Almost out of breath.
28
She found him in front of the fireplace.
Pavarotti’s voice singing ‘Nessun dorma’ from Turandot filled the room:Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,
Il mio nome nessun saprà!
[. . .]
Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle!
Tramontate, stelle! All’alba vincerò!
Vincerò! Vincerò!
She saw him take the heavy tongs with both hands and turn over the firewood, his head slightly thrown back to avoid the heat of the flames. All at once, the fire flared up again, spreading a bright glow.
Angela Fedeli remembered her childhood, when her father would hold her on his lap in front of the fire, and she would ask him to turn over the logs with the tongs, almost as a game. She heard again her father’s words: Angela, don’t go too close, the fire is deceptive, it’s a traitor.
Don Ciccio Puglisi turned. ‘Sit down, Angela,’ he said, motioning to one of the two armchairs in front of the fireplace. He switched off the radio and sat down in the other armchair.
‘Don Ciccio . . .’
‘Let’s have coffee, Angela. It’s already made.’
‘Thank you, Don Ciccio.’
‘Grazia, you can bring in the coffee now!’ he called to his wife. ‘And bring an extra cup!’
A few minutes later, Grazia appeared from the kitchen. ‘Oh, look who’s here! Angela, I didn’t know you were coming at this hour.’
‘I’m sorry, Signora Grazia, I should have warned you.’
‘What are you talking about, Angela? Don’t worry. This is your home.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now have your coffee, the two of you . . .’
The coffee pot was steaming. For a while, the only sound in the living room was the noise of the spoons stirring the sugar in the cups.
Don Ciccio drank his coffee in one quick gulp, put his cup down on the table, and said, ‘To what do we owe this visit, Angela?’
Angela Fedeli gave a deep sigh and told him about the visit from the captain and the marshal.
‘Don Ciccio, Alfredo Prestipino has turned out to be a rat, an unworthy person. I am in mourning for the second time in a matter of days.’ Her frame of mind could be read in the expression on her face: shame and scorn for someone who had betrayed the values in which she had always firmly believed. Yes, she, too, despite being a woman, had always had faith in the rules of the family, although, unlike her brother Rocco, she had never taken any formal oath.
They were the laws of life, written in her DNA. They were stronger than any other human feeling, including what she had felt for her husband.
A hallmark of the women of the ’Ndrangheta.
She had always been very aware of the family’s activities. She had even shared their plans, their ambitions. In silence. Without expressing herself in public. Not even to her dearest friends. She had grown up steeped in the law of silence, believing that this and the other laws were much more important than those of the State, because they were the privilege of a special society. A society composed of real men. Men of honour, like her father and her brother Rocco.
Don Ciccio glanced for a moment at the flames licking the logs like angry tongues of fire. Then he turned to her and looked her straight in the eye, perhaps trying to instil in her a sense that he would protect her. Finally, in a slightly hoarse but courteous voice, he said, ‘My child, you have nothing to do with this. You’ve acted correctly, in the only way a real woman should act. For me, too, Alfredo Prestipino is dead. He made his decision to die alone. In fact, I can tell you this: he no longer exists for anyone in the family. You’re still young. You must think of your daughter and your mother, who are your true blood.’
She nodded. She would have liked to ask him why he had not paid her a visit, but she didn’t. This was not the moment. Now she had to think of the present and, above all, of the future.
‘You’re right, Don Ciccio. Now I have only my mother and daughter left. And my mother is suffering a great deal. I won’t leave her alone. She’s still a strong woman, but she can’t cope with her grief. She thinks I don’t notice, but I see the big tears running down her cheeks. There’s no point trying to wipe them away with my handkerchief.’
‘You have my blessing, my child,’ Don Ciccio said in a thin voice. ‘And my esteem.’
‘I will bear this cross, Don Ciccio. But I am, and will always remain, a Fedeli. I want you to know that. I remember how much you respected my father and also how much he respected you. You were like chips off the same block . . .’
Don Ciccio nodded, a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes.
His expression did not escape her, but she would have found it hard to say whether it was one of sadness or simply nostalgia. She bent forward submissively, took his right hand and placed her lips on it. It was the first time in her life she had done that.
‘You will always have my respect, Don Ciccio,’ she said in a low, tremulous voice, her heart pounding ever harder.
Supporting himself with his stick, Don Ciccio slowly rose from the chair. Angela also stood up. He put his arms around her and held her as tight as if she were his own daughter.
‘Angela, you’re a real woman,’ he whispered in her ear.
There was genuine respect in his voice. It made her feel proud.
‘Thank you, Don Ciccio. I’ll never forget these words of yours. You were like a father to my brother Rocco. A father who knows how to punish when it’s right to punish . . .’ She paused briefly and again looked the old man straight in the eyes. ‘And you’ll be a father to me, too. In fact, that’s how I’ve always thought of you.’
‘You can count on me, Angela. Always. As long as I’m alive, and even when I’m dead . . . The family will not abandon you. You should never forget that. Whatever you need, the family will be there. Even when I’m no longer around . . . Forget about the past. Do you understand? The past doesn’t count. We are all sinners, but everything depends on how our sins are judged . . . and who they are judged by.’
