The Sicilian (9 page)

Guiliano’s father said, “If only he had not given up his identity card. Our friends would have sworn he was in the streets here.”

Guiliano’s mother said, “They would have arrested him anyway.” She began to weep. “Now he will have to live in the mountains.”

Hector Adonis said, “We must make certain the Abbot does not deliver him to the police.”

Pisciotta said impatiently, “He will not dare. He knows I’ll hang him in his cassock.”

Adonis gave Pisciotta a long look. There was a deadly menace in this young boy. It was not intelligent to damage the ego of a young man, Adonis thought. The police never understood that you can, with some impunity, insult an older man who has already been humiliated by life itself and will not take to heart the small slights of another human being. But a young man thinks these offenses mortal.

They were looking for help to Hector Adonis, who had helped their son in the past. Hector said, “If the police learn his whereabouts, the Abbot will have no choice. He is not above suspicion himself in certain matters. I think it best, with your permission, to ask my friend, Don Croce Malo, to intercede with the Abbot.”

They were surprised that he knew the great Don, except for Pisciotta, who gave him a knowing smile. Adonis said to him sharply, “And what are you doing here? You’ll be recognized and arrested. They have your description.”

Pisciotta said contemptuously, “The two guards were scared shitless. They wouldn’t recognize their mothers. And I have a dozen witnesses who will swear I was in Montelepre yesterday.”

Hector Adonis adopted his most imposing professional manner. He said to the parents, “You must not attempt to visit your son or tell anyone, even your dearest friends, where he is. The police have informers and spies everywhere. Aspanu will visit Turi at night. As soon as he can move I’ll make arrangements for him to live in another town until this all quiets down. Then, with some money, things can be arranged, and Turi can come home. Don’t worry about him, Maria, guard your health. And you, Aspanu, keep me informed.”

He embraced the mother and father. Maria Lombardo was still weeping when he left.

He had many things to do—most importantly to get word to Don Croce and make sure that Turi’s sanctuary remained safe. Thank God the government in Rome did not offer rewards for information on the murder of a policeman, or the Abbot would have sold Turi as quickly as he sold one of his holy relics.

Turi Guiliano lay on the bed without moving. He had heard the doctor pronounce his wound mortal, but he could not believe he was dying. His body seemed suspended in air, free of pain and fear. He could never die. He did not know that great loss of blood produces euphoria.

During the days, one of the monks tended him, fed him milk. Evenings, the Abbot came with the doctor. Pisciotta visited him in the night and held his hand and nursed him through the long evil hours of darkness. At the end of two weeks, the doctor proclaimed a miracle.

Turi Guiliano had willed his body to heal, to materialize the lost blood, to meld together the vital organs that had been torn by the steel-jacketed bullet. And in the euphoria inspired by the draining of the blood from his body he dreamed of future glory. He felt a new freedom, that he could no longer be held accountable for anything he did from this time on. That the laws of society, the stricter Sicilian laws of family, could no longer bind him. That he was free to commit any act; that his bloody wound made him innocent. And all this because a foolish
carabiniere
had shot him over a piece of cheese.

For the weeks of his convalescence, he played over and over in his mind the days he and his fellow villagers had congregated in the town square waiting for the
gabellotti
, the overseers of the large land estates, to pick them out for a day’s work, offering starvation wages with the contemptuous take-it-or-leave-it sneer of men who had all the power. The unfair sharing of crops that left everyone impoverished after a year’s hard work. The overbearing hand of the law which punished the poor and let the rich go free.

If he recovered from his wound, he swore he would see justice done. He would never again be a powerless boy at the mercy of fate. He would arm himself, physically and mentally. Of one thing he was sure: He would never again stand helpless before the world, as he had before Guido Quintana, and the policeman who had shot him down. The young man who had been Turi Guiliano no longer existed.

At the end of a month, the doctor advised another four weeks of rest with some exercise, and so Guiliano donned a monk’s habit and strolled around the grounds of the monastery. The Abbot had become fond of the young man, and often accompanied him, telling stories about his youthful travels to far-off lands. The Abbot’s affection was not lessened when Hector Adonis sent him a sum of money for his prayers for the poor and Don Croce himself advised the Abbot that he had an interest in the young man.

