His bound feet pressed harder against the floor, his fingers clawed at the chair, but he was so small, so tiny, nothing he did could stop them. No one ever came to help him; no one stopped them; there was no one but himself. The wringing, twisting motion of his body ceased, and he sighed as he listened to the rhythm of his breathing, concentrating on hearing only that sound. He could float away from the pain; he didn't feel the whippings; the lacerations crisscrossing his back hurt him only momentarily. He could be suspended in a sanctuary of his own making, a place where he was free from the darkness.
Giorgio Carolla had been the only one who had understood Luka's darkness, who knew Luka's suffering, because he himself had suffered. The two boys had needed each other, been entwined with one another. The night Giorgio died, the night he had held Luka in his arms, his gentle hands tracing the white scars across his back, the dying child had comforted his sweet, tortured friend. As his heart weakened, he had thought not of himself but of encouraging Luka to talk, to release the darkness he was so terrified of. In whispering sobs Luka had put into words the nightmare, and when at last he had slept and the nightmare returned, he had screamed himself awake, the terror as vivid as always. But then came relief because his beloved friend was beside him. Smiling, he had reached out for comfort, but Giorgio was cold. . . .
The death of Giorgio had taken from Luka the only love he had ever known, and try as he would, he could not breathe through the overpowering darkness that had descended. It
swallowed him, swamped him, and he gave way to it.
The women had unknowingly locked Luka into his past, and now he was experiencing again the pain he had hidden inside him for so long. They watched in sickened fascination as Luka's body relaxed, momentarily, as he gasped for breath. Then the chair banged, his body twisted, and a blubbering, infantile voice shrieked ceaselessly as his head rolled from side to side, the mouth hanging open. ... If he was speaking, the words were unintelligible.
Graziella was unable to stand another moment; her body strained as if to go to him, comfort him. Sophia gripped her hand tightly. Rosa covered her face, whispering, "Oh, God, stop him! What's the matter with him?"
He couldn't hear her. The straps binding his arms and legs were the ropes they had used to tie him down. . . . He was hearing the chanting, the susurration of feet in leather-soled sandals, smelling the incense. ... He whimpered and in a small, plaintive voice began to speak, the words clearer but half formed.
"It hurt me . . . hurt me. . . . No, no, please, no. . . . Please . . . please . . . please ..."
On and on the voice whispered, pleading, as Luka became still, his head bowed. Suddenly Teresa leaned across the table and took the key, got up, and unlocked the door. Rosa followed her and, after a moment, Sophia. Only Graziella remained in the dining room, still sitting opposite Luka.
In the living room Sophia poured brandies, handing a glass to Teresa. "This all could be an act."
"What if it isn't? We don't know."
Sophia snapped, "We know he's lied to us; we know everything that Pirelli told me. We know he is a killer; we knew that back at the villa. And we protected him, so don't look at me as if I have done something wrong now. The only crime I want to know about, care about, is the murder of my children, my husband, because whoever killed them didn't just end their lives; they took mine, too. They took everything that made me a person; they took everything that made my life worth living, everything I had—"
Teresa interrupted, shouting, "We all lost, Sophia! We all want to know; we all want justice! But not this way ..."
They heard Graziella's voice, talking so softly they could not decipher her words, but she was talking to Luka. Sophia went back to the dining room but paused in the doorway, her hand raised in warning to the others. They moved silently to look over her shoulder.
Graziella was sitting next to Luka, holding his hand. She stroked it, patted it. One by one the younger women crept farther into the room.
Graziella spoke so quietly that they had to strain to hear her. She was asking his name, over and over, asking him who he was.
"It's all right, you can tell me. No one is going to hurt you. Tell me, you can tell me."
The child's voice answered, "My name is Luka, but you must not tell him; he mustn't know I've told you."
"Who mustn't I tell? Who mustn't know who you are?" Graziella looked to Sophia, warning her to remain silent.
