BELLA MAFIA

by Lynda La Plante

  Moving very slowly to the mournful sound of the boy's harmonica, the procession wound along the silent streets. The streets were full of people, but it was the silence that everyone would remember.

  To everyone's amazement, the widows walked. Led by Graziella, with Sophia and Teresa together four steps behind, Rosa another four slow steps behind them, they walked slowly, heads held high in their black mourning clothes and flowing black veils. Each held her black-gloved hands clasped as if in prayer. They seemed bound together, yet separate, facing directly ahead, and even when Graziella led them into the cathedral, no one turned.

  A boy soprano rose from the choir and sang "Ave Maria," his clear voice soaring, as the women took their seats and knelt in prayer.

  During the service, when the congregation filed up to take communion, a wizened old woman swathed in black inched past the children's coffins to lay a small, worn crucifix on the don's coffin. She sobbed loudly, and no one attempted to stop her; it was as though she wept for everyone there at the loss of this, their beloved don, his sons, and two innocent grandsons.

  The ground was thick with floral displays, covering the small area outside the family mausoleum, hanging from the iron railings surrounding the white-pillared entrance and carpeting the lane leading up to the gates. The crowds remained standing; dark-suited men held them back, their arms linked to allow the four black-clad women privacy for their last good-bye.

  As they entered the mausoleum, a flash went off. Graziella, the last to enter, turned, her expression hidden beneath her veil, and pointed at the press photographer responsible. One of the guards, without any apparent coercion, was immediately handed the offending roll of film. The doors closed behind the women.

  In the gloomy interior of the tomb the coffins were already in their final resting places on the shelves, though they had not yet been cemented in. The highly polished wood glinted in the flickering light of a single torch.

  The women prayed together until Graziella said, quietly, that it was time to leave. Rosa clutched her grandmother's hand, and Teresa inched the door open; but Sophia's body was rigid. She could not move. Unable to look at the coffins of her husband and children, she focused on the picture of Michael Luciano. The photograph had been there for more than twenty years, protected by the glass and the airtight tomb; it could have been placed there the day before. Michael's angelic face and soft, sweet smile made Sophia's dulled senses scream awake. Hands clenched, the scream surged through her, the single word "No!"

  Graziella released her granddaughter's hand, and her voice was hoarse as she ordered the women out. She caught Sophia as she fell to her knees.

  "Get up, Sophia. Up on your feet."

  Her grip cut through Sophia's skin, pressing against the nerve in her elbow and making her whole body jerk, but Graziella held on. The others stood waiting at the half-open door. Graziella took Teresa's handkerchief, lifted Sophia's veil, and wiped her face.

  "Let me go first." Satisfied that Sophia was all right, Graziella almost pushed past her daughters-in-law and led them out to face the watchful crowd.

  There were further agonies for the widows to endure; they now had to greet and thank the many mourners who were invited to pay their respects at the villa. Rolls-Royces, Mercedeses, Maseratis, and Ferraris lined the route.

  A row of gilded red velvet chairs had been placed in the living room, replacing the coffins. For five hours the women sat, still veiled, to receive the condolences of the mourners. When it finally ended, the villa seemed to die: no voices, no sound.

  The women, exhausted, numbed by the day's events, retired to their rooms.

  At nine o'clock they were to dine with Graziella. They entered the room one by one to find her sitting in her husband's chair; they noticed that she also wore his ring. They hardly touched the food that was placed in front of them by Adina, who had been in service with the Lucianos since she was a young girl. Her eyes red-rimmed from weeping, she moved silently and unobtrusively, serving and clearing.

  They spoke little. Teresa held her daughter's hand, murmuring softly that she should eat just a little. But Rosa seemed drugged, stupefied, and stared vacantly ahead. From her handbag Sophia took another of the little yellow pills Graziella had given them all and swallowed it with a sip of ice water.

  There was an air of expectancy, and at last Graziella spoke.