As for Guiliano, he was astonished at how these monks lived. In a countryside where people were almost starving, where laborers had to sell their sweat for fifty cents a day, the monks of Saint Francis lived like kings. The monastery was really a huge and rich estate.

They had a lemon orchard, a scattering of stout olive trees as old as Christ. They had a small bamboo plantation and a butcher shop into which they fed their flock of sheep, their pen of piglets. Chickens and turkeys roamed at will, crowds of them. The monks ate meat every day with their spaghetti, drank homemade wine from their own huge cellar, and traded on the black market for tobacco, which they smoked like fiends.

But they worked hard. During the day they labored barefoot in cassocks tucked up to their knees, sweat pouring down their brows. On their tonsured heads, to protect them from the sun, they wore oddly shaped American fedoras, black and brown, which the Abbot had acquired from some military government supply officer for a cask of wine. The monks wore the fedoras in many different styles, some with the brims snapped down, gangster style, others with the brims flapped upward all around to form gutters in which they kept their cigarettes. The Abbot had come to hate these hats and had forbidden their use except when actually working in the fields.

For the second four weeks, Guiliano was a fellow monk. To the Abbot’s astonishment he worked hard in the fields and helped the older monks carry the heavy baskets of fruit and olives back to the storage shed. As he grew well, Guiliano enjoyed the work, enjoyed showing off his strength. They piled his baskets high and he never let his knees buckle. The Abbot was proud of him and told him he could stay as long as he liked, that he had the makings of a true man of God.

Turi Guiliano was happy that four weeks. He had after all returned from the dead in body and in his head he was weaving daydreams and miracles. And he enjoyed the old Abbot, who treated him with absolute trust and revealed the secrets of the monastery to him. The old man boasted that all the products of the monastery were sold directly on the black market, not turned over to the government warehouses. Except for the wine, which was swilled down by the monks themselves. At night there was a great deal of gambling and drunkenness, and even women were smuggled in, but to all this the Abbot closed his eyes. “These are hard times,” he said to Guiliano. “The promised reward of heaven is too far away, men must have some pleasure now. God will forgive them.”

One rainy afternoon, the Abbot showed Turi another wing of the monastery which was used as a warehouse. This was overflowing with holy relics manufactured by a skilled team of old monks. The Abbot, like any shopkeeper, bewailed hard times. “Before the war, we had a very good business,” he sighed. “This warehouse was never more than half full. And just look what sacred treasures we have here. A bone from the fish multiplied by Christ. The staff carried by Moses on his way to the Promised Land.” He paused to watch Guiliano’s astonished face with amused satisfaction. Then his bony face contorted into a wicked grin. Kicking a huge pile of wooden sticks, he said almost gleefully, “This used to be our best item. Hundreds of pieces of the cross on which our Lord was crucified. And in this bin are fragments of any saint you can name. There isn’t a household in Sicily that doesn’t have the bone of a saint. And locked away in a special storeroom we have thirteen arms of Saint Andrew, three heads of John the Baptist and seven suits of armor worn by Joan of Arc. In the winter, our monks travel far and wide to sell these treasures.”

Turi Guiliano was laughing now and the Abbot smiled at him. But Guiliano was thinking how the poor were always deceived, even by those who pointed the road to salvation. It was another important fact to remember.

The Abbot showed him a huge tub full of medallions blessed by the Cardinal of Palermo, thirty shrouds that Jesus wore when he died, and two black Virgin Marys. That stopped Turi Guiliano’s laughter. He told the Abbot about the black Virgin statue owned by his mother and so treasured by her since she was a little girl; that it had been in her family for generations. Could it possibly be a forgery? The Abbot patted him kindly on the shoulder and told him the monastery had been making replicas for over a hundred years carved from good olive wood. But he assured Guiliano that even the replicas had value, since only a few were made.

