The Sicilian (8 page)

Guiliano heard the shot at the same time he felt his body wracked with pain, as if he had been hit with a giant club. He landed on the ground between the two trees and tried to get up, but could not. His legs were numb; he could not make them move. Pistol in hand he twisted his body and saw the Sergeant shake his rifle in the air in triumph. And then Guiliano felt his trousers filling with blood, the liquid warm and sticky.

In the fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger of his pistol, Turi Guiliano felt only astonishment. That they had shot him over a piece of cheese. That they had smashed the fabric of his family with such a cruel carelessness just because he was running away from such a small breaking of the law that everyone broke. His mother would weep to the end of her days. And now his body was awash in blood, he who had never done anyone any harm.

He pulled the trigger and saw the rifle fall, saw the Sergeant’s black cap with its white piping seem to fly in the air as the body with its mortal head wound crumpled and floated to the rock-filled earth. It was an impossible shot with a pistol at that range but it seemed to Guiliano that his own hand had traveled with the bullet and smashed it like a dagger through the Sergeant’s eye.

A machine pistol began to pop but the bullets flew upward in harmless arcs, chattering like small birds. And then it was deadly still. Even the insects had stopped their incessant whirring.

Turi Guiliano rolled into the bushes. He had seen the enemy’s face shatter into a mask of blood and that gave him hope. He was not powerless. He tried to get up again and this time his legs obeyed him. He began to run but only one leg sprang forward, the other dragged along the ground, which surprised him. His crotch was warm and sticky, his trousers soaked, his vision cloudy. When he ran through a sudden patch of light, he was afraid he had circled back into the clearing again and tried to turn back. His body started to fall—not to the ground, but into an endless red-tinted black void, and then he knew he was falling forever.

In the clearing the young guard took his hand off the trigger of his machine pistol and the chattering stopped. The smuggler rose from the ground with the huge wad of money in his hand and offered it to the other guard. The guard pointed his machine pistol at him and said, “You’re under arrest.”

The smuggler said, “You only have to split it two ways now. Let me go on.”

The guards looked down at the fallen Sergeant. There was no doubt he was dead. The bullet had smashed eye and socket to pieces, and the wound was bubbling with a yellow liquid into which a gecko was already dipping its feelers.

The smuggler said, “I’ll go into the bushes after him, he’s hurt. I’ll bring back his carcass and you two will be heroes. Just let me go.”

The other guard picked up the identity card Turi had thrown down on the ground at the Sergeant’s command. He read it aloud, “Salvatore Guiliano, the town of Montelepre.”

“No need to look for him now,” the other said. “We’ll report back to headquarters, that’s more important.”

“Cowards,” the smuggler said. He thought for a moment of unslinging his
lupara
but saw that they were looking at him with hatred. He had insulted them. For that insult they made him load the Sergeant’s body onto his horse and made him walk back to their barracks. Before that they relieved him of his weapon. They were very skittish and he hoped they would not shoot him by mistake out of sheer nervousness. Aside from that he was not too concerned. He knew Maresciallo Roccofino of Montelepre very well. They had done business before and they would do business again.

In all that time not one of them had given a thought to Pisciotta. But he had heard everything they had said. He was lying in a deep grassy hollow, knife drawn. He was waiting for them to try hunting down Turi Guiliano, and he planned to ambush one of them and get his gun after he had cut his throat. There was a ferocity in his soul that banished all fear of death, and when he heard the smuggler offer to bring back Turi’s carcass, he burned that man’s face forever in his brain. He was almost sorry they retreated to leave him alone on the mountainside. He felt a pang when they tied his donkey to the end of the mule train.

But he knew that Turi was badly wounded and would need help. He circled around the clearing, running through the woods to get to the side where his comrade had disappeared. There was no sign of a body in the underbrush and he started to run down the path from which they had come.

There were still no signs until he climbed over a huge granite boulder whose top shallowed out into a small basin. In that basin of rock was a small pool of almost black blood and the other side of the rock was smeared with long ropy gouts of blood that were bright red. He kept running and was caught by surprise when he saw Guiliano’s body sprawled across his path, the deadly pistol still clutched in his hand.

