The Sicilian (25 page)

“Ah, that no,” Minister Trezza said. “A pardon is beyond my powers.”

“A
promise
is not beyond your powers,” Don Croce said. “And then if it can be done, very well. If you find it impossible, I will tell him the bad news.”

The Minister saw the light. He saw, as Don Croce intended him to see, that in the end Don Croce must be rid of Guiliano, that the two of them could not exist together in Sicily. And that Don Croce would take all the responsibility for this, that the Minister need not concern himself in solving the problem. Certainly promises could be made. He had only to give Don Croce copies of the two military plans.

The Minister pondered his decision. Don Croce lowered his massive head and said softly, “If the pardon is at all possible I would urge it.”

The Minister was striding up and down the room thinking out all the complications that could arise. Don Croce never moved his head or body to follow his movements. The Minister said, “Promise him the pardon in my name, but you must know now it will be difficult. The scandal may be too much. Why, if the newspapers even knew that the two of us met they would flay me alive and I would have to retire to my farm in Sicily and shovel shit and shear sheep. Now is it truly necessary for you to have copies of those plans and my order?”

“Nothing can be done without them,” Don Croce said. His tenor voice was as powerful and convincing as that of a great singer. “Guiliano needs some proof that we two are friends and some prior reward from us for his services. We accomplish both when I show him the plans and promise that they will not be implemented. He can operate as freely as before without having to fight an army and extra police. My possession of the plans verifies my connection with you, and when the plans do not go into effect, it will establish my influence with Rome.”

Minister Trezza poured Don Croce another cup of espresso. “I agree,” he said. “I trust in our friendship. Discretion is all. But I worry about your safety. When Guiliano performs his task and is not pardoned, surely he will hold you responsible.”

The Don nodded his head but did not speak. He sipped his espresso. The Minister was watching him intently and then said, “The two of you cannot exist together on such a small island.”

The Don smiled. “I will make room for him,” he said. “There is plenty of time.”

“Good, good,” Minister Trezza said. “And remember this. If I can promise my party the votes of Sicily in the next election, and if then I can solve the problem of Guiliano with glory to the government, there is no telling how high my rise will be in the rule of Italy. But no matter how high, I will never forget you, my dear friend. You will always have my ear.”

Don Croce shifted his huge bulk in the chair and mused whether it would really be worthwhile making this olive-head of a Sicilian the Premier of Italy. But his very stupidity would be an asset to the Friends of the Friends, and if he turned treacherous he would be an easy man to destroy. Don Croce said in the sincere tone for which he was famous, “I thank you for your friendship and will do everything in my power to help you in your fortunes. We are agreed. I leave for Palermo tomorrow afternoon and would be grateful if you had the plans and other papers delivered to my hotel in the morning. As for Guiliano, if you cannot manage a pardon for him after he has done his work, I will arrange for him to vanish. To America, perhaps, or some other place where he cannot cause you any further trouble.”

And so the two men parted. Trezza the Sicilian, who had chosen to uphold society, and Don Croce, who regarded the structure and law of Rome as the devil put on earth to enslave him. For Don Croce believed in freedom, a freedom belonging personally to himself, which owed nothing to any other force, won only by the respect he earned from his fellow Sicilians. It was unfortunate, Don Croce thought, that fate opposed him to Turi Guiliano, a man after his own heart, and not this hypocritical scoundrel of a Minister.

Back in Palermo, Don Croce summoned Hector Adonis. He told him about his meeting with Trezza and the agreement to which they had come. Then he showed him the copies of the plans made by the government for their war against Guiliano. The little man was distressed, which was the effect the Don had hoped for.

“The Minister has promised me that these plans will be disapproved by him and never implemented,” Don Croce said. “But your godson must use all his power to influence the next election. He must be firm and strong and not worry about the poor so much. He must think of his own skin. He must understand that an alliance with Rome and the Minister of Justice is an opportunity. Trezza commands all the
carabinieri
, all the police, all the judges. He may someday be the Premier of Italy. If that happens Turi Guiliano can return to the bosom of his family and perhaps even have a great career himself in politics. The people of Sicily love him. But for now he must forgive and forget. I count on you to influence him.”

