Saro entered the tavern and asked with feigned indifference, “What’s the name of Mena’s son?”
“Rosario Saruzzo,” the few customers frequenting the inn at that hour chorused in reply.
His heart skipped a beat. A flash went off in his head. Mena hadn’t lied! It was true: he was the only one she’d loved! She had loved him so much that she’d bamboozled Jano by naming her son not after his grandfather, as it might seem, but after her first love, him!
* * *
To lend a semblance of legality to the testimonies and at the same time authenticate the documents by the presence of bona fide military judges, Dickey obtained the collaboration of two American magistrates. He had a couple of teacher’s desks from the local elementary school brought into the large town hall chamber, where films were once screened, and had the judges sit there.
He demanded that the citizens of Salemi be present at the interrogation. If anyone recalled any piece of information about that long ago murder, he was to speak up and report it.
The witness, a surprise arranged by Jano, was Nunzio, the son of one of Rosario Losurdo’s foremost campieri, Manfredi.
Nunzio had been twenty years old at the time of the events. He had never wanted to talk, so as not to get involved in that ugly affair. But now, given that they wanted to shed some light on Marquis Bellarato’s murder, he’d decided to come forward. That was the version Jano told the audience. In actuality, Nunzio was doing Jano a personal favor, and no one could say no to Jano.
When he entered the chamber, a few voices from the back shouted “Fascist!” To make the testimony seem even more solemn, Dickey had the witness swear on the Bible, which everyone viewed as an eccentricity on the part of the investigator. Nunzio stood in the center of the hall, in front of the two officers, with his back to the audience, and began answering the sergeant’s questions.
Briefly, he stated that on the day Marquis Pietro Bellarato was killed, he was in the vicinity of the palazzo. All of a sudden, he saw Rosario Losurdo run out the back door. He noticed him because the man appeared distraught, and his clothes and hands were smeared with blood. He acted like someone who had just committed a murder. He saw him take off in a hurry, and a few minutes later the fire broke out. He didn’t remember anything else.
Prospero Abbate’s testimony was also heard, as he repeated the account he’d given four years earlier to the prosecutor from Marsala. His deposition electrified the spectators, who murmured animatedly as he described the marquis’s murder in abundant detail. He spoke of Losurdo trying to persuade the marquis to withdraw the option on the land, and then told of Losurdo grabbing the poker and striking Bellarato repeatedly on the head. Abbate was extremely meticulous, describing the blood that splattered the killer, who then wiped his face and hands on his clothes as best he could. Finally, he told of Losurdo’s making his escape after setting fire to the draperies and furnishings. He, Abbate, was hiding behind a curtain, terrified. At the time, he was only eleven. He waited for Losurdo to run out, and then he got out of there too.
But a second corpse was found, Dickey pointed out. “Did you see a second person in the palazzo?” the sergeant asked him.
Abbate shook his head. He had always believed that Nicola Geraci, the other corpse, had been carried into the burning palazzo later by Prince Licata—because Geraci was an enemy of the prince, who had himself been involved in the deal to purchase the former Baucina estate.
The sergeant was satisfied with the witnesses’ statements. The two military judges exchanged looks as if to say that the case was all too clear.
Also in attendance in the chamber were Monsignor Albamonte and the parish priest Don Mario; Ninì Trovato and his wife, Tina; Curzio Turrisi with his wife, Vincenza, and his son, Biagio; plus Jano, Nunzio, and the entire combat league group that, just prior to the Allied landing, had managed to renounce fascism and blend in with the town’s antifascists. The only one missing was Ginetto. Someone had shot him in the back right before the Americans arrived. Also present were Mena and Nennella, who hugged Rosario as if he were her own son. In the back of the hall sat Saro. All in all, the majority of Salemi’s population was there—or what was left of it.
The sergeant turned to the public and declared gravely, “On the basis of these testimonies, I hereby charge Prince Ferdinando Licata, soon to be extradited from the United States, with the murders of Marquis Pietro Bellarato and Nicola Geraci, which took place in 1920. If there is anyone in the audience who wishes to add further information, he is asked to please step forward.”
