Omerta (20 page)

It pleased Astorre that Aldo Monza made no gesture of anger or surprise. For five minutes he remained silent, thinking carefully. Then Monza said, “Will you continue payment to my family
cosca
? My brother will lead them.”

“Certainly,” Astorre said. “They are valuable to us.”

“Then after I kill Fissolini, I will come with you. Neither you nor Bianco can interfere in any way. My wife does not go to Brazil until she sees the dead body of my uncle.”

“Agreed,” Astorre said. And remembering Fissolini’s joyful, jolly face and roguish smile, he felt a pang of regret. “When will it happen?”

“On Sunday,” Monza said. “I will be with you on Monday. And may God burn Sicily and my wife in a thousand eternal hells.”

“I will go with you back to your village,” Astorre said. “I will take your wife under my protection. I’m afraid you may be carried away.”

Monza shrugged. “I cannot let my fate be decided by what a woman puts in her vagina.”

T
he Fissolini
cosca
met early that Sunday morning. The nephews and sons-in-law had to decide whether or not to kill Fissolini’s younger brother also, to avoid his vengeance. Certainly, the brother must have known of the seduction and, by not speaking, condoned it. Astorre did not take any part in that discussion. He simply made clear that the wife and children could not be harmed. But his blood chilled at the ferocity of these men over what seemed to him not so grave an offense. He realized now how merciful the Don had been with him.

He understood it was not only a sexual matter. When a wife betrays her husband with a lover, she lets a possible Trojan horse into the political structure of the
cosca
. She can leak secrets and weaken defenses; she gives her lover power over her husband’s Family. She is a spy in a war. Love is no excuse for such treachery.

So the
cosca
assembled Sunday morning for breakfast in the home of Aldo Monza, and then the women went to mass with the children. Three men of the
cosca
took Fissolini’s brother out to the fields—and to his death. The others listened to Fissolini hold court with the rest of his
cosca
gathered around him. Only Aldo Monza didn’t laugh at his jokes. Astorre, as an honored guest, sat next to Fissolini.

“Aldo,” Fissolini said to his nephew with a raffish smile, “you’ve become as sour as you look.”

Monza stared back at his uncle. “I can’t be as cheerful as you, Uncle. After all, I’m not sharing your wife, am I?”

At the same time, three men of the
cosca
grabbed Fissolini and held him to his chair. Monza went into the kitchen and came back with his bag of veterinary tools. “Uncle,” he said, “I am teaching what you have forgotten.”

Astorre turned his head away.

I
n the bright Sunday-morning sunlight, on the dirt road leading to the famous Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a huge white horse cantered slowly. On that horse was Fissolini. He was fastened to the saddle with wire, and his back was supported by a huge wooden crucifix. He almost looked alive. But on his head, like a crown of thorns, was a nest of twigs filled with green grass to form a mound, and mounted on that nest were his penis and testicles. From them, running down his forehead were tiny spiders of blood.

Aldo Monza and his beautiful young wife watched from the steps of the church. She started to cross herself, but Monza struck down her arm and held her head straight to see. Then he shoved her out into the road to follow the corpse.

Astorre followed her and guided her to his car to take her to Palermo and safety.

Monza made a move toward him and the woman, his face masked with hate. Astorre gazed at him quietly and raised a warning finger. Monza let them go.

.
  
.
  
.

S
ix months after the killing of Limona, Nello invited Astorre for a weekend at his villa. They would play tennis and bathe in the sea. They would feast on the fantastic local fish, and they would have the company of two of the prettiest dancers at the club, Buji and Stella. And the villa would be clear of relatives, who would be attending a huge family wedding in the countryside.

It was beautiful Sicilian weather, with that particular shadow to the sunlight that kept the heat from being unbearable and made the sky a startling canopy overhead. Astorre and Nello played tennis with the girls, who had never seen a racquet before but hit out lustily and sent balls flying over the fence. Finally Nello suggested they go for a walk on the beach and a swim.