Luka tensed, his blindfolded head jerked, and he cowered back again. Graziella asked him over and over who he was afraid of, and now she was stroking his head, standing close to him, bending down to hear as he whispered his own name, weeping.
"Luka, Luka . . ."
Graziella gave a small look to Sophia, not understanding. He had said he was afraid of Luka, yet he also said he was Luka.
"Are there two Lukas?" Graziella asked gently.
"Yes," he whispered, "there are two of us."
He began to relate a long, rambling story about stealing a chicken leg, nothing that made sense to the waiting women. The tension of watching him was exhausting. The sweat glistened on Graziella's face, her body was stiff from standing in such an awkward position, and her hand ached from his unrelenting grasp; but she did not leave his side.
"Was Luka a bad boy when he was older?"
"Yes."
Not one of them dared move as the strange, high-pitched voice described how Lenny Cavataio, the man Roberto Luciano had replaced as a witness, had died. Graziella patted Luka's hand, interrupting his description of knifing Cavataio.
"Was Luka given orders? Did someone tell him to do these bad things?"
Eerily the voice suddenly deepend in tone. He spoke rapidly, "He is a professional, do you understand? No one can catch him, no one knows who he is. . . . Riding a bicycle, little boy on a bicycle. He felt no pain, no hurt. The innocent must feel no pain, must be done quickly."
Sophia sat back in her chair and closed her eyes as Luka continued to describe how the child had been offered an icecream cone, a raspberry-flavored ice-cream— She knew he was talking about the Paluso child, could remember the photographs of him lying in the gutter beside his bicycle.
Facing them all was the man Pirelli had tried to trace for so long, the dangerous psychopath, the mass murderer, the cold, calculating killer. Yet here was a pitiful, cowering boy, talking in the high-pitched voice of a child no older than her elder son had been. She could not even contemplate revenge; justice was a meaningless word.
The women had no anger left, felt no satisfaction in having the insane being before them trapped like an animal. Their faces registered their feelings. As Sophia glanced covertly at them, she could feel their wretchedness.
The click of her gold cigarette lighter broke the silence. She inhaled deeply and let the smoke drift from her mouth. They all could smell the heavy Turkish tobacco, and like a dog, Luka lifted his head, sniffing. . . . His body stiffened.
Sophia spoke loudly, "So now we know you killed the Paluso child, do you hear me, Luka?"
Luka's grip on Graziella's hand tightened, hurting her; she had to wrench herself away. She looked angrily at Sophia. "Why did you say that?"
"Maybe, Mama, we need to speak to his other self, tell the child Luka to go to hell. He's acting; he's playing with us."
Graziella eased herself away from him and turned to look at the scattered photographs on the table. She reached out and drew them into her arms. She didn't want to hear anymore, did not think she could bear anymore. Slowly, holding the photographs to her chest, she moved toward the door. Teresa, seeing her sway slightly, got up to assist her from the room.
Rosa pushed back her chair and followed the others. Sophia remained sitting, smoking, each breath labored. Then she drew the ashtray close and stubbed out the cigarette. She studied her perfectly manicured nails resting on the edge of the table and wanted to gouge the shining surface in which her own face was mirrored.
Luka's head lifted, and he turned sideways, listening intently
. "Sophia? Sophia?"
She waited, but he said no more. Eventually she replied in a whisper, "You murdered my sons. They were innocents. Why? Why did you kill my babies, Luka?"
His head twisted, and his hands curled, making wringing motions as if he were trying to free himself. He remembered them, lying together, that was how he had first seen them from outside the window. His orders had been to radio in to the men waiting when the Lucianos left the villa, no more, no less, but the picture of the two children innocently sleeping with their arms entwined had stopped his heart. To him they were not Carlo and Nuncio Luciano; they were Luka and Giorgio. Hidden by the darkness, drawn to the soft, glowing light from the children's room, Luka had watched, then like a thief in the night had crept into the room. His gun was heavy, unwieldy, and he had winced as he attached the silencer, sure the scraping of metal on metal would wake the boys. Perhaps if they had woken, the murder would never have happened, but their steady breathing continued and assured him that what he was doing had to be done.