An unreal silence descended over the room. No one dared breathe for fear of shattering the tense mood that hung in the air. Then someone from the back rows raised his hand. Everyone turned around and saw Tosco, Marquis Bellarato’s servant, get to his feet. The man walked to the center of the room and stopped in front of the two desks. The sergeant stood beside the military judges, waiting for him.
“You are?” Dickey asked.
He stated his name with great dignity: “My name is Tosco Bellarato.”
One of the two judges wrote the name on a sheet of paper.
“Are you a relative of the marquis?” the sergeant inquired.
“I’m his half brother. His father was my natural father.” He glanced at the two judges, who were impassively taking notes.
Seeing Tosco walk toward the center of the room, one individual in the audience had a start: Nunzio.
“Did you live with your half brother?” Dickey continued.
“I was his servant and his laughingstock.”
The Americans didn’t understand what he was referring to, whereas the whole town did.
“Explain what you mean,” Dickey persisted.
“He had his way with me. I was also his lover, just to be clear.” The words fell on the foreigners’ heads like a guillotine blade. Then he continued: “A pack of lies was told today. Someone said he saw Losurdo run from the palazzo, covered with blood. It’s not true.”
“Tosco, you should be ashamed! Go home!”
All eyes turned to Nunzio, who had bellowed those words, beside himself. But Tosco went on, undeterred: “I’m not the one who should be ashamed. Nature made me this way. Someone else should now be ashamed!” He pointed a finger at Nunzio. “He’s a perjurer. He couldn’t have seen Losurdo escape, because he was in bed with me on the day of the fire.”
Those words had the impact of a bomb. Everyone in the room began shouting, arguing with one another, some hurling insults at Nunzio and some at Tosco. Nunzio tried to make it to the door, but following the sergeant’s abrupt orders, the two military police got to him first and stopped him.
In a flash, the sergeant and Jano saw their theory fall apart. When calm was restored in the chamber, the sergeant asked Tosco if from his room it was possible to hear what was happening in the drawing room where the marquis had been when he was killed. Tosco stated that it wasn’t possible to hear anything.
Then the sergeant turned to Nunzio: “Do you deny knowing this man, let’s say, intimately?”
Nunzio ducked his head between his shoulders.
Jano couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “A fairy,” he murmured.
Meanwhile, another hand went up from the center of the audience. Once again all eyes turned toward the new witness.
A name echoed through the hall to everyone’s astonishment: U pisci. Ciccio Vinciguerra, the quiet, bearded man who had showed up in Salemi about ten years ago from God knows where, made his way through the people who crowded on either side of him.
“The man who killed Marquis Bellarato was Salvatore Turrisi,” said the man, whose rumbling voice few in the room could say they’d ever heard.
“That’s a serious accusation you’re making,” Dickey told him. “Who is this Turrisi?”
This time it was Curzio Turrisi who stood up. “I am Salvatore’s older brother. My name is Curzio Turrisi. Salvatore disappeared at the time of the murder, and no one has seen him again since then. We al
l thought he immigrated to America.”
The sergeant turned back to Ciccio Vinciguerra. “Why are you so certain it was Salvatore Turrisi who killed the marquis and Nicola Geraci?”
“Because he told me so himself.”
“And where is he?”
“I met him more than ten years ago in New York. Then I came back to Sicily, and I never heard anything more about him.”
“What did he tell you?” Sergeant Dickey asked.
“Salvatore had it in for the marquis because he had accused Salvatore of raping and killing a young shepherd, forcing Salvatore to go into hiding and join Gaetano Vassallo’s band. Instead, it was the marquis himself who raped and killed the shepherd boy in a fit of rage. But Salvatore wasn’t cut out to be an outlaw; he was a good campiere, that’s what he was. One day Rosario Losurdo went to see the bandit Vassallo. Prince Licata’s gabellotto asked Vassallo to steal the marquis’s cattle. He just wanted to blackmail him: if Bellarato gave up the option on the Baucina estate, he would return the herd. Otherwise he would slaughter every head of cattle. That was when Salvatore Turrisi conceived the plan to murder the marquis. It would be easy to let the blame fall on Losurdo—and that’s just what happened.
