The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

  “I understand that Dr. Ragusa found a foreign body in his throat,” the prince said glancing at Albamonte.

  The poor priest made the sign of the cross. “May the Lord have mercy on him.”

  “As he had for his poor victims,” Licata concluded. “The marquis had many enemies. What he did to his young shepherds was truly unspeakable.”

  “In any case, peace be with him now. The marquis can no longer trouble us. It’s as if the estate were already ours.”

  “Don Antonio, your farmers can rest easy. I told them they didn’t have to worry.”

  * * *

  The marquis’s sudden death indeed meant salvation for the members of the Veterans cooperative. Ferdinando Licata, through a friend, was finally able to obtain a loan from the Bank of Sicily, which was crucial to the successful conclusion of the purchase. The 395 farmers rejoiced at hearing the news that the former Baucina estate now belonged to their cooperative; they applauded the prince and, naturally, Don Antonio, who had insisted on having him in the cooperative as honorary president. Finally, they would own the lands that they themselves would cultivate: a dream that many couldn’t even imagine. They would have kissed the ground the prince walked on, so great was their gratitude for his generosity.

  Malicious rumormongers tried to suggest that he was directly involved in the matter of the fire, but they were immediately silenced by those around them who pronounced: “U patri would never do anything that dishonored himself and his friends.”

  From then on, Prince Ferdinando Licata became u patri—father—to one and all.

  Don Antonio would never forget the favor that Licata had done for him. After the success of the Veterans cooperative, many farmers wanted to form other cooperatives under the patronage of the church and u patri, steering clear of the lure of the red leagues with their socialist and anticlerical talk.

  The prince himself derived a significant profit from managing the cooperative. For the next four years, he let the farmers cultivate the land as tenants, while waiting to become its rightful owners. In practice, they paid rent to the cooperative, which went into the pockets of the prince’s agents. These payments, rather than being counted as amortization of the loan obtained from the Bank of Sicily, to be deducted therefore at the time the individual contracts for the collective purchase were executed, were considered simply a “ terraggio” rent—just as if the owner were still the original latifondista from whom the peasants were leasing the uncultivated land.

  And when the cooperative—namely, the prince and Don Antonio—finally decided that it was time to transfer the estate to the members, it was still the two leaders who established the rules governing the division. They assigned the best lands, the most fertile ones with plenty of water, to a few friends and all the others to the rest of the members. And so it came about that Ferdinando Licata acquired about 250 acres, and assigned another 250 adjacent acres to his older sister, Lavinia Licata, and the same to Don Antonio. Another 500 acres were divided among six or seven friends, while the remaining small plots went to the more than 390 members of the cooperative.

  * * *

  Ragusa, determined to unravel the mystery of the second man who had been burned to a crisp, spent many hours in the medical center’s laboratory that night, analyzing the two cadavers.

  Ragusa had the stubborn perseverance typical of his fellow citizens. Moreover, during the Great War he had fought on the barren plateau of the Karst, near Trieste, where his protective shell had only grown thicker and more impenetrable. In Bassano del Grappa, where he had been hospitalized for a bayonet wound to his hand, he had met Annachiara; having lost both her parents, she had been an aide there for many years.

  Back in his village, Ragusa had left behind a daughter, Ester, in the care of relatives, and the grave of his wife, who had died of malaria. He never would have thought he could fall in love again in his lifetime. Until then life had held in store for him only painful trials and superhuman struggles. But upon seeing that blonde angel, the alchemy of love flooded back, stirring his head and his heart. He was charmed by her gentle, reserved manner. But only toward the end of his convalescence, a few days before being discharged from the hospital in northern Italy, did he get up the courage to reveal his feelings.

