The Sicilian (37 page)

The ruins of the ancient Greek city glistened in the summer moonlight. Amidst them, Guiliano sat on the crumbling stone steps of the temple dreaming of America.

He felt an overwhelming melancholy. The old dreams had vanished. He had been so full of hope for his future and the future of Sicily; he had believed so fully in his immortality. So many people had loved him. Once he had been their blessing, and now, it seemed to Guiliano, he was their curse. Against all reason he felt deserted. But he still had Aspanu Pisciotta. And there would come a day when the two of them together would bring all those old loves and old dreams alive again. After all, it had been only the two of them in the beginning.

The moon disappeared and the ancient city vanished into darkness; now the ruins looked like skeletons sketched on the black canvas of night. Out of that blackness came the hiss of shifting small stones and earth, and Guiliano rolled his body back between the marble columns, his machine pistol ready. The moon sailed serenely out of the clouds, and he saw Aspanu Pisciotta standing in the wide ruined avenue that led down from the acropolis.

Pisciotta walked slowly down the rubbled path, his eyes searching, his voice whispering Turi’s name. Guiliano, hidden behind the temple columns, waited until Pisciotta went past, then stepped out behind him. “Aspanu, I’ve won again,” he said, playing their old childish game. He was surprised when Pisciotta whirled around in terror.

Guiliano sat down on the steps and put his gun aside. “Come and sit awhile,” he said. “You must be tired, and this may be the last chance we can talk to each other alone.”

Pisciotta said, “We can talk in Mazara del Vallo, we will be safer there.”

Guiliano said to him, “We have plenty of time and you’ll be spitting blood again if you don’t take a rest. Come on now, sit beside me.” And Guiliano sat on the top stone step.

He saw Pisciotta unsling his gun and thought it was to lay it aside. He stood and reached out his hand to help Aspanu up the steps. And then he realized that his friend was leveling the gun at him. He froze, for the first time in seven years caught unaware.

Pisciotta’s mind crumbled with all the terrors of what Guiliano would ask if they spoke. He would ask, “Aspanu, who is the Judas of our band? Aspanu, who warned Don Croce? Aspanu, who led the
carabinieri
to Castelvetrano? Aspanu, why did you meet with Don Croce?” And most of all, he was afraid that Guiliano would say, “Aspanu, you are my brother.” It was that final terror that made Pisciotta pull the trigger.

The stream of bullets blew away Guiliano’s hand and shattered his body. Pisciotta, horrified at his own action, waited for him to fall. Instead Guiliano came slowly down the steps, blood pouring from his wounds. Filled with superstitious dread, Pisciotta turned and fled, and he could see Guiliano running after him and then he saw Guiliano fall.

But Guiliano, dying, thought he was still running. The shattered neurons of his brain tangled and he thought he was running through the mountains with Aspanu seven years before, the fresh water flowing out of the ancient Roman cisterns, the smell of strange flowers intoxicating, running past the holy saints in their padlocked shrines, and he cried out, as on that night, “Aspanu, I believe,” believing in his happy destiny, in the true love of his friend. Then the kindness of death delivered him of the knowledge of his betrayal and his final defeat. He died in his dream.

Aspanu Pisciotta fled. He ran through the fields and onto the road to Castelvetrano. There he used his special pass to contact Colonel Luca and Inspector Velardi. It was they who released the story that Guiliano had fallen into a trap and been killed by Captain Perenze.

Maria Lombardo Guiliano was up early that morning of July 5, 1950. She had been awakened by a knock on the door; her husband had gone down to answer it. He had returned to the bedroom and told her he had to go out and might be gone for the whole day. She had looked through the window and seen him get into Zu Peppino’s donkey cart with its brightly painted legends on the panels and wheels. Had they news of Turi, had he made his escape to America or had something gone wrong? She felt the familiar anxiety building to terror that she had felt for the last seven years. It made her restless, and after she had cleaned the house and prepared vegetables for the day’s meals, she opened the door and looked out into the street.

