Blood Alone (21 page)
WE CHUGGED UP A long, steep hill, surrounded by acres of wheat on all sides. Workers dotted the fields, cutting and stacking the crop, moving like a ragged line of infantry, stooping for cover and then moving forward again, mowing down the enemy that faced them in never-ending rows. We passed a donkey, laden with bundles of grain, led by a peasant woman. She wore a gray tattered dress, her stooped head covered by a black scarf. Adding to the donkey’s burden, a man sat astride it, his feet scraping the road.
“He will wear out his wife and his donkey before he walks,” Sciafani said. “Then he will have nothing and will look back with longing on the days when he used to ride an ass.”
The driver laughed. I’d been right—he understood English. I looked at Sciafani, and he shrugged, an eloquent gesture that said, What can we do?
The car crested a rise and picked up speed as the village of Villalba came into view. The sun was setting behind us and lit the town, bathing the gray and brown stone walls in soft light, casting jagged shadows into the streets. Villalba sat on a gentle slope, surrounded by cultivated fields and a hilltop overlooking it to the north. It looked like any other town we’d passed through, but this was the end of the line, one way or the other. No troops were digging entrenchments; no machine guns covered the road into town. Villalba was not a crossroads, not a strategic center. Its only military value lay in what one man might or might not do, in how much weight a silk handkerchief carried, and how convincing I could be.
The car turned into a large
piazza
, anchored at one end by a two-story building with BANCO DI SICILIA in large letters at the top and at the other by a tall church tower. I wasn’t surprised when the driver stopped right between them, in front of a house where a young man lounged against the wall next to an iron gate, his
lupara
slung over his shoulder. The windows were narrow and guarded with iron grilles. I wrapped the burlap bag around Tommy the C’s revolver and shoved it under the seat in front of me. I glanced at Sciafani and he nodded wearily in agreement. There were bound to be more shotguns inside, and two guys bringing a dead
caporegime
’s pistol into a Mafia chief ’s house would mean a very short stay.
The driver got out and signaled us to follow the guard through the gate. As I did, I felt an odd satisfaction at having made it this far. A few days ago, I’d had no idea who I was or why I was here. I’d fought the Germans, escaped a Mob trap, been smuggled across the mountains, bombed, faced down bandits, and regained most of my memory in the process. Two men had been murdered, and others, including Harry, had died, all for this damn silk handkerchief stuffed deep in my pocket. I realized I didn’t know exactly what to say to Don Calo, or if he’d understand me. Nick was the one who spoke the Sicilian dialect fluently, and who knew where the hell he had ended up.
The walls of the house were thick, and the entryway opened into a small courtyard with a covered walkway around it. The windows facing the inner courtyard were wide and open, with welcoming soft yellow light spilling out onto the stones. I heard the clatter of dishes and women’s laughter. It was strange, delightful, and disorienting.
The guard put his palm out, signaling us to wait. He removed his cap, stamped his feet to shake off the dirt and dust, and opened a door, leaving us alone in the darkening courtyard. If it wasn’t for the guard on the other side of an iron gate, I would’ve been tempted to run, grab the car, and head for the hills. Except we were already in the hills. Surrounded by Italians and Germans. I shivered, chilled by this thought and by the night air. Sciafani brushed at his suit and tucked in his shirt, doing his best to make himself presentable. With all the dirt, blood, and sweat he’d soaked up, it was hard to see any improvement. He looked nervous, and I wondered if this was the end of his mission too.
The door opened slowly, squeaking on its hinges. A silver-haired man with a slight paunch descended the two stone steps into the courtyard. His eyebrows were bushy and jet black, in sharp contrast to his slicked-back hair. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, and his suspenders pulled his baggy pants above his waist. He had a broad face and a wide mouth and his eyes narrowed as if he was studying us, trying to understand exactly what we were. Behind him, a wide-shouldered man, his hands behind him, stood in the doorway and stared at us. He didn’t have a paunch and his eyes were steady.
“
Benvenuto
,” the older man said, approaching us and staring at Sciafani. He cocked his head, the way people do when they’re trying to place a face.
“Don Calogero,” I said, then surprised myself by nearly bowing.
“Welcome,” he said, “but please wait.”
