The Prince (10 page)

Gaetano was honest with her. He told her in no uncertain terms that their relationship had no future. They couldn't live together, he was a fugitive, he had to move about constantly. If he were apprehended, he could be sentenced to thirty years in prison.

At the time, Vassallo knew only the girl's sweet, gentle side, not her stubbornness. Teresa not only married him but also had two children with him, within one year of each other: the oldest, Jano, and the second, Giovanni. And now Teresa was pregnant again, but this time she was expecting twins, as Peppino Ragusa, Salemi's appointed physician, had confirmed.

Gaetano Vassallo had established his base of operations among the mountains and valleys between Monte Polizzo and Montagna Grande, a region of dense undergrowth, broken by abrupt cliffs and deep ravines, and virtually impossible to negotiate if you weren't born in the region. Vassallo and his band knew every gully, every hideout in that territory, and rode high and low through the area on their swift chargers, making raids in Calatafimi, Vita, Ummari, Mendola. They replenished their food supplies, imposed tributes and other duties, and distributed part of their earnings to the poorest farmers and shepherds, who in exchange kept them informed of the carabinieri's movements and gave them sanctuary when needed.

The meeting between Losurdo and Vassallo took place at the camp in Portella del Pianetto. The refuge was a simple recess in the ridge, which formed a sort of cave and overlooked the mountain pass. Gaetano Vassallo was frightening just to look at. A long, unkempt beard hid his face, and a sheepskin coat protected him from the cold.

“Gaetano, Prince Licata has a favor to ask of you,” Rosario Losurdo began, after shaking his hand and sitting down beside the fire.

“You know I've never refused the prince a favor. He is a just man, and it's an honor for me to work for him,” Vassallo responded, lighting a
toscano
that he'd taken from the packet Losurdo passed to him; the cigars ended up in the pocket of his sheepskin jacket.

“It has to do with the Marquis of Campo Allegro.” The gabellotto wanted to test his reaction first.

“Who? The Marquis Bellarato, that bastard?” the bandit retorted, blowing a cloud of smoke.

“That's right.”

“So the marquis's hour has finally come?”

“No, no, you don't have to kill him,” Losurdo hastened to explain. “It would it be too charitable. All we want is for you to make off with some of his cattle. You have to keep them hidden for a few days, then I'll tell you if you should return them or slaughter the whole herd.”

All the men who were in the camp at the time witnessed the conversation: Vassallo had no secrets from his band. Two of them in particular listened with interest to the requests of Prince Licata's gabellotto: Curzio and his brother, Salvatore Turrisi. The latter was a poor peasant, twenty-five years old, who had joined Vassallo's band because of Marquis Bellarato.

Until some time before, Turrisi had been one of Bellarato's campieri. His duty was to hold off trespassers and poachers on the Balestruccio estate, which the marquis had reserved for hunting. Salvatore Turrisi was an excellent hunter whose aim was infallible, and for this reason the marquis had taken him on as one of his armed guards. Thanks to that job as campiere, Salvatore was able to live with dignity and was grateful to the marquis.

One day it happened that Salvatore Turrisi, roaming through the woods of San Michele in search of pheasants, found the marquis's horse grazing alone in a ravine, saddled up, the reins dangling from the bit. But Bellarato was nowhere around. The young man immediately thought he might have fallen, but the light westerly wind carried the sound of moaning and sobbing. He strained his ears to hear better, and recognized the marquis's voice. He climbed the ridge of the densely wooded hill and at the top came to a grassy clearing surrounded by oaks. At the center of the clearing, Turrisi witnessed a sight he should never have seen.

The marquis, in the throes of a fit, was flogging a young shepherd boy, no more than twelve years old, who was completely naked. The boy was on the ground and could not defend himself. The marquis kept whipping the poor body that was already covered with gashes, whip marks, and blood. Turrisi instinctively sprang into a gallop and charged toward the marquis. Leaping from his horse, he grabbed the man's waist from behind, trying to pull him off the young boy.

Bellarato, howling like a wild beast, his mouth smeared with saliva and blood, thrashed about trying to free himself from Turrisi's grip, but the campiere wouldn't let go and yelled at him to calm down. After a final lunge, seeing that he was now at the mercy of a force which he could not oppose, the marquis finally crumpled as though he had fainted. Salvatore's attention was then drawn by the boy's faint cries. A few yards away he spotted his pitiable clothes: a tattered shirt and a pair of trousers, all he wore to shield himself from the harsh cold of the region's high altitudes.