“But there was an unforeseen event, Salvatore told me: a fire accidentally broke out in the palazzo. He was about to make his escape, and when he opened the door, the blaze spread like wildfire, sending all the wood furnishings, and especially the heavy drapes, up in flames. It came as a real surprise to him to discover Nicola Geraci hiding behind one of the curtains. Geraci was the representative of the Socialist Party’s cooperative, the Farm. That disgusting worm must have been playing a double game, because he was a socialist, and the marquis was notoriously allergic to any politicians of a red stripe. Evidently money makes all ideologies see eye to eye. So the two had agreed to get their hands on the Baucina estate and then divide it between them.
“To make a long story short, Geraci was engulfed in flames, and Salvatore told me that he was unable to help him. He saw him die in unspeakable agony. At that very moment, Turrisi thought that this might be a unique opportunity for his future: if he were to be identified as the charred corpse, unrecognizable as a result of the fire, no one would be looking for him anymore. Best of all, he could break away from Vassallo and his band. His action was quicker than his thought. He tore the aluminum Saint Christopher’s medal off his neck and threw it onto the cadaver. Nicola Geraci, therefore, died accidentally. I felt it was my duty to tell the truth because two people were about to be unjustly accused, and Tosco Bellarato gave me the courage to speak up!”
Once again a great uproar broke out in the hall. Ciccio Vinciguerra’s disclosure had literally shaken everyone’s thoughts. Curzio Turrisi, bent over in his chair, his head in his hands, was crying like a baby. His wife tried to console him, but it was no use.
Amid the commotion, Vinciguerra turned to Jano and claimed his attention in a gravelly voice: “Jano! I have the truth for you too. Remember Michele Fardella? I was there when he was captured and executed by the antifascists along with Lorenzo Costa. Before he died, he wanted to get a load off his conscience that had been weighing on him for years. He confessed to me that the Borgo Guarine massacre was committed by the Royal Guard under Costa’s command. For all those years, Jano, you were taking orders from the man who killed your family!”
That revelation had a resounding impact on the townspeople. Jano was stunned.
Saro took advantage of the great confusion to approach Mena.
“Mena, I have to talk to you,” he said, taking her hand.
“Not here, Saro—not now. You’re crazy!” she replied, terrified, trying to break out of his grip.
“Here and now.” Saro gave Nennella a meaningful look. The nanny, unruffled as always, had picked up the child, as if to protect him from the agitated voices around them. “I’ll leave. I’ll wait for you outside with Saruzzo,” she said to Mena.
* * *
Saro led Mena by the hand to an office adjacent to the main chamber. He closed the door, shutting out the frantic shouting of Salemi’s citizenry.
“I have to know the truth: Did you give my name to your child?” Saro asked softly.
Mena’s magnificent green eyes filled with tears. For entire nights she’d dreamed of being able to embrace her true love, but she always chased away the thought so as not to dishonor her husband. But now there he was, asking her about Saruzzo. Mena finally gave way and burst into tears, letting it all out. Impulsively, she clung to Saro and kissed him on the mouth with all the pent-up passion from those four long years. She put aside her reserve; she had to tell him how much she’d loved him and still loved him.
When their mouths broke apart, Mena stared at him, lost in reverie. She had memorized every inch of his skin. She wanted to drink her fill of him, if only she could. “Saro . . . Saro . . . light of my eyes,” she said finally, fighting back more tears.
Holding him close, she brought her mouth to his ear and whispered softly, “Saruzzo, thanks be to God, is the fruit of our love.” Saro drew back and stared at her, shocked.
“It’s true: Rosario is your son.” The big secret was revealed. Mena had sworn to herself that she would never divulge it, but once she saw Saro, deciding on the truth was inevitable.
“Rosario is my son!” Saro exclaimed, still incredulous.