He knelt and took the pistol and thrust it into his belt. At that moment Turi Guiliano’s eyes opened. The eyes were alive with an awesome hatred, but they were staring past Aspanu Pisciotta. Pisciotta almost wept with relief and tried to get him to his feet, but he was not strong enough. “Turi, try to get up, I’ll help you,” Pisciotta said. Guiliano pushed his hands against the earth and raised his body. Pisciotta put an arm around his waist and his hand became warm and wet. He jerked his hand away and pulled aside Guiliano’s shirt, and with horror he saw the huge gaping hole in Guiliano’s side. He propped Guiliano up against a tree, ripped off his own shirt and shoved it into the hole to staunch the blood, tying the sleeves together around the waist. He put one arm around his friend’s middle and then with his free hand took Guiliano’s left hand and raised it high in the air. This balanced them both as he guided Guiliano down the path with careful, mincing steps. From a distance it looked as if they were dancing together down the mountain.

And so Turi Guiliano missed the Festa of Saint Rosalie, which the citizens of Montelepre hoped would bring a miracle to their town.

He missed the shooting contest which he surely would have won. He missed the horse races in which the jockeys hit opposing riders over the head with clubs and whips. He missed the purple, yellow and green rockets that exploded and tattooed the star-filled sky.

He never tasted the magical sweets made of almond paste molded into the form of carrots, bamboo stalks and red tomatoes, all so sweet they numbed your entire body; or the spun sugar figures of the puppet knights of mythical romance, of Roland, Oliver and Charlemagne, their sugar swords studded with peppermints of ruby, emeralds of tiny fruit bits that the children brought home to bed to dream over before they went to sleep. At home his sister’s engagement party went on without him.

The mating of the donkey and the Miracle Mule failed. There was no offspring. The citizens of Montelepre were disappointed. They did not know until years later that the Festa had produced its miracle in the person of the young man who had held the donkey.

CHAPTER 5

T
HE
A
BBOT MADE
his evening tour of the Franciscan monastery, spurring his lazy, good-for-nothing monks to earn their daily bread. He checked the bins in the holy relic workshop and visited the bakery turning out huge crusty loaves for nearby towns. He inspected the produce garden and the bamboo baskets filled to the brim with olives, tomatoes and grapes, looking for bruises on their satiny skins. His monks were all as busy as elves—though not so merry. In fact they were a sullen crew, with none of the joy necessary to serve God. The Abbot took a long black cheroot from beneath his cassock and strolled around the monastery grounds to sharpen his appetite for the evening meal.

It was then that he saw Aspanu Pisciotta drag Turi Guiliano through the monastery gates. The gatekeeper tried to keep them out, but Pisciotta put a pistol to his tonsured head and he fell to his knees to say his last prayers. Pisciotta deposited Guiliano’s bloody, almost lifeless, body at the Abbot’s feet.

The Abbot was a tall, emaciated man with an elegant monkey-like face, all tiny bones, a nub of a nose and querying little brown buttons for eyes. Though seventy years of age, he was vigorous, his mind as sharp and cunning as in the old days before Mussolini, when he had written elegant ransom notes for Mafia kidnappers who employed him.

Now though it was known to all, peasants and authorities alike, that his monastery was the headquarters of black market operators and smugglers, he was never interfered with in his illegal activities. This out of respect for his holy calling, and a feeling that he deserved some material reward for his spiritual guidance to the community.

So the Abbot Manfredi was not dismayed to find two peasant scoundrels covered with blood breaking into the sacred domain of Saint Francis. In fact, he knew Pisciotta well. He had used the young man in a few smuggling and black market operations. They had in common a sly cunning that delighted them both—one surprised to find it in a man so old and holy, the other to find it in one so young and unworldly.

The Abbot reassured the gatekeeper monk, then said to Pisciotta, “Well, my dear Aspanu, what mischief are you into now?” Pisciotta was tightening the shirt around Guiliano’s wound. The Abbot was surprised to see that his face was griefstricken; he did not think the lad was capable of such emotion.

Pisciotta, seeing again that huge wound, was sure his friend was going to die. And how could he tell the news to Turi’s mother and father? He dreaded Maria Lombardo’s grief. But for now, a more important scene would have to be played. He must convince the Abbot to give Guiliano sanctuary in the monastery.

He looked the Abbot straight in the eye. He wanted to convey a message that would not be a direct threat but would make the priest understand that if he refused he would make a mortal enemy. “This is my cousin and dearest friend, Salvatore Guiliano,” Pisciotta said. “As you can see, he has been unfortunate, and in a short time the National Police will be all over the mountains looking for him. And for me. You are our only hope. I beg you to hide us, and send for a doctor. Do this for me and you have a friend forever.” He emphasized the word “friend.”