The five bodyguards were enjoying themselves in the shade of the verandah, the servants bringing them drinks and food. But this did not relax their vigilance. For one thing, they enjoyed watching the lithe bodies of the two women in their bathing suits, speculating about which of them was better in bed, and all agreeing on Buji, whose vivacious speech and laughter gave evidence of a higher potential for arousal. Now they prepared for the walk on the beach in good humor, even rolling up their trouser legs.

But Astorre motioned for them. “We’ll stay in sight,” he told them. “Enjoy your drinks.”

The four of them strolled down the beach just out of reach of the surf, Astorre and Nello in front and the two women behind them. When the women had gone fifty yards, they began to strip off their bathing suits. Buji took down her shoulder straps to show her breasts and cupped them to hold the sun.

They all jumped into the surf, which was mild and rippling. Nello was a first-class swimmer, and he dove underwater and came up between Stella’s legs so that when he stood she was on his shoulders. He shouted to Astorre, “Come on out!!” and Astorre waded to where he could swim, Buji holding on to him from behind. He pushed her underwater, sinking with her below the surface, but instead of being frightened, Buji tugged at his shorts to uncover his behind.

Submerged, he felt a throbbing in his ears. At the same time he saw Buji’s exposed white breasts suspended in the green water below the sea and her laughing face close to his. Then the throbbing in his ears came to a roar, and he surfaced, Buji clinging to his bare hips.

The first thing he saw was a speedboat roaring toward him, its motor a thunderstorm churning up air and water. Nello and Stella were on the beach. How did they get there so fast? Far off, he could see his bodyguards, trousers rolled, starting to run toward the sea from the villa. He pushed Buji underwater and away from him and tried to wade to the beach. But he was too late. The speedboat was very close, and he saw a man with a rifle aiming carefully. The noise of the shots was muffled by the roar of the motor.

The first bullet spun Astorre around so that he was a broad target to the gunman. His body seemed to jump out of the water, then collapsed below the surface. He could hear the boat receding, and then he felt Buji tugging at him, dragging him, and trying to lift him onto the beach.

When the bodyguards arrived they found Astorre facedown in the surf, a bullet in his throat, Buji weeping at his side.

I
t took Astorre four months to recover from his wounds. Bianco had him hidden in a small private hospital in Palermo where he could be guarded and given the best treatment. Bianco visited him every day, and Buji came on her days off from the club.

It was near the end of his stay that Buji brought him a two-inch-wide gold neckband from the center of which hung a gold disk etched with an image of the Virgin Mary. She put it around his neck like a collar and positioned the medallion over his wound. It had been treated with adhesive that made it stick to the skin. The disk was no bigger than a silver dollar, but it covered the wound and looked like an adornment. Still, there was nothing effeminate about it.

“That does the job,” Buji said affectionately. “I couldn’t bear looking at it.” She kissed him gently.

“You just wash off the adhesive once a day,” Bianco said.

“I’ll get my throat slit by somebody who wants gold,” Astorre said wryly. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” Bianco said. “A man of respect cannot flaunt an injury inflicted by an enemy. Also, Buji is right. Nobody can bear the sight of it.”

The only thing that registered with Astorre was that Bianco had called him a man of respect. Octavius Bianco, that ultimate Mafioso, had done him the honor. He was surprised and flattered.

After Buji left—for a weekend with the wealthiest wine merchant in Palermo—Bianco held a mirror up for Astorre. The band of gold was handsomely made. The Madonna, Astorre thought; she was all over Sicily, in roadside shrines, in cars and houses, on children’s toys.

He said to Bianco, “Why is it the Madonna Sicilians worship, instead of the Christ?”

Bianco shrugged. “Jesus was, after all, a man, and so cannot be fully trusted. Anyway, forget all that. It’s done. Before you go back to America, you will spend a year with Mr. Pryor in London to learn about the banking business. Your uncle’s orders. There is another thing. Nello must be killed.”

Astorre had gone over the whole affair many times in his mind and knew Nello was guilty. But what was the reason? They had been good friends for such a long time, and it had been a genuine friendship. But then there had come the killing of the Corleonesi. Nello must be related in some way to the Corleonesi
cosca
and he had no choice.

And there was the fact that Nello had never tried to visit him in the hospital. In fact, Nello had disappeared from Palermo. He played at the club no more. Still, Astorre hoped he might be wrong.

