The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

  About a hundred yards away, hidden in a pigpen, Gaetano Vassallo, accompanied by Cesare, a young member of his band, had his binoculars trained on the gate to Losurdo’s farm.

  As soon as the fire had been reported to him, he had immediately wanted to go see for himself. He’d watched the arrival of Prince Licata, that of the chief brigadier of the carabinieri, and, finally, that of Costa with his Black Shirts. Now he saw Losurdo leaving the farm with irons on his wrists, escorted by two recruits and followed by the brigadier.

  “They’ve arrested Losurdo,” he whispered to the young man. “I don’t understand what Losurdo has to do with the storehouse burning down.”

  Only later would Vassallo learn from the usual informers that Losurdo had been arrested because the weapons used in the massacre of his family had been found on his farm.

  Chapter 25

  – 1939 –

  Leaving the mayor’s office, Marshal Montalto was pessimistic about Italy’s future. He saw a nation in the hands of corrupt reprobates, where economic interests were the only ones that counted, while the principles for which he had always fought—justice, fair play, meritocracy, work as a mark of man’s dignity—were now at the mercy of individuals who did not respect the most elementary rules of civil society. He had made a promise to the wives of Dr. Ragusa and Rosario Losurdo, but he had not been able to keep that promise.

  His uniform was no longer worth anything. How could he appear before the citizens and enforce the law, if he couldn’t make the basic rules prescribed by lawful authority be accepted?

  On his way out, he met Saro. The young man was coming from the basement of the town hall, where he had asked to see his father. To no avail, however, since the Black Shirts had insolently chased him off, telling him to make a written request to the mayor.

  “I’m sorry, Saro. I’m truly mortified,” the marshal told him. “But the combat league will not hand over your father and Losurdo to me. They themselves will transport them to Marsala, the day after tomorrow. The hope is that the trial will begin very soon.”

  “U patri left, otherwise he would have been able to do something,” Saro said regretfully.

  “With these people, not even u patri could do anything. They don’t listen to anyone. They’ve lost touch with reality. They have their own principles. Either you follow them, or you’re out.”

  The marshal’s words were a chill wind for Saro. Throughout his life, following his father’s principles, he had always tried to respect the rules, never deviating from the law—something which not many people in Sicily did, often preferring to take justice into their own hands. Unfortunately, most of the time the state was negligent, and laws in fact were made by the noble class, namely, the landowners and their guardians, the gabellotti and campieri. The music had changed somewhat since the fascists had taken over the government, but in the long run though the musicians were different, the melody was still the same.

  That night Saro fell into the darkest despair.

  In his heart he felt a fierce desire to be in charge and make things go the way he wanted and not how the Costas or the Janos of this world wanted them to be.

  Then the image of Mena took shape in his thoughts. Beautiful Mena, with her emerald eyes, raven black hair, and a young, perfect body whose soft skin radiated a perceptible passion through every pore. What could he do for her? How could he help his father and Losurdo at that very difficult time in their lives?

  These were the thoughts that kept him awake all night.

  The images of Mena were warm and tender, but they came to him with a tone of reproach. Saro continued pacing around the room. Then he seemed to come to a resolution. It was a decision that would change his life irrevocably.

  Before acting on it, though, he had to see Mena. It might well be their last meeting, but he wanted her to know how great his love for her was.

  It was the middle of the night, and Salemi’s streets were deserted. Saro hurried through them almost on tiptoe, not wanting to risk being seen by anyone. He headed toward the town’s western gate and the path leading to Borgo Tafèle, a cluster of dwellings where Rosario Losurdo’s farm was located. As soon as he was out of Salemi and on the dirt track, he began running, his course made easy by the fact that the trail was downhill. When he came in sight of the village, dogs from the various farms began barking as he went past, but nobody paid any attention. Finally, he reached the farmhouse. He knew exactly which window was Mena’s bedroom.

