be a completely different woman.
A polite smile was like a grimace on her thin, haggard face with wrinkled, weathered skin.
Long hair with wide gray strands lay on his shoulders.
What was striking was her eyes, almost black with hatred for the whole world, ready to destroy her and her son.
Ignoring her husband and Stefan Andolini, she turned directly to Michael: "Will you help my son or not?"
Michael smiled at her.
- Yes, I'm with you.
"Father Beniamino asked me to take it, but I said you didnot want it," Andolini said to her.
Maria Lombardi looked up, and Michael was amazed at the range of emotions that were reflected on her face.
"Oh, Father Benjamin has a good heart, that's for sure —" she said.
— And with this heart of his, he, like a plague, brings death to the whole village.
He passes on the secrets of confession to his brother, he betrays souls by associating with the devil.
Father Guiliano said with calm reasonableness, as if trying to calm a madwoman: "Don Croce is our friend.
He got us out of prison.
Guiliano's mother exploded: "Ah, Don Croce, the 'Good Soul', he is always, of course, so kind!
But I'll tell you: Don Croce is a snake.
He and our son were going to rule Sicily together, but now Turi is hiding alone in the mountains, and the "Good Soul" is walking around Palermo with his whores.
Don Croce has only to whistle, and Rome will lick his heels.
And he had committed far more crimes than Turi.
He is evil itself, and our son is good.
Father Guiliano said, losing patience, — I understand that our guest has to leave in a few hours, and he should eat before we talk.
Guiliano's mother immediately changed: "Poor thing, you've been driving all day to meet us, and you have to listen to Don Croce's fables and my chatter.
Where are you going?"
"I have to get to Trapani by morning," Michael said.
— I will stay with my father's friends until your son comes to me.
"Have a glass of wine," Guiliano's mother said.
- Then take a walk around the city.
The table will be set in an hour.
And by then, Turi's friends will arrive, and we will be able to discuss everything intelligently.
Andolini stood on one side of Michael, Father Guiliano on the other, and they walked through the narrow cobbled streets of Montelepre; now that the sun had rolled down from the sky, the stones looked black.
In the dim light of twilight, only the figures of the Carabinieri moved around them.
"It used to be a busy town," Father Guiliano said.
- Always, always very poor, like the whole of Sicily, full of grief, but alive.
Now more than seven hundred of our residents are in prison arrested for aiding my son.
They are innocent, most of them, anyway, but the government arrested them to frighten others, to force them to inform on my Turi.
There are about two thousand Carabinieri in the city and more than one thousand catch Turi in the mountains.
That's why people no longer dine outdoors, their children no longer play outside.
The Carabinieri are such cowards that they open fire if even a hare runs across the road.
After dark, there is a curfew, and if any woman in the city goes to visit a neighbor, she is detained, insulted and humiliated.
They drag the men to their dungeons in Palermo for torture.
Stefan Andolini decided to light a cigar, and they had to stop.
Taking a drag on his cigarette, he said with a smile — " Yes, we Sicilians love our native places, but Sicily does not love us.
Father Guiliano shrugged his shoulders.
— I was a fool to come back — " and he shook his head, puzzled.
— Why does my son always meddle in the affairs of strangers, even when they are not relatives at all?
He always had all sorts of great ideas, he always talked about justice.
And a real Sicilian talks about his daily bread.
As they walked along Via Bella, Michael noted that the city was ideally built for ambushes and guerrilla warfare.
The streets were so narrow that only one car could pass, and many were suitable only for small carts and donkeys, on which the Sicilians still transport goods.
Literally a few people could repel any attack, and then hide in the white chalk mountains surrounding the city.
They went down to the central square.
Andolini pointed to a small church that stood on top of it and said — " Here, in this church, Turi was hiding when the police tried to capture him for the first time.
Since then, he has become something of a ghost.
All three of them stared at the church door, as if Salvatore Guiliano might appear in front of them right now.
The sun had set behind the mountains, and they returned to the house just before curfew.
Two strangers were waiting for them there.
One of them is a thin young man with sickly pale skin and large, black, feverish eyes.
He had a dapper moustache and an almost feminine good looks, although he did not look at all effeminate.
He gave off the feeling of proud cruelty that comes from a person who wants to command at all costs.
Michael was shocked when it turned out that it was Gaspare Pisciotta.
Pisciotta more often called Aspanu — was the second man in Turi Guiliano's squad, his cousin and closest friend.
With the exception of Guiliano, he was the most wanted of all, there was a reward of five million lire on his head.
The second stranger also caused surprise, although for a different reason.
Michael shuddered at the first sight of him.
The man was so small that he looked like a dwarf, but he carried himself with great dignity, and Michael immediately felt that if he showed his emotions, he would be mortally offended.
The little man was wearing a perfectly tailored gray striped suit, a wide, obviously expensive silver tie decorated his cream shirt.
The dwarf's thick hair was almost completely gray, although he was probably no more than fifty.
He was elegant.
To the extent that a very small person can look elegant.
His face, with its large, sensual mouth, was beautiful in its own way.
He was introduced as Professor Hector Adonis.
Maria Lombarde Guiliano set the table in the kitchen.
They ate by the window that looked out onto the balcony, where they could see the red strip of sky; the night darkness hid the surrounding mountains.
Michael ate slowly, realizing that they were all watching him, evaluating him.
The food was simple, but good quality spaghetti with ink colored sauce and stewed hare with a hot sauce of tomato and red pepper.
Finally, Gaspare Pisciotta spoke in the local Sicilian dialect: "So you are the son of Vito Corleone, who, they say, is even higher than our Don Croce.
And it is you who will save our Turi.
There was a cold mockery in his voice, it made you want to fight back if you only dared.
With his smile, he seemed to question the motive of any action, as if saying: "Yes, it's true, you're doing a good thing, but what good does it do you?"
— I have to wait for Guiliano in Trapani.
Then I'll take him to America.
Pisciotta said more seriously, — And when Turi is in your hands, will you guarantee his safety?"
Can you protect him from Rome?
Michael knew that Guiliano's mother was watching him closely.
He said cautiously: - As far as a person can guarantee anything from fate.
Yes, I'm sure.
"I'm not," Pisciotta said sharply.
— You confided in Don Croce this afternoon.
I told him about my escape plan.
"Why shouldnot I have done it? " retorted Michael.
How the hell did Pisciotta find out the details of his dinner with Don Croce so quickly?
"According to my father's instructions, Don Croce will arrange for Guiliano to be delivered to me.
In any case, I told him only one of the possible escape plans.
— And what are the others?
Pisciotta asked.