He spoke slowly in a thick accent, holding his hand up and waving it back and forth, as if he couldn’t be bothered with the first American soldier to make it to Villalba. He spoke rapidly to Sciafani, a stream of questions that reminded me of a small automatic snapping off a series of shots. Sciafani’s face crumpled. A lifetime, perhaps, of knowing this man had killed his father, and decades of fear holding him back, until everything he’d seen and endured in this war had conspired to make him a killer. It all played out on his face as Don Calogero Vizzini, whom the Allies considered the single most important Sicilian, stood inches from him, asking who he was.
“
Lei è il figlio di Nunzio Infantino?
”
“
Sì
.” Sciafani drew himself up straight.
“They told me to kill the child too,” Don Calo said to me, in that slow cadence of someone who is translating his speech, putting an emphasis on the last word to show how glad he was to be done with the sentence. He gestured all around him, meaning everyone had said to kill the child.
“So he wouldn’t take his revenge as a man,” I said.
“
La vendetta
,” Don Calo said. “Yes, Nunzio and I fought, first with words, then with fists. Finally, with the
lupara
. Your father, he was stubborn. If I had known your dear mother was sick and would die soon, I might not have killed him.” His dark eyebrows knitted in contemplation of what might have been as his shoulders threw off the burdens of the past.
“But you did,” Sciafani said.
“
Sì
.”
“My mother?”
“Your mother, no, no. Nunzio and I fought in the hills, when he tried to take his wheat to the mills without paying the toll. I told him he had to pay, even just a little. If he did not, the others would soon make trouble. He would not give me a single lira, he was so stubborn. So we fought like men. He died at my hands, and I offered payment to your mother so you and she would not be put out on the street. It was then I found out she was dying.
Tubercolosi.
”
Don Calo took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. I thought about the one in my pocket, and how the sharp-eyed guy in the doorway might react if I pulled it out.
“My friends said it would be best to kill you after your mother died, that you would grow up to take your revenge, but I could not kill a
bambino
. So I did the next best thing. I gave you to a
dottore
and told him to raise you to be one yourself, if you were smart enough.”
“The Sciafanis were your people?”
“They truly wanted a child, so what does it matter? Did they not treat you well?”
“Very well,” Sciafani said, his eyes to the ground. “You wanted me to become a
dottore
so I would not easily take a life?”
“It was better than slitting your throat and burying you in the hills. Was I wrong?”
Don Calo jutted his chin forward, daring Sciafani to challenge his logic. He seemed affronted that this young man was not thanking him for sparing his life after Don Calo had killed his father.
“I cannot say, Don Calo.”
“Have you deserted?” Don Calo asked.
“No, I have been released. I was captured but the Americans are releasing all Sicilian prisoners.”
“The Americans are smarter than I believed then,” Don Calo said, shifting his gaze to me, but still addressing Sciafani. “But how did you get blood on your clothes?”
“We were caught in the bombardment of Agrigento,” I said. “Dottore Sciafani cared for the wounded Italian troops until the Americans set up an aid station.” I hoped the killing of Tommy the C would not come out while we were here.
Don Calo nodded, tilting his head to the side as he did so, indicating that yes, perhaps, he might believe that. He sat on a stone bench set against the house, grunting as he exhaled. He mopped his face again, soaking tiny beads of sweat from his upper lip into his white handkerchief.
“This is a bad business,” Don Calo finally said. “The Fascists from Rome hunted us, the Americans invade us, the Germans make our island a battleground, and now you walk into my home. Both of you have the smell of trouble.”
I knew he was thinking it wasn’t too late to correct his mistake in letting Sciafani live, and that I might as well be thrown into an unmarked grave in the hills with him. Don Calo scowled, looking back to the man in the doorway. He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up, a grim look on his face.
“Don Calo,” I said, stepping in front of Sciafani. To try to divert his attention, I was about to take out the handkerchief.
“No, we will talk later. It is Enrico I speak to now,” he said. “It was wrong of you to wait so long to come here. If you were a hotheaded youth and I was younger also, we could have fought each other. But so many years have passed. You are now a
dottore
, and I have a position here, as the head of a society. When a man is on his way up, he uses everything he can to rise to the top. But when he gets there, he can no longer act like a bandit. Today I grant favors to people. If I can do a man a favor, no matter who he is, I will. So people do me favors in return: a vote or an errand, whatever they can. That is who I am now, not a young man with a
lupara
in his hands.”
“The world is indeed turned upside down. You are
mafiusu
yet you tell me you don’t wish to kill me. I have sworn an oath to protect life, and I would take yours,” Sciafani said, sounding surprised at himself.