  Rosario Losurdo’s arrest had thrown his family’s lives into confusion. Rosita had tried to take the situation in hand, replacing her husband in everything: assigning work and dealing with everyday problems, big and small. Michele had quit guarding Prince Paolo Moncada’s Dell’Orbo estate in order to stay close to his mother and help her at this difficult time.

  His brother, Donato, continued his work as a campiere instead. Mena and Nennella took care of the housework.

  Despite being exhausted by the time evening came, Mena was no longer able to sleep soundly. She woke up continually; every noise made her anxious, and she worried that someone would come and arrest her brothers as well.

  All night long, she tossed and turned in bed, envious of Nennella, who shared the same room but didn’t question things very deeply. The maid slept the sleep of the just, and a faint whistling came from her nose, like babies when they have a slight cold.

  During the hours when she was not quite asleep, Mena also fantasized about Saro. She liked Dr. Ragusa’s son very much. His behavior was always polite, not like certain ill-mannered louts in town who acted like they were from the mountains. She had replayed the scene at the well a thousand times in her mind, with a thousand nuances but only one ending: an intense, passionate kiss with her back pressed against the trunk of the fig tree, his legs thrusting between her thighs so that her groin could feel his.

  But as soon as her imagination exceeded the bounds, she tried to dispel the image. She didn’t want to have to confess those impure thoughts to Don Mario. But the nights were long, and sooner or later, just as she was falling asleep, when her focus was less alert, she pictured herself lying under the shade of the tree with Saro, who would kiss her and touch her breast and then—

  Her eyes flew open. She’d heard a strange sound, a faint melancholy call, hoop-hoop-hoop, like that of a hoopoe bird. A hoopoe, at that hour of night? The sound was very close. Then a small pebble struck the windowpane. Mena got up and went over to it.

  She recognized Saro and felt a quiver in her belly.

  The young man motioned for her to come down. She nodded, took a large shawl from the chair, and joined him in the courtyard, praying that no one would wake up.

  Saro was waiting for her outside the door, unconcerned with the possibility of being seen by anyone. Mena stepped out and, not saying a word for fear of waking her mother, let him know that he was crazy to be there at that hour. Saro was about to answer her, but she gently placed her hand over his mouth to keep him from talking. Then she took his hand and led him to the storage shed, which was a distance from her house and that of Manfredi.

  When they got there, Mena finally said, “Are you crazy coming here at this hour of night? Do you want the campieri to shoot you?”

  Saro’s only response was to embrace her, burying his face in her long hair. Mena closed her eyes and touched her cheek to Saro’s. She breathed deeply to impress his scent upon her memory. Finally, he broke away and kissed her on the mouth. She melted completely. At first his tongue played over her tightly shut lips, and then tried to make its way into her mouth. Mena was still a little resistant, but then her lips slowly parted, and Saro was finally able to slide his tongue between her perfect little teeth. When their tongues met, there was a burst of passion: they interlocked, sought each other, fused, and broke apart to reconnect once again. The two young people’s excitement was at a fever pitch. Saro left the warm, moist haven of her mouth and moved down to her breasts, releasing them from her nightgown. His fingers squeezed the
unripe little buds, and his tongue gently licked her nipples, which sprouted up like two plump shoots. Saro was insatiable, and Mena began to tremble with pleasure, completely carried away. She felt his engorged penis against her stomach. Instinctively she touched it, and then grasped it firmly through his pants. She pushed her hand down and then up. His member was swollen. Mena slipped her hand into his trousers and was finally able to feel it in all its fullness.

  Saro’s tongue had reached the soft skin of her abdomen and continued moving farther down. Mena stopped him, however, and pressed his face against her belly. Saro continued to lick the silky skin below her belly button and could feel Mena’s pubic hair brush against his chin. His excitement was at the breaking point. Mena let out a moan, stroked Saro’s hair, and then pushed him toward her vagina: it was her consent to go all the way.