The Via Bella was swept clean of all her neighbors. There were no children playing. Many of the men were in prison on suspicion of being conspirators with the Guiliano band. The women were too frightened to let their children out into the street. Squads of
carabinieri
were at each end of the Via Bella. Soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders patrolled up and down on foot. She saw other soldiers up on the roofs. Military jeeps were parked up against buildings. An armored car blocked the mouth of the Via Bella near the Bellampo Barracks. There were two thousand men of Colonel Luca’s army occupying the town of Montelepre, and they had made the townspeople their enemies by molesting the women, frightening the children, physically abusing the men not thrown into prison. And all these soldiers were here to kill her son. But he had flown to America, he would be free, and when the time was ripe, she and her husband would join him there. They would live in freedom, without fear.

She went back into the house and found herself work to do. She went to the rear balcony and looked at the mountains. Those mountains from which Guiliano had observed this house with his binoculars. She had always felt his presence; she did not feel it now. He was surely in America.

A loud pounding on the door froze her with terror. Slowly she went to open it. The first thing she saw was Hector Adonis, and he looked as she had never seen him look before. He was unshaven, his hair unruly, he wore no cravat. The shirt beneath his jacket was rumpled and the collar was smudged with dirt. But what she noticed most was that all dignity was gone from his face. It was crumpled with hopeless grief. His eyes were brimming with tears as he looked at her. She let out a muffled scream.

He came into the house and said, “Don’t, Maria, I beg of you.” A very young lieutenant of the
carabinieri
came in with him. Maria Lombardo looked past them into the street. There were three black cars parked in front of her house with
carabinieri
drivers. There was a cluster of armed men on each side of the door.

The Lieutenant was young and rosy cheeked. He took off his cap and put it under his arm. “You are Maria Lombardo Guiliano?” he asked formally. His accent was that of the north, of Tuscany.

Maria Lombardo said yes. Her voice was a croak of despair. There was no saliva in her mouth.

“I must ask you to accompany me to Castelvetrano,” the officer said. “I have a car waiting. Your friend here will accompany us. If you approve, of course.”

Maria Lombardo’s eyes were open wide. She said in a firmer voice. “For what reason? I know nothing of Castelvetrano or anyone there.”

The Lieutenant’s voice was softer, hesitant. “There is a man there we wish you to identify. We believe he is your son.”

“It is not my son, he never goes to Castelvetrano,” Maria Lombardo said. “Is he dead?”

“Yes,” the officer said.

Maria Lombardo let out a long wail and sank down to her knees. “My son never goes to Castelvetrano,” she said. Hector Adonis came over to her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“You must go,” he said. “Perhaps it is one of his tricks, he has done this before.”

“No,” she said. “I won’t go. I won’t go.”

The Lieutenant said, “Is your husband at home? We can take him instead.”

Maria Lombardo remembered Zu Peppino calling for her husband early that morning. She remembered the sense of foreboding when she had seen that painted donkey cart. “Wait,” she said. She went into her bedroom and changed into a black dress and put a black shawl over her head. The Lieutenant opened the door for her. She went out into the street. There were armed soldiers everywhere. She looked down the Via Bella, to where it ended in the square. In the shimmering July sunlight she had a clear vision of Turi and Aspanu leading their donkey to be mated seven long years ago, on the day he was to become a murderer and an outlaw. She began to weep and the Lieutenant took her arm and helped her into one of the black cars that was waiting. Hector Adonis got in beside her. The car moved off through the silent groups of
carabinieri
, and she buried her face in the shoulder of Hector Adonis, not weeping now but in mortal terror of what she would see at the end of her journey.

The body of Turi Guiliano lay in the courtyard for three hours. He seemed to be sleeping, his face down and turned to the left, one leg bent at the knee, his body sprawled. But the white shirt was almost scarlet. Near the mutilated arm was a machine pistol. Newspaper photographers and reporters from Palermo and Rome were already on the scene. A photographer for
Life
magazine was snapping pictures of Captain Perenze and the picture would appear with the caption that he was the slayer of the great Guiliano. Captain Perenze’s face in the picture was good-natured and sad and also a little bewildered. He wore a cap on his head which made him look like an affable grocer rather than a police officer.

