Omerta (36 page)

It was then that Bianco told him, “You do not have to return to Villa Grazia. There is a vast property that belongs to you in Sicily. The entire village of Castellammare del Golfo.”

Astorre was puzzled. “How can that be?”

Benito Craxxi told him of the day the great Mafia chief, Don Zeno, had called his three friends to his bedside as he lay dying. “You are the young boy of his heart and soul,” he said. “And now you are his only surviving heir. The village has been bequeathed to you by your natural father. It is your birthright.”

“When Don Aprile took you to America, Don Zeno left provisions for all those in his village, until the day you would come to claim it. We provided protection for the village after your father’s death, according to his wishes. When the farmers suffered a bad season, we offered the means to purchase fruits and grains to plant—a helping hand,” Bianco said.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Astorre asked.

“Don Aprile swore us to secrecy,” Bianco said. “Your father wanted your safety and Don Aprile wanted you as part of his family. He also needed you to protect his children. In truth, you had two fathers. You are blessed.”

A
storre landed in Sicily on a beautiful sun-filled day. Two of Michael Grazziella’s bodyguards met him at the airport and escorted him to a dark blue Mercedes.

As they drove through Palermo, Astorre marveled at the beauty of the city: Marble columns and ornate carvings of mythic figures made some buildings Greek temples, others Spanish cathedrals with saints and angels carved deep into the gray stone. The trip from Palermo into Castellammare del Golfo took over two hours on a rocky, single-lane road. To Astorre as always, the most striking thing about Sicily was the beauty of the countryside, with its breathtaking view of the Mediterranean Sea.

The village, in a deep valley surrounded by mountains, was a labyrinth of cobblestone, lined with small, two-story stucco houses. Astorre noticed several people peeking through the cracks of the painted white shutters pulled shut against the scorching midday sun.

He was greeted by the mayor of the village, a short man in gray baggy pants held up by black suspenders who introduced himself as Leo DiMarco and bowed with respect.
“Il Padrone,”
he said. “Welcome.”

Astorre, uncomfortable, smiled and asked in Sicilian, “Would you please take me through the village?”

They passed a few old men playing cards on wooden benches. On the far side of the piazza was a stately Catholic church. And it was into this church, Saint Sebastian’s, that the mayor first took Astorre, who had not said a formal prayer since the murder of Don Aprile. The mahogany pews were ornately carved, and dark blue votives held holy candles. Astorre knelt, head bowed, to be blessed by Father Del Vecchio, the village priest.

Afterward, Mayor DiMarco led Astorre to the small house in which he would stay. Along the way, Astorre noticed several
carabinieri,
or Italian National Police, leaning against the houses, with rifles at the ready. “Once night falls, it is safer to stay in the village,” the mayor explained. “But during the days, it is a joy to be in the fields.”

For the next few days Astorre took long walks through the countryside, fresh with the scent of the orange and lemon orchards. His primary purpose was to meet the villagers and explore the ancient stone-carved houses built like Roman villas. He wanted to find one he could make his home.

By the third day he knew he would be happy there. The usual wary and solemn villagers greeted him in the street, and as he sat in the café in the piazza, the old men and children teased him playfully.

There were only two more things he must do.

T
he following morning Astorre asked the mayor to show him the way to the village cemetery.

“For what purpose?” DiMarco asked.

“To pay my respects to my father and my mother,” Astorre replied.

DiMarco nodded and quickly grabbed a large wrought-iron key from the office wall.

“How well did you know my father?” Astorre asked him.

DiMarco quickly made the sign of the cross on his chest. “Who did not know Don Zeno? It is to him we owe our lives. He saved our children with expensive medicines from Palermo. He protected our village from looters and bandits.”

“But what was he like as a man?” Astorre asked.

DiMarco shrugged. “There are few people left who knew him in that way, and even fewer who will speak to you about him. He has become a legend. So who would wish to know the real man?”

I would, Astorre thought.

They walked through the countryside and then climbed a steep hill, with DiMarco stopping occasionally to catch his breath. Finally, Astorre saw the cemetery. But instead of grave-stones, there were rows of small stone buildings. Mausoleums, all surrounded by a high, cast-iron fence, which was locked at a gate. The sign above read:
WITHIN THESE GATES
,
ALL ARE INNOCENT
.