  With the tip of his tongue, Saro started toying with her pubic hair. He bathed it with saliva and then very gently began nibbling at it. Slowly he pushed his tongue deeper and finally reached her most hidden core. As soon as the tip of his tongue touched her clitoris, Mena was wet; at the same time, tears of irrepressible joy ran down her cheeks. Then she let Saro know that the long-awaited moment had come. Saro rose up to kiss her soft lips again, as she directed his member between her legs. Saro patiently let her guide him, not wanting to cause her the least trauma. He simply remained motionless. Mena understood his sensitivity, and, in her heart, she was grateful. She inserted his penis between her thighs. Her vagina was moist and throbbing, ready to receive that impatient, passionate organ she was clutching. Gently Mena slipped it into her most private recess, swollen and slick with longing. Then, when she was certain she was in position, she gave a few little thrusts with her hips. Saro was in an agony of desire. He would have liked to slam into her forcefully again and again, but he made a great effort to control himself and remained still. Mena, with her fingers, felt that he had reached the critical point. Once again she pressed her lips to Saro’s, as if to thank him for his patience. She smiled sweetly at him, and then with a sharp thrust, sank completely onto the boy’s body. She felt her hymen break, though the sensation was in her mind, and a gush of blood ran down their legs.

  They held each other even more tightly, and Mena began writhing her hips to prolong the moment of intercourse. Now crying and laughing, she was kissing Saro on the mouth and eyes, caressing him and gripping his buttocks to press him to her as tightly as possible. Saro was now free to fully release his passion, until then repressed; thrusting his hips, he drove his member into Mena’s body, more and more forcefully, faster and faster, slowing down and then resuming with renewed fervor. Mena was now already at the point of orgasm, and with a last rhythmic gasp, Saro felt his semen flood the girl’s belly as she climaxed.

  They were silent for a long time, holding each other tight and cuddling. Saro was the first to speak. “I’ve made a decision. My father and your father don’t have a chance. They’ll be tried and sentenced for a crime they haven’t committed. I’ve decided that tomorrow night I will try to free them.”

  Mena gasped in surprise. “But that’s crazy. They’ll catch you. How can you think of doing that?”

  “I have a plan; I think it will work.”

  The girl was desperate. “You can’t do it. Haven’t you thought about me?”

  “That’s the reason I came, to tell you.” Saro couldn’t seem to find the right words. “You see, I really hadn’t planned on what happened.”

  “You’re already sorry?”

  “No, no, Mena, try and understand. I love you. I love you. We’ll get married. But first I have to free your father and my father. That’s what I came to tell you. That I love you, but that if something were to happen to me, you have to wait for me because I’ll be back and I’ll marry you.”

  “Of course I’ll wait for you, silly. I love you too, and I’ll never love anyone else in my life. But for the sake of our love, I ask you not to do anything foolish. There has to be some justice, even in this world.”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  “But what if something were to happen to you? I would die.”

  “Nothing serious will happen. But if I should have to go away for a while, swear that you will wait for me. Swear to me!”

  “I swear.” Their mouths met longingly for one last passionate kiss.

  * * *

  When the Black Shirts were forced to remain on guard duty at the town hall, which happened rarely, their supper was prepared by Tina, the wife of Ninì Trovato, Salemi’s town crier. With two prisoners awaiting transfer, the combat leaguers had been confined to the building for several days now, to keep watch over them. After the arrest of Losurdo and Ragusa, Jano had ordered Tina to cook meals for them as well until the two could be moved to the prison in Marsala. So that night, Ninì’s wife prepared five bowls ahead of time, two for the prisoners and three for the Black Shirts. For the prisoners, Tina always served up boiled potatoes with cheese, walnuts, and olives, while for the Black Shirts she alternated spaghetti with sardines, eggplant caponata, and panelle, fritters made with chickpea flour.