None of this escaped the Abbot. He understood perfectly. He had heard of this young Guiliano, a brave boy well respected in Montelepre, a great shooter and hunter, manlier than his years. Even the Friends of the Friends had their eyes on him as a possible recruit. The great Don Croce himself, on a social and business visit to the monastery, had mentioned his name to the Abbot as someone it might be profitable to cultivate.

But studying the unconscious Guiliano, he was almost sure that this man would need a grave rather than sanctuary, a priest to administer the last rites rather than a doctor. There was very little risk in granting Pisciotta’s request, giving sanctuary to a corpse was not a crime even in Sicily. But he did not want to let this young man know that the favor he was about to do had such little value. He said, “And why are they searching for you?”

Pisciotta hesitated. If the Abbott knew that a policeman was dead he might refuse them sanctuary. But if he were unprepared for the search that was sure to come, he might be surprised into betraying them. He decided to tell the truth. He did so very quickly.

The Abbot lowered his eyes in sorrow for another soul lost to hell and to study closely Guiliano’s unconscious form. Blood was leaking through the shirt tied around his body. Perhaps the poor lad would die as they talked, and solve the whole problem.

As a Franciscan monk, the Abbot was filled with Christian charity, but in these terrible times he had to consider the practical and material consequences of his merciful deeds. If he gave sanctuary and the boy died, he could only come out with a profit. The authorities would be satisfied with the corpse, the family would be forever in his debt. If Guiliano recovered, his gratitude might be even more valuable. A man who could, while grievously wounded, still fire his pistol and kill a policeman was a man worth having in your debt.

He could of course deliver both of these rascals to the National Police, who would then make short work of them. But what would be the profit? The authorities could do no more for him than they were doing now. The area in which they held power was already secure to him. It was on the other side of the fence he needed friends. Betraying these youngsters would only earn him enemies among the peasants and the undying hatred of two families. The Abbot was not so foolish as to think his cassock could protect him from the vendetta that would surely follow, and also he had read Pisciotta’s mind; this was a young fellow who would go far before he trod the road to hell. No, the hatred of the peasant Sicilian could never be taken lightly. True Christians, they would never shame a statue of the Virgin Mary, but in the hot blood of vendetta they would shotgun the Pope himself for breaking
omerta
, the ancient code of silence to any authority. In this land with its countless statues of Jesus, there was no belief in the doctrine of turning the other cheek. In this benighted land “forgiveness” was the refuge of the coward. The Sicilian peasant did not know the meaning of mercy.

Of one thing he was sure. Pisciotta would never betray him. In one of their little smuggling deals, the Abbot had arranged for Pisciotta to be arrested and interrogated. The interrogator, a member of the Palermo Security Police, not one of the
carabinieri
blockheads, had been subtle and then blunt. But neither cunning nor cruelty had moved Pisciotta. He had remained silent. The interrogator released him and assured the Abbot that this was a lad who could be trusted with more important errands. Since then the Abbot had always held a special place in his heart for Aspanu Pisciotta and often said a prayer for his soul.

The Abbot put two fingers in his bony shrunken mouth and whistled. Monks came running and the Abbot instructed them to carry Guiliano into a far wing of the monastery, the Abbot’s own special quarters where he had hidden deserters, sons of rich farmers, from the Italian Army during the war. Then he sent one of his monks for the doctor in the village of San Giuseppe Jato, only five miles away.

Pisciotta sat on the bed and held his friend’s hand. The wound was no longer bleeding, and Turi Guiliano’s eyes were open, but there was a glaze over them. Pisciotta, almost in tears, did not dare to speak. He wiped Guiliano’s forehead, which was running with perspiration. There was a blue tinge to the skin.

It was an hour before the doctor arrived and, having observed a horde of
carabinieri
scouring the mountainside, was not surprised that his friend, the Abbot, was concealing a wounded man. This did not concern him; who cared about the police and government? The Abbot was a fellow Sicilian who needed help. And who always sent him a basket of eggs on Sunday, a barrel of wine for Christmas and a young lamb for Holy Easter.

The doctor examined Guiliano and dressed the wound. The bullet had gone through the belly and probably torn up some vital organs, certainly hit the liver. A great deal of blood had been lost, the young lad had a ghostly pallor, the skin all over his body was bluish white. Around the mouth was that circle of white the doctor knew so well as one of the first signals of death.