“Are you sure it was Nello?” Astorre said. “He was my dearest friend.”

“Who else could they use?” Bianco said. “Your most bitter enemy? Of course, your friend. In any case you will have to punish him yourself as a man of respect. So get well.”

On Bianco’s next visit Astorre said to him, “We have no proof against Nello. Let the matter rest, and make your peace with the Corleonesi. Let the word go out that I died of my wounds.”

At first Bianco argued furiously, but then he accepted the wisdom of Astorre’s advice and thought him a clever man. He could make peace with the Corleonesi, and the score would be even. As for Nello, he was just a pawn and not worth killing. Until another day.

I
t took a week for arrangements to be made. Astorre would return to the United States through London, to be briefed by Mr. Pryor. Bianco told Astorre that Aldo Monza would be sent to America directly to stay with Don Aprile and would be waiting for him in New York.

Astorre spent a year with Mr. Pryor in London. It was an enlightening experience.

In Mr. Pryor’s den, over a jug of wine with lemon, it was explained that there were extraordinary plans for him. That his stay in Sicily had been part of a specific plan by the Don to prepare him for a certain important role.

Astorre asked him about Rosie. He had never forgotten her—her grace, her pure joy in living, her generosity in all things, including lovemaking. He missed her.

Mr. Pryor raised his eyebrows. “That Mafioso girl,” he said. “I knew you would not forget her.”

“Do you know where she is?” Astorre asked.

“Certainly,” Pryor said. “In New York.”

Astorre said hesitantly, “I’ve been thinking about her. After all, I was gone a long time and she was young. What happened was very natural. I was hoping to see her again.”

“Of course,” Mr. Pryor said. “Why would you not? After dinner I will give you all the information you need.”

So late that night in Mr. Pryor’s den, Astorre got the full story on Rosie. Mr. Pryor played tapes of Rosie’s phone conversations that revealed her meetings with men in her flat. These tapes made clear that Rosie had sexual liaisons with them, that they gave her expensive gifts and money. It was a shock for Astorre to hear her voice, using tones that he had thought were meant only for him—the clear laugh, the witty, affectionate quips. She was extremely charming and never coarse or vulgar. She made herself sound like a high school girl going on a prom date. Her innocence was a work of genius.

Mr. Pryor was wearing his cap low over his eyes, but he was watching Astorre.

Astorre said, “She’s very good, isn’t she?”

“A natural,” Mr. Pryor said.

“Were these tapes made when I was going with her?” Astorre asked.

Mr. Pryor made a deprecating gesture. “It was my duty to protect you. Yes.”

“And you never said anything?” Astorre said.

“You were really madly in love,” Mr. Pryor said. “Why should I spoil your pleasure? She was not greedy, she treated you well. I was young myself once, and believe me, in love the truth is of no importance. And despite everything, she is a marvelous girl.”

“A high-class call girl,” Astorre said, almost bitterly.

“Not really,” Mr. Pryor said. “She had to live by her wits. She ran away from home when she was fourteen, but she was highly intelligent and wanted an education. She also wanted to live a happy life. All perfectly natural. She could make men happy, a rare talent. It was fair that they should pay a price.”

Astorre laughed. “You are an enlightened Sicilian. But what about spending twenty-four hours with the dead body of a lover?”

Mr. Pryor laughed with delight. “But that is the best part of her. Truly Mafioso. She has a warm heart but a cold mind. What a combination. Magnificent. But then, you must always be wary of her. Such a person is always dangerous.”

“And the amyl nitrate?” Astorre asked.

“Of that she is innocent. Her affair with the professor had been going on before she met you, and he insisted on the drug. No, what we have here is a girl who straightforwardly thinks of her own happiness to the exclusion of everything else. She has no social inhibitions. My advice to you is stay in touch. You may want to make some professional use of her.”

“I agree,” Astorre said. He was surprised that he felt no anger toward Rosie. That her charm was all she needed to be forgiven. He would let it go, he told Mr. Pryor.

“Good,” Mr. Pryor said. “After a year here, you will go to Don Aprile.”