The mayor unlocked the gate and led Astorre to his father’s gray marble mausoleum, marked by the epitaph
VINCENZO
ZENO
:
A GOOD AND GENEROUS MAN
. Astorre entered the building and on the altar studied the picture of his father. It was the first time he’d seen a picture of him, and he was struck by how familiar his face looked.

DiMarco then took Astorre to another small building, several rows away. This stone was white marble, the only hint of color a light blue raiment of the Virgin Mary carved into the arch of the entrance. Astorre walked in and examined the picture. The girl was not more than twenty-two years old, but her wide green eyes and radiant smile warmed him.

Outside, he said to DiMarco, “When I was a boy, I used to dream of a woman like her, but I thought she was an angel.”

DiMarco nodded. “She was a beautiful girl. I remember her from church. And you’re right. She sang like an angel.”

.
  
.
  
.

A
storre rode bareback across the countryside, only stopping long enough to eat the fresh goat-milk cheese and crusty bread that one of the village women had packed.

Finally, he reached Corleone. He could no longer put off seeing Michael Grazziella. He owed the man at least that courtesy.

He was tan from all his time in the fields, and Grazziella greeted him with open arms and a crushing bear hug. “The Sicilian sun has been good to you,” he said.

Astorre struck the proper note of gratitude: “Thank you for everything. Especially your support.”

Grazziella walked with him toward his villa. “And what brings you to Corleone?”

“I think you know why I’m here,” Astorre replied.

Grazziella smiled. “A strong young man like yourself? Of course! And I will take you to her right away. She is a joy to behold, this Rose of yours. And she has brought pleasure to everyone she has met.”

Knowing of Rosie’s sexual appetite, Astorre wondered for just a moment if Grazziella was trying to tell him something. But he quickly caught himself. Grazziella was far too proper to say such a thing, and too Sicilian to allow such impropriety to occur under his watchful eye.

Her villa was only minutes away. When they reached it, Grazziella called out, “Rose, my dear, you have a visitor.”

She was wearing a simple blue sundress with her blond hair tied back at the neck. Without her makeup, she looked younger and more innocent than he remembered.

She stopped when she saw him, surprised. But then she cried out, “Astorre!” She ran to him, kissed him, and began talking excitedly. “I’ve already learned to speak the Sicilian dialect fluently. And I’ve learned some famous recipes, too. Do you like spinach gnocchi?”

He took her to Castellammare del Golfo and spent the next week showing her around his village and the countryside. Each day they swam, talked for hours, and made love to each other with the comfort that only comes with time.

Astorre watched Rosie carefully to see if she was getting bored with him or restless with the simple life. But she seemed truly at peace. He wondered if, after all they’d been through together, he could ever really trust her. And then he wondered whether it was smart to love any woman so much that you would trust her completely. He and Rosie both had secrets to protect—things he did not wish to remember or share. But Rosie knew him and still loved him. She would keep his secrets, and he would keep hers.

There was only one thing that still troubled him. Rosie had a weakness for money and fancy gifts. Astorre wondered if she would ever be satisfied with what any one man could offer her. He needed to know.

On their last day together in Corleone, Astorre and Rosie rode their horses through the hills, flying over the countryside until dusk. Then they stopped in a vineyard, where they picked grapes and fed each other.

“I can’t believe I’ve stayed so long,” Rosie said as they rested together in the grass.

Astorre’s green eyes glistened intensely. “Do you think you could stay a little longer?”

Rosie looked surprised. “What did you have in mind?”

Astorre got down on one knee and extended his hand. “Maybe fifty or sixty years,” he said with a sincere smile. In his palm was a simple bronze ring.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

Astorre looked for some sign of hesitation in Rosie’s eyes, some mild disappointment with the quality of the ring, but her response was immediate. She threw her arms around his neck and showered him with kisses. Then they fell to the ground and rolled together in the hills.

O
ne month later, Astorre and Rosie were married in one of his citrus groves. Father Del Vecchio performed the ceremony. Everyone from both villages attended. The hill was carpeted with purple wisteria, and the smell of lemons and oranges perfumed the air. Astorre was dressed in a white peasant suit, and Rosie wore a pink gown of silk.