The Abbot saw no harm confiding in a murderer such venial sins of holy men. Still Guiliano’s disapproving silence disturbed the Abbot. Defensively, he said, “Remember that we men who devote our lives to God must also live in the material world of men who do not believe in waiting for their rewards in heaven. We too have families and must aid and protect them. Many of our monks are poor and come from the poor, who we know are the salt of the earth. We cannot permit our sisters and brothers, our nephews and cousins to starve in these hard times. The Holy Church itself needs our help, must defend itself against powerful enemies. The Communists and Socialists, those misguided liberals, must be fought against, and that takes money. What a comfort to Mother Church are the faithful! Their need for our holy relics supplies the money to crush the infidels and fills a need in their own souls. If we did not supply them they would waste their money on gambling and wine and shameful women. Don’t you agree?”

Guiliano nodded, but he was smiling. It was dazzling for one so young to meet such a master of hypocrisy. The Abbot was irritated by that smile; he had expected a more gracious response from a murderer to whom he had given sanctuary and nursed back from the gate of death. Grateful respect dictated a properly hypocritical response of the utmost sincerity. This smuggler, this murderer, this
peasant
, Master Turi Guiliano, should show himself more understanding, more a Christian. The Abbot said sternly, “Remember our true faith rests on our belief in miracles.”

“Yes,” Guiliano said. “And I know with all my heart that it is your duty to help us find them.” He said it without malice, in a spirit of fun, with a sincere good will to please his benefactor. But it was all he could do to keep from laughing outright.

The Abbot was pleased and all his affection returned. This was a fine fellow, he had enjoyed his company the past few months, and it was comforting to know that the man was deeply in his debt. And he would not be ungrateful; he had already shown a noble heart. He expressed in word and deed, every day, his respect and gratitude to the Abbot. He did not have the hard heart of an outlaw. What would happen to such a man in this present-day Sicily, full of informers, poverty, bandits, and sundry sinners? Ah, well, the Abbot thought, a man who has murdered once can do it again, in a pinch. The Abbot decided that Don Croce should counsel Turi Guiliano on the right path to life.

One day, while resting on his bed, Turi Guiliano had a strange visitor. The Abbot presented him as Father Benjamino Malo, a very dear friend, then left them alone together.

Father Benjamino said solicitously, “My dear young man, I hope you have recovered from your wound. The Holy Abbot tells me it was truly a miracle.”

Guiliano said politely, “God’s mercy.” And Father Benjamino bowed his head as if he himself had received that benediction.

Guiliano studied him. This was a priest who had never labored in the fields. His cassock was too clean at the hem, his face too puffily white, his hands too soft. But the countenance was holy enough; it was meek and had a Christlike resignation, a Christian humility.

The voice, too, was soft and gentle when Father Benjamino said, “My son, I will hear your confession and give you Holy Communion. Shriven of sin, you can go out into the world with a pure heart.”

Turi Guiliano studied this priest who wielded such sublime power. “Forgive me, Father,” he said. “I am not yet in a state of contrition and it would be false of me to make a confession at this time. But thank you for your blessing.”

The priest nodded and said, “Yes, that would compound your sins. But I have another offer that is perhaps more practical in this world. My brother, Don Croce, has sent me to ask if you would like to take refuge with him in Villaba. You would be paid a good wage, and of course, as you must know, the authorities would never dare molest you while you are under his protection.”

Guiliano was astonished that word of his deed had reached such a man as Don Croce. He knew he had to be careful. He detested the Mafia, and did not wish to be caught in their web.

“This is a very great honor,” he said. “I thank you and your brother. But I must consult with my family, I must honor the wishes of my parents. So for now permit me to refuse your kind offer.”

He saw the priest was surprised. Who in Sicily would refuse the protection of the great Don? So he added, “Perhaps in a few weeks, I will think differently and come to see you in Villaba.”

Father Benjamino had recovered. He raised his hands in benediction. “Go with God, my son,” he said. “You will always be welcome in my brother’s house.” He made the sign of the cross and left.

Turi Guiliano knew it was time to leave. When Aspanu Pisciotta came to visit that evening Guiliano instructed him on what preparations to make for his return to the outside world. He saw that as he had changed, so had his friend. Pisciotta did not flinch or make any protest at receiving orders that he knew would profoundly alter his life. Finally Guiliano told him, “Aspanu, you can come with me or you can remain with your family. Do what you feel you must do.”