The Sicilian

by Mario Puzo

  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 ye
ars 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.

  CHAPTER 30

  THE DEATH OF Guiliano crushed the spirit of the people of Sicily. He had been their champion, their shield against the rich and the nobility, the Friends of the Friends, the Christian Democratic government in Rome. With Guiliano gone, Don Croce Malo put the island of Sicily through his olive press and squeezed out an immense fortune from rich and poor alike. When the government tried to build dams to provide cheap water, Don Croce had heavy equipment for building dams blown up. After all, he controlled all the water wells in Sicily; dams supplying cheap water were not to his interest. With the postwar boom in building Don Croce’s inside information and persuasive negotiation style procured the best building sites at a cheap price; he sold dear. He took under his personal protection all the businesses of Sicily. You could not sell an artichoke in Palermo’s market stalls without paying Don Croce a few centesimi; the rich could not buy jewels for their wives or racing horses for their sons without taking out insurance with Don Croce. And with a firm hand he discouraged all the foolish hopes of peasants who wished to claim uncultivated land from the estate of Prince Ollorto, because of nonsensical laws passed by the Italian Parliament. Squeezed between Don Croce, the nobles and the government in Rome, the Sicilian people gave up hope.

  In the two years after Guiliano’s death, five hundred thousand Sicilians, most of them young males, emigrated. They went to England and became gardeners, makers of ice cream, waiters in restaurants. They went to Germany and did heavy manual labor, to Switzerland to keep that country clean and build cuckoo clocks. They went to France as kitchen helpers and sweepers in garment houses. They went to Brazil to hack out clearings in the forest. Some went to the cold winters of Scandinavia. And of course there were the fortunate few recruited by Clemenza to serve in the Corleone Family in the United States. These were considered the luckiest of all. And so Sicily became a land of old men, young children and women who were widows by economic vendetta. The stone villages no longer supplied laborers for the rich estates, and the rich also suffered. Only Don Croce prospered.

  Gaspare “Aspanu” Pisciotta had been tried for his crimes as a bandit and sentenced to a life term in the Ucciardone Prison. But it was understood by everyone that he would be given a pardon. His only worry was that he would be murdered while in prison. Still the amnesty did not come. He sent word to Don Croce that unless he was pardoned immediately, he would reveal all the contacts the band had with Trezza, how the new Premier had conspired with Don Croce to murder his own citizens at the Portella della Ginestra.

  On the morning after Minister Trezza’s ascension to the premiership of Italy, Aspanu Pisciotta awoke at eight in the morning. He had a large cell, filled with plants and large screens of needlework he had taken up during his time in jail. The brilliant silk of the embroidery patterns seemed to quiet his mind, for now he often thought of his childhood with Turi Guiliano, of their love for each other.

  Pisciotta prepared his morning coffee and drank it. He had a fear of being poisoned. So everything in that cup of coffee had been brought to him by his family. The prison food he first fed in tiny portions to the pet parrot he kept in a cage. And for emergencies he kept on one of his shelves, with the embroidery needles and piles of fabric, a huge jar of olive oil. He hoped that by pouring it down his throat, he would counter the effect of the poison or cause himself to vomit it up. He did not fear any other violence—he was too well guarded. Only visitors he approved were allowed to his cell door; he was never permitted out of this room. He waited patiently for the parrot to eat and digest his food and then ate his own breakfast with good appetite.

  Hector Adonis left his Palermo apartment and used the tram car to the Ucciardone Prison. The February sun was already hot though it was early morning, and he regretted wearing his black suit and tie. But he felt he must dress formally on such an occasion. He touched the important slip of paper in the breast pocket of his jacket, securely pressed to the bottom.

  As he rode through the city the ghost of Guiliano rode with him. He remembered one morning watching a tram full of carabinieri blown up, one of Guiliano’s retaliations for his parents being put in this same prison. And he wondered again how the gentle boy he had taught the classics could commit such a terrible act. Now, though the walls of the buildings he passed were blank, he could still see in his imagination the bold red paint that had inscribed LONG LIVE GUILIANO so often painted on them. Well, his godson had not lived long. But what always troubled Hector Adonis was that Guiliano had been murdered by his lifelong and childhood friend. That was why he had been delighted to receive instructions to deliver the note in his jacket pocket. The note had been sent by Don Croce with specific instructions.

  The tram stopped in front of the long brick building that was the Ucciardone Prison. It was separated from the street by a stone wall topped by barbed wire. Guards manned the gate, and the perimeter of the wall was patrolled by heavily armed police. Hector Adonis, all necessary documents in hand, was admitted, taken in charge by a special guard, and escorted to the hospital pharmacy. There he was greeted by the pharmacist, a man by the name of Cuto. Cuto wore an immaculate white smock over a business suit with a tie. He, too, had, by some subtle psychological process, decided to dress for the occasion. He greeted Hector Adonis cordially and they sat down to wait.

  “Has Aspanu been taking his medicine regularly?” Hector Adonis asked. Pisciotta still had to take streptomycin for his tuberculosis.

  “Oh, yes,” Cuto said. “He is very careful about his health. He has even stopped smoking. It’s something curious I’ve noticed about our prisoners. When they are free they abuse their health—they smoke to excess, they drink to drunkenness, they fornicate to exhaustion
. They don’t sleep enough or get enough exercise. Then when they have to spend the rest of their lives in prison, they do push-ups, they spurn tobacco, they watch their diet and are moderate in all things.”

  “Perhaps because they have less opportunity,” Hector Adonis said.

  “Oh, no, no,” Cuto said. “You can have everything you want in Ucciardone. The guards are poor and the prisoners are rich, so it’s reasonable that money should change hands. You can indulge every vice here.”

  Adonis looked around the pharmacy. There were shelves full of medicines and great oaken closets that held bandages and medical instruments, for the pharmacy served as a medical emergency room for the prisoners. There were even two neatly made-up beds in an alcove of the huge rooms.

  “Do you have any trouble getting his medicine?” Adonis asked.

  “No, we have a special requisition,” Cuto said. “I delivered his new bottle this morning. With all those special seals that the Americans put on it for export. A very expensive medicine. I’m surprised that the authorities go to so much trouble to keep him alive.”

  The two men smiled at each other.

  In his cell Aspanu Pisciotta took the bottle of streptomycin and broke the elaborate seals. He measured out his dose and swallowed it. He was surprised at the bitterness of the taste for that one second he could think, then his body bent backward in a great arc and was thrown to the floor. He let out a scream that brought the guard running to the cell door. Pisciotta struggled to his feet, fighting off the agonizing pain that wracked his body. There was a terrible rawness in his throat and he staggered toward the jar of olive oil. His body arched again and he screamed to the guard, “I’ve been poisoned. Help me, help me.” And then before he fell again there was a great furiousness that he had finally been outwitted by Don Croce.