by Ed Falco
“No, I don’t,” Caitlin said, pleading, and then the tears she’d been struggling to hold back came cascading down her cheeks in a great wash of sobbing and trembling. She buried her face in her arms, beside herself in her agony.
Eileen watched Caitlin crying and felt a curious lack of sympathy. She knew she should go to her and comfort her. Instead, she left her crying at the table and went to her bedroom, where she fell back onto her unmade bed with her arms spread out and her eyes on the blank ceiling. It was hotter in the bedroom than it was in the kitchen, but at least Caitlin’s crying was muted by the walls. She lay there like that a long while, in a kind of daze, her eyes wandering from the ceiling to the walls, to her dresser, where Bobby’s picture was propped up next to Jimmy’s, the two of them there where she could see them every night before going to sleep and every morning upon waking.
Eventually Caitlin wandered into the bedroom, no longer crying, with Boo dangling from her hand. She climbed up beside Eileen and lay there forlornly.
Eileen stroked her daughter’s hair and kissed her gently on the crown of her head. Caitlin snuggled close to her and threw an arm over her belly. The two of them lay there like that in the summer heat, drowsy on Eileen’s unmade bed, in the quiet of their apartment.
In the center of the courtyard, surrounded by the magnificent stone walls of the compound, twenty or so men and women, neighbors and friends, linked arms and made a circle as they danced and kicked their feet to Johnny Fontane singing “Luna Mezzo Mare” on a wooden stage, accompanied by Nino Valenti playing the mandolin and a small orchestra of musicians in white tuxedos. Vito watched the crowd from a platform set up on a small rise at the edge of the courtyard, close to the compound wall. It covered a bare spot in the ground where he had tried to grow fig trees and failed, and where he planned to start a garden in the spring. He had wandered there from the bride’s table, close to the stage, to get away from the loud music and for the view of the party the platform afforded, and because he wanted to be alone for a minute with his thoughts—but Tessio and Genco had found him almost immediately and started up again with their chatter. Now they were clapping their hands and tapping their feet to the music with big smiles on their faces, even Tessio. The platform was there to hold the rental chairs and various other wedding equipment. Vito found a chair leaning against the wall and sat down to watch the partiers.
It was hot, over ninety, and everybody was sweating, including Vito. He opened the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. All of his business associates were at the party, everyone of any importance. They were seated throughout the courtyard among his family, friends, and neighbors. Most had left their assigned seating hours ago, and now the Barzinis, Emilio and Ettore, were at a table with the Rosato brothers and their women. Close to them, a couple of Tessio’s men, Eddie Veltri and Ken Cuisimano, were seated with Tomasino Cinquemani and JoJo DiGiorgio, one of Luca’s boys. Even the New Jersey guys were here, lumbering Mike DiMeo and his wife and children. Everybody was laughing and clapping hands to the music, engaged in talk with each other or else shouting encouragement to others. Among the dancers in the circle, Ottilio Cuneo linked arms with his daughter on one side and his wife on the other. Phillip Tattaglia and Anthony Stracci stood just outside the circle with their wives beside them and a couple of children lingering at their sides shyly. This was the wedding of his oldest son, and Vito was pleased that no one had missed it and even more pleased that the gifts and blessings and congratulations were heartfelt. Everyone was making money now. Everyone was in the mood to celebrate.
When the song ended to waves of applause and shouting, Genco joined Vito and the others on the platform, a wooden bowl of oranges in his hand.
“Eh!” Clemenza yelled. He pulled a moist handkerchief from his rumpled jacket and mopped his forehead. “What’s with all the oranges? Everywhere I look, there’s bowls of oranges.”
“Ask Sal,” Genco said, and he handed Tessio the bowl. “He showed up this morning with crates of ’em.”
Tessio took an orange from the bowl and ignored Clemenza’s question as he held it in the palm of his hand, testing the weight and feel of it.
Genco put his arm around Vito’s shoulder and said, “Beautiful, Vito. Wonderful,” complimenting him on the wedding.
Vito said, “Thank you, my friend,” and Genco whispered in his ear, “Somebody else we know is getting married soon.”
“Who’s that?” Vito asked.
