Domino had chosen the largest city in Sicily, next to Palermo, to ensure that the identity of the baby would never be discovered.
CHAPTER 9
Luka Carolla strolled through the small town of Erice, wearing monk's robes and leather-thonged sandals. He had a straw bag slung over his shoulder, filled with seeds, wrapped in sacking ready for planting.
He paused a moment at a vegetable stand outside a fly-filled shop and touched the ripe dark plums, then stepped inside. There were cigarettes and candies, jars of herbs, and row upon row of canned food. He asked for a pound of plums and flipped through the rack of newspapers while he waited. A headline caught his eye: MAFIA TRIAL CONTINUES.
Luka busied himself looking at the herbs, but his eyes kept returning to the papers. At the last minute he bought two. He folded them carefully and tucked them in his basket beneath the plums.
The old lady beamed toothlessly. "Americano?" she asked.
"Si, Americano. Grazie."
Father Angelo, accompanied by Brothers Thomas and Louis, was encouraged by Guido to survey the vegetable garden. Luka had toiled day and night, obsessively sifting stones in his homemade sieve. Not a pin-size pebble remained. That was part of his punishment; the earth had to be pure.
Guido let the earth trickle through his fingers. "I would not have believed it possible. Look how fine the soil has become; there is not a stone to be seen."
The bamboo canes were neatly stacked; the spades and forks had been cleaned until they shone.
"It's late to plant now, but Luka thinks differently," Guido said, shaking his head. He shaded his eyes to watch Luka in the distance. "I have never seen a boy work so diligently."
Father Angelo smiled, remembering Luka as a child. "He loved this garden so, do you remember, Thomas?"
Brother Thomas breathed in noisily. "How long is he to be with us? He said a few days, but it has been months."
"And you complain? Come, Thomas, look what the boy has accomplished."
They turned as they heard the gate creak open. Luka stood there. Father Angelo smiled a welcome, then leaned on Guido and said, "We were encouraged to see your work. Brother Guido is very impressed. We all are. Is the soil beneath good still?"
"Yes, Father."
Luka's blue eyes were blindingly clear but hard as he looked from one to another. He was angry that they had been walking on his tilled soil. "Will you keep to the grass edge? I have prepared the soil for planting."
He walked past them, heading for his cell, his face tight with fury. He knew it must have been Brother Guido who suggested the visit; he was always snooping around.
Guido had tried hard to make friends with Luka, but Luka had remained silent, either not answering or staring vacantly ahead. So Guido had just watched the boy, seen him working at night, stripped to the waist, digging, sifting, seen how the scars on his back had turned a glistening pale pink. Some nights Guido had seen Luka sleeping in the open by the oak tree or walking along the skyline like a black shadow.
Guido wondered why Luka rarely entered the chapel; he had attended only one mass since his arrival. But when Guido broached the subject with Father Angelo, he was told to leave Luka to his own devices.
"He will come to chapel when he wishes. This is his home, Guido, and I look upon him as my own son. I feel toward him the love of a father for his child. But Luka has many darker— there is a darkness locked inside him that we cannot discuss. Be thankful that he has come to us, pray to God to give him comfort, for that is the reason he is here."
Luka opened the newspapers, turning each page as if he were frightened the walls would hear the rustle of the paper. He read of the prosecution's attack on his father, who maintained that he was innocent of all charges. He read part of the lurid article on the so-called Boss of Bosses, Don Roberto Luciano. He studied the old photograph, the same one that Sophia had tossed in the wastebasket. The hawk nose and black eyes were there, but the man was not as he remembered. This one had black hair; the one he had seen with his sons had been white-haired. . . . If he closed his eyes, he could see them. . . .
Luka's body trembled. Luciano's face made him feel physically sick. He was sweating; his cheeks were red. He tore the articles from the papers, unable to read anymore, folded them frantically, and hid them in his laundry bag. His father had called him crazy. After all Luka had done for him, to call him crazy . . . He had proved he was a professional.
The tap on his door made him spin around. "Yes?"
"It's Father Angelo, Luka. May I speak with you?"
