by Mario Puzo
He turned over in the bed, and it seemed to him there was a lighter pool of blackness on the floor nearby. He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. The pool became the severed head of the black Madonna. He thought it had fallen off the table and the sound had brought him awake. He relaxed and smiled with relief. At that moment he heard a small rustling sound at the door. He turned toward it, and in the shadows the dim orange light of the lamp did not quite reach, he could see the dark bony face of Aspanu Pisciotta.
He was sitting on the floor with his back against the door. The mustached mouth was spread in a triumphant grin, as if to say, so much for your guards, so much for the security of your sanctuary.
Michael looked at his wristwatch on the night table. It was three o’clock. “You keep strange hours—what were you waiting for?” he asked. He got out of bed and dressed quickly, then opened the shutters. The moonlight entered the room like a ghost, appearing and disappearing. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” Michael said.
Pisciotta rolled to his feet like a snake raising its head on its body to strike. “I like to watch people sleep. Sometimes in their dreams they shout out their secrets.”
“I never tell secrets,” Michael said. “Not even in my dreams.” He stepped out on the terrace and offered Pisciotta a cigarette. They smoked together. Michael could hear Pisciotta’s chest rattle with suppressed coughs and indeed his face looked ghastly in the moonlight, the bones skeletal.
They were silent. Then Pisciotta said, “Did you ever get the Testament?”
“Yes,” Michael said.
Pisciotta sighed. “Turi trusts me more than anyone on earth—he trusts me with his life. I am the only person who can find him now. But he did not trust me with the Testament. Do you have it?”
Michael hesitated for a moment. Pisciotta laughed. “You are like Turi,” he said.
“The Testament is in America,” Michael said. “It is safe with my father.” He did not want Pisciotta to know it was on its way to Tunis simply because he did not want anyone to know.
Michael almost dreaded to ask the next question. There could be only one reason for Pisciotta to be visiting him so secretly. Only one reason he had risked evading the guards surrounding the villa; or had he been passed through? It could only be that finally Guiliano was ready to appear. “When is Guiliano coming?” he said.
“Tomorrow night,” Pisciotta said. “But not here.”
“Why not?” Michael asked. “This is safe ground.”
Pisciotta laughed, “But I got in here, didn’t I?”
Michael was irritated by this truth. He wondered again if Pisciotta had been passed in by the guards under the order of Don Domenic, or even brought here by him. “It’s for Guiliano to decide,” he said.
“No,” Pisciotta said. “I must decide for him. You promised his family he will be safe. But Don Croce knows you are here, so does Inspector Velardi. Their spies are everywhere. What do you plan for Guiliano? A wedding, a birthday party? A funeral? What kind of foolishness do you tell us? Do you think we are all donkeys here in Sicily?” He said this in a dangerous tone.
“I’m not going to tell you my plan of escape,” Michael said. “You can trust me or not as you choose. Tell me where you will deliver Guiliano and I will be there. Don’t tell me and tomorrow night I will be safe in America, while you and Guiliano are still running for your lives.”
Pisciotta laughed and said, “Spoken like a true Sicilian—you haven’t wasted the years in this country.” He sighed. “I can’t believe it will finally be over,” he said. “Almost seven years of fighting and running, of betrayals and killing. But we were the Kings of Montelepre, Turi and myself—there was glory enough for both of us. He was for the poor and I was for myself. I never believed at first, but in our second year as outlaws, he proved it to me and all of our band. Remember I am his second in command, his cousin, the man he trusts most. I wear the belt with the golden buckle as he does; he gave it to me. But I seduced the young daughter of a farmer in Partinico and made her pregnant. Her father went to Guiliano and told him the story. Do you know what Turi did? He tied me to a tree and beat me with a whip. Not in front of the farmer or any of our men. He would never expose me to such disrespect. It was our secret. But I knew if I disobeyed his orders again, he would kill me. That is our Turi.” His hand shook as he brought it to his mouth. In the fading moonlight his tiny mustache gleamed like a thin sliver of black bone.