Genco moved Vito back a little from Clemenza and Tessio so he could talk without being overheard. “This morning,” he said, “we got word about Luigi Battaglia.”
“Who?”
“Hooks. Luca’s guy who turned him in to the cops and ran off with his money.”
“Ah,” Vito said. “And?”
“Turns out he opened a restaurant in West Virginia someplace, middle of nowhere. He’s getting married to some hillbilly girl from down there.” Genco made a face at the craziness of such a thing. “That’s how we found him. His name turned up in a wedding announcement. The imbecille used his real name.”
“Does Luca know?” Vito asked.
“No,” Genco said.
“Good. Make sure it stays that way. Luca doesn’t need to know about this.”
“Vito,” Genco said. “He took a lot of Luca’s money.”
Vito raised a finger to Genco and said, “Luca is not to know. Never. Not a thing.”
Before Genco could say anything more, Ursula Gatto stepped up onto the platform, her ten-year-old son Paulie in hand, followed by Frankie Pentangeli. While Frankie embraced Tessio and Clemenza, Ursula brought her son to Vito. The boy stood in front of him and repeated the words his mother had clearly made him rehearse. “Thank you, Mr. Corleone, sir, for inviting me to the wedding of Santino and Sandra.”
“You are most welcome,” Vito said. He ruffled the boy’s hair and opened his arms to Ursula, who fell into his embrace, her eyes already brimming over with tears. Vito patted her on the back and kissed her forehead. “You’re part of our family,” he said, and wiped away her tears. “La nostra famiglia!” he repeated.
“Sì,” Ursula said. “Grazie.” She tried to say something more but couldn’t speak without crying. She took Paulie by the hand, kissed Vito again on the cheek, and turned to leave just as Tom Hagen was approaching.
Across the courtyard, directly opposite from them, Luca Brasi ambled up to the stone wall and turned to look out over the gathering. His gaze was vacant, but he might have been looking directly at Vito. Genco noticed him and said, “Have you talked to Luca recently, Vito? He gets dumber every day.”
“He doesn’t have to be smart,” Vito said.
Tom Hagen stepped up and embraced Vito. He was followed by Tessio, Clemenza, and Frankie Pentangeli, all of whom suddenly wanted to join the conversation. Tom had caught Genco’s last remark about Luca. “He’s wandering around like a zombie,” he said to Genco. “Nobody’s talking to him.”
“He smells bad!” Clemenza shouted. “He stinks to high heaven! He should take a bath!”
When they all looked to Vito, waiting for his response, he shrugged and said, “Who’s going to tell him?”
The men considered this for a moment before they broke into laughter. “Who’s going to tell him,” Tessio said, repeating the joke, and then went about peeling his orange.
Carmella knelt at the hem of Sandra’s gown with a needle and thread held delicately between her lips. One line among the numerous lines of beads that decorated Sandra’s white satin gown had come loose and Carmella had just finished sewing it in place. She straightened out the dress and looked up at her new daughter’s beautiful face surrounded by the headpiece’s tulle and lace. “Bella!” she said, and then turned to Santino, who was waiting nearby with his hands in his pockets, watching a half dozen women get Sandra ready for the wedding photographs. Connie and her friend Lucy sat on the floor next to Sandra, playing with the ring bearer’s pillow from the wedding. The women had taken over Vito
’s new study. Trays of cosmetics and lotions covered Vito’s walnut desk, and gift boxes were spread around on the plush carpeting. Dolce sat atop one of the boxes and batted at a bright-yellow bow.
“Sonny!” Carmella said. “Go get your father!”
“For what?” Sonny asked.
“For what?” Carmella repeated, sounding, as usual, angry when she wasn’t. “For the photographs,” she said. “That’s for what!”
“Madon’!” Sonny said, as if ruefully accepting the burden of going out to find his father.
For weeks now Sonny had been dutifully following all the rituals of his marriage ceremony, from the meetings with the priest and the wedding banns to the rehearsals and the dinners and everything else, till he was ready now for it all to be over. Between the study and the front door of his father’s house, he was stopped three times to accept congratulations from people he barely knew, and when he finally made it out the door and found that he was alone, he waited and took a deep breath and enjoyed a few seconds of not talking. From where he was standing, under a portico at the entrance to the house, he had a good view of the stage. Johnny was singing a ballad that had everyone’s attention, and guests were dancing in the cleared space between rows of tables and the stage. “Cazzo,” he said aloud at the sight of Councilman Fischer talking in a circle with Hubbell and Mitzner, a couple of his father’s big-shot lawyers, and Al Hats and Jimmy Mancini, two of Clemenza’s men. They were chatting and laughing like a bunch of lifelong friends.