‘No, Don Ciccio, don’t say that. The Madonna of Aspromonte will continue to protect you, and you will live to be over a hundred. You haven’t sinned. I’m a good judge . . . My heart is a good judge and it’s never betrayed me.’
The old man gave a slight smile, revealing his meagre, yellowed teeth, and walked her to the door. Angela Fedeli left, looking tired and nervous. The worst fate in the world had struck her, worse even than death: the fact that she had lived for so many years with a rat. Her anger was growing, and her hate, until all that was left was hate, hate pure and simple.
She knew that Don Ciccio was the only man with the power of life and death over not only his members, but also their families. Had she managed to convince him to spare her life and the lives of her mother and Maria? She kept asking herself that question all the way home. She simply did not know. The one thing she did know was that she would have liked to kill Alfredo Prestipino with her own bare hands.
In her mind’s eye, she saw his body, riddled with knife wounds, exposed in the middle of the main square of San Piero.
Grazia had the reputation of being a good observer.
She had only had to read Angela’s body language when she brought her coffee to know the real reason for her visit. She had left the door of the kitchen ajar, to hear if Angela let anything slip that would confirm her first impression. As soon as the door closed behind Angela, Grazia went to a corner of the kitchen.
Here, in a little niche, there was a statue of the Madonna of Aspromonte. On a shelf in front of it, a vase of fresh flowers. She had picked them from the garden that morning. Every day, after getting up, she went through the same ritual: taking out the old flowers, changing the water, putting fresh flowers in, praying for the health of herself and her husband, and for other things, too . . .
She knelt, crossed herself, and remained in that position for a long time, looking fixedly at the statue. It was so perfect that it seemed real. Then sh
e started to pray.
‘My husband always did everything he could for him, and this was the reward. We hope that you, Oh Madonna, will punish him.’ She crossed herself again.
Then she recited the Mea culpa.
He had come back to the fireplace.
As the fire began crackling again, Don Ciccio Puglisi collapsed into his chair.
He closed his eyes.
And the past came back.
The shrine of the Madonna of Aspromonte, September 1981. It was a special occasion - the centenary of the solemn coronation of the Madonna - which meant that even more pilgrims had come there than in previous years. They had come not only from every part of Calabria, but also from abroad, from across the seas: Australia, America.
The meeting was held around a large tree stump in a wood as dense and dark as night, just a few hundred yards from the shrine.
Meanwhile, the pilgrims were enjoying themselves, some in the makeshift taverns under the age-old chestnut trees, some dancing in the open air to the sound of reed pipes and tambourines, some singing hymns to the Blessed Virgin . . .
As they did every year.
Rocco Fedeli, who had just turned eighteen, was in the middle of a circle formed by six men.
‘Above and beyond family, parents, brothers and sisters,’ Don Ciccio uttered in a solemn tone, ‘there is the honour of the society which will be your family. But if you betray that honour, you will be punished with death. Just as you will be loyal to the society, so the society will be loyal to you and will help you in case of need. The vow you are about to make can be broken only by death. Are you ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then swear.’
‘I swear in front of the society to be loyal to my comrades and to renounce my father, my mother, my sisters and brothers and, if necessary, even my own blood. If I should ever betray this honour, my flesh will burn, as this image is burning . . .’
The image in flames was the sacred one of Saint Michael the archangel.
‘Now you are part of the family. From this moment on, you must not look at the wives of our friends, you must not establish any kind of friendship or, worse still, kinship with the police, you must always be willing to help . . .’
‘I’ll never forget this, Don Ciccio.’ There was genuine emotion in his voice.
‘Come to me!’
Don Ciccio took him in his arms and hugged him. He kissed him four times, twice on each cheek. Rocco, in turn, starting from his left, embraced the other men and kissed each one twice.
This was the final part of the ceremony.
Rocco Fedeli had become a foot soldier, the first step on the Mafia ladder. A man of honour. Like his father and grandfather before him. Respected and feared.
The ringing of the telephone brought him back to the present.
He saw that the flames in the fire were again dying. He stood up slowly, leaning on his stick and the armrest of his chair. He took a log from the basket, and put it on the fire with the tongs. Then he covered it with smaller logs and poked the embers.
The fire suddenly flared up again.
It was a difficult decision to make.
Angela Fedeli’s reaction had caught them off guard.
There were two options: to inform Alfredo Prestipino immediately, or to wait. It was nine in the evening, and they were still discussing the matter in the colonel’s office.
‘Maybe we could try again,’ Trimarchi suggested, in a disheartened tone.
I’m not going back, Foti thought. Only if I’m ordered to . . . I’m still a soldier . . .
Ferrara agreed with Trimarchi.
‘I’ll go myself, first thing tomorrow morning,’ the colonel suggested.
‘I really think it’s worth trying again,’ Ferrara said.
Thank God for that, Foti thought, and his face relaxed. ‘But what are we going to tell the husband?’ he asked.
‘I’ll speak to him,’ Ferrara replied. ‘I’ll tell him we’re waiting for the go-ahead from Rome and that the whole procedure takes time.’