Even when he slid a pillow from the bed, the brothers did not wake. Neither made a sound as he covered their faces with it. Pressing the gun into the pillow, he had fired quickly, once, twice.
When at last he lifted the pillow, the gaping wounds in their heads upset him, so with great care, he had turned the children to face each other, their wounds hidden from view. He was still not content until he had laid Nunzio's arm across his brother's heart. These two boys would always be together.
Luka had stood there awhile, unable to leave them, because that was the way it should have been for Luka and Giorgio.
"Who gave the order, Luka? Who told you to murder my children?"
He made a guttural sound. She moved beside the table until she was close enough to smell his sweat. He cowered in the chair.
"You will die without a prayer unless you answer me.
Your soul will remain in hell, burn there. . . ."
He murmured something unintelligible through the wet scarf. After a while Sophia gave up and walked out. Luka listened for the door to close, but all he heard was her footsteps. Was he alone? Beneath the scarf his lips stretched into a smile. . . .
Rosa, sitting on the stairs, saw Sophia walk from the room and pause beneath the chandelier in the hall. For a moment Sophia tilted her head back, closing her eyes, and she was so still, so unnaturally still, that Rosa could say nothing. She watched as Sophia crossed the hall to the coatrack, threw a coat around her shoulders, and went out, closing the door quietly. The cold draft made Rosa shiver.
Suddenly Rosa was afraid. What had her aunt done? She crept toward the open doorway and switched on the lights.
He was still sitting there, still trying to free himself. Rosa felt drawn into the room.
"Johnny? It's Rosa. Are you all right now?"
She needed to know for herself: Had he been involved in Emilio's death? So far nothing she had heard made sense, and Sophia seemed to care only about her children.
She untied the damp blindfold and Luka blinked, trying to adjust to the light. She stared into his face, then gasped and stepped back, almost falling. He was smiling, an angelic smile, but his eyes were crazy.
His voice was wheedling, plaintive. "Help me, Rosa. Untie me, please . . ." Then softly, as if he were making love to her: "Rosa, Rosa . . ."
She straightened, and for a moment he had a faint hope. Her pretty young face was confused, and he tried smiling to encourage her forward. But his eyes betrayed him, made her fear him, and she closed the door behind her.
Rosa hurried across the hall to the living room. He called her name again, just once. "Rosa!" Then he was silent.
Rosa sat with her mother. "I went in to see him. Did you hear him calling my name?"
"Yes, yes, I heard." All Teresa could do was hold her daughter's hand.
Sophia joined them, closing the door purposefully, and
looked toward Graziella's chair by the fire. "Where's Mama?"
"She wanted to be alone; she's in her room."
Sophia nodded, then drew the curtain back from the window, rested her head against the ice-cold pane and stood there with her back to them.
After a long silence she said softly, "We can bury his body in the garden. I've marked out a place, beneath a tree, where the ground is not so hard. There are spades in the garage. We must be careful to remove the top layer, the grass, and replace it after—" She turned to face them. "Do you understand what I am saying?"
Teresa was shaking, and her voice wavered. "Are you going to— Who's going to do it?"
The curtain swished back into place. The way Sophia patted the fabric back into its folds was unnerving. "I am. All you have to do is help me when it's over. I don't want Graziella downstairs, but I will tell her we have decided."
Teresa smoothed her skirt, a strange, futile gesture, and Rosa put her arm around her mother's shoulder. "It's all right, Mama, but we'd better change; it's cold outside." She gave Sophia an almost defiant look before leaving the room.
Sophia smiled sadly. "Rosa is a Luciano, Teresa."
"I hope to God you know what you're doing, Sophia."
Sophia's voice was icy. "It is what all of us are doing, Teresa. Because we are all that's left."