  So it was that the two promised to marry as soon as the war was over. Almost a year later, Italy signed the peace treaty with Austria at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, France, and the couple was finally joined in matrimony before facing the long journey to Salemi, where Annachiara had promised to raise Ester like her own daughter. Soon the little family was augmented by the arrival of a baby boy, a foundling, abandoned in front of the churchyard by a desperate mother. Don Albamonte convinced the Ragusas to take him in, even though the doctor was of Jewish origin. He had confidence in Annachiara, who was a God-fearing woman of faith. She had proved an incomparable wife. In just a few years, she had managed to fit in perfectly with the townsfolk, and had used her skill as an expert seamstress to help her neighbors cut and stitch clothes that looked like they came from a shop in Rome. And so Saro became part of the town doctor’s family, and a year later, a boisterous little girl, Stellina, was born, the cherished darling of her older siblings.

  * * *

  In the evening, Chief Brigadier Montalto went to the doctor’s office to hear the autopsy report. “They are two men, I have no doubt,” the doctor began.

  “The marquis was identified by his gold Breguet watch that we found molten into a solid lump,” Montalto told him.

  “Before he died of asphyxiation, he was castrated. Then the murderer stuffed the shaft of his penis into his mouth,” Dr. Ragusa said.

  “Yes, it’s a very old practice around here, to avenge a sexual offense,” the chief pointed out, adding, “We found a long knife beside the man who must be his murderer.”

  “The man must have been around five feet three inches tall,” the physician continued. “Judging from his skull, I’d say he hadn’t yet reached forty. But there’s not much else I can tell you. The corpse was in very bad shape.”

  “We may be able to identify him as well. I found a medal in the remains of his clothing,” Montalto informed him.

  “Is he known here in town?”

  “Of course. He’s a member of Vassallo’s gang,” Chief Brigadier Montalto said confidently. “This murder is going to stir up a heap of trouble. Just between us, Doctor, Bellarato was a real bastard. But he had friends in high places, and they’ve already sent word from Palermo that they’re dispatching a captain in command of a troop of Royal Guardsmen to capture whoever was behind the killing.”

  “That’s all we needed in Salemi, the Royal Guard,” the doctor sighed.

  “Difficult times lie ahead.”

  “I’m afraid so,” the doctor concluded bitterly.

  * * *

  That same week another incident occurred which caused a sensation among the population of the Salemi and Madonie regions: the disappearance of the spokesman for the socialist leagues, Nicola Geraci, who during the meeting at town hall had been disrespectful to Prince Licata.

  His wife had reported him missing after Geraci failed to return home to Petralia Sottana for three days. The carabinieri alerted all police stations and command posts in Sicily. In a flash, the news spread throughout the area. But the place where it really caused a stir was Salemi, for the entire town knew about Geraci’s altercation with Prince Licata, publicly insulting him. People whispered their doubts but didn’t dare expose them to the light of day.

  Nevertheless, everyone agreed that you couldn’t offend a figure like Prince Licata and expect to go unpunished.

  These were the topics that intrigued the elderly peasants who attended Dr. Ragusa’s evening gatherings. That evening, they dispensed with the health care lesson and let their imaginations run wild over Nicola Geraci’s disappearance. “It has all the earmarks of a lupara bianca, a white shotgun,” the doctor remarked, referring to a Mafia-style execution in which the victim’s body is
deliberately concealed.

  Pericle Terrasini, a charcoal burner who had never known anything in his life but hard work and sorrow, declared, “Geraci asked for it. You don’t offend a man of honor, like he did.”

  The doctor smiled to himself at that atavistic submission to everything that power represents. Would he ever be able to make his dear townsmen see that we are all born equal? That whoever commits a wrong, be he noble or poor, must pay a debt to society?

  It was getting late. In the country, people rose before dawn and those hours of lessons were stolen from the farmers’ sleep. The doctor accompanied his “class” to the door and said good night to his willing pupils, confirming their meeting for the following week. The men all bowed respectfully to him and his wife.

  Ragusa closed the door, satisfied.

  He did all this without pay. While he did not profess his ideas openly, they were genuinely democratic. Some labeled them “socialist” to malign him, but the fact is that the doctor was firmly convinced that only an educated people can truly be said to be free.