  "Mario Domino will be executor of my sons' and husband's estate. He will let us know when he is ready to read the will. In the meantime, you might prefer to return to your homes until you hear from me, though you are welcome to stay. There is little more that can be done here. I have made arrangements to attend the trial every day. We will get our justice. The man responsible for our loved ones' deaths will be convicted." Graziella hesitated, now obviously nervous, and took a black-bordered handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her eyes, although she did not appear to be weeping. They turned dull eyes to her.

  Finally she said, "There is something you all should be made aware of, something I have not told you. . . . Papa had begun making statements for the prosecution." She looked at them, expecting a reaction, but received none. It was as if they had not heard. She continued. "Papa believed in his decision and trusted that we all would be protected."

  Suddenly Teresa snapped, shaking with shocked rage, "Protected! Jesus Christ, protected! He must have been out of his mind! It was his fault then, his fault this happened!"

  "Do you think I have not thought, every minute, every hour, every day since? You blame Papa, then you must blame me. I knew of this decision. I approved and believed what he was doing was right."

  Teresa's face was tight, her mouth a thin, vicious line. "You knew, you knew, and you welcomed us with open arms? You brought us over here, and we saw the guards, we saw them. . . . Jesus Christ, Sophia even asked you why! Why was the car trailing us on a shopping expedition, and what did you say? You said it was what Papa wanted! You should have told us then. You think Sophia would have left her babies for a second if she had known? We were all in danger, and you never told us—"

  Rosa's chair fell over as she stood up. "Is that why I was to be married? To get us all here? You arranged it, you arranged my wedding?" She turned ferociously on her grandmother, her hands clenched. "And you killed Emilio. ... I blame you, I hate you. Here, Papa bought this, put it on his grave . . . take it!” She flung her ring across the table and ran from the room.

  Sophia slapped her hand down on the engagement ring. "Stop this! Rosa, come back in here. Rosa!"

  Rosa stopped in the hall. She had no intention of rejoining them, but there was something in Sophia's black eyes . . . When she repeated a whispered "Rosa, come back and sit down," Rosa obeyed.

  Graziella twisted her lace handkerchief in her hands as she turned to Teresa. "He wanted to tell you, wanted you all here. He didn't want you to be afraid."

  "So you arranged my daughter's wedding, your granddaughter's wedding, as an excuse?" Teresa had to strain to hear Graziella's reply.

  "I make no excuses. Yes, Papa chose the wedding. He chose it because if anything happened to him, we would have been together. He did what he felt was right. Paul Carolla murdered Michael—"

  Sophia's deep voice was calm as she interrupted Graziella. "Michael died, Mama, more than twenty years ago. Are you saying that Papa jeopardized the entire family because of him? I have lost my husband and my babies because of Michael?"

  They all looked to Graziella for an answer. The tension in the room was heightened by Rosa's muffled weeping. Graziella's handkerchief twisted and twisted in her hands.

  "Papa did what he felt was right. Who are we to say now that he should not have—"

  Teresa screamed it, her face red with pent-up anger. "I'm saying it! I don't give a fuck what anyone else wants to say, I’m saying it, my husband is dead!”

  Graziella looked at Teresa with contempt. "Hate the men who did this, not Papa. All of you honored him to his face, took from him whatever he gave. All of you carried the nam
e Luciano, carried it, benefited from being the wives of Lucianos."

  Teresa interrupted, swiping at the table, hitting out in anger. "Rosa was never allowed the chance to become a wife. He used her. Listen to her. . . . You tell me who is to blame? Tell me!"

  Graziella rose to her feet. "You have no right, here in this house, to abuse him. He will have provided for each of you, provided so that you may live well, live as Lucianos, live in the luxury none of you, not one of you, knew before you were welcomed into this family."

  "This family doesn't exist anymore because of him. He, and he alone, is to blame, and you know it." Teresa's head jerked back as Graziella slapped her face.

  "I wish you to leave. When the lawyer is ready, you may return, not before then. ..." They watched her walk from the room. Her slow footsteps crossed the marble hall.