Michael thought, What a strange story. Why does he tell it to me?
They went back into the bedroom and Michael closed the shutters. Pisciotta picked up the severed head of the black Madonna off the floor and handed it to Michael. “I threw this on the floor to wake you,” he said. “The Testament was inside, isn’t that true?”
“Yes,” Michael said.
Pisciotta’s face sagged. “Maria Lombardo lied to me. I asked her if she had it. She said no. Then she gave it to you in front of my very eyes.” He laughed bitterly. “I have been like a son to her.” He paused for a moment and then said, “And she has been like a mother to me.”
Pisciotta asked for another cigarette. There was still some wine left in the jug on the night table. Michael poured a glass for both of them, and Pisciotta drank it gratefully. “Thank you,” he said. “Now we must get down to our business. I will turn over Guiliano to you outside the town of Castelvetrano. Ride in an open car so I can recognize you, and come directly on the road from Trapani. I will intercept you at a point of my own choosing. If there is danger, wear a cap and we will not appear. The time will be as soon as dawn breaks. Do you think you can manage that?”
“Yes,” Michael said. “Everything is arranged. There is one thing I should tell you: Stefan Andolini did not keep his appointment with Professor Adonis yesterday. The Professor was very worried.”
Pisciotta was startled for the first time. Then he shrugged. “The little man was always bad luck,” he said. “Now we must say goodbye until tomorrow at dawn.” He took Michael’s hand in his own.
Michael said impulsively, “Come with us to America.”
Pisciotta shook his head. “I have lived in Sicily all of my life and I have loved my life. And so I must die in Sicily if I must. But thank you.”
Michael was strangely moved by these words. Even with his scant knowledge of Pisciotta, he sensed that this was a man who could never be transplanted from the earth and mountains of Sicily. He was too fierce, too bloodthirsty; his coloring, his voice were all of Sicily. He could never trust a strange land.
“I’ll pass you through the gate,” Michael said.
“No,” Pisciotta said. “Our little meeting must remain a secret.”
After Pisciotta had left, Michael lay on his bed until dawn, unable to sleep. He would finally meet Turi Guiliano face to face; they would travel to America together. He wondered what kind of man he would find Guiliano to be. Would he be his legend? So much larger than life that he dominated this island and affected the course of a nation? He got up from the bed and opened the shutters. Dawn was finally breaking and he watched the sun move up in the sky and throw a golden highway across the sea, and riding on that broad beam of light he saw the motor launch speeding toward the dock. He rushed out of the villa and down to the beach to greet Peter Clemenza.
They had breakfast together, and Michael told him about Pisciotta’s visit. Clemenza did not seem surprised that Pisciotta had penetrated the guarded villa.
They spent the rest of the morning making their plans for the meeting with Guiliano. There might be spies watching the villa for any extraordinary movement; a column of automobiles would surely attract attention. Also Michael would certainly be under close observation. True, the Sicilian Security Police under Inspector Velardi would not interfere, but who knew what treacheries might be afoot?
When they had finished their planning, they had lunch, and then Michael went to his room for an afternoon sleep. He wanted to be fresh for the long night. Peter Clemenza had too many details to attend to—
giving orders to his men, arranging transport and briefing his brother, Don Domenic, upon his return home.
Michael closed the shutters in his bedroom and lay on the bed. His body was rigid; he could not sleep. Within the next twenty-four hours many terrible things could happen. He had a sense of foreboding. But then he weaved a dream of returning to his home on Long Island, his mother and father waiting for him at the door, his long exile at an end.
CHAPTER 26
IN THE SEVENTH year of his banditry, Turi Guiliano knew that he must leave his mountain kingdom and flee to the America he had been conceived in, the America his parents had always told stories about when he was a child. The fabulous land where there was justice for the poor, where the government was not the lackey of the rich, where the penniless Sicilians rose to riches simply by good honest labor.
Persisting in his avowals of friendship, the Don had contacted Don Corleone in America to help rescue Guiliano and give him sanctuary there. Turi Guiliano understood quite well that Don Croce was also serving his own purposes, but Guiliano knew he had very few options. The power of his band was gone.