“Things didn’t happen with Jano the way I told you the first time. Jano raped me; he took me by force. But he didn’t know I was already pregnant. I demanded that he marry me to make amends, and when Rosario was born, I arranged with the midwife to make him believe that the infant was premature. How I cried over you, Saro, so far away! So many times I prayed the door would open, and you would appear.
“Then I became resigned to him; to his violent ways. But I hate the man who destroyed our love and my life.”
Those last words left Saro grimly resolute. He had a score to settle now. The two kissed again, passionately. Meanwhile, the uproar in the chamber was subsiding, so they went back in.
In accordance with the two military judges, Dickey declared the case closed. He later sent a cable to New York requesting that they search for Salvatore Turrisi.
People began leaving town hall, chatting about what they had learned thanks to Vinciguerra. Everybody was congratulating him and thanking him for having restored the truth in their traumatized town.
When everyone had gone, Curzio Turrisi went up to Vinciguerra, his heart full of gratitude. The two men stared at each other for several long moments. Ciccio Vinciguerra’s face was concealed by a bushy beard, and his long hair reached to his shoulders, but his eyes were bright as diamonds. Then Ciccio opened his mouth and showed Curzio a space where his incisor was missing. Smiles lit up both their faces; then they gripped each other in a passionate, trembling embrace, barely managing to choke back their tears. Curzio gave Ciccio a kiss on the cheek and whispered with a smile, “Finally, we meet again, you rotten son of a bitch—no offense to our mother, God rest her soul.”
Chapter 59
Saro Ragusa’s mission had been a big success. New York’s former governor, albeit briefly, Charles Poletti, had supported every move he and his friends made, never once getting in the way of their activities.
In his own interests, Poletti made the most of the advantages of his office and set up an import-export business in New York with Jimmy Hoffa, a big shot in the Teamsters union, who had been rumored to have ties to organized crime.
Saro, with his military uniform giving him license to come and go, was able to coordinate the entire black market with considerable skill: not only the market for foodstuffs, clothing, fabrics, and shoes but also drugs and narcotics in particular. But the real business, besides that of morphine, was arms trafficking, financed with money from the other lines of trade.
In those months, Sicily was an arsenal: there were weapons abandoned by Italian soldiers, by retreating German troops, and by the Americans themselves, who relegated them to t
he scrap heap the first time they misfired.
Don Calogero Vizzini, Villalba’s boss, had a veritable army of campieri in his employ, among them Jano Vassallo and some of his former combat league buddies.
One evening Don Calò sent for him. Jano was expecting a recognition or some special assignment. He had demonstrated to the old boss that he was capable of any iniquity.
But Don Calò broached an unlikely subject for a mafioso to bring up to a subordinate. “It’s none of my business,” he began after sending away everyone in the room, “but there are some nasty rumors going around about your wife and Saro Ragusa. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but I’m doing it for your own good. You know how much I care about you.”
“That cornuto! The bastard—for years he’s been stuck in my craw,” Jano pointed to his gullet.
“Actually, you’re the cornuto—the cuckold.”
The severity of Don Calò’s words caught him off guard. No one had ever spoken to him that way.
“Don Calò, you shouldn’t be so harsh toward me—”
“If you can’t be the boss in your own home, how can you demand obedience from your men?”
“That bitch . . .” Jano muttered through clenched teeth.
“You see? You take it out on her, whereas it’s her lover you should silence.”
“First I’ll take care of him; then it will be her turn.” Jano was beside himself with rage.
“I want to help you, Jano Vassallo. I’ve learned that today, at sunset, they will see each other at the Chiarenza mill.”
“Has Saro Ragusa let you down?” Jano asked, aware of how close his longtime nemesis was to Calogero Vizzini.
“He put matters of the heart before business. He can’t be trusted,” zu Calò pronounced.
Jano was delighted to hear those words. With Saro out of the way, only he would remain by Don Calò’s side. The old Mafia boss wanted to get rid of Ragusa, and the excuse of a crime of honor would pacify even those who had high regard for Saro and saw him as zu Calò’s right arm.
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