Hector Adonis said, “But how can he believe the promises of Rome? Turi has always fought for the poor. He would not do anything against their interests.”

Don Croce said sharply, “He’s not a Communist, surely. Arrange for me to meet with Guiliano. I will convince him. We are the two most powerful men in Sicily. Why should we not work together? He refused before, but times change. Now this will be his salvation as well as ours. The Communists will crush us both with equal pleasure. A Communist state cannot afford a hero like Guiliano or a villain like myself. I will come to meet him wherever he wishes. And tell him that I guarantee the promises of Rome. If the Christian Democrats win the next election I will be responsible for his pardon. I pledge my life and honor.”

Hector Adonis understood. That Don Croce would risk Guiliano’s wrath against him if the promises of Minister Trezza were broken.

“May I take these plans with me to show Guiliano?” he asked.

Don Croce considered for a moment. He knew he would never get the plans back and that in turning them over he would be giving Guiliano a powerful weapon for the future. He smiled at Hector Adonis. “My dear Professor,” he said, “of course you may take them with you.”

Waiting for Hector Adonis, Turi Guiliano pondered what his course of action should be. He had understood that the elections and the victories of the left-wing parties would bring Don Croce to him for help.

For nearly four years Guiliano had distributed hundreds of millions of lire and food to the poor in his corner of Sicily, but he could only really help them by seizing some sort of power.

The books on economics and politics that Adonis brought him to read troubled him. The course of history showed that the left-wing parties were the only hope for the poor in every country except for America. Still, he could not side with them. He hated their preaching against the Church and their scoffing at the medieval family ties of Sicilians. And he knew that a Socialist government would make a greater effort to dislodge him from his mountains than the Christian Democrats.

It was nighttime, and Guiliano watched the fires of his men spread out down the mountain. From the cliff looking down on Montelepre, he could occasionally hear snatches of music played over the loudspeakers in the village square, music from Palermo. He could see the town as a geometric pattern of lights that formed an almost perfect circle. He thought for a moment that when Adonis came and they had done their business he would accompany his godfather back down the mountain and then visit his parents and La Venera. He had no fear of doing so. After three years he completely controlled movement in the province. The
carabinieri
detachment in the town was fully covered, and besides he would bring enough members of his band to massacre them if they dared venture near his mother’s house. He now had armed supporters living on the Via Bella itself.

When Adonis arrived, Turi Guiliano took him into the large cave that held a table and chairs and was lit with American Army battery lamps. Hector Adonis embraced him and gave him a small bag of books which Turi accepted gratefully. Adonis also gave Turi an attaché case filled with papers. “I think you will find this interesting. You should read it immediately.”

Guiliano spread the papers out on the wooden table. They were the orders signed by Minister Trezza authorizing another thousand
carabinieri
to be sent from the mainland to Sicily to fight against Guiliano’s bandits. There were also the plans drawn up by the Army Chief of Staff. Guiliano studied them with interest. He was not afraid; he would simply have to move deeper into the mountains, but the advance warning was timely.

“Who gave you these?” he asked Adonis.

“Don Croce,” Adonis said. “He received them from Minister Trezza himself.” Turi did not seem as surprised as he should have been by the news. In fact he was smiling slightly.

“Is this supposed to frighten me?” Guiliano asked. “The mountains are deep. All the men they send can be swallowed up and I’ll be whistling myself to sleep under a tree.”

“Don Croce wants to meet with you. He will come to you at any place you name,” Adonis said. “These plans are a token of his good will. He has a proposition to make.”

Turi said, “And you, my godfather, do you advise me to meet with Don Croce?” He was watching Hector intently.

“Yes,” Adonis said simply.

Turi Guiliano nodded. “Then we will meet in your home, in Montelepre. Are you sure Don Croce will risk that?”

Adonis said gravely, “Why should he not? He will have my word that he will be safe. And I will have your word which I trust more than anything else in the world.”