He saw Michael hesitate.
- Tell me, donot be afraid.
If you canot trust the people in this room, then there's no hope for Turi.
Shorty Hector Adonis spoke for the first time.
He had an extremely deep voice, the voice of a natural speaker: "My dear Michael, you must understand that Don Croce is an enemy of Turi Guiliano.
Your father's information is outdated.
Naturally, we cannot hand you the Turi without taking precautions.
I insist that we need to know your plans.
"I can only tell you what I told Don Croce," Michael replied.
— And why should I tell anyone about all my plans?
If I ask where Turi Guiliano is hiding now, will you tell me?
Michael could see from Pisciotta's smile that he generally approved of his answer.
But Hector Adonis said — " It's not the same thing.
You donot need to know where Turi is hiding right now.
And we need to know how you are going to help.
"I donot know anything about you," Michael said quietly.
"I'm sorry," the little man said quite sincerely.
— I taught Turi as a child, and his parents did me the honor of making me his godfather.
Now I am a professor of history and literature at the University of Palermo.
However, I also have a more reliable mandate, which can be certified by everyone at this table.
I am and have always been a member of the Guiliano squad.
Stefan Andolini said quietly: — I'm also part of his squad.
You know my name and that I am your cousin.
And they call me Fra Diavolo. [Devil's Brother]
This name was also legendary in Sicily, and Michael had heard it many times.
He was also hiding, a large sum was assigned for his head.
However, he had just dined next to Inspector Velardi.
Everyone was waiting for his answer.
Michael wasnot going to share all his plans at all, but he realized that he had to tell at least something.
Mother Guiliano carefully see I looked at him.
"It's very simple," Michael said.
— First of all, I must warn you that I canot wait more than seven days.
I havenot been home for too long, and my father needs my help to solve his own problems.
Of course, you can understand how I canot wait to get back to my family.
But the father wants me to help your son.
According to the latest instructions, I am instructed to visit Don Croce here, then go to Trapani.
There I will settle in the villa of a local don.
There will also be people from America waiting for me there, whom I can completely trust.
Professionals.
He paused.
— The word "professional" had a special meaning in Sicily, it usually referred to high ranking executioners in the mafia.
Then he continued, " As soon as Turi gets to me, he will be safe.
That villa is a fortress.
In a few hours we will board a fast ship that will take us to one of the African cities.
There is a special plane waiting there to immediately transfer us to America, where Turi will be under the protection of my father, and you will no longer be afraid for him.
"When will you be ready to receive Turi Guiliano? " asked Hector Adonis.
"If I arrive in Trapani early in the morning," Michael replied, " then give me another twenty four hours.
Suddenly, Guiliano's mother burst into tears.
— My poor Turi doesnot trust anyone anymore.
He will not go to Trapani.
"Then I canot help him," Michael said coldly.
Guiliano's mother drooped in despair.
To Michael's surprise, it was Pisciotta who began to comfort her.
He kissed her and hugged her.
"Maria Lombarde, donot worry," he said.
- Turi is still listening to me.
I'll tell him that we all trust this man from America, right?
He looked questioningly at the others, and they nodded.
— I will bring Turi to Trapani myself.
Everyone seemed satisfied.
Michael realized that it was his cold answer that convinced them to trust him…
They led him into a small living room, where his mother served coffee with aniseed vodka.
Maria Lombarde pointed to a large portrait on the wall.
— Isnot he handsome?"
"No," she said.
— And as kind as he is beautiful.
It broke my heart when he was outlawed…
He will be lucky if he stays alive…
We wanted to grow him into a real Sicilian.
That's what he is.
He lives under the threat of death, a huge sum is promised for his head.
She paused and said with conviction — " My son is a saint.
Michael noticed that Pisciotta smiled a little, the way one smiles when listening to overly sentimental stories of loving parents about the virtues of their children.
Even Father Guiliano waved his hand impatiently.
And Pisciotta said softly, but with a chill: "Dear Maria Lombardi, do not portray your son as helpless.
He knows how to fight back, and his enemies are still afraid of him.
Guiliano's mother said more calmly, — I know he has killed many times, but he has never committed an injustice.
Suddenly, she took Michael by the hand and led him to the kitchen, and from there to the balcony.
"None of them really knows my son," she told Michael.
— They donot know how kind and affectionate he is.
Maybe he has to behave differently with other people, but he is always sincere with me.
He listened to my every word, never said anything rude to me.
He was a loving, obedient son.
In the first days, when he was outlawed, he looked down from the mountains, but saw nothing.
And I looked up and didnot see anything either.
But we felt each other's presence, each other's love.
And I feel him next to me today.
I keep thinking about how he is there alone in the mountains, when thousands of soldiers are chasing him,and my heart breaks.
And you're probably the only one who can save him.
Promise me you'll wait for him.
She squeezed his hands tightly, and tears rolled down her cheeks.
Michael peered into the darkness of the night: the town of Montelepre was nestled in the heart of the high mountains, only a dot of light shone in the central square.
From time to time, the clang of rifles and the hoarse voices of patrolling carabinieri could be heard in the streets below.
The town seemed to be full of ghosts.
They were floating in the soft summer night air, filled with the smell of lemon trees, the light buzzing of countless insects, the sudden cries of police patrols walking through the streets.
teffel under the arm.
Can such a short man really be a friend of "Friends"?
He shot them a cold look, and they immediately got scared.
The rector's office looked more like a library than a business room; its owner was more a scientist than an administrator.
There were books all along the walls, and the furniture was massive but comfortable.
Don Croce was sitting in a huge armchair, sipping coffee.
His face reminded Hector Adonis of the prow of a ship in the Iliad, scarred by years of battles and rough seas.
Don pretended that they had never met, and Adonis allowed the rector to introduce himself.
It was a farce, but Dr. Nattore took it at face value.
— We have a little disagreement here... - said the rector.
- Don Croce has a nephew who dreams of becoming a doctor.
And Professor Nattore says that he does not have the necessary grades to get a diploma.
A tragedy.
Don Croce was so kind that he came to take care of his nephew, and since Don Croce has done so much for our university, I thought that we should try to respect him somehow.
Don Croce spoke amiably, without a hint of sarcasm: "I am illiterate myself, but no one can say that I have not succeeded in the business world.
Of course, Hector Adonis thought, a person who can bribe ministers, organize murders, terrorize shopkeepers and factory owners does not need to be able to read and write at all.
"I made my own way in life," Don Croce continued.
— Why canot my nephew do the same?"
My poor sister will be heartbroken if her son does not have a "doctor" before his last name.