There was a pig on a spit roasting over red coals and warm ripe tomatoes from the fields. There were hot loaves of bread and freshly made cheese. Homemade wine ran like a river.

When the ceremony was over and they had exchanged vows, Astorre serenaded his bride with his favorite ballads. There was so much drinking and dancing that the festivities lasted until sunrise.

T
he following morning, when Rosie awakened, she saw Astorre readying their horses. “Ride with me?” he asked.

They journeyed all day until Astorre found what he was looking for—Villa Grazia. “My uncle’s secret paradise. I spent my happiest times here as a child.”

He walked behind the house to the garden, with Rosie following. And finally they came upon his olive tree, the one that had grown from the pits he planted as a young boy. The tree was as tall as he was now, and the trunk was quite thick. He took a sharp blade from his pocket and grabbed one of the branches. Then he cut it from the tree.

“We will plant this in our garden. So when we have a child, he will have happy memories too.”

One year later, Astorre and Rosie celebrated the birth of their son, Raymonde Zeno. And when it came time to baptize him, they invited Astorre’s family to join them at the Church of Saint Sebastian.

After Father Del Vecchio had finished, Valerius, as the eldest of the Aprile children, lifted a glass of wine and made a toast. “May you all thrive and live joyfully. And may your son grow up with the passion of Sicily and the romance of America beating in his heart.”

Marcantonio lifted his glass and added, “And if he ever wants to be on a sitcom, you know who to call.”

Now that the Aprile banks were so profitable, Marcantonio had established a twenty-million-dollar line of credit to develop his own dramatic properties. He and Valerius were working together on a project based on their father’s FBI files. Nicole thought it was a terrible idea, but they all agreed that the Don would have appreciated the idea of receiving large sums of money for dramatizing the legend of his crimes.

“
Alleged
crimes,” Nicole added.

Astorre wondered why anyone still cared. The old Mafia was dead. The great Dons had accomplished their goals and blended gracefully into society, as the best criminals always do. The few pretenders who remained were a disappointing assortment of dim, second-class felons and impotent thugs. Why would anyone want to bother with the rackets when it was much easier to steal millions by starting your own company and selling shares to the public?

“Hey Astorre, do you think you could be our special consultant on the movie?” Marcantonio asked. “We want to make sure it’s as authentic as possible.”

“Sure,” Astorre said, smiling. “I’ll have my agent get back to you.”

L
ater that night, in bed, Rosie turned to Astorre. “Do you think you’ll ever want to go back?”

“Where?” Astorre asked. “To New York? To America?”

“You know,” Rosie said hesitantly. “To your old life.”

“This is where I belong, with you, here.”

“Good,” Rosie said. “But what about the baby? Shouldn’t he have the chance to experience everything America has to offer?”

Astorre pictured Raymonde, running through the hills of the country, eating olives from barrels, hearing tales of the great dons and the Sicily of old. He looked forward to telling his son those stories. And yet he knew that those myths would not be enough.

One day his son would go to America, a land of vengeance, mercy, and magnificent possibility.

Very special thanks to Carol Gino; my literary agents, Candida Donadio and Neil Olson; my attorneys, Bert Fields and Arthur Altman; my brother, Anthony Cleri; my editor at Random House, Jonathan Karp; and my children and grandchildren.

M
ARIO
P
UZO
was born in New York and, following military service in World War II, attended New York’s New School for Social Research and Columbia University. His bestselling novel
The Godfather
was preceded by two critically acclaimed novels,
The Dark Arena
(1955) and
The
Fortunate Pilgrim
(1965). In 1978, he published
Fools
Die,
followed by
The Sicilian
(1984),
The Fourth K
(1991), and the second installment in his Mafia trilogy,
The Last
Don
(1996), which became an international bestseller and the highest-rated TV miniseries of 1997. Mario Puzo also wrote many screenplays, including
Earthquake, Superman,
and all three
Godfather
movies, for which he received two Academy Awards. He died in July 1999 at his home on Long Island, New York, at the age of seventy-eight.