To one side of the courtyard, near the boundary wall, close to Sonny’s new house, where he would live with Sandra when they got back from their honeymoon, he spotted his father standing on an equipment platform, his hands folded in front of him as he looked out over the crowd. He had a look about him of great seriousness. Across from the platform, on the other side of the courtyard, Luca Brasi squinted and gazed out over the wedding guests as if looking for something or someone he’d lost. While Sonny watched, they lifted the oranges to their mouths at the same moment. Vito bit off a slice and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, while Luca bit into his orange, peel and all, and seemed unaware of the juice dripping from his cheeks and his chin. Michael jumped onto the platform with Vito, running from Fredo, who was close behind and waving a stick of some kind. When Michael slammed into his father, nearly knocking him down, Sonny laughed at the sight of it. Vito took the stick away from Fredo and playfully whapped him across the can, and again Sonny laughed, as did Frankie Pentangeli and Tessio, who were standing on either side of Vito, and little Paulie Gatto, who had been chasing after Fredo and Michael and leapt up onto the platform after them.
Sonny watched the festivities undisturbed for a time, and it occurred to him, watching the councilman and the lawyers and the judges, the cops and detectives mingling with the heads of the families and all their men—it occurred to him that his family was the strongest of them all and nothing was going to stop them, not now. They had it all, they had everything, and nothing was in their way—nothing was in his way, since he was the oldest son and thus heir to the kingdom. Everything, he thought, and though he couldn’t have said what everything meant, he felt it, he felt it down to his bones, like a surge of heat. It made him want to lean back and roar. When Clemenza waved for Sonny to join him on the platform, Sonny opened his arms as if embracing Clemenza and every other guest at the wedding—and he stepped out into the courtyard to join his family.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Neil Olson for providing me the opportunity to write this novel. Mario Puzo’s characters and themes turned more compelling and engaging the more deeply I explored them. Thanks to Tony Puzo, the Puzo family, and Jon Karp for approving Neil’s choice, and thanks most of all to Mario Puzo himself, whom I sincerely hope would have approved of The Family Corleone. The Godfather saga had already moved into the realm of American mythology during Mario’s lifetime. I’m honored to have had this chance to work with such rich material.
Thanks also to Mitch Hoffman for his insightful editing, his encouragement, and his reliable good humor; and to Jamie Raab, Jennifer Romanello, Lindsey Rose, Leah Tracosas, and all the talented professionals at Grand Central. A special note of thanks to Clorinda Gibson, who reviewed my use of Italian and thus had to work with all those words she wasn’t allowed to say growing up in a good Italian family.
As always, I’m deeply grateful to my friends and family, and to the many writers and artists I’ve had the good luck to meet and work with over the years. Thanks to you all.
ALSO BY ED FALCO
Novels
Saint John of the Five Boroughs
Wolf Point
Winter in Florida
Stories
Burning Man
Sabbath Night in the Church of the Piranha
Acid
Plato at Scratch Daniel’s
Short Fiction
In the Park of Culture
New Media
Chemical Landscapes, Digital Tales
Circa 1967–1968
Self-Portrait as Child w/Father
Charmin’ Cleary
A Dream with Demons
Sea Island
Plays
The Center
Possum Dreams
The Pact
Radon
Sabbath Night in the Church of the Piranha
ALSO BY MARIO PUZO
The Dark Arena
The Fortunate Pilgrim
The Godfather
Fools Die
The Sicilian
The Fourth K
The Last Don
Omerta
The Family
GLOSSARY OF ITALIAN EXCLAMATIONS, CURSES, WORDS, AND PHRASES USED IN THE FAMILY CORLEONE
agita (AH jita)—indigestion; southern dialect pronunciation of aciditá
andate (ahn DAHT ay)—go
andiamo (ahn dee AM oh)—let’s go
animale (ahn ee MAL eh)—animal
aspett’ (AHS pet)—wait
attendere (ah TEN dar eh)—wait
avanti (A VAHN tee)—go ahead
bambino (BAM bean oh)—baby
basta (BAH sta)—enough
bastardo / bastardi (bahs TAR doh / bahs TAR dee)—bastard / bastards
bella (BEL lah)—beautiful
bestia (BEST ee ah)—beast
braciole, braciol’ (brah JOL)—thin slices of beef filled with grated cheese, parsley, and bacon that are rolled, tied, pan-fried, and cooked in tomato sauce
buffóne (bu PHONE eh)—buffoon
cafon’ (CAH vone)—a jerk; “a rude person”
cannoli (cah NOHL ee)—Italian pastry filled with sweetened ricotta cheese
capicol’ (CAH ba gool)—a cold-cut meat; a cross between salami and ham
capisce, capisc’ (cop EESH)—understand?