  Chapter 13

  – 1939 –

  Ever since Dr. Bizzarri arrived in town, Ragusa found himself in serious financial straits. Few of his patients went to see him anymore because they were afraid of Jano. The only work he was allowed to do was butchering; they would call him to the slaughterhouse, and he’d perform the dirty work. Sometimes he got a steak, other times they gave him a few liras. The most dependable economic support came from Annachiara, who had gone back to work as a dressmaker for the ladies of the town.

  Unlike the men, the women were less influenced by rules and regulations. No one bothered to check whether Annachiara was the wife of a Jew or a Christian. Her work was good, she was inexpensive, and that was enough for them. Then there were Saro’s small contributions from his job at the barbershop. After the racial laws, Ester was unable to find work and helped her father with whatever patients still came to his office.

  * * *

  That Sunday, Jano Vassallo awoke determined to torment his enemies. As usual, the first person who came to mind was Ragusa. But he had forgotten that it was Sunday and that Ragusa, accompanied by his son Saro, had gone to tend to his land, as he did every weekend. To call that piece of rocky ground “land” was a euphemism, since it was just a steep, paltry plot that had been obtained thanks to a law of February 13, 1933, granting veterans the opportunity to own parcels of uncultivated land.

  All the same, Jano and his four grim, black-shirted thugs decided to descend into the valley. They went on horseback, riding five worthless nags that they had stolen from some aristocratic families who had fallen on hard times.

  As soon as Grappa began to bark, Ragusa realized that strangers were approaching. In the onion field, Saro was the first to straighten his back and peer into the distance. Ragusa went over to him.

  “I hear hoofbeats,” Saro said. Ragusa sensed a note of anxiety in his son’s words. “It sounds like more than one,” he added.

  Grappa continued barking in the direction of the horizon until the five horsemen finally appeared on the rise. It didn’t take long for Ragusa to see that it was Jano and his henchmen, which did not bode well: Jano was brandishing a rifle, something unusual, since he typically favored his club. Now he was holding a M91 Mauser Carcano carbine.

  “It’s me they’re looking for,” he said quickly to Saro. “You leave by the pass, I’ll hide in the woods.” He tied the dog to a tree trunk so the animal wouldn’t follow him.

  “I’m not leaving you alone. We’ll face them together,” Saro cried with youthful vehemence, gripping the hoe he was using to weed the ground.

  “Saro, don’t disobey! Do as I tell you! Go on, go!”

  Saro felt a special reverence for his father. When he reached his adolescence, Ragusa and Annachiara had revealed to him that they were not his natural parents and that he had been placed in their care as an infant. Saro worshipped them because they had never let him want for anything and had always showered him with love; after they disclosed that he’d been adopted, he loved them even more for their generosity and nobility of spirit. His father, moreover, by example and through his teachings, had instilled in him a sense of justice and integrity. Saro was proud of his family and would have given his very life if anyone dared harm them. He didn’t feel right leaving his father alone. Ragusa knew how stubborn his son was and stepped closer. “Listen to me, Saro. I don’t want a confrontation with them. If you’re with me I’ll have no way of defending myself. You must do as I told you.” This time it was an order, and, pointing to the track along the mountain pass, he ordered, “That way!”

  Saro hesitated, then turned and began running toward the trail that climbed along the pass of Monte Sant’Angelo. As soon as the doctor saw that Saro was out of harm’s way, he ran and hid among the tall corn stalks in the nearby field. If he made it to the thicket of trees, he could consider himself safe. He knew every recess and hiding place in the woods. He raced in that direction, while behind him he heard the shouts of the Black Shirts getting closer and closer.

  Ragusa dashed through the entire field and finally reached the San Clemente forest. His chest wheezed with each breath; his heart was pounding wildly. He didn’t know how much longer he could continue. He found an oak tree with a large bush at its base and crawled inside to hide. He tried to slow his breathing, so they wouldn’t hear him.

  Soon enough, Jano arrived with the other four riders. The horses, worn out and foaming with sweat, whinnied as the men stopped in a clearing not far from where the doctor was hiding. Ragusa heard Jano exclaim angrily, “He’s nearby, I’m sure of it!”