She sincerely believes in Christ, she wants to help the whole world.
Dr. Nattore, with the complete lack of flair characteristic of people who always consider themselves right, said: "I canot change my position.
Don Croce sighed.
And he said conciliatingly: "What harm can my nephew do?
I'll get him a post in the army or in a Catholic hospital for the elderly.
He will hold their hands and listen to their complaints.
He is very soft, he will charm all these old peppercorns.
What am I asking for?
To correct some of the paper that you are flipping through here.
He looked contemptuously at the books along the walls.
Hector Adonis was extremely alarmed by Don Croce's gentleness — it was an alarm signal...
Adonis understood that he had to find a way out of the impasse.
"My dear Dr. Nattore —" he said, " of course we can do something.
To train a little privately, to give additional practice at a local charity hospital…
Although Dr. Nattore was born in Palermo, he did not look Sicilian.
Fair haired, balding, he was seething with indignation, which no true Sicilian would ever allow himself in such a delicate situation.
Of course, there were defective genes in him, inherited from some ancient Norman conqueror.
— You donot understand, my dear Professor Adonis.
This young fool wants to become a surgeon.
"Jesus, Joseph, the Virgin Mary with all the saints," thought Hector Adonis.
"It's bad here."
Taking advantage of the stunned silence of his colleague, Dr. Nattore continued, turning to Don Croce: "Your nephew does not understand anything about anatomy.
He dissects a corpse as if he were butchering a sheep for roasting on a spit.
He skips almost all classes, does not prepare term papers, enters the operating room as if he is going to dance.
I agree that he is nice, you can hardly find a nicer guy.
But, after all, we are talking about a person who one day will have to touch living human flesh with a sharp knife.
Hector Adonis knew exactly what Don Croce was thinking.
Who cares if a guy turns out to be a bad surgeon?
It's about the honor of the family, its loss of respect, if the guy fails...
- Dear Don Croce, - said Hector Adonis — - I'm sure that Dr. Nattore will accept your wishes, we will try to convince him.
But where did your nephew get this romantic idea of becoming a surgeon?
As you said yourself, he is too soft, and surgeons are born sadists.
And who in Sicily will voluntarily go under the knife?
He said nothing.
Then he continued: "Besides, we will have to send him to practice in Rome if we miss him here, and the Romans are flunking the Sicilians under any pretext.
By insisting, you are doing your nephew a disservice.
Let me suggest a compromise.
Dr. Nattore muttered that no compromise was possible.
And then Don Croce's lizard like eyes flashed with fire for the first time.
As Dr. Nattore fell silent, Hector Adonis hurriedly continued, " Your nephew will get passing marks to become a doctor, but not a surgeon.
He has too kind a heart to operate.
Don Croce spread his arms, his lips parted in a wide smile.
— You have defeated me with your common sense and prudence, " he said to Adonis.
- So be it.
My nephew will be a doctor, not a surgeon.
The sister should be happy.
And he hurried to say goodbye to them: his goal was achieved, and he did not expect more.
The rector accompanied him to his car.
But everyone in the room noticed Don Croce's last glance at Dr. Nattore before he left.
An attentive, studying look.
Don seemed to remember the doctor's face, so as not to forget the features of the person who tried to resist his will.
After they left, Hector Adonis turned to Dr. Nattore and said — " You, my dear colleague, will have to leave the university and go about your business in Rome.
— Are you crazy?"
Dr. Nattore asked angrily.
— Not as crazy as you are.
I want to have lunch with you today and try to explain why our Sicily is not a garden of eden.
— But why should I leave?"
Dr. Nattore protested.
— You said "no" to Don Croce a little.
Sicily isnot big enough for both of you.
— But he got his own!
Dr. Nattore exclaimed in despair.
- His nephew will become a doctor.
You and the rector have confirmed this.
"You donot," said Hector Adonis.
— We confirmed it to save your life.
However, you are now a marked person.
That evening, Hector Adonis hosted a dinner for six professors, including Dr. Nattore, in one of the best restaurants in Palermo.
Each of them had a "guest of honor" that day, and each agreed to change the grades of a failing student.
Dr. Nattore listened to their stories with horror…
At the end of the dinner, he agreed to leave the University of Palermo and emigrate to Brazil, where, as his colleagues assured him, a good surgeon can make a fortune on gallbladder operations.
That night, Hector Adonis slept the sleep of the righteous.
But in the morning, a phone call came from Montelepre.
His godson Turi Guiliano, whose intelligence he developed, whose kindness he appreciated, whose future he planned, killed a policeman.
Chapter 3
Montelepre is a town of seven thousand people, lost in the mountains of Cammarata and mired in poverty.
On September 2, 1943, its residents were preparing for their holiday — fest, which began the next day and was supposed to last for three more days.
Festa is the biggest event of the year in any city, more than Easter, or Christmas, or New Year, more than the day of the end of the world war or the birthday of a great national hero.
The festa is dedicated to the patron saint of the city.
This was one of the few customs that Mussolini's fascist government did not dare to interfere with and did not try to prohibit.
Every year, a committee of three people is created to celebrate the festa.
It consists of the most respected citizens.
The three then choose alternates to raise funds and make offerings.
Each family gives according to its capabilities.
In addition, deputies are sent to the streets for alms.
As the holiday approaches ,the "committee of three" begins to spend a special fund, which is collected throughout the year.
They hire an orchestra and a clown.
They set quite impressive cash prizes at horse races, which are held during all three days.
Specialists are hired to decorate the church and streets, so that the unsightly poor town of Montelepre suddenly looks like a medieval citadel.
They invite the puppet theater.
Merchants set up trays.
Montelepre families use the festa to show their marriageable daughters; they buy new clothes, allocate elderly women to escort the girls.
A pack of prostitutes from Palermo sets up a large tent just outside the city, their licenses and medical certificates decorate the sides of the tent in red, white and green stripes.
A famous monk is hired to serve the solemn service, who had stigmas many years ago.
And finally, on the third day, the saint's coffin is carried through the streets, followed by all the inhabitants with their mules, horses, pigs and donkeys.
On the lid of the coffin floats a statue of the saint, showered with money, flowers, colorful sweets, with large bottles of wine in a bamboo braid.
These are the days of rejoicing.
It does not matter that the inhabitants starve for the rest of the year and that in the very village square where the saint is honored, they sell their labor to the landowners for a hundred lire a day.
On the first day of the festa, Turi Guiliano had to take part in the opening ritual — the mating of the "wonderful mulitsa Montelepre" with the largest and strongest donkey in the town.
Mulits can rarely conceive; they are considered infertile animals, a cross between a mare and a donkey.