“Would you?” Don Calo asked. Sciafani opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. He cast his eyes to the ground.
“I will tell you a secret, Enrico. I sent you away in hopes that you would become a
dottore
not for myself, to avoid
la vendetta
, but for you also. I had no argument with your dear mother or you. You deserved a better life than the one your father and I left you. Don’t be surprised that I include him now. If he hadn’t been so stubborn we could have worked things out. But that was not his nature, nor mine.”
“This is not what I expected,” Sciafani said, raising his eyes to meet Don Calo’s.
“You are a ghost I did not expect to meet today either. Now, if you can promise not to take your revenge tonight, I will offer you both the hospitality of my home. We will eat in one hour. Do you promise?”
“On my honor.”
“Good.With a contented stomach, your heart is forgiving; with an empty stomach, the heart is hard.”
SCIAFANI’S HONOR WAS GOOD enough for Don Calo, and we were both escorted to rooms at the back of the house. I was shown to a bathroom where a large tub, carved from a single piece of limestone, was being filled with hot, steaming water. A straight razor, brush, and comb had been laid out on a marble sink. Don Calo evidently liked his dinner guests clean, and I obliged by soaking in the water as an elderly man took my uniform away, making brushing motions on it as he spoke a continuous stream of mournful Italian, as if he were chiding me for getting my clothes so dirty. He was probably actually saying he hoped all Americans didn’t smell as bad as I did.
I fell asleep in the tub, awakening only when he returned, bringing with him my shirt and pants neatly folded, boots polished, and a full set of not-quite-GI socks and underwear. I would have been happy never to see the ones he took away again. He smiled and chattered at me, bowing as he left. I shaved, combed my hair, and dressed, marveling at what a difference a hot bath and clean clothes made. I felt in my pocket for the handkerchief. It was still there but folded precisely, not stuffed into a ball. No wonder the old man was so much nicer when he came back.
I found Sciafani in his room, putting on a new white collarless shirt. The only thing he’d gotten back was his shoes, polished to a shine.
“They took my dagger,” he said, as he ran a comb through his thick dark hair.
“You might get the wrong end of it back when they discover what happened to Tommy the C,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“It was my first step toward revenge, to strike at Don Calo, to take something from him. And if I could do it once, I would know I could do it again. I had to find out.”
“Can you do it again?”
“I am not sure,” Sciafani said. “He may not have been a good man, but I find I wish I could take my action back. I have seen so much death, I thought one at my own hands would not matter. But it does.”
“There’s an old Chinese saying according to my father,” I said. “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”
“Did your father ever seek revenge?” Sciafani asked.
That was complicated. Among the Irish on the Boston PD there were often crosscurrents of loyalty and betrayal. There were IRA men like Uncle Dan, who organized money and guns for the cause in Ireland, and those who winked at their work. There was the day-to-day pilferage and graft, which greased the wheels for everyone but kept us all in the same boat. Then there was serious corruption, those who took payoffs from the Mob, guys who were after the big score, not satisfied with a little extra on the side. Guys like Basher, a cop who’d come up with my dad and gone really bad. Basher had shot Dad from ambush, to keep him from blowing the whistle on him. Only Basher wasn’t as good at shooting as he was at being a crooked cop, so Dad had awakened in a hospital with Uncle Dan and a few IRA boys at his bedside. Basher was never heard from again, though they did find him floating facedown one fine day. I’d never thought about it before, but a year or so after that Dad started quoting Confucius to me.
“No,” I lied, not wanting to have to explain or think more about this coincidence right now.
“He sounds like a wise man,” Sciafani said.
Wiser than I ever knew maybe.
“Yeah. I guess he always hoped some of it would rub off.”
I could see Dad clearly, standing on a wet sidewalk as the gray light of early morning found its way over the tenement roofs, his hands stuffed in his raincoat pockets, standing over a corpse in the gutter, prone, blood pooling against the curbstone. It was the first time he said it to me, and I had thought it was odd, since the argument that had led to this death had turned out to be a beef over a Studebaker, of all things. I’d listened, but not really. I’d listened with my ears, not my eyes or my heart, so it was only now, seeing someone else struggle with the demons of revenge and death, that I understood what my father had been telling me.