Now on this night he would start on his journey to meet with Aspanu Pisciotta; he would place himself in the hands of the American, Michael Corleone. He would leave these mountains now. These mountains that had given him sanctuary for seven years. He would leave his kingdom, his power, his family, and all his comrades. His armies had melted away; his mountains were being overrun; his protectors, the people of Sicily, were being crushed by Colonel Luca’s Special Force. If he remained he would win some victories, but his final defeat would be certain. For now, he had no choice.
Turi Guiliano strapped on his lupara, took up his machine pistol and started on the long journey toward Palermo. He was wearing a white sleeveless shirt, but over this was a leather jacket with large pockets that held clips of ammunition for his weapons. He paced himself. His watch said nine o’clock, and there were still traces of daylight in the sky despite the timid light of the moon. There was the danger of roving patrols of the Special Force to Repress Banditry, yet Guiliano walked without fear. Over the years he had earned a certain invisibility. All the people in this countryside threw their cloaks about him. If there were patrols they would inform him; if he was in danger they would protect him and hide him in their houses. If he were attacked, the shepherds and the farmers would reassemble under his solitary banner. He had been their champion; they would never betray him now.
In the months that followed his marriage, there were pitched battles between Colonel Luca’s Special Force and segments of Guiliano’s band. Colonel Luca had already taken credit for the killing of Passatempo, and the newspapers reported in huge headlines that one of Guiliano’s most feared chiefs had been killed in a fierce gun battle with the heroic soldiers of the Special Force to Repress Banditry. Colonel Luca, of course, had suppressed the note left on the body, but Don Croce learned of it from Inspector Velardi. He knew then that Guiliano was fully aware of the treachery that had been done at the Portella della Ginestra.
Colonel Luca’s five thousand-man army exerted an intense pressure on Guiliano. He could no longer dare to enter Palermo to buy supplies or sneak into Montelepre to visit his mother and Justina. Many of his men were being betrayed and killed. Some were emigrating on their own to Algeria or Tunisia. Others were disappearing into hiding places that cut them off from the activities of the band. The Mafia was now in active opposition to him, using its network to deliver Guiliano’s men into the hands of the carabinieri.
And then finally one of the chiefs was brought down.
Terranova got unlucky, and it was his virtue that brought him misfortune. He had not the ferociousness of Passatempo, the malignant cunning of Pisciotta, the deadliness of Fra Diavalo. Nor the ascetic quality of Guiliano. He was intelligent but he was also of an affectionate temperament, and Guiliano had often used him to make friends with their kidnapping victims, to distribute money and goods to the poor. It was Terranova and his own band that plastered Palermo with posters in the dead of night to present Guiliano’s propaganda. He did not often take part in the more bloody operations.
He was a man who required love and affection. A few years before, he had acquired a mistress in Palermo, a widow with three small children. She had never known he was a bandit; she thought he was a government official in Rome who took his holidays in Sicily. She was grateful for the money he gave her and the presents he brought for her children, but it had been made plain to her that they could never marry. And so she gave him the affection and care he needed. When he visited she cooked elaborate meals; she washed his clothes and made love with a grateful passion. Such a relationship could not remain a secret forever from the Friends of the Friends, and Don Croce stored the information away to be used at the proper time.
Justina had visited Guiliano a few times in the mountains, and Terranova had been her bodyguard on her voyages. Her beauty had stirred his feelings of longing, and though he knew it was not prudent, he decided to visit his mistress one last time. He wanted to give her a sum of money that would sustain her and her children in the years to come.
And so one night he sneaked into Palermo alone. He gave the widow the money and explained he might not be able to see her for a long time. She wept and protested and finally he told her who he really was. She was astonished. His usual demeanor was so mild, his nature was so gentle, and yet he was one of the famed Guiliano’s great chiefs. She made love with a fiery passion that delighted him, and they spent a happy evening with the three children. Terranova had taught them to play cards, and when they won this time he paid them real money, which made them laugh with joy.