  Teresa rubbed her cheek, shocked, hardly able to believe what had happened. She asked no one in particular, "Michael? He did it for Michael? Justice for Michael? My daughter's, my life, destroyed because of a boy we never even knew! Well, I spit on his memory because if it weren't for Michael Luciano, our men would still be alive. I will be glad to leave this house, leave her to her justice. . . ."

  Sophia folded her napkin carefully. She felt empty, drained, unable to argue. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed."

  Teresa burst out. "Don't you have anything to say? Don't you think we should talk about this? I mean, she's asked us to leave. Are you going?"

  "What is there to say, Teresa? No words can bring back my sons, my husband. I don't care about justice, about Paul Carolla. My babies, my beautiful babies, are dead."

  The room was empty when Adina came in to clear the table.

  Sophia moved silently down the stairs. In the darkness the house itself appeared to be mourning; strange creaks and groans emanated from the staircase and the shutters.

  She inched open the door to the living room, crept to a cabinet, and poured herself almost a tumbler of whiskey. The pills she had already taken were making her feel woozy. As she turned to go back to her room, the fringe of the shawl that draped the piano brushed her arm. She gasped. There he was again, smiling at her. Michael's photograph always stood in front of the others.

  She whispered, "I curse you. I curse the day I met you." The sound of her own voice frightened her, and she drank, wanting to escape into oblivion. But a small voice inside warned her to be careful.

  Somewhere a shutter banged. She turned to see Graziella standing in the doorway, her long hair braided, a woolen shawl around her shoulders. She walked silently into the room and took the glass from Sophia's hand.

  "You should not drink if you have taken sleeping pills. It is dangerous."

  "You mean I could sleep and never wake up? Then give me the glass."

  "I'll take you back to bed."

  Sophia backed away, remembering that viselike grip at the mausoleum, but Graziella kept on coming.

  "Stay away from me, leave me alone."

  "Very well, if that is what you want."

  "I want to leave this house."

  As silently as she had arrived, Graziella turned to leave, but Sophia blurted, "Why didn't you warn me? Because you knew, you've always known."

  "Known what?"

  "What this family is, what it was . . . You've always known. Is that why you are so strong, why you don't weep? Is that why?"

  "You are being foolish. Don't say things, now, Sophia, that you will regret later."

  Sophia made the mistake of gripping Graziella's arm and was shoved off her feet. The older woman's strength was awesome.

  Graziella stood over her, eyes blazing. "You didn't know? Don't play the innocent. It doesn't become you. Yes, I have known, just as you have, but perhaps my reasons for accepting it were different. What were yours, Sophia? What made you return to this house? For my son? Was it for Constantino or for what you saw here?"

  Sophia remained huddled on the floor. "I loved him. You know that. He was a good husband, he was a good father, but—"

  "But he was a Luciano."

  Sophia put her hands over her ears. She wanted to shout, to curse the name aloud.

  Graziella relaxed, as if the flash of icy anger had been someone else's. "You know, I was about the same age as you were the day you were brought here when I first set eyes on my husband. Oh, I knew what he was, Mario Domino knew what he was, but neither of us could say no to him. I could never say no to him, in my entire life with him. I mean no disrespect, but my family were well-to-do, my life mapped out. . . . Did you know I almost married Mario Domino?"

  "No, I didn't." Sophia rose slowly to her feet, took a cigarette from the box, and lit it.

  Graziella pushed the shutters slightly open to let the cool night breeze into the room. "How different it would have been. A nice, respectable lawyer in a good, reputable firm . . . My father would have approved. He would turn in his grave if he knew I chose Roberto instead. But you see, it was the only choice I could have made, because without him, without him . . ." Her voice trailed away.

  "Don't get cold, Mama."