But there was a mulitsa in Montelepre who gave birth to a colt two years ago, and her owner agreed to provide her to the city as his contribution to the festa.
And if a miracle happens, then provide a scion to participate in the celebrations for the next year.
Catholic rel religious festivals originated from ancient pagan festivals, when miracles were begged from the gods.
On this fateful September day in 1943, during the festival in Montelepre, something really happened that changed the fate of its seven thousand inhabitants.
Turi Guiliano, at the age of twenty, was considered the bravest, most respected, strongest guy in the city.
He was a man of honor.
That is, a person who treated another with scrupulous honesty and who cannot be insulted with impunity.
At the last harvest, he distinguished himself by refusing to work for an insultingly low salary offered by the manager of a local estate.
Then he made a speech to the others, urging them to follow his example let the crop rot.
On the charges brought by the baron, the Carabinieri arrested him, the rest went to work.
Guiliano was not angry with these people, or even with the Carabinieri.
When he was released from prison after the intervention of Hector Adonis, he did not hold a grudge against them.
He did not deviate from his principles — and that was the main thing.
Another time, he stopped a knife fight between Aspanu Pisciotta and another guy by simply standing between them, and with good natured admonitions calmed their anger.
The unusual thing about all this was that if any other person had done this, it would have been considered cowardice, but something about Guiliano prevented them from thinking about him like that.
On this second day of September, Salvatore Guiliano, whose friends and relatives called Turi, was thinking about what he considered a crushing blow to his male ego.
And it was a trifling matter.
In the town of Montelepre there is no cinema, no club, but only one small cafe with a billiard table.
The night before, Turi Guiliano, his cousin Gaspare — Aspanu Pisciotta and two or three other young guys were playing billiards.
Several residents of the town, older people, were drinking wine, watching the game.
One of them, named Guido Quintana, was slightly drunk.
He was a famous man.
Under Mussolini, he was in prison on suspicion of belonging to the mafia.
After the capture of the island by the Americans, he was released as a victim of fascism and it was rumored that he could become the mayor of Montelepre.
Like every Sicilian, Turi Guiliano knew about the legendary power of the mafia.
In these first months after her release, her snake head appeared again over the island…
It was already whispered in the town that shopkeepers paid "insurance" to certain "respected people".
And of course Turi knew the history, he knew about the endless murders of peasants who tried to get money for their work from powerful aristocrats and landowners, he knew how tightly the mafia held the island in its hands until Mussolini pinned it down, correcting the law itself — as if a more deadly snake had sunk its venomous teeth into a less powerful reptile.
So Turi Guiliano understood what times were coming.
Quintana looked at Guiliano and his friends with a slight contempt.
Probably, their cheerful mood irritated him.
Nothing, in the coming months, he will make the residents of the town respect him.
Suddenly, he got up and pushed Guiliano violently as he was walking around the pool table.
Turi, who naturally treated his elders with respect, politely and sincerely apologized.
Guido Quintana looked him up and down with a contemptuous look.
— And why arenot you at home, not sleeping, not resting before the working day? — he asked.
— My friends have been waiting for an hour to play billiards.
He reached out and snatched the cue from Guiliano's fingers, waving him away from the table with a grin.
Everyone saw it.
The insult was not fatal.
If Quintana had been younger or the insult had been stronger, Guiliano would have had to fight for his manhood.
Aspanu Pisciotta always carried a knife with him and now stood so as to intercept Quintana's friends if they decided to interfere.
But at that moment, Guiliano felt uneasy for some reason.
Quintana was scary and seemed ready for anything.
His friends, who were standing behind him, also middle aged people, were clearly amused, watching with a smile, not doubting the outcome.
One of them was wearing a hunting jacket, and he was holding a rifle in his hands.
Guiliano himself had no weapons.
And for a shameful moment, he felt fear.
He was not afraid that he would be hit, hurt, that this person would be stronger.
Guiliano was afraid that the situation was in their hands.
That they might shoot him in the dark streets of Montelepre when he went home.
That the next day, like a fool, he would be dead.
Some inner feeling of a person who was born a partisan forced him to retreat.
Turi Guiliano took Pisciotta by the hand and led him out of the cafe.
The latter went without resistance, surprised that his friend gave in so easily, but not at all assuming fear in him.
He took off Turi's soft heartedness and thought that he did not want to start a quarrel, or else he could hurt a person for a trifle.
Turi Guiliano couldnot sleep all night.
Was he really afraid of this man with an evil face and an intimidating appearance?
Did he tremble like a girl?
And they were all laughing at him?
What does his best friend, his cousin Aspanu, think of him now?
That he's a coward?
What he.
Turi Guiliano, the leader of the youth in Montelepre, the one who was considered the strongest and most fearless, freaked out at the first threat of a real man?
And yet, he told himself, why start a vendetta that could lead to murder, because of such a trifle as a billiard game, because of the irritated rudeness of an older person?
This is not at all like a run in with another youngster.
Turi understood that this fight could have serious consequences.
He knew that these people were connected with" Friends of Friends", and that's what scared him.
Guiliano slept badly and woke up in that depressed state that is so dangerous in adolescence.
He seemed ridiculous to himself.
He always wanted to be a hero, like most young people.
If he had lived in any other part of Italy, he would have become a soldier long ago, but, like a true Sicilian, he did not volunteer, and his godfather Hector Adonis somehow arranged that he would not be called up.
After all, even though Italy ruled Sicily, no true Sicilian felt like an Italian.
And then, to tell the truth, the Italian government itself was not very eager to mobilize the Sicilians, especially in the last year of the war.
The Sicilians have too many relatives in America, the Sicilians are born murderers and traitors, they are too stupid to teach them modern military art, and everywhere they went, there was nothing but trouble.
On Turi Street, Guiliano felt his bad mood evaporate from the extraordinary beauty that surrounded him.
A wonderful sun was shining.
The smell of lemon and olive trees filled the air.
He loved the town of Montelepre, its crooked streets, stone houses and balconies with garish bright flowers that grow in Sicily without any care.
He loved the red tiled roofs that stretched to the border of a small town buried in a remote valley, on which the sun poured molten gold.
The elaborate decorations of the festa streets with rows of saints hanging over them from painted papier mache covered the inescapable poverty of a typical Sicilian town.
Having climbed high and at the same time shyly hidden in the crevices of the surrounding mountains, the garlands of houses were almost all full of men, women, children and animals.
Many houses had no running water or sewerage, and even thousands of flowers together with the cold mountain air could not overcome the smell of garbage that rose with the sunrise.
In good weather, people lived on the street.