  Generally it was young Pepè who brought the guards’ meals to the town hall. Pepè was Ninì Trovato’s grandchild, the only son of his daughter-in-law, Giuseppina, another of the town’s grass widows. His son, in fact, had left for Germany in search of work years before and had never returned. Every month, he wrote a letter to his wife in which he swore he missed her and his son and asked her to give his parents his regards, but he didn’t say much about what he earned, where he was living, or when he thought he’d be back. The fact remains that Pepè and Giuseppina lived at Ninì Trovato’s house. Ever since the boy was little, each time his grandfather took his trumpet and drum to make a public announcement in the piazza, Pepè would mimic him, leading the way to the door with his hand to his mouth like a funnel, blaring out a pe-pe-pe-pe-pe that got on the man’s nerves.

  Pepè was fourteen now, but everyone in town still called him that, having forgotten his real name. That night, Tina arranged the bowls on a wooden breadboard, a spianatora, which she used for kneading bread and pasta dough. She covered the bowls with a cloth and helped Pepè balance it on his head, warning him to go slow and not to trip, or she would beat the living daylights out of him. Then she gave him her blessing and sent him off to the guard detail at town hall.

  Pepè, mindful of his grandmother’s threat, walked cautiously but took a shortcut to get there quicker. He went along a passageway that ran downhill under an arch and continued steeply toward the piazza and town hall. The narrow streets were lit only by lamps in the windows of the houses. Suddenly a shadow stepped out from behind an alley and blocked his way. The boy was startled and nearly dropped all the bowls on the ground. The man helped him keep the board balanced, and for a few brief moments, the scene, viewed from the outside, was quite comical. When they’d both managed to restore the board’s stability, the figure said in a husky, contrived voice: “Pepè, leave the spianatora to me. I’ll take it to the guards.”

  The shadow was hidden under a long black cloak, and at the sound of that somber voice, Pepè began to whimper, “Please, don’t hurt me. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything, you just have to let me bring the comrades their supper.”

  “You want my grandmother to beat me up?” Pepè whined even louder.

  To put an end to the melodrama, Saro drew a razor from his cloak; the blade glinted in the glow of a lantern hanging on a nearby door. The boy’s head seemed to withdraw into the collar of his jacket like a turtle’s into its shell. “Would you prefer a little beating or having that tender throat of yours slashed?” He flashed the blade under the boy’s nose, with a quick sleight of hand.

  Pepè shrank back even more. “Take it, do what you like, but don’t hurt me. Please.” He handed over the wooden board, which Saro grabbed with both hands. “Now count to a thousand, and only then can you go back home. And don’t tell anyone about this—
not even your grandparents—or I’ll come and snatch you from your bed while you’re sleeping and hang you upside down from the fig tree.”

  “I won’t say a word, sir, I swear. Not to anyone.”

  “Good, now count.”

  “Up to a thousand?”

  “Yes, up to a thousand, and not one less. Can you count?”

  “Of course. I aced arithmetic.”

  “Good for you. Now turn and face the wall and start counting.”

  Pepè obeyed and began to count. Saro quickly headed toward town hall. The small door to the combat league’s quarters opened on the left side of the building. The guards’ pickup truck, known throughout the area, stood outside in the courtyard. In an adjacent alleyway, in a recess formed by two houses, used by women to hang out clothes to dry, were two horses that Saro had managed to borrow from some friends who lived in Pusillesi, a nearby district of Salemi.

  With the wooden board balanced on his head, Saro approached the door, his heart beating rapidly. He did not have a prearranged plan. He knew he had to improvise. His only hope was that his father and Losurdo would not panic and would help him at the crucial moment of escape.

  He knocked firmly on the door, and a few seconds later, Quinto opened up. Saro was quick to get past the Black Shirt, struggling with the board on his head to avoid being recognized.

  “Grub’s here!” he called out cheerfully, entering the command room. He set the dishes on the table.

  Cosimo and Prospero dropped what they were doing at once and fell upon the bowls.

  “What did your grandmother make us, something good?”

  “Pasta with sardines.”

  They took off the cloth and uncovered the pasta still steaming in the bowls. Without further ado, Cosimo and Prospero sat down and began forking up the spaghetti, stuffing themselves with huge mouthfuls.

  “Let’s go, hurry up,” Quinto said to Saro, who had placed the board with the last two bowls back on his head.