  "I tried not to see, not to know. It was all hidden from me. I could pretend that what went on outside could never affect me, and as I chose not to know, Michael died. I blamed Roberto. I tortured him with my grief, and I hated him for being what he was. But perhaps if I had been more aware of my husband's world, Michael need not have died. You see, Roberto tried to play the game both ways; he wanted to be a good man, an honest man, but it was impossible. When I realized what I was doing to him, when I realized there was a side I didn't know, I made it my duty to know. Mario Domino would have been shot if it had ever been discovered, but I made him keep me informed of everything he could possibly tell me. So yes, I did know, I knew more than my dear, beloved husband could ever have dreamed, and I stayed by his side. If he was guilty, then so was I. . . ."

  Sophia looked up. The chill had returned to Graziella's voice. "I wanted him to destroy Paul Carolla."

  "Did he ever discover how much of his life you knew?"

  Graziella shook her head and pulled the shutters closed. "No, I was far too clever. He never knew. He knew most things about all of you. Remember how he delved into your past when you wanted to marry Constantino?"

  Sophia's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't speak. She was suddenly afraid of Graziella; did she know everything? Could it be possible? She stubbed out her cigarette, desperate to get out of the room, away from her.

  The quiet voice continued. "He always said you were his favorite. You must forgive, Sophia, not blame him. You are not like Teresa; she is nothing."

  "What about Rosa, Mama? Is she just a nothing? Was the marriage really arranged, or did Emilio love her?"

  Graziella's eyeswere like stones.

  Sophia sighed; she knew then that the don had arranged that marriage just as he had arranged Teresa's. "Don't tell her, don't let her know. At least give her that."

  "I will take care of Rosa," said Graziella.

  At that moment Sophia loathed Graziella. "I'll return to Rome in the morning."

  "You must do whatever you think best. I'm sorry that we are so divided. Together we would be stronger."

  "For what? There's nothing left, Mama."

  Graziella lifted her arms as if to embrace her, but Sophia hurried out, not wanting to be touched.

  Left alone, Graziella took stock of the elegant room. Her eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and she noticed a cushion out of place. She straightened it deftly, picked up Sophia's glass and the used ashtray, then paused, looking at the array of family photographs. Michael's was out of line. As she pushed it back into its place, she said to the empty room, to the faces of her dead, clearly and quietly, without emotion, "It is with me now."

  CHAPTER 4

  The widows had returned to their homes, and Graziella was alone in the villa. The rooms were kept dark and airless, the shutters over the windows, every door closed.

  Graziella's entire adult life had b
een taken up with caring for her family. Now she thought only of the end of Paul Carolla.

  Mario Domino, worried that the strain would be too much for Graziella, had tried to dissuade her from going to the trial. He made the excuse that there was not one spectator seat available, but she had told him curtly that she would arrange it herself. "The guards are paid a pittance. I will make sure that they have a seat for me every day, no matter what the cost."

  The first time she saw Paul Carolla she was shocked by his arrogant, audacious manner. She could not take her eyes from him. He became aware of her attention and, calling a guard over, pointed her out. When she lifted her veil, Carolla gave a low, almost mocking bow of recognition, but he turned away as if she meant no more to him than any of the other spectators.

  The eye-to-eye contact made Graziella recoil as if she had been punched in the heart, a reaction so strong that she snapped the silver crucifix chain in her hands.

  Even after she returned home, she found no release from the shock. The choking feeling—as if she were being squeezed physically—persisted until she lay in her bed, hugging her husband's pillow. She prayed to Roberto, begged him to give her strength, and as if he were still alive, his strength encouraged her not to give up.

  From then on Graziella hardened herself to sit through all the hours of the preliminary trials. And day by day Paul Carolla became more of an obsession with her; she had no interest in any of the other defendants. She sat, shrouded in her widow's weeds, waiting only for the day when Carolla would be brought to the stand. He joked to his guards that she was like a praying mantis, but she was getting to him. He turned his chair so that he could not see her.

  Emanuel had made many excuses to delay the meeting with Graziella, but eventually he could no longer put it off. When she appeared at his office, he was impressed by her calmness. He assured her that Carolla would be convicted.