Guiliano took Hector’s hands in his. “As I do yours,” he said. “Thank you for these plans and thank you for these books you have brought me. Will you help me with one of them tonight before you leave?”

“Of course,” Hector Adonis said. And for the rest of the night in his magnificent professional voice, he explained difficult passages in the books he had brought. Guiliano listened intently and asked questions. It was as if they were schoolmaster and child together as they had been so many years ago.

It was on that night that Hector Adonis suggested Guiliano keep a Testament. A document that would be a record of everything that happened to the band, that would detail any secret deal Guiliano made with Don Croce and Minister Trezza. It could become a great protection.

Guiliano was immediately enthusiastic. Even if it had no power, even if it were lost, he dreamed that perhaps in a hundred years some other rebel might discover it. As he and Pisciotta had discovered the bones of Hannibal’s elephant.

CHAPTER 19

T
HE HISTORIC MEETING
took place two days later. And in that short space of time the town of Montelepre was bursting with rumors that the great Don Croce Malo was coming, hat in hand, to meet with their own glorious hero, Turi Guiliano. How the secret got out was not known. Perhaps it was because Guiliano took extraordinary precautions for the meeting. His patrols moved into position to seal off the Palermo road, and almost fifty of his men who were related by blood to people living in Montelepre went to visit their relatives and stay in their houses overnight.

Passatempo was sent with his men to seal off the Bellampo Barracks and immobilize the
carabinieri
if they ventured out on patrol. Terranova’s men controlled the road from Castellammare and Trapani. Corporal Canio Silvestro was on a rooftop with his five best riflemen and a heavy machine gun camouflaged by the bamboo frames used to dry tomatoes into paste that many families used in the town of Montelepre.

Don Croce came at twilight in a large Alfa Romeo touring car which parked in front of the house of Hector Adonis. He came with his brother, Father Benjamino, and two armed guards who remained in the car with the chauffeur. Hector Adonis was waiting for them at the door attired even more elegantly than usual in his specially London-tailored gray suit and a red and black striped tie on his dazzling white shirt. He made a startling contrast to the Don, who seemed to be attired even more carelessly than usual, his huge girth girdled by a pair of trousers that made him look like a huge goose waddling, his shirt, collarless and unbuttoned at the neck, and a heavy black jacket that did not even come together at the front, so that you could see the simple white suspenders, an inch wide, that held up the trousers. His shoes were thin slippers.

Father Benjamino was in his clerical garb and wore his usual dusty black hat shaped like a round pan. He blessed the house before he entered, making the sign of the cross and murmuring a benediction.

Hector Adonis owned the finest house in Montelepre and was proud of it. The furniture was from France and the paintings had been bought carefully from minor living artists of Italy. His dinnerplate was from Germany and his house servant was a middle-aged Italian woman who had been trained in England before the war. She served them coffee as the three men sat in the drawing room waiting for Guiliano.

Don Croce felt absolutely secure. He knew that Guiliano would not dishonor his godfather by betraying his word. The Don was filled with a pleasurable anticipation. He would now meet and judge for himself the true greatness of this rising star. And yet even he was a little startled at how quietly Guiliano slipped into the house. There was no sound out in the cobbled street, no sound of a door opening or being shut. But suddenly Guiliano was standing in the archway that led to the dining room. Don Croce was struck by his handsomeness.

Life in the mountains had broadened his chest and slimmed down his face. It was still oval and yet the cheeks were lean, the chin pointed. There were the statuelike eyes, golden brown with their curious circle of silver that seemed to embed the eyeballs into their sockets. His clothes too set him off to advantage—the moleskin trousers snug, a white shirt freshly washed and ironed. He wore a hunting jacket of russet velvet, loose, underneath which was slung a machine pistol he always carried. Above all he looked incredibly young, no more than a boy, though his age was twenty-four.

Could such a boy have defied Rome, outwitted the Friends of the Friends, inspired devotion in the murderous Andolini, kept in check the brutishness of Passatempo, conquered a quarter of Sicily and the love of the people of the whole island? Don Croce knew that Guiliano was incredibly brave, but Sicily was full of brave men who had gone to early graves, easy prey to treacheries.