Teresa and Rosa headed across the lawn to the area Sophia had marked out for the grave. Their footprints were clear in the snow. They began to dig, working hard, in unison. They did not speak as they laid the frozen turf carefully to one side and dug into the hard dark soil.
Sophia had changed into a cotton nightgown, having brought few clothes with her. She had decided that whatever she wore would have to be burned. She was barefoot and moved silently around the house, hoping Graziella would not hear her. She collected an armful of towels and took a sheet from one of the beds.
As she crossed the landing, Graziella opened her bedroom door. She looked at Sophia, at the white gown and the towels, and walked back into her room, knowing Sophia would follow.
"Are you all right, Mama? Can I get you something to help you sleep?"
Graziella shook her head. "So you have decided. I knew it would be you. I am sorry. You must be very sure, Sophia. Did he talk to you?"
"No, Mama, I think he is in a world of his own—maybe hell, who knows? He certainly put us there."
"Don't say that. . . ." The pale blue eyes searched the dark, hooded ones; then she reached for her daughter-in-law's hand. She held it tightly and lifted it to her lips, kissed the soft skin. "Stop his heart for him. The boy is so sick. I saw some poison on the top shelf of one of the kitchen cupboards. . . . Do you need me?"
"No, Mama."
"I'll pray for you, for us all."
"Yes, Mama."
Sophia went down the stairs and listened at the door. She went into the living room and felt between the cushions, brought out the knife. She could not hesitate, could not think about what she was doing. She opened the dining-room doors.
Luka sat with his head resting back on the chair. His eyes were closed, but the fact that his blindfold had been removed unnerved Sophia. She had not wanted to see his face.
Soundlessly she moved across the room. She let the sheet drop to the floor and placed the towels around the legs of the chair. The third button of his shirt was where she would knife him, but the strap Rosa had tied around his shoulders had worked down and was covering his heart.
She put the knife on the table and began to unbuckle the belt. She had to take it off, leave his chest bare.
Suddenly he turned, opened his eyes. "Sophia? I knew you would help me. I knew you would be the one." There was no trace of the child in his voice. He was Luka. She pulled the belt away, found it wet with his sweat. She went back to the table and picked up the knife.
He smiled, convinced she was going to cut through his straps. The knife was poised, held in both her hands. The tiny gold heart on the thin gold chain was like a glowing target. She gasped, and her eyes widened. . . . Then she blinked and stepped back. Luka tilted his head
to one side. Confused, he watched her put the knife down on the table. She turned to face him, staring at him with almost his own confused expression. She came closer, closer, lifted her right hand. . . . She was trembling so much her fingers quivered; she was looking not at him but at the gold locket around his neck.
Suddenly she snatched at the heart. He pulled back, and she jerked the chain harder, harder, until it snapped. She held it for a moment in her clenched hand as if afraid to open her fingers. Then she moved away from him into the shadow of the room. Her thumb rubbed at the heart, but her eyes did not leave his face. She could feel the telltale teeth marks and knew without looking that it was her heart, it was Michael's heart, it was her baby's heart.
"Where did you get this? Where did you get this?"
With the heart still clenched in her fist she hit him directly in the face. The chain cut his lip.
"It's mine," he said.
"No, no, you stole it, you stole it." She turned, shocked, as the door was rapped sharply. Teresa's frightened whisper asked if she was all right.
"Leave me alone, don't come in. ..."
Her breath rasped. She felt as if someone were strangling her. She pressed her face against the heavy wooden doors until she heard the footsteps going away across the marble hall. With her back to Luka, her face hidden, she uncurled her hand, then clenched it tightly again.
To Luka it seemed an age before she turned to face him again. He watched, now afraid, as she slowly circled the table. When she was at the opposite end, he saw her open her hand and look again at the heart.
Sophia could hear Graziella saying how much Johnny reminded her of Michael. Could this insane boy be her son? Michael's son?
BELLA MAFIA Page 54