But it was the pictures of Turi Guiliano that filled the newspapers all over the world. On one outstretched hand was the emerald ring he had taken from the Duchess. Around his body was the belt with golden buckle with its engraved eagle and lion. A pool of blood lay beneath his body.

Before Maria Lombardo’s arrival, the body was taken to the town mortuary and put on a huge oval marble slab. The mortuary was part of the cemetery, which was ringed with tall black cypresses. It was here that Maria Lombardo was brought and made to sit on a stone bench. They were waiting for Colonel and Captain to finish their victory lunch in the nearby Hotel Selinus. Maria Lombardo began to weep at the sight of all the journalists, the curious townspeople, the many
carabinieri
working to keep them under control. Hector Adonis tried to comfort her.

Finally they led her into the mortuary. Officials around the oval slab were asking questions. She raised her eyes and saw Turi’s face.

He had never looked so young. He looked as he looked as a child after an exhausting day of play with his Aspanu. There was no mark on his face, only a smudge of powdery dirt where his forehead had lain in the courtyard. The reality sobered her, made her calm. She answered questions. “Yes,” she said, “that is my son Turi, born of my body twenty-seven years ago. Yes I identify him.” The officials were still talking to her, giving her papers to sign, but she did not hear or see them. She did not see or hear the crowd pressing around her, the journalists screaming, the photographers fighting with the
carabinieri
to take pictures.

She kissed his forehead, as white as the gray-veined marble, she kissed his blueing lips, the hand torn to pulp by bullets. Her mind dissolved in grief. “Oh my blood, my blood,” she said, “what a terrible death you have died.”

She lost consciousness then, and when the attending physician gave her a shot and she had been brought to her senses, she insisted on going to the courtyard where her son’s body had been found. There she knelt and kissed the bloodstains on the ground.

When she was brought home to Montelepre she found her husband waiting for her. It was then she learned the murderer of her son was her beloved Aspanu.

CHAPTER 29

M
ICHAEL
C
ORLEONE AND
Peter Clemenza were trans ported to the Palermo jail right after their arrest. From there they were taken to Inspector Velardi’s office to be interrogated.

Velardi had six
carabinieri
officers, fully armed, with him. He greeted Michael and Clemenza with a cold courtesy and spoke to Clemenza first. “You are an American citizen,” he said. “You have a passport that says you have come here to pay your brother a visit. Don Domenic Clemenza of Trapani. A very respectable man, they tell me. A man of respect.” He said the traditional phrase with obvious sarcasm. “We find you with this Michael Corleone, and you are armed with lethal weapons in the town where Turi Guiliano has met his death just a few hours before. Would you care to make a statement?”

Clemenza said, “I was out hunting, we were looking for rabbits and foxes. Then we saw all the commotion in Castelvetrano when we stopped at a café for our morning coffee. So we went to see what had happened.”

“In America do you shoot rabbits with a machine pistol?” Inspector Velardi asked. He turned to Michael Corleone. “We have met before, you and I, we know what you are here for. And your fat friend knows too. But things have changed since we had that charming lunch with Don Croce a few days ago. Guiliano is dead. You are an accomplice in a criminal conspiracy to effect his escape. I am no longer required to treat scum like you as if you were human. Confessions are being prepared which I recommend you sign.”

At this moment a
carabinieri
officer came into the room and whispered into Inspector Velardi’s ear. Velardi said curtly, “Let him enter.”