He sighed and said to the Abbot, “I’ve done all I can. The bleeding has stopped, but he’s already lost more than a third of his blood, and that’s usually fatal. Keep him warm, feed him a little milk and I’ll leave you some morphine.” He looked down at Guiliano’s powerful body with regret.

Pisciotta whispered, “What can I tell his father and mother? Is there a chance for him?”

The doctor sighed. “Tell them what you like. But the wound is mortal. He’s a strong-looking lad so he may live a few days more, but it’s wise not to hope.” He saw the look of despair in Pisciotta’s eyes and the fleeting look of relief on the Abbot’s face and said with ironic humor, “Of course in this holy place there could always be a miracle.”

The Abbot and the doctor went out. Pisciotta leaned over his friend to wipe the sweat from his brow and was astonished that in Guiliano’s eyes was a hint of mockery. The eyes were dark brown but edged with a circle of silver. Pisciotta leaned closer. Turi Guiliano was whispering; it was a struggle for him to speak.

“Tell my mother I will come home,” Turi said. And then he did something Pisciotta would never forget in the years to follow. His hands came up suddenly and grabbed Pisciotta by the hair of his head. The hands were powerful; they could never be the hands of a dying man. They yanked Pisciotta’s head down close. “Obey me,” Guiliano said.

The morning after Guiliano’s parents called him, Hector Adonis arrived in Montelepre. He rarely used his house in Montelepre. He hated the place of his birth in his young manhood. He especially avoided the Festa. The decorations always distressed him, their brightness seemed to him some evil disguise for the poverty of the town. And he had always endured humiliations during the Festa—drunken men jeering at his short stature, women giving him amused contemptuous smiles.

It did not help that he knew so much more than they did. They were so proud, for instance, that every family painted its house the same color their fathers had. They didn’t know that the color of the houses gave away their origins, the blood they had inherited from their ancestors along with their houses. That centuries ago the Normans had painted their houses white, the Greeks always used blue, the Arabs various pinks and red. And the Jews used yellow. Now they all considered themselves Italian and Sicilian. The blood had become so intermingled in a thousand years that you could not identify the owner of a house by his features, and if you told the owner of a yellow house that he had Jewish ancestors you could get a knife in your belly.

Aspanu Pisciotta lived in a white house though he looked more like an Arab. The Guilianos’s was predominantly Grecian blue, and Turi Guiliano’s face was truly Greek, though he had the body of the lusty large-boned Normans. But apparently all that blood had boiled together into something strange and dangerous to make the true Sicilian, and that was what had brought Adonis to Montelepre today.

The Via Bella was straddled at each corner by a pair of
carabinieri
, grim faced, holding rifles and machine pistols at the ready. The second day of the Festa was beginning but this part of town was curiously deserted and there were no children on the street. Hector Adonis parked his car in front of the Guiliano house, up on the strip of sidewalk. A pair of
carabinieri
watched him suspiciously until he got out of the car, then smiled with amusement at his short stature.

It was Pisciotta who opened the door and led him inside. Guiliano’s mother and father were in the kitchen waiting, a breakfast of cold sausage, bread and coffee on the table. Maria Lombardo was calm, reassured by her beloved Aspanu that her son would recover. She was more angry than fearful. Guiliano’s father looked more proud than sad. His son had proved himself a man; he was alive and his enemy was dead.

Again Pisciotta told his story, this time with comforting humor. He made light of Guiliano’s wound and very little of his own heroism in carrying Guiliano down to the monastery. But Hector Adonis knew that helping an injured man over three miles of rough terrain must have been grueling for the slightly built Pisciotta. Also, he thought Pisciotta skipped over the description of the wound too glibly. Adonis feared the worst.

“How did the
carabinieri
know enough to come here?” he asked. Pisciotta told him about Guiliano giving up his identity card.

Guiliano’s mother broke out in lamentation. “Why didn’t Turi let them have the cheese? Why did he fight?”

Guiliano’s father said harshly to his wife, “What would you have him do? Inform on that poor farmer? He would have disgraced the family name forever.”

Hector Adonis was struck by the contradiction in these remarks. He knew the mother was much stronger and more fiery than the father. Yet the mother had uttered the words of resignation, the father the words of defiance. And Pisciotta, this boy Aspanu—who would have thought he would be so brave, to rescue his comrade and bring him to safety? And now lying so coolly to the parents about the hurt their son had suffered.