Women were sitting on wooden chairs on the cobblestone terraces, preparing food.
The dining tables were also displayed outside the door.
The streets were swarming with children, chasing chickens, turkeys, goats; older children were weaving bamboo baskets.
At the end of the Via Bella, where it merged with the square, there was a huge fountain, built two thousand years ago, with the image of a demon; water flowed out of his mouth through granite teeth.
Gardens grew precariously on terraces along the slopes.
The cities of Partinico and Castellammare were visible on the plain below; the bloody stone city of Corleone, like a killer, was hiding behind the horizon.
At the other end of the Via Bella, the one that opens onto the road that crosses the Castellammare plain, Turi saw Aspana Pisciotta leading a donkey.
For a moment, he was worried about how Aspanu would treat him after the humiliation he had suffered the day before.
His friend had a sharp tongue.
Will he say something contemptuous?
The blood rushed to Guiliano's head again, and he swore that he would never be caught by surprise again.
Regardless of the consequences, he will show them that he is not a coward.
Guiliano's mother was going to feed her son and his friend an early lunch.
And Turi's two sisters, Marianna and Giusepina, helped their mother prepare the dough for the evening meal.
There was a whole mountain of flour dough with eggs on a polished square wooden board.
When the dough became steep enough, a cross was applied to it with a knife — for consecration.
Next, Marianna and Giusepina cut strips that they wrapped on a bamboo stalk, and then the stalk was pulled out, and a tube of dough was obtained.
The room was decorated with large vases with olives and grapes.
Turi's father worked in the field, but part time, so that he could join the festa in the afternoon.
Marianne's engagement was to take place the next day, and there was to be a celebration at Guiliano's house.
Turi has always been the most beloved child of Maria Lombardi.
The sisters remembered how his mother bathed him every day, when he was little.
The galvanized basin was carefully heated on the stove, mother I tried the water temperature with my elbow.
A special soap was brought from Palermo.
At first, the sisters were jealous, and then they watched in fascination as the mother bathed the baby.
He never cried.
He was the youngest in the family and grew up the strongest.
But he was always a little strange.
I read books, talked about politics.
Everyone loved him for his gentleness of character and unselfishness.
Guiliano's mother and sisters were worried that morning.
Immediately after lunch, Turi and Aspanu will go to Corleone on a donkey and secretly bring a large circle of cheese, some ham and sausage.
Turi will miss one day of the festa, but he will please his mother, and they will properly celebrate their sister's engagement.
They will sell some of the products on the black market to replenish the family budget.
The three women loved it when Turi and Aspanu were together.
They had been friends since childhood — although they were different in nature, they were closer than brothers.
Aspanu Pisciotta, dark skinned, with a thin mustache of a movie hero, an extremely lively face, shiny black eyes and jet black hair on a small head, was witty and always charmed women.
However, this bright man was still overshadowed by the calm Greek beauty of Turi Guiliano.
His body was well developed just like the ancient Greek statues scattered all over Sicily.
He was always very calm, but he moved extremely quickly.
But the most remarkable thing was his eyes.
Dreamy, golden brown, they seemed quite ordinary when he looked away.
When he looked directly at you, his eyelids would half fall, like a statue, and his whole face would become serene, calm, like a mask.
While Pisciotta was entertaining Maria Lombardi, Turi Guiliano went up to his room to prepare for the upcoming trip.
And mostly to take the gun hidden there.
Remembering the humiliation that he had to endure last night, he decided to go to work armed.
He could shoot, because his father often took him hunting.
His mother was waiting for him in the kitchen to say goodbye.
As she hugged her son, she felt the gun in his belt.
"Turi, be careful," she said anxiously.
- Donot quarrel with the Carabinieri.
If they stop you, give everything.
Guiliano reassured her: - Let them take the food.
But I wonot let them beat me or take me to prison.
She understood that.
And in her own way, she was proud of him.
She was glad when Turi showed fearlessness, as she herself was different.
But at the same time, she dreaded the day when he would come into conflict with the realities of life in Sicily.
She watched as he walked out onto the pavement of Via Bella and joined Aspan Pisciotta.
Her son Turi moved like a big cat; his chest was so wide, his arms and legs were so muscular that Aspanu next to him looked like a stalk of sisal.
But Aspanu was subtly cunning, which her son lacked, he was brave and cruel.
Aspanu will be protected by Turi in this treacherous world in which they are all forced to live…
She watched them walk down the Via Bella, where the street led out of the city onto the Castellammare plain.
Her son is Turi Guiliano and her sister's son is Gaspare Pisciotta.
Two young men, barely twenty years old, they seemed even younger.
Maria Lombarde loved both of them and was afraid for both of them.
At last they disappeared with the donkey behind the rise of the street, but she continued to look until she saw them again already far away and above the town of Montelepre, on the slope of one of the mountains.
Maria Lombarde Guiliano continued to stare, as if she would never see them again, until they disappeared into the early morning mist surrounding the peak.
They went to where their legend began.
Chapter 4
In Sicily, in that September of 1943, people could only exist by trading on the black market.
Since the war, a rigid card system has still been preserved, the peasants were obliged to hand over everything grown to the warehouses of the central government at limited prices, for paper money, which cost almost nothing.
It was assumed that the government, in turn, would sell and distribute these products at low prices among residents.
Under such a system, everyone had to get enough to survive.
In fact, the peasants hid what they could, because everything handed over to government warehouses fell into the hands of Don Croce Malo and his henchmen and then ended up on the black market.
As a result, people had to buy products on the black market and violate the laws on smuggling in order to somehow survive.
If they were caught red handed, they were tried and sent to prison.
What has changed from the fact that there was now a democratic government in Rome?
People got the opportunity to vote, but at the same time they were starving.
Turi Guiliano and Aspanu Pisciotta went to the violation of these laws with a light heart.
It was Pisciotta who had connections with the black market, and he arranged this expedition.
He arranged with a peasant that he would forward a large circle of cheese to a reseller from the black market in Montelepre.
This will earn them four smoked hams and a basket of sausages, thanks to which the engagement of Turi's sister will turn into a big celebration.
Turi and Aspanu violated two laws at once: one prohibiting transactions on the black market, the other the transportation of contraband from one Italian province to another.
The authorities could do almost nothing to force the residents to comply with the laws on the black market — they would then have to transfer everyone in Sicily to prisons.
Smuggling is another matter.
Detachments of Carabinieri scoured the province, set up ambushes on the roads, kept informers.
Of course, they could not detain the caravans of Don Croce Malo, who transported goods on American military trucks and had special government passes.