‘He’s sure to ask about his wife,’ Foti replied.
‘I’ll tell him one of us is going to see her tomorrow morning.’
The others agreed.
‘Good,’ Trimarchi said. ‘Now, Foti, tell us what you found out about Rocco Cannizzaro.’
Foti, relieved that he would not have to go and see Angela Fedeli again, presented the information he had gathered.
Rocco Cannizzaro was born in Bovalino on 2 January 1921. According to the records, he had emigrated to the United States on 21 May 1955. In 1940 he had married Serafina Prestipino, and the following year they had had a daughter named Elisabetta, who had died when she was just four years old. Luigi, their only son, had been born in New York in 1956. Serafina Prestipino was one of the sisters of Alfredo Prestipino’s father, Carmelo, who had died with his wife in a road accident. Before emigrating, Rocco Cannizzaro had been suspected of the murder of a cattle farmer - revenge after he had stolen two cows. There were many crimes connected with cattle rustling in the fifties, but in this case there had not been sufficient evidence to put Cannizzaro on trial.
‘Good,’ Trimarchi said. ‘We’ll send a copy to Assistant Director Moore in New York. It’s corroboration for them, too.’
Whether because they were busy trying to find a solution to the problem or simply because they were tired, no one took any notice of the fact that Stefano Carracci was absent. Carracci had got back to the DIA late in the afternoon, and was in another room, watching as officers inventoried all the material confiscated from the farmhouse: diaries, accounts, company records, documents relating to competitive tenders - some in the public health sector - travel tickets, and so on.
There were dozens of boxes full of these things.
That evening, Alfredo Prestipino reacted to Ferrara’s words with bewilderment.
The chief superintendent had gone to see him in the one-room apartment he had been assigned in the wing of the DIA building set aside for the temporary custody of those who had turned State’s evidence. Meanwhile, the arrested men had been transferred to prison, some in Reggio Calabria and some in Palmi.
‘If my wife and daughter don’t come with me, Chief Superintendent,’ Prestipino said, his resolute tone belying the frightened look in his eyes, ‘then this is all over. I’ll retract everything, and you can tell the prosecutor that right now.’
‘There’s no need to do that. You’ll see, it’ll all be sorted soon. You just have to be patient.’
But Alfredo Prestipino had stopped listening.
Diego did not get any more visits that day.
His kidnappers had not brought him anything since the goat’s milk. And he had not heard any more voices. His only companion now was the occasional toot of a car horn, and, depending on the wind direction, the distant sound of little bells as the flock descended slowly towards the stream. Sometimes, he also heard the cries of a shepherd. He felt weak and his head hurt. But the idea was starting to grow in his mind that something serious had happened. The word bacon kept coming back to him.
He was starting to feel anxious again.
They’ve gone away and left me alone, here on these mountains . . . I’ll never be found . . . I’ll die here . . . Alone like a dog . . . Or worse . . . That fucking ’Ntoni. To hell with him and all his men . . . To hell with him.
It was an absurd situation and, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that there was only one way out.
He couldn’t wait.
It was a question of survival. He had to get away from here, and soon.
Luigi Cannizzaro lived in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, north of Coney Island.
It was a neighbourhood with a large Italian community, and there was a lively Italian feel to the delicatessens, restaurants and cafés on the main thoroughfare, 86th Street.
His apartment was on the first floor of a small building with a pink front. The entrance was on a corner, between an electrical appliance s
tore and a restaurant called Il Giardino. In front of it, a small parking area. Cannizzaro lived there with his elderly parents.
The Feds patrolled the area several times - they knew its reputation as a hotbed for extortion, prostitution and drugs - then set up their surveillance. They parked a van with sliding doors and blacked-out windows between two cars. On both sides, in dark green paint, it bore the logo of an electrical equipment company. Inside, two agents kept their eyes peeled on the entrance and the sidewalks. Simultaneously, two vagrants settled down outside the front door, as if to beg for coins. They were wearing creased shirts under dirty jackets torn in several places. On their feet they wore very old shoes, open at the tips, and they carried plastic bags full of scraps and old newspapers. They were to keep a lookout for Luigi Cannizzaro. They had memorised his photograph, the one on his passport, which had been issued only a few months earlier.
The plan also provided for a couple of unmarked police cars to watch over the area. To communicate between themselves, they used portable radios on an encrypted channel.
Special Agent Mary Cook was coordinating the various teams.
Even before the beginning of the surveillance, they had started tapping the suspect’s telephones, both landlines and cellphones. In the last of Luigi Cannizzaro’s conversations recorded to date, he had called his mother to tell her that he would soon be home for dinner.
The vagrants were on the alert.
At FBI headquarters, Dick Moore and John Reynolds were again discussing the latest developments from Italy.
I knew there was something about her! Reynolds thought, remembering Angela Fedeli sitting opposite him during the interview on 2 November.
‘We should inform the Assistant DA,’ Dick Moore suggested after a while.
‘I agree,’ Reynolds replied. ‘As soon as possible, I’d say.’
A Death In Calabria Page 24