capo / caporegime (CAP oh reg eem)—a high-ranking made member of a crime family, with his own soldiers under him
capozzell’ / capozzell’ d’angell’ (CAH poh zell d’an GEL)—a lamb’s head cleaved in half
cazzo (KAHTZ soh)—exclamatory obscenity, literally “penis” or “dick”
cent’anni (CHENT ahnee)—a traditional toast: “may you live a hundred years”
cetriol’ (JIH druhl)—literally “cucumber”; used to describe or call someone a “dope” or “stupid”
che cazzo (cay KAHTZ soh)—exclamatory obscenity, literally “what dick”; the Italian equivalent of “what the fuck?”
che minchia (cay meenkyah)—roughly the same as che cazzo, southern dialect
ciuccio / ciucc’ (CHOO ch)—literally “donkey” or “ass,” used to describe or call someone a stupid person
consiglieri (cohn seel YEAR ree)—counselor
demone (deh MOHN eh)—demon
diavolo (dee AH voloh)—devil
disgrazia (dees GRAZ ee ah)—disgrace
esattament’ (ez AHTA ment)—yes; exactly
finocchio / finocch’ (fin NOKE yo / fin NOKE)—literally “fennel
”; derogatory slang for a homosexual male
giamoke (JAH moke) / giamope (JAH mope)—southern dialect for a “sucker” or “loser”
grazie (GRATZ ee ah)—thanks
grazie mille (GRATZ ee ah MEEL eh)—thanks very much
guerra (GWHERE ah)—war
idiota (eed ee OH ta)—idiot
il mio diavolo (eel meeoh dee AH voloh)—my devil
infamitá (IN fam ee TAH)—infamy
imbecille (EEM beh CHEE leh)—imbecile
infezione (een FETZ ee own ee)—infection
la nostra famiglia (la nohstrah fa MEEL ya)—our family
lupara (LOOP ara)—shotgun
Madon’ (mah DOHN)—Madonna; Mother
Madonna mia (mah DOHN na MEE ah)—literally “my Madonna”; used as an exclamation
Madre ’Dio (MAH dreh DEE oh)—Mother of God
mammalucc’ (mama LUKE)—a friendly way of saying “stupid,” often followed by a gentle slap
mannaggia / mannagg’ (mahn NAH juh / mahn NAHJ)—southern dialect exclamation; the Italian equivalent of “damn”
mannaggia la miseria (mahn NAH juh la mee ZER eeah)—my horrible luck
mezzofinocch’ (MEHT zo fin ook)—half-homosexual; sissy
mi’ amico (MEE ah MEE coh)—my friend
mi dispiace (MEE disp YAH chay)—I’m sorry
mi dispiace davvero (MEE disp YAH chay dah vairoh)—I’m truly sorry
minchia (MEEN kee ah)—exclamatory obscenity, literally “dick”
mi vergogno (mee ver GOHN yo)—I’m ashamed
mortadell’ (mort ah DELL)—literally, a type of lunch meat; used to refer to someone as a “loser”
mostro (MOH stroh)—monster
non forzare (non FORT zahr eh)—don’t force
non piú (NON PEW)—no more
non so perché (nohn so per CEH)—I don’t know why
paisan’ (PIE zahn)—a fellow countryman