But they caught a lot of small peasants and starving villagers.
It took Guiliano and Pisciotta four hours to reach the farm.
They took a large circle of grainy, white cheese and other products and strapped them to the donkey.
They disguised all this with sisal and bamboo, as if they were carrying livestock feed, which was kept by many residents in the village.
They acted with the carelessness and confidence of children who hide their treasures from their parents, as if it was enough to plan a deception and it would succeed.
Their confidence was also based on the fact that they knew secret paths in the mountains.
After setting off on the long journey home, Guiliano sent Pisciotta ahead to look for the Carabinieri.
They agreed to signal with a whistle in case of danger.
The donkey carried the luggage easily and behaved calmly…
They had been slowly climbing the mountain for two hours when there were signs of danger.
Guiliano saw from behind, at a distance of about three kilometers, a caravan of six mules and a rider on a horse who followed them.
If this path is known to others who sell on the black market, it could be noticed by the field gendarmerie and set up an ambush.
As a precaution, he sent Pisciotta ahead to investigate.
An hour later, he caught up with Aspana — he was sitting on a large rock, smoking a cigarette and coughing.
Aspanu was terribly pale — he should not have smoked.
Turi Guiliano sat down to rest next to him.
Since childhood, they were connected by the fact that they never sought to command each other, and therefore Turi did not say anything.
Finally Aspanu stubbed out his cigarette and put the blackened butt in his pocket.
They moved on, Guiliano holding the donkey's bridle, Aspanu walking behind.
They walked along a mountain path that bypassed major roads and small villages, but sometimes they saw an ancient Greek tank into which water was poured through the mouth of a cracked statue, or the ruins of a Norman castle that stood in the way of the conquerors hundreds of years ago.
And Turi Guiliano fell into thought, thinking about the past and the future of Sicily.
He was thinking about his godfather, Hector Adonis, who had promised to come to them after the festa to help him write an application to the University of Palermo.
And as soon as he thought about his godfather, he was immediately overcome with sadness.
Hector Adonis never participated in fests: tipsy men would laugh at his miniature figure, and children, sometimes taller than him, could offend.
Turi was thinking about God, who stops the growth of a person, but saturates his brain with knowledge.
For Turi considered Hector Adonis the most intelligent man on earth and loved him for the kindness that he showed to him and his parents.
He thought about his father, who worked on a small piece of land, and about his sisters, who went around in worn out dresses.
Fortunately, Marianne is so beautiful, and therefore managed to find a husband, despite her poverty and troubled times.
But most of all he lamented about his mother — Maria Lombardi.
Even when he was very young, he realized what a difficult, unhappy fate she had.
She had tasted the juicy fruits of America and could no longer be happy in the poverty stricken cities of Sicily.
But, Guiliano thought, he will change the fate of the family.
He will work hard and study hard and will become as big a person as his godfather.
Suddenly they found themselves in a grove, a small forest, one of the few preserved in this part of Sicily, where now there are only huge white stones and marble quarries.
Once over the top, they will begin the descent to Montelepre, and then they will have to beware of wandering patrols of the national police.
Now they were approaching Cuatro Molina, the intersection of four roads, and it was all the more worth being careful here.
Guiliano pulled on the donkey's bridle and waved Aspan to stop.
They stood motionless.
There were no extraneous sounds, only the irrepressible hum of insects above the ground.
The friends crossed the intersection and disappeared into the woods.
Turi Guiliano was lost in dreams again.
The trees, as if thrown back, parted, and they came out into a small, pebble strewn clearing with bamboo growth and thinning grass.
In the distance, the late afternoon sun was sinking and seemed pale and cold over the granite rocks.
Beyond this clearing, the path will go down in a long winding spiral to the town of Montelepre.
Guiliano suddenly came out of his thoughts.
A beam of light, like a match struck, cut across his left eye.
He pulled on the reins, stopping the donkey, and gave Aspan a sign with his hand.
Some thirty meters away, strangers came out of the thicket.
There were three of them, and Turi Guiliano saw their stiff black military helmets, black uniforms with white braid.
He was overcome by a stupid, sickening feeling of despair, shame that he had been caught.
Approaching them, the three strangers fanned out, holding their weapons at the ready.
Two of them were quite young, with rosy, glossy cheeks, military helmets with a cockade were ridiculously pushed on the back of their heads.
The carabinieri in the center was older and held a rifle in his hands.
His face was pockmarked and scarred, and his helmet was pulled low over his eyes.
There were sergeant's stripes on his sleeve.
The beam of light that hit Guiliano's eyes was a sunbeam reflected from the steel barrel of a rifle.
The man, smiling ominously, was aiming directly at Guiliano's chest.
Guiliano's smile made him furious.
The sergeant with the rifle came very close, two soldiers were approaching from the sides.
Turi Guiliano was wary.
Two young Carabinieri with automatic pistols could not be too afraid: they approached the donkey carelessly, not taking their prisoners seriously.
They ordered Guiliano and Pisciotta to move away from the donkey, and one of them, throwing a machine gun behind his back, pulled the bamboo cover from the donkey's spine.
At the sight of the products, he even whistled with greedy delight.
And he didnot notice that Aspanu moved closer to him, but the sergeant with the rifle noticed it.
"Hey, you with the mustache, step back —" he shouted.
And Aspanu retreated to Turi Guiliano.
The sergeant came a little closer.
Guiliano watched him closely.
His pockmarked face looked tired; but his eyes glittered, and he said, " Hey, guys, a nice piece of cheese.
In our barracks, it will go well with pasta.
So tell us the name of the peasant from whom you got it, and you can move home with your donkey.
The friends were silent.
He waited.
And they continued to be silent.
Finally, Guiliano said calmly, — I will give you a thousand lire if you let us go."
"Wipe yourself with your lyres —" the sergeant replied.
"Give me your ID cards."
If they are not in order, I will make you do it and wipe yourself with them too.
The defiant tone, the defiant insolence of these black and white uniforms made Guiliano coldly furious.
At that moment, he realized that he would never allow himself to be arrested, would never allow these people to take away the food that he was carrying for his family.
Turi Guiliano took out his ID card and stepped up to the sergeant.
He was hoping to get out of the scope of his rifle.
He knew that he had a faster reaction than most people, and he hoped to play on this.
However, a wave of the rifle forced him to retreat.
"Throw it on the ground," the sergeant said.
Guiliano quit.
Pisciotta, who was standing five steps to the left of Guiliano, understood his friend's plan and, knowing that he had a gun under his shirt, tried to distract the sergeant's attention.