“Let’s go find dinner,” I said, patting Sciafani on the shoulder and moving him out of the room. He was subdued, harmless perhaps, but I had to keep my eye on him. He’d finally seen the man he’d agonized over killing and found him to be the person who’d shaped his life more than his own father had. It wasn’t a good basis for
la vendetta
, but Sciafani had already started that ball rolling, and I wanted to get him out of there before he drew me into his scheme of revenge.
We tried to retrace our steps through the busy house, passing young smiling girls carrying laundry and a couple of dark, grim men who ignored us. We ended up in the small courtyard, then found our way into a large kitchen, where an old woman, her dull black dress flowing from her chins to her ankles, hollered at us, pointing the way out with an eggplant, which she brandished like a saber. Pots were bubbling on the cast-iron woodstove, and plates of cheese were set out, ready to be served. I felt a powerful surge of hunger, not because I hadn’t eaten, but because I’d eaten poorly. The smells from the kitchen were so rich and tantalizing that they drew out the hunger that had been kept at bay by Italian rations and dry bread. I breathed deeply, anticipating nothing but food, putting all thoughts of
mafiusu
and revenge aside. We entered a large room, dominated by a long wooden table, a dozen high-backed chairs arranged around it. Don Calo stood at the far end of the room talking with a small group of men.
“Come, come in,” he said, gesturing to us with both arms, welcoming us as if we were old friends. As he moved toward us, I saw the faces of the other men. And one ghost.
Harry. Lieutenant Harry Dickinson raising a glass of wine to his lips. I stopped, blinking, not sure that my mind wasn’t still playing tricks on me. Harry was still there, his eyes fixed on mine.
“Billy!” He set down the wineglass hard, spilling the deep red liquid on the white lace tablecloth in his haste. “My God, I’d given you up for lost.”
“I thought you were dead” was all I could say, in a faint voice. I should have been glad to see him, thrilled he was alive, but instead I was confused. Everything that had happened to me these last few days flowed from tossing that grenade and thinking I’d killed Harry, and here he was, drinking wine, hardly the worse for wear. Then I saw Nick, hanging back, watching me.
“And you—,” I said, clenching my teeth as I felt anger flood me.
“Never mind that now,” said Harry, holding up his hand. “No need for a scene, Billy.”
“A scene? What, are you crazy? He—”
“You’ve got to tell me why you thought I was dead, Billy. But first I must introduce you to the other guests.” Harry spoke as if we were at a cocktail party, not behind enemy lines at a Mafia chieftain’s house. I didn’t get it, but then again I could hardly take in that this was really Harry, alive and clapping me on the shoulder.
“I believe we have already met,” a voice said from behind Nick. “In Algiers.”
If seeing Harry had thrown me for a loop, this guy did it in spades. Harry and Nick were dressed in the same nondescript khaki uniforms they’d worn on the mission, nicely cleaned and pressed, but still the same. The other guest was dressed in khaki too, just as worn and sun bleached as theirs. The only difference was the cuff band that read AFRIKA with the palm-tree emblem of the Afrika Korps.
“Who. . . what?” I couldn’t manage to say anything coherent. My mind felt rusty and slow, as if thinking back to Algiers was more than it could handle.
“Major Erich Remke,” Harry said, “Lieutenant Billy Boyle, U. S . Army.”
“Yes, it was in Algiers, in that unfortunate Vichy prison cell,” Major Remke said. “I am glad you were freed.” He extended his hand and I shook it, remembering the face and the circumstances. He was tall and lean with a weather-beaten face, his deep blue eyes set off by tiny white crow’s-feet, a result of squinting in the sun.
“Yes, I was. Did your agent make it? The one with the student rebels?”
“No, no, Lieutenant Boyle,” Remke said. “There are rules in this house. No weapons and no attempts at interrogation under Don Calo’s roof. We are under his protection here, from each other.”
I looked at Harry, hoping someone would take pity and explain what the hell was going on. He smiled at me, the kind of smile you give a young child who can’t keep up with the grown-up conversation.
“Billy,” Harry said, gripping my arm to get my attention. “We’ve all come here to see Don Calo. He’s talked to us separately, and insisted we all remain here—as his guests—while he decides what to do.”
“It is much simpler,” Don Calo broke in, “to discuss things with both parties in the same house. It saves much driving about, and all it requires is that you do not kill each other under my roof. Now, come, eat.”
Don Calo introduced Sciafani as a local doctor, as if he were an ordinary visitor. We sat, weaponless soldiers obediently making small talk with each other. Two thick-necked bruisers with arms crossed stood against the wall, watching the servers come in and out with plates of food. I wondered if this was Don Calo’s real home or a house where he only did business. No wife or children were in evidence, only his men and servants, who moved like players in well-practiced parts.