And then even as Don Croce doubted him, Turi Guiliano did something that gladdened the Don’s heart and reassured him that he was right to make this boy his ally. He came into the room and advanced directly to Don Croce and said, “
Bacio tua mano
.”

It was the traditional Sicilian peasant greeting to a man of higher rank—a priest, a landowner or a noble. “I kiss your hand.” And Guiliano had a cheerful grin on his face. But Don Croce knew exactly why he had said it. It was not to show his subservience to the Don or even in respect for his age. It was said because the Don had put himself in Guiliano’s power and Guiliano was showing respect for the trust. Don Croce rose slowly, his heavy cheeks becoming darker with the effort of rising. He took Guiliano in his arms. This was a noble young man and he wanted to show his affection. As he did so he could see the face of Hector Adonis beaming proudly—his godson had shown himself a gentleman.

Pisciotta came through the archway and watched this with a small smile on his saturnine face. His handsomeness too was remarkable but in direct contrast to Guiliano. The illness of his lungs had thinned his body and his features. The bones of his face seemed to press outward against his olive skin. His hair was carefully combed and sleekly black whereas Guiliano wore his tawny hair closely cropped as if it were a helmet.

As for Turi Guiliano, he had expected to take the Don by surprise with his greeting and had been surprised in his turn by the Don’s complete understanding and graceful affectionate acceptance. He studied the huge hulk of Don Croce and became even more alert. This was a dangerous man. Not only by reputation but by the aura of power around him. The bulk of his body, which should have been grotesque, seemed to give off a heated energy; it filled the room. And when the Don spoke, the voice coming from that massive head had almost the magic of choral music. There was an extraordinary fascination about him when he set out to convince that was a combination of sincerity, forcefulness and exquisite courtesy which was strange in a man who seemed so uncouth in everything else he did.

“I’ve watched you for years and waited long for this day. Now that it has arrived, you fulfill every expectation.”

Guiliano said, “I am flattered.” He measured his next words, knowing what was expected of him. “I have always hoped we would be friends.”

Don Croce nodded and proceeded to explain the agreement that he had come to with Minister Trezza. That if Guiliano helped “educate” the populace of Sicily to vote properly in the next elections, then a way would be found for a pardon. Guiliano could return to his family as an ordinary citizen and no longer be a bandit. As evidence of the reality of this agreement, Minister Trezza had given the plans for the fight against Guiliano to the Don. The Don raised a hand in the air to emphasize his next point. “If you agree, these plans will be vetoed by the Minister. There would be no army expedition or extra thousand
carabinieri
sent to Sicily.”

Don Croce saw that Guiliano was listening attentively but did not seem surprised by all this. He went on. “Everyone in Sicily knows your concern for the poor. One might think that you would support the leftist parties. But I know of your belief in God, you are after all a Sicilian. And who does not know of your devotion to your mother? Do you really want Communists running Italy? What would happen to the Church? What would happen to the family? The young men of Italy and Sicily who fought in the war are infected by foreign beliefs, political doctrines that have no place in Sicily. Sicilians can find their own way to a better fate. And do you really want an all-powerful state that would brook no rebelliousness from its citizens? A left-wing government would surely mount a major campaign against both of us, for are we not the true rulers of Sicily? If the leftist parties win the next election, the day might come when there are Russians in the villages of Sicily deciding who might go to church. Our children would be made to go to schools that would teach them that the state comes before the sacred mother and father. What is worth that? No. Now is the time for every true Sicilian to defend his family and his honor against the state.”

There was an unexpected interruption. Pisciotta was still leaning against the wall of the archway. He said sardonically, “Maybe the Russians will give us our pardon.”

A cold wind blew through the Don’s mind. But he in no way showed the anger he felt at this insolent mustachioed little dandy. He studied the man. Why had he called attention to himself at this moment? Why had he wanted the Don to notice him? Don Croce wondered if this man might be put to some use. With his unerring instinct he smelled a rottenness in this most trusted lieutenant of Guiliano. Perhaps it was the lung disease, perhaps the cynicism of mind. Pisciotta was a man who could never trust anyone completely and was therefore a man who by definition could not be trusted by anyone completely. Don Croce turned all this over before he spoke to answer.