Leaning forward and touching the knife on his hip, which he wore in a sheath on a ribbon tied behind his back, Pisciotta said with exaggerated contempt: "Sergeant, if we tell the name of a peasant, then why do you need our certificates?
And, after a pause, he said, not without sarcasm: "We know that the Carabinieri always keep their word.
— This word "Carabinieri" was so hateful to him that he did not utter it, but spat it out.
The sergeant took two or three steps towards Pisciotta.
He stopped.
He smiled and raised his rifle.
"And you, pretty boy, your ID, — he said.
— Or maybe you donot have any documents, like your donkey, he has a better mustache than you!
The two young policemen laughed.
Pisciotta's eyes glittered.
He took a step toward the sergeant.
— I donot have any documents.
And I donot know any peasant.
We found food on the road.
His boldness was too great, his challenge was too impudent, and it had the exact opposite effect.
Pisciotta wanted the sergeant to take a step closer to him, and he retreated a few steps and smiled again.
- The Bastinado will knock your Sicilian arrogance off you a little.
He paused and added, " Both of you, get down on the ground."
Bastinado meant beating with whips and sticks.
Guiliano knew some residents of Montelepre who were beaten in the Bellampo barracks.
They returned home with broken legs, swollen to the r azmerov melons with his head, so chipped with entrails that they could no longer think about work.
This will never happen to him.
Guiliano dropped to one knee, as if he was going to lie down, put his hand on the ground, and brought the other to his belt to pull the gun from under his shirt.
The soft, smoky light of the beginning twilight reigned in the clearing, the sun was far away there, behind the trees, had set behind the mountain.
He saw Pisciotta standing proudly, refusing to obey.
Of course, they wouldnot kill him for a piece of smuggled cheese.
He saw the pistols trembling in the hands of the young soldiers.
At that moment, there was a cry of donkeys and the clatter of hooves from behind, and a caravan of mules that Guiliano had noticed on the road in the middle of the day jumped out into the clearing.
The man riding at the head of the horse had a lupara slung over his shoulder, he was wearing a thick leather jacket and seemed huge.
He jumped down from his horse and, pulling a large wad of paper lira out of his pocket, said to the carabinieri with a rifle: "So, this time you have scooped up some sardines.
They undoubtedly knew each other.
For the first time, the sergeant relaxed his vigilance to accept the money offered.
They both grinned at each other.
Everyone seemed to have forgotten about the prisoners.
Turi Guiliano slowly moved closer to the nearest policeman.
And Pisciotta slid to a nearby thicket of bamboo.
The soldiers did not notice this.
Guiliano elbowed the nearest policeman, who fell.
Guiliano shouted to Pisciotta: "Run!
Pisciotta dived into a bamboo thicket, and Guiliano rushed to the forest.
The other policeman was so stunned or slow that he could not quickly pull the machine gun off his shoulder.
Guiliano, about to dive into the protection of the forest, felt a surge of delight.
He jumped up, hoping to land between two spreading trees that would hide him.
In the process, he pulled out a gun from under his shirt.
But he was right, considering a man with a rifle the most dangerous.
The sergeant threw the wad of money on the ground, raised his rifle and fired in cold blood.
There was no mistake — Guiliano fell like a shot bird.
Guiliano heard the shot and at the same time felt a pain that pierced him, as if from a blow from a huge club.
He fell to the ground between two trees and tried to get up, but could not.
His legs were numb, he could not move them.
Still holding the pistol in his hand, he turned over and saw the sergeant shaking the rifle in a sign of victory.
And then Guiliano felt his pants fill with blood, warm and sticky.
For a split second, before Guiliano pulled the trigger, he was overcome by surprise.
Had he been shot for a piece of cheese?
And now he is bleeding profusely — he who has never harmed anyone.
He pulled the trigger and saw the rifle fall, saw the sergeant's black and white edged cap seem to fly into the air, and he himself, mortally wounded, cowered and collapsed on the rocky ground.
It was almost pointless to fire a pistol at this distance, but it seemed to Guiliano that his hand reached out after the bullet and, like a dagger, pierced the sergeant's eye.
The automatic pistol rattled, but the bullets, chirping like birds, flew over the top in a safe curve.
Then there was a dead silence.
Even the insects had stopped their incessant chirping.
Turi Guiliano rolled into the bushes.
He saw the enemy's face turn into a bloody mask, and this was encouraging.
He is not powerless.
He tried to stand up, and this time his legs obeyed.
He tried to run, but only one leg stepped forward, the other dragged on the ground.
My groin was warm and sticky, my pants were swollen, my eyes were covered with fog.
When he suddenly found himself in the light, he was afraid that he had jumped out into the clearing again, and tried to turn back.
Then his body began to fall — not to the ground, but into an endless, black with a red tint of emptiness, and he realized that he was falling there forever.
And in the clearing, a young soldier took his finger off the trigger of a submachine gun, and the crackling stopped.
The smuggler got up from the ground with a wad of money in his hand and handed it to another soldier.
The soldier pointed a submachine gun at him and said — " You are under arrest.
— Now you only have to split it between two people.
Let me go — " the smuggler said.
The soldiers looked at the fallen sergeant.
He was undoubtedly dead.
— I'll go get the guy in the bushes — he's injured, after all.
I'll bring the body, and you'll both become heroes.
Just let me go — " the smuggler said.
Another soldier picked up the ID card that Turi Guiliano had thrown to the ground at the sergeant's orders.
And he read aloud: - Salvatore Guiliano, the city of Montelepre.
"We donot have to look for him now," said another.
— We will report to the headquarters — this is more important.
"Cowards," said the smuggler.
This was already an insult.
For this, they forced him to put the sergeant's body on his horse and walk to their barracks.
Before that, they took away his weapon.
They were very twitchy, and I could only hope that he would not be killed by mistake or out of nervousness.
Otherwise, he didnot care too much about it.
He knew Sergeant Roccofino from Montelepre very well.
They have scrolled things before, they will scroll further.
None of them even thought about Pisciotta.
And he heard everything they said.
He was lying in a deep hollow overgrown with grass, with a knife in his hand.
He was waiting for them to start looking for Turi Guiliano, and he was going to attack one of them, cut his throat and grab a machine gun.
He was so bitter that he did not even feel fear of death, and when he heard the smuggler's offer to bring Turi's corpse, he always remembered the face of this man.
He knew that Turi was seriously injured and needed help.
Moving along the edge of the forest, he skirted the clearing to get to the side where his friend had disappeared.
There was no sign of him in the bushes, and Pisciotta ran along the path they had come here.
Still nothing, until Pisciotta climbed up on a huge boulder with a notch on the top.