“This wine is from our local grape, gentlemen, the Nero d’Avola,” Don Calo announced, raising his glass. “
Salute
.”
We all raised our glasses and, following the others as if in a trance, I drank but tasted nothing. Candles were lit and bright pinpoints of light danced above the table. My enemy laughed at something my friend said, and they all seemed far, far away. Someone served me a small triangle of crispy eggplant. I bit into it and hot cheese oozed out. Sciafani, on my left, spoke to Don Calo in Sicilian, an easy flow of everyday banter, no trace of the avenging killer in his tone. Across from me, Nick stared down at his plate, the only one, besides me, who didn’t seem caught up in the fantasy of Mafia hospitality.
Remke’s eyes darted from Don Calo to Sciafani, and I knew he was following what they were saying. The last time I’d seen him, he was about to leave Algiers just before the Vichy gave up; Major Harding and I were in a police cell. Harding had figured out that Remke was an intelligence officer, and one of his agents had been picked up in the same roundup that had scooped up Diana. Remke had given us a few clues to help us find Diana, but only because he knew that was the best chance his agent had of getting out alive. I was here now because I’d been able to serve his purposes then. I wondered if I’d be as lucky this time.
“Lieutenant Boyle?”
“What?” I realized someone had been calling my name. It was Remke, eyeing me with a quizzical look.
“I asked you if your Major—Harding, was it not—was well?”
“Alive, you mean? Yes.”
“Give him my regards. If you see him again,” Remke said, then ripped a piece of crusty bread with his teeth.
“You can give him your own regards, from inside a POW cage,” I said. It wasn’t that I felt the need to insult Remke, but this whole setup didn’t sit right with me. I didn’t like Don Calo hosting blood enemies and making us play by his rules. I could be aiming my gun at that sun-bleached khaki tomorrow, and I didn’t much like making dinner conversation with it today. I always tried to think about the uniform, not the man, when I was in combat.
It’s just laundry
,my drill instructor had said once.
Shoot at the laundry, don’t think about the guy wearing it. If he
was in civvies they’d put you away for killing him. If he’s wearing the right
laundry, they’ll give you a medal.
“Billy,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes and staring me down like a schoolmaster. “Not here, not now.”
“Exactly,” said Don Calo. “Everywhere else, you have dominion. On the sea, on the land, and in the air, you kill each other, as well as many innocents. But here, no. In this little village, in my poor house, no.”
Remke nodded to Don Calo, acknowledging his wisdom while showing me up with his European patience. I felt like taking the damned handkerchief out and blowing my nose in it. Harry’s eyes were on me, willing me to shut up. I avoided his gaze and stared at Nick, who looked as dazed as I felt.
“My apologies,” I said. “Nowadays I try not to let my guard down, with enemies or friends.”
“Very good,” said Don Calo. “The virtue of an enemy is that you know he is your enemy, while your so-called friend may deceive you.”
A plate of small rice balls came my way. I helped myself, the aroma nearly lifting me off my seat. It felt good to put everyone else on edge. It leveled the playing field, which I liked a damn sight better than being the odd man out.
“So we are all here, where you can keep an eye on us, and decide who is to be your new friend?”
“Yes, I do keep the eye on you all. As for becoming friends, we Sicilians do not need your friendship, we would prefer that you all go away. The Italians too. Leave us to our island, that is our wish.”
“Then why do you have a German, two Americans, and an Englishman here, Don Calo?” Sciafani asked.
“
Un diavolo caccia l’altro
,” Don Calo answered, and they both laughed. Remke raised an eyebrow, signaling his understanding. All I got was the bit about the devil.
“One devil hunts the other,” Sciafani explained. “An old saying.”
“Did you know that one, Nick?” I asked. “Sounds right up your alley, with your family coming from around here.”
“No” was all he said, and meekly at that.
“Well, here’s one for you then,” I said, raising my glass. “
Faol saol
agat, gob fliuch, agus bás in Éirinn
.”
“Gaelic?” Harry asked. “Aye,” I said, the Irish lilt from Southie springing to my lips. “
Long life to you, a wet mouth, and death in Ireland.
But any island will do.”
Everyone but Nick laughed. I drank the wine down and the flavor danced on my tongue.