Luka kicked the newspapers beneath the bed and opened the door. The walker inched into the room. Father Angelo held out his hand for Luka to help him sit on the bed.
"Is something wrong?"
"Does there have to be for me to visit you?"
"No, of course not, Father. But I was about to begin work."
"I visit you because you don't come to see me and you do not come to the chapel. One mass, Luka, since you have been here."
"I am sorry, Father, but I must finish the garden. You know yourself it should have been seeded in April. Now we are almost into August."
"When did you last take confession?"
"I have given myself penance, Father."
"You have? And since when have you been father confessor to yourself? I will hear your confession tonight, perhaps tonight you can rest. You have worked hard, too hard. As a boy, Luka, you were the same; if you lied or stole, you always made amends by working. Come to me tonight."
"Very well, Father."
Luka helped Angelo rise and assisted him to the door. There the old man stopped.
"I can maneuver myself now. God bless you. And Luka, remove the newspapers. You know I have never approved of their being brought into the sanctuary. If you wish to read papers, do so when you are outside our walls. This is not a hotel, even though you choose to use it as one."
Luka followed him into the corridor. "Do you want me to go?"
Father Angelo paused and shuffled around to face him. "Far from it. I think you have come here for peace. Perhaps you should think about staying here. In the remaining few years of my life nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see you ordained."
Luka laughed. It was an extraordinary laugh, possibly because it was heard so infrequently. It was infectious, and Father Angelo chortled. "I see the idea amuses you. I always believed you were destined for it, but I must admit I was the only one."
"Is that true, Father?"
"What, that I was the only one? Well, of course, as old Thomas says, you were a devil of a boy."
Luka walked sideways, pressing his back against the wall, keeping pace with Angelo. "You believed I had a vocation?"
"Odd as it may seem, yes. One day, when you triumph over the dark side, you will perhaps see for yourself."
Luka stopped following. As Angelo continued at his slow pace, his voice echoed back: "It is still within you, Luka. I can feel it. ..."
He looked back. The corridor was empty. Luka's door closed soundlessly behind him.
Luka pressed his back against the door. How could he know? As dear as Father Angelo was to him, he could not know or understand. Tears filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks, heavy tears. They flowed as he whispered the name of his friend, the poor, misshapen, dependent boy Luka had cared for when he lived at the monastery.
One of the other boys, little Antonio, had witnessed the arrival of Giorgio late one night. Antonio had been the center of attention as he told everyone he had seen the devil, had glimpsed a terrible face and a huge, deformed head with horns.
On learning these rumors, Father Angelo had called all the boys together and told them angrily that far from being a devil, the invalid in their care was a young, very sick boy. They should remember him in their daily prayers, he urged them.
He explained that Giorgio, bedridden since birth, had never experienced even the simplest pleasures. He had been born with hydrocephalus, a malformed spine, and a defective h
eart. His mother had died giving him birth. His father, unable to cope with him, had paid others to care for him. He had not expected the child to survive infancy, but Giorgio had passed twelve painracked and lonely years, hidden from sight. Now Giorgio was to spend his final days with them.
The wayward and irrepressible Luka had taken dares to sneak to the ground-floor window and peek inside the invalid's room. It was Luka who had started singing "Humpty Dumpty" outside Giorgio's window, encouraging the other boys to follow suit, but he had been caught. As punishment and an exercise in humility, Luka had been forced to help the monks clean the sick boy's cell. For all his bravado, Luka was terrified to confront the "devil."
Luka's delicate, perfectly proportioned face and startling blue eyes were more suited to a girl than a boy; in stark contrast, Giorgio's domed forehead, drooling mouth, and hideously deformed body made him look truly like a gargoyle.
The two boys were left alone, and Luka concentrated on swishing his mop over the stone floor. He didn't look up until he heard the sound of a bee. Then he scanned the room to try to locate it. Both boys watched as the large bee landed on the foot of the bed and crawled closer and closer to Giorgio.
"Well, swat the fucker before it stings me, you asshole."