After the children were put to bed, Terranova and the widow continued their lovemaking until dawn. Then Terranova prepared to leave. At the door they embraced for the last time, and then Terranova walked quickly down the little street and into the main square before the cathedral. He felt a happy satiety of the body, and his mind was at peace. He was relaxed and off guard.
The morning air was blasted by the roar of motors. Three black cars sped toward him. Armed men appeared on every side of the square. Other armed men jumped out of the cars. One of the men shouted at him to surrender, to put up his hands.
Terranova took one last look at the cathedral, the statues of saints niched on its sides; he saw the blue and yellow balconies, the sun rising to light the azure sky. He knew that this was the last time he would see such wonders, that his seven years of luck were ended. There remained only one thing for him to do.
He took a great leap as if he would leap over death itself and hurl himself into a safe universe. As his body flew to one side and hit the ground, he drew his pistol and fired. One soldier reeled back and went down to one knee. Terranova tried to pull the trigger again, but by that time a hundred bullets converged on his body, blowing it to pieces, blowing the flesh off his bones. In one way he had been lucky—it had all happened so quickly that he did not have time to wonder if his mistress had betrayed him.
Terranova’s death brought a sense of doom to Guiliano. He had known that the reign of the band was finished. That they could no longer counterattack successfully, that they could no longer hide in the mountains. But he had always thought that he and his chiefs would make an escape, that they would not go down to death. Now he knew there was very little time left. There was one thing he had always wanted to do, and so he summoned Corporal Canio Silvestro.
“Our time is over,” he said to Silvestro. “You once told me you had friends in England who would protect you. Now is the time for you to go. You have my permission.”
Corporal Silvestro shook his head. “I can always leave when you are safe in America. You need me still. You know I will never betray you.”
“I know that,” Guiliano said. “And you know the affection I have always had for you. But you were never truly a bandit. You were always a soldier and a policeman. Your heart was always a lawful one. And so you can make a life for yourself when all t
his is over. The rest of us will find it difficult. We will be bandits forever.”
Silvestro said, “I never thought of you as a bandit.”
“Nor did I,” Guiliano said. “And yet what have I done these seven years? I thought I was fighting for justice. I tried to help the poor. I hoped to free Sicily. I wanted to be a good man. But it was the wrong time and the wrong way. For now we must do what we can to save our lives. And so you must go to England. It will make me happy to know that you are safe.” Then he embraced Silvestro. “You have been my true friend,” he said, “and those are my orders.”
At dusk, Turi Guiliano left his cave and moved on to the Cappuccini monastery just outside Palermo where he would await word from Aspanu Pisciotta. One of the monks there was a secret member of his band, and he was in charge of the catacombs of the monastery. In these catacombs were hundreds of mummified bodies.
For hundreds of years before World War I it had been the custom of the rich and noble families to pin to the walls of the monastery the costumes in which they wished to be buried. When they died, after their funerals, their bodies were delivered to the monastery. There the monks were masters of the art of preserving bodies. They exposed the corpses to slow heat for six months, then dried the soft parts of the bodies. In the drying process the skin shriveled, the features contorted into all the grimaces of death, some of horror, some of risibility, all terrible to the viewer. Then the bodies were dressed in the costumes that had been left for them and placed in glass coffins. These coffins were placed in niches in the wall or strung from the ceiling by glass wires. Some of the bodies were seated on chairs, some stood against the wall. Some were propped into glass boxes like costumed dolls.
Guiliano lay down on a dank stone of the catacombs and used a coffin as his pillow. He studied all these Sicilians dead for hundreds of years. There was a knight of the Royal Court in a blue silk ruffled uniform, a helmet on his head, a sword cane in his hand. A courtier, foppish in the French style, with white wig and high-heeled boots. There was a Cardinal in his red robes, an archbishop in his miter. There were court beauties whose golden gowns looked now like spider webs strangling the mummified shrunken bodies as if they were flies. There was a young maiden in white gloves and white frilly nightdress enclosed in a glass box.