  Jano made his horse trot around in a circle, as his eyes swept the woods. Then he yelled, “Peppino Ragusa! Come out, I have to talk to you!” Lowering his voice so that only his buddies could hear, he added, “I have to play you a serenade—with this.” And he waved his rifle mockingly.

  From his hiding place Ragusa heard the other militiamen laugh scornfully, and he shivered. “Peppino! Don’t be afraid!” Jano yelled again, and, following his lead, Ginetto, the youngest of the group, added under his breath, “We just want to rough you up a little.” Ragusa heard another burst of laughter and held his breath. Meanwhile, the five men had begun scouring the underbrush.

  All of a sudden, as though in a dream, the notes of a waltz drifted through the woods. Ragusa looked around and recalled that he was not very far from Ferdinando Licata’s palazzo. The prince might be his salvation. He saw his pursuers far off in the clearing. From the spot where he was hiding, the vegetation became wilder and more tangled. Centuries of neglect, first by the landowners and later the gabellotti, had caused this part of the woods to become so dense that it could only be entered on foot, whereas at one time gentlemen would ride their horses there to hunt and even drive their carriages through it.

  Ragusa crawled backward out of the bush. Then he straightened up, took a deep breath, and plunged headlong through the tangle of brambles, indifferent to the thorns and dry branches that scratched his face, arms, and chest.

  The noise of his mad sprint and the snapping of trampled bushes made the five Black Shirts spin around. One of them spotted him and alerted the others, and they immediately rushed in his direction. But Ginetto’s horse balked in front of a large bush. The young man flew into the air and landed in the middle of the brambles. The others paid no attention to him and continued their chase. Ginetto emerged from the bush in a sorry state. The thorns had torn his shirt and pants to shreds. Furious as a wounded animal, he vilely took it out on his horse, striking it on the back with his club. Then he remounted and set off after his buddies.

  Ragusa, with a good head start, kept running as fast as he could. He had now reached the edge of the woods and not far away, at the top of a hill, he saw his destination.

  Meanwhile, Jano had emerged from the dense thicket and was waiting for the other four: as a group, they were invincible. When Prospero, Quinto, Nunzio, and Ginetto caught up with
him, they resumed the chase, shouting savagely.

  Ragusa kept going, struggling along the dirt road leading to the palazzo. He was now a few dozen yards from the front door, while behind him his pursuers’ cries were coming closer.

  The door of palazzo Licata opened and two burly campieri appeared with cartridge belts slung on their shoulders and hunting rifles in their hands. Both wore the classic coppola, a flat cap that shaded their pitch-black eyes, and high, shiny leather boots over woolen pants.

  As soon as he saw them Ragusa fell at their feet and barely had the strength to say: “Help me . . .”

  The younger one gave him a hand getting up and led him inside the house.

  Meanwhile, Jano and the others rode up, raising a huge cloud of dust.

  Once the dust settled, Jano barked at the older campiere, “Don’t get mixed up in this! Hand him over to me.” Meanwhile, the younger campiere reappeared at the door.

  The older guard didn’t turn a hair, and, moving only his lips, was even more unyielding: “My friend, here you are on the lands of Prince Ferdinando Licata.”

  Jano dismounted, faced the man, spread his legs wide, and said, “I just want that miserable piece of trash, and I’ll be on my way.”

  The campiere spoke softly, his words measured: “Here there’s only one person who can say ‘I want.’ ” As he spoke those words, the younger man slowly and deliberately moved to the side, so his companion would not be in his line of fire.

  From the gruff guard’s resolute tone, the conversation appeared to be over. The four minions turned their eyes to Jano, curious to see how he would settle things. Not one of them thought of getting off his horse to lend their leader some support. Jano was thinking quickly about how to respond when the door opened again and this time the imposing figure of Ferdinando Licata appeared. “Bettino!” he said peremptorily, “can’t we even have some peace and quiet on the feast of our patron saint?” Though he reprimanded the campiere, it was clear that his words were meant for the intruders. Then he pretended he’d just noticed the new arrivals. “Have you offered our guests a glass of wine? Can’t you see how hot they are?”