Luka peered at the bee. "It won't sting. I know about bees. Workers and drones. This is a drone. Its only function is to mate with the queen; it doesn't have a sting. What are you so frightened of? It can't hurt you. "Luka had cupped the bee gently in his hands and carried it to the window. Then he had let out a shriek; it had stung him.
"It's a worker. The bastard stung me!"
Luka had run around the cell, flapping his hand, then hac plunged it into the bucket of water. Giorgio had laughed aloud, surprising himself with his glee.
That was their first meeting, and it was the turning poini in Luka's young life. The darkness was lifted with Giorgio. Foi inside the shell of the crippled boy were a vicious wit and £ brilliant mind. His intelligence far outstripped that of the other boys at the orphanage, and his extraordinarily worldly knowledge gained from voracious reading encompassed everything from pornography to obscure Jacobean tragedies. It awed and delighted the naive Luka.
Giorgio had had access to a gold mine of books; it seemed he had bottomless accounts in many of the major shops in Palermo. It was the first Luka had seen of "plastic Aladdin's entries," as Giorgio described his credit cards.
Luka sat now in the dark garden, near the tree where the wheelchair he had built for his friend was always placed. The fact that Giorgio was even capable of going outside was a wonder to the brotherhood; Luka had breathed into the sick boy a ferocious will to live. The comical-looking duo were always together, and Giorgio was beside Luka now. Luka was pointing out the neat rows of seeds he had sown.
"Okay, this line will be lettuce; that's beans, potatoes. . . . Come winter, there'll be the fart-inducing cabbages for Brother Thomas, and then there's sprouts. . . . You gotta eat your greens, Giorgio; it's the vitamins. Have to keep your strength up. You are what you put into your body; so far all your strength is in your fucking head. Got to move it around that shriveled trunk."
They had hurled insults at each other as they returned to Giorgio's cell. Luka had lifted the sick boy from his chair onto his cot bed.
"Oh, shut up, turd features. You feed me any more fuckin' greens and I'll puke or get the runs, and you'll have to clean me up. So fuck off, you illiterate shit."
"You fuck off!"
"Cunt!" "Anus features!"
"At least I've got brains in my head. You've only got turds."
Luka giggled, clutching his knees in the darkness as he remembered. Brother Louis had overheard them, and although Giorgio had seen his approach, Luka— had not. He had continued abusing Giorgio at the top of his voice.
"At least my turds are in the john, not in my bed, asshole."
Giorgio raised his voice. "Good morning, Brother Louis. We were just discussing Latin translations in today's literal terms. You know, the word 'fuck' was first used in the sixteen hundreds. . . . To defecate, to shit—very interesting, don't you think? The Americans use the word 'john,' meaning lavatory; the English use 'toilet,' as derived from the French toilette. . . . The lavatorial heel was devised and worn by Louis the Fifteenth of France to disguise his short stature. The red heel could not be detected against the red of the carpet. The heel was shaped like the S bend of a toilet. Now 'john' is used by modern-day prostitutes—"
"Giorgio, please, may God forgive you. These words are appalling. . . . And, Luka, to hear you using language that is from the gutters—"
Again Giorgio piped up, interrupting Louis. "I am so sorry, Brother, have I done something to offend you?"
"Most certainly, and I assure you I will discuss this matter with Father Angelo. He will no doubt punish this outrageous behavior. Luka, please go to your class immediately."
He was again interrupted by Giorgio, his voice even higher. "In discussing this matter, Brother Louis, will you also give him the Latin translations or just the modern terminology? I should hate Father Angelo to misinterpret what Luka and I were discussing, which you inadvertently overheard. Luka cannot in any way be blamed for a conversation you eavesdropped on. My father assured me—"
Luka's mouth dropped open as Giorgio totally flustered poor Brother Louis into apologizing. He hoped Giorgio's father would not be informed that the monks had caused their guest discomfort.
Luka had to clap his hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing aloud. Giorgio was elated, but the effort had tired him considerably, though he tried not to show it as Luka pushed him back into his room.