It was Don Croce, no better dressed than Michael remembered him from that famous lunch. His mahogany face was just as impassive. He waddled over to Michael and embraced him. He shook hands with Peter Clemenza. Then he turned and still standing stared Inspector Velardi full in the face without saying a word. A brute force emanated from that hulk of a man. Power radiated from his face and eyes. “These two men are my friends,” he said. “What possible reason do you have to treat them with disrespect?” There was no anger in that voice, no emotion. It seemed merely to be a question demanding an answer with facts. It was also a voice that stated there was no fact that could justify their arrest.

Inspector Velardi shrugged. “They will appear before the magistrate and he will settle the matter.”

Don Croce sat down in one of the armchairs next to Inspector Velardi’s desk. He mopped his brow. He said in a quiet voice which again seemed to hold no threat, “Out of respect for our friendship, call Minister Trezza and ask his opinion on this matter. You will be rendering me a service.”

Inspector Velardi shook his head. The blue eyes were no longer cold but blazing with hatred. “We were never friends,” he said. “I acted under orders which are no longer binding now that Guiliano is dead. These two men will go before the magistrate. If it were within my power you would appear with them.”

At that moment the phone on Inspector Velardi’s desk rang. He ignored it waiting for Don Croce’s answer. Don Croce said, “Answer your telephone, that will be Minister Trezza.”

The Inspector slowly picked up the phone, his eyes watching Don Croce. He listened for a few minutes, then said, “Yes, Your Excellency,” and hung up the phone. He slumped down in his chair and said to Michael and Peter Clemenza, “You are free to go.”

Don Croce rose to his feet and shepherded Michael and Clemenza out of the room with a shooing motion, as if they were chickens entrapped in a yard. Then he turned to Inspector Velardi. “I have treated you with every courtesy this past year though you are a foreigner in my Sicily. And yet here in front of friends and in front of your fellow officers you have shown disrespect to my person. But I’m not the man to hold a grudge. I hope in the near future we can have dinner together and renew our friendship with a clearer understanding.”

Five days later in broad daylight Inspector Frederico Velardi was shot to death on the main boulevard of Palermo.

Two days later Michael was home. There was a family feast—his brother Fredo flew in from Vegas, there was Connie and her husband Carlo, there was Clemenza and his wife, Tom Hagen and his wife. They hugged and toasted Michael and commented on how well he looked. Nobody talked about his years of exile, nobody seemed to notice that the side of his face was caved in, nobody mentioned Sonny’s death. It was a family homecoming party as if he had been away to college or on a long vacation. He was seated on his father’s right. Finally he was safe.

The next morning he slept late, his first truly restful sleep since before he had fled the country. His mother had breakfast waiting and kissed him when he sat down at the table, an unusual sign of affection from her. She had done it only once before, when he had returned from the war.

When he finished eating he went to the library and found his father waiting for him. He was surprised that Tom Hagen was not there also and then realized that the Don wished to speak to him without any witnesses.

Don Corleone ceremoniously poured out two glasses of anisette and handed one to Michael. “To our partnership,” the Don said.

Michael raised his glass. “Thank you,” he said. “I have a lot to learn.”

“Yes,” Don Corleone said. “But we have plenty of time, and I’m here to teach you.”

Michael said, “Don’t you think we should clear up the Guiliano business first?”

The Don sat down heavily and wiped his mouth of the liqueur. “Yes,” he said. “A sad business. I was hoping he would escape. His father and mother were my good friends.”

Michael said, “I never really understood what the hell was happening, I never could get the sides right. You told me to trust Don Croce, but Guiliano hated him. I thought the Testament being held by you would keep them from killing Guiliano, but they killed him anyway. And now when we release the Testament to all the newspapers, they will have cut their own throats.”

He saw his father looking at him coolly. “That is Sicily,” the Don said. “There is always treachery within treachery.”

Michael said, “Don Croce and the government must have given Pisciotta a deal.”

“No doubt,” Don Corleone said.

Michael was still puzzled. “Why did they do it? We have the Testament that proves the government was hand in glove with Guiliano. The Italian government will fall when the papers print what we give them. It doesn’t make any sense at all.”