A pool of almost black blood had gathered in this stone recess, and on the other side of the boulder there was a long ribbon of sticky bright red drops.
He ran on and stopped, startled, when he saw Guiliano lying across the path, still clutching the deadly weapon in his hand.
Pisciotta knelt down, took the pistol and put it in his belt.
At that moment, Turi Guiliano opened his eyes.
They were burning with terrible hatred, but they looked somewhere past Aspanu Pisciotta.
Pisciotta almost cried with joy and tried to lift him to his feet, but he did not have enough strength.
"Turi, try to get up, I'll help you —" Pisciotta said.
Guiliano put his hands on the ground and raised himself up.
Pisciotta put his arm around his waist — the palm became warm and wet.
He jerked his hand away, turned Guiliano's shirt away, and with horror saw a huge gaping wound in his side.
He leaned Guiliano against a tree, tore his shirt and, plugging the wound to stop the blood, tied the sleeves around his waist.
He wrapped his arm around his friend, and with the other raised Guiliano's left arm in the air.
So, balancing, he led Guiliano with careful small steps down the path.
From a distance, it seemed that they were coming down the mountain, dancing.
So Turi Guiliano missed the festa in honor of Saint Rosalia, which, as the residents of Montelepre hoped, would bring a miracle to their town.
He missed the shooting competition, which he would have won for sure.
I missed horse races, during which riders bring down clubs and whips on the heads of oncoming rivals.
He missed the purple, yellow and green rockets that exploded and scattered dots across the star studded sky.
He never tasted the wonderful sweets made of nut dough in the form of carrots, bamboo sticks and red tomatoes, sweet to the point of stupefaction, or the figures of fairy tale knights Roland, Oliver or Charlemagne - made of fibrous sugar with sugar swords, ruby lollipops and emerald pieces of fruit inserted in them; the children brought them all home, dragged them to bed to nibble before going to bed.
My sister's engagement also went without Turi.
The residents of Montelepre were disappointed.
It was only years later that they learned that Festa had performed a miracle in the form of a young man leading a donkey by the bridle.
Chapter 5
The abbot of the Franciscan monastery made his evening rounds, encouraging the lazy monks to earn their daily bread.
He checked the bins of workshops for the production of holy relics and visited a bakery that supplied large loaves of bread with a crisp crust to nearby towns.
He carefully examined the vegetable garden and bamboo baskets filled to the brim with olives, tomatoes and grapes, looking for damage on their silky skins.
His monks worked like fairy tale elves, but not so cheerfully.
In truth, it was a rather gloomy team.
The abbot pulled a long black cigar from under his cassock and went on, bypassing the monastery courtyard to work up an appetite before the evening meal.
It was then that he saw Aspana Pisciotta, who was dragging Turi Guiliano into the monastery gate.
The doorman tried to detain them, but Pisciotta put a gun to his shaved head, and he fell to his knees, offering a last prayer.
Pisciotta laid the bloody, almost lifeless body at the abbot's feet.
The abbot is tall, thin, with a thin, monkey like face, narrow boned, with a knobby nose and attentive little button eyes.
He was already seventy years old, but he was cheerful, and his mind was as sharp and cunning as in the days before Mussolini, when he wrote exquisite notes for the mafia to its victims demanding ransom.
Although everyone knew, both the peasants and the authorities, that black market dealers and smugglers flocked to his monastery, no one had interfered with his nele until now normal activity.
This was done out of respect for his sacred title and as a reward for the spiritual leadership of the local community.
So Abbot Manfredi was not at all afraid when he saw two village scoundrels in blood breaking into the sacred monastery of St. Francis.
In fact, he knew Pisciotta well.
He used the guy's services in some black market operations and in smuggling.
Both of them possessed cunning and cunning, which brought them closer together: one was surprised to find these qualities in a man so old and holy, the other — in such a young and unbeliever.
The abbot calmed the monk of the gatekeeper, then turned to Pisciotta: "Well, my dear Aspanu, what kind of trouble have you got into now?
Pisciotta was just tightening his shirt around Guiliano's waist.
The abbot was surprised at the sight of his saddened face: he did not think that the guy was capable of such feelings.
And Pisciotta, seeing the terrible wound again, was convinced that his friend was dying.
How would he tell Turi's mother and father about this?
In the meantime, there was something more important: it was necessary to persuade the abbot to give Guiliano refuge in the monastery.
He looked the Abbot straight in the eye.
He did not want to directly threaten, but at the same time it was necessary to make it clear to the holy father that if he refused, he could acquire a mortal enemy.
"This is my cousin and best friend, Salvatore Guiliano," Pisciotta said.
— As you can see, he was unlucky, and soon the national police will be climbing the mountains looking for him.
And me, too.
You are our only hope.
I beg you, hide us and send for a doctor.
Do this for me, and you will find a friend forever.
He underlined the word "friend".
Nothing escaped the Abbot.
He understood everything perfectly.
He had heard earlier about this young Guiliano, a brave boy who was respected in Montelepre, an excellent shooter and hunter, who was older than his years.
Even the "Friends of Friends" looked at him as a possible member of their organization.
The great Don Croce himself, during a friendly and business visit to the abbot in the monastery, mentioned him as a person worth paying attention to.
But, looking closely at the unconscious Guiliano, the abbot was almost sure that he needed a grave rather than a shelter, more a priest for the last communion than a doctor.
It is possible to satisfy Pisciotta's request without much risk: giving shelter to a corpse is not a crime even in Sicily.
However, the abbot did not want Pisciotta to know that the service he rendered was almost worthless.
— Why are they looking for you?"
— What is it? " he asked.
Pisciotta hesitated.
If the abbot finds out that a policeman has been killed, he can refuse them shelter.
But if he is not prepared for a possible search, then he may give them away from surprise.
Pisciotta decided to tell the truth.
The abbot lowered his eyes, grieving for another soul lost to hell, and also to take a closer look at the lifeless Guiliano.
Blood was showing through the shirt tied around the body.
It is possible that the poor guy will die while they are talking, and this will solve the whole problem.
As a Franciscan monk, the abbot was filled with Christian compassion, but in these terrible times he had to weigh the mercantile consequences of his merciful deeds.
If he provides shelter and the boy dies, he will only benefit from it.
The authorities will be satisfied with the corpse, the family will be forever in his debt.
If Guiliano recovers, his gratitude will be even greater.
In their debtors, it is worth having a person who, being seriously injured, is able to shoot and kill a policeman.
He can, of course, give these bastards to the Carabinieri, who will quickly deal with them.
But what will be the benefit from this?
Nothing more