"You were brilliant! I never heard anything like it. You got him so mixed up. Giorgio, you are fucking brilliant. . . ." Luka paced up and down, mimicking Giorgio's high-pitched, haughty voice. "Is your father important? Is he? When you mentioned him, I thought Louis'd shit himself."
"I just did, so you'd better call him back. He's going to be in a worse state because he didn't wash me, and if I were to tell tales to my father, they'd lose out on the monthly check. One of the reasons they are trying so hard to keep me alive is that I'm worth so much to them. Dead, the checks stop."
"God, you are so funny. No one in his right mind would pay to keep someone here! You are the best liar I have ever met. In fact, I think you're even better than me."
"The best lies, dear boy, are those with an element of truth. Now, get the wretched man back. I am very uncomfortable, not to mention stinking."
Picking up the bowl, Luka said that rather than have the old faggot back he would do it. He removed Giorgio's robe. That was the first time he saw Giorgio naked.
The wizened legs were no bigger than a three-year-old's, and the curved spine made the left shoulder humped. Helplessly Giorgio attempted to cover himself, but his head lolled and slipped from the cushions that propped him up. He wanted to weep. "Oh, Jesus, why did you do that?" Giorgio began to shake uncontrollably.
When at last the trembling stopped, Giorgio turned his head away, unable to look into Luka's eyes. "I stink, I'm sorry."
The only people who had ever seen or touched Giorgio's body were nurses and doctors, and he felt ashamed that Luka should be doing this for him.
Luka's eyes blazed with anger; Giorgio's bedsores were raw, and young as he was, he knew Giorgio had not been properly attended to. He rummaged in the medicine box and took out ointment and talcum powder.
"I'll just dab them on, and I'll be as careful as I can so it doesn't hurt. Now, can you just lean on me? That's it, lean on me while I do your ass."Giorgio could smell the institutional carbolic soap on Lu-ka's neck and see the tide line of dirt where he hadn't washed himself. He had never known such a rush of emotion. His face rested on Luka's shoulder, and before he could stop himself, he kissed his friend's neck. It was the first time in his life that he had kissed anyone. In a soft voice he whispered, "I love you, Luka."
Luka held Giorgio gently in his arms and kissed his big
, flat face: strange, fluttering, childish kisses. "I've never done this for anybody before, so I guess I love you too, you big, ugly bugger," he grinned. Then he eased a clean nightshirt over the big head and buttoned the front.
Luka wasn't laughing now in the darkness. He sobbed aloud, "You big ugly bugger, you bastard! Why did you leave me?"
Giorgio had cheated death for years but had somehow clung on, his death sentence postponed by Luka. Tragically, just as he began to appear physically stronger, his heart condition grew worse. He was barely strong enough to undergo the necessary operation, yet if it were not performed, the doctors said he would die within weeks. When told of the dilemma, Luka had screamed that there was nothing wrong with his friend's heart, and Giorgio shouted back that just as the rest of him was fucked up, so, of course, was his heart.
"What do you mean?"
"It's got a hole in it."
"Can they fix it?"
"What do you think I'm having an operation for, wind? It's all arranged, Luka, and you'll be coming with me. I won't leave you behind, Luka; my father's promised. We'll both go to Rome. It was going to be a surprise."
Luka had cupped his friend's face in his hands, planting frantic kisses of delight on his head and cheeks. But as the date drew closer for them to leave, Giorgio's condition deteriorated rapidly. The doctors were called, and they told Giorgio's father that they doubted the boy would be fit enough to travel, let alone undergo surgery.
They were two children, but one seemed so old, so wise. Giorgio knew by the expression in the doctor's eyes after his last examination that there would be no stay of execution, no operation. He said nothing to Luka, wanting to use the time he had left to prepare his friend for when he was gone. He waited for the bell to signal the end of classes, watched from his window for Luka to come running.
Luka hurtled madly toward the high garden wall, made the insane leap by the skin of his teeth, laughing at his own madness. His strength, his health, his astonishing beauty represented to the sick Giorgio the very essence of life. Giorgio's room was always in shadow, but the brilliance of the blue sky, the bright sunlight entered his cell with Luka.
BELLA MAFIA Page 19