The Don smiled slightly and said, “The Testament will remain hidden. We won’t give it to them.”

It took a full minute for Michael to grasp what his father had said and what it meant. Then, for the first time in his life, he was truly angry with his father. His face white, he said, “Does that mean we were working with Don Croce all the time? Does that mean I was betraying Guiliano instead of helping him? That I was lying to his parents? That you betrayed your friends and led their son to his death? That you used me like a fool, a Judas goat? Pop, my God, Guiliano was a good man, a true hero to the poor people of Sicily. We must release the Testament.”

His father let him speak then he rose from his chair and put his hands on Michael’s shoulders. “Listen to me,” he said. “Everything was prepared for Guiliano’s escape. I made no bargain with Don Croce to betray Guiliano. The plane was waiting, Clemenza and his men were instructed to help you in every way. Don Croce did want Guiliano to escape, it was the easiest way. But Guiliano swore a vendetta against him and lingered hoping to fulfill it. He could have come to you within a few days, but he stayed away to make a final try. That is what undid him.”

Michael walked away from his father and sat in one of the leather armchairs. “There’s a reason why you’re not making the Testament public,” he said. “You made a deal.”

“Yes,” Don Corleone said. “You must remember that after you were injured by the bomb, I realized that I and my friends could no longer completely protect you in Sicily. You were exposed to more attempts. I had to be absolutely sure you came home safely. So I made a deal with Don Croce. He protected you and in return I promised that I would persuade Guiliano not to publish the Testament when he escaped to America.”

With a sickening shock Michael recalled that he was the one who had told Pisciotta that the Testament was safe in America. In that moment he had sealed Guiliano’s fate. Michael sighed. “We owe it to his mother and father,” he said. “And to Justina. Is she all right?”

“Yes,” said the Don. “She is being taken care of. It will take a few months for her to come to terms with what has happened.” He paused for a moment. “She is a very clever girl, she’ll do well here.”

Michael said, “We betray his father and mother if we do not publish the Testament.”

“No,” Don Corleone said. “I’ve learned something over the years here in America. You have to be reasonable, negotiate. What good would publishing the Testament do? Probably the Italian government would fall, but maybe it would not. Minister Trezza would be out of a job, but do you think they would punish him?”

Michael said angrily, “He is the representative of a government that conspired to murder its own people.”

The Don shrugged. “So? But let me go on. Would publishing the Testament help Guiliano’s mother and father or his friends? The government would go after them, put them in jail, persecute them in many ways. Far worse, Don Croce might put them in his bad books. Let them have peace in their old age. I’ll make a deal with the government and Don Croce to protect them. And so my holding the Testament will be useful.”

Michael said sardonically, “And useful to us if we should need it some day in Sicily.”

“I can’t help that,” his father said with a twitch of a smile.

After a long silence Michael said quietly, “I don’t know, it seems dishonorable. Guiliano was a true hero, he is already a legend. We should help his memory. Not let that memory go down in defeat.”

For the first time the Don showed annoyance. He poured himself another glass of anisette and drank it down. He pointed a finger at his son. “You wanted to learn,” he said. “Now listen to me. A man’s first duty is to keep himself alive. Then comes what everyone calls honor. This dishonor, as you call it, I willingly take upon myself. I did it to save your life as you once took on dishonor to save mine. You would never have left Sicily alive without Don Croce’s protection. So be it. Do you want to be a hero like Guiliano, a legend? And dead? I love him as the son of my dear friends, but I do not envy him his fame. You are alive and he is dead. Always remember that and live your life not to be a hero but to remain alive. With time, heroes seem a little foolish.”

Michael sighed. “Guiliano had no choice,” he said.

“We are more fortunate,” the Don said.

It was the first lesson Michael received from his father and the one he learned best. It was to color his future life, persuade him to make terrible decisions he could never have dreamed of making before. It changed his perception of honor and his awe of heroism. It helped him to survive, but it made him unhappy. For despite the fact that his father did not envy Guiliano, Michael did.