“When has a foreign nation ever helped Sicily?” he asked. “When has a foreigner ever given justice to a Sicilian? Young men like yourself,” he said directly to Pisciotta, “are our only hope. Cunning and brave and a pride in honor. For a thousand years such men have joined the Friends of the Friends to fight against oppressors, to seek the justice that Turi Guiliano fights for now. This is the time for us to stand together and preserve Sicily.”

Guiliano seemed impervious to the power of the Don’s voice. He said with deliberate bluntness, “But we have always fought against Rome and the men sent to govern us. They have always been our enemies. And now you ask us to help them, to trust them?”

Don Croce said gravely, “There are times when it is proper to make common cause with an enemy. The Christian Democrats are the least dangerous to us if they win Italy. It is to our purpose therefore that they rule. What could be simpler?” He paused for a moment. “The leftists will never give you a pardon. Rest assured of that. They are too hypocritical, too unforgiving, they do not understand the Sicilian character. Certainly the poor will get their land, but will they be able to keep what they grow? Can you picture our people working in a cooperative? God in heaven, they kill each other now in a quarrel over whether the Virgin Mary will wear a white robe or a red robe in our religious processions.”

All this was delivered with the ironical wit of a man who wanted his audience to know he was exaggerating and yet know the exaggeration held a good deal of truth.

Guiliano listened with a slight smile. He knew that someday it might be necessary to kill this man and such was the respect Don Croce inspired by his presence and the power of his personality that Guiliano flinched from the thought. As if by even thinking such a thing he went against his own father, some deep feeling of family. He had to make a decision and it would be the most important since he had become an outlaw.

Guiliano said softly, “I agree with you on the Communists. They are not for Sicilians.” Guiliano paused. He felt that now was the moment to make Don Croce bend to his will. “But if I do Rome’s dirty work, I have to promise my men some reward. What can Rome do for us?”

Don Croce had finished his cup of coffee. Hector Adonis sprang to replenish it, but Don Croce waved him away. Then he said to Guiliano, “We have not done too badly for you. Andolini brings you information on the movements of the
carabinieri
so that you can always keep your eye on them. They have not taken extraordinary measures to root you out of your mountains. But I know that is not enough. Allow me to do you a service that will gladden my heart and bring joy to your mother and father. Before your godfather here at our table, before your true friend, Aspanu Pisciotta, I will tell you this: I will move heaven and earth to secure your pardon and of course for your men.”

Guiliano had already made up his mind, but he wanted to nail down such guarantees as he could. He said, “I agree with almost everything you say. I love Sicily and its people and though I live as a bandit, I believe in justice. I would do almost anything to return to my home and my parents. But how do you make Rome keep their promises to me? That is the key. The service you ask is dangerous. I must have my reward.”

The Don considered. Then he said slowly and carefully, “You are right to be cautious. But you have those plans I requested Professor Adonis to show you. Keep them as evidence of your relationship to Minister Trezza. I will try to secure other documents for you that you may be able to use and that Rome must fear you may make public in one of your famous letters to the newspapers. And then finally I guarantee the pardon personally if you complete your task and the Christian Democrats win the election. Minister Trezza has the greatest respect for me and would never break his promise.”

Hector Adonis had an excited, pleased look on his face. He was already envisioning Maria Lombardo’s happiness when her son returned home no longer a fugitive. He knew Guiliano was acting out of necessity, but he thought that this alliance of Guiliano and Don Croce against the Communists might be the first link in a chain that could bind the two men together in true friendship.

That the great Don Croce guaranteed the government’s pardon impressed even Pisciotta. But Guiliano saw the essential flaw in the Don’s presentation. How could he know that this was not merely all an invention by the Don? That the plans had not been stolen? That they had not already been vetoed by the Minister? He needed a direct meeting with Trezza.