Raising his eyes, he saw a flock of sheep clustered silently in the shade of a crab apple tree, a dreamlike vision. He approached the young shepherd to try to help him, but realized at once that the boy's condition was hopeless. Turning to get up and fetch some water, he saw the barrel of his hunting rifle appear from behind him. He had no time to get over his surprise. The marquis aimed the gun at the young shepherd's face and fired a shot. The boy's face exploded and a spray of blood spewed onto Turrisi's face and chest. The marquis threw the weapon on the ground, and then mounted Turrisi's bay and galloped away following the path leading down to the valley.

Turrisi stood alone, paralyzed with horror. The first thing that occurred to him was that he would surely lose his wonderful job. With the marquis in jail, the lands would be abandoned, and he would no longer be needed on the estate. Then he thought about the poor boy. He went to the marquis's horse, down in the ravine, hoping there was a blanket tied to the saddle. When he saw that there was, he brought it to the top of the clearing, wrapped the boy up and hoisted him onto the horse. He picked his rifle up off the ground and got ready to return to the farm with that sad burden.

The sun was already sinking below the horizon. In the distance Salvatore saw a whirlwind of dust rising from the trail. He stopped to see who was in such a hurry.

Curzio was coming toward him at a full gallop and a minute later reached him. The two dismounted.

“Salvatore!” Curzio yelled with tears in his eyes. Then he noticed the bundle behind the saddle and went to lift the blanket, uncovering a bloody leg. “So it's true!”

Salvatore Turrisi didn't yet realize the inferno that was about to engulf him. “You've already heard?” he asked.

“I want to hear it from your own lips, before the carabinieri take you away.” His brother started yelling again, waving his arms around wildly. “Salvatore, is it true you killed the shepherd boy? Why? Why?”

Now he was beginning to understand. “What are you talking about? It was the marquis! It was him! Who told you such a lie?” He grabbed Curzio by the collar to press for a response.

“The carabinieri are waiting for you at the farm. The marquis said first you flogged the boy and then you shot him point-blank.”

Salvatore Turrisi knew he had lost; there was no way out. His word was worth nothing; that of the marquis was gospel. All he could say to his brother was “It wasn't me. I swear on my honor.”

“May God bless you! I knew it! I knew you weren't capable of such a thing.” Curzio hugged him impulsively, almost knocking him to the ground, and kissed his brother's face. “If you had done what the marquis said, it would have killed our mother.”

“I tried to stop him—” Salvatore began.

But his brother was already thinking about the next move. “You have to run away, hide out in the mountains. The carabinieri are too busy to go after a desperate creature like you.” He hugged him again. “Leave the boy's body here and go. Join Vassallo, if you don't want to end up shot. Salvatore, my brother, now you too,” Curzio said in anguish. A similar injustice had happened to him as well years before, and he had been forced to join Vassallo's band to avoid long, unmerited years of imprisonment. At that time, heaven help anyone who crossed an aristocrat.

“Vassallo is in the foothills of Montagna Grande, in the San Giorgio district. Tell him I sent you and explain to him exactly what happened,” Curzio instructed as he helped his brother lay the corpse on the grass.

Salvatore Turrisi, his heart pounding, remounted his horse. With a jerk of the reins, he turned the animal around and, after waving good-bye to his brother, headed for the mountains, cursing the Marquis Bellarato and his entire clan.

Gaetano Vassallo, always in search of patronage, was all too happy to do Prince Licata a favor. Less than forty-eight hours after the encounter with Losurdo, Vassallo showed up at Baglio di Buturro with fifteen of his men. Every autumn, the campieri would round up some of Marquis Bellarato's cattle so they could spend the winter there. It was a simple task for Vassallo and his band to steal the cows, since no one dared put up a fight.

At that very moment, Ferdinando Licata was climbing the grand staircase of Marquis Bellarato's palazzo in Salemi. The marquis knew about Licata's involvement in the Veterans cooperative and had guessed the reason for his visit.

“My dear Marquis, I am here in the role of ambassador,” Ferdinando Licata began after the customary pleasantries, “so don't take my words as a personal affront.”

“You know what they say in my village, Prince?” the marquis joked. “A man who butters you up more than usual is either cheating you or has already screwed you.”

Ferdinando Licata did not respond to the vulgarity and continued seriously. “Nearly three hundred ninety-five farmers have invested their life savings in the purchase of the former Baucina estate. It would be a shame if they were unable to fulfill their dream of owning a piece of land.”

“Prince Licata, since when are you interested in the farmers' welfare?” the marquis asked sarcastically.

“Since they began realizing that they too are human beings,” Licata stated. Lowering his voice, he went on in a confidential tone: “And also to live up to the Palazzo Cesarò accord.” Then, seeking the marquis's complicity, he concluded, “Mark my words, we relinquish something today so we won't have to give up everything tomorrow.”

“I disagree with your theories. We are the
padroni
, the landowners. Nothing else matters. I never accepted what was decided at Palazzo Cesarò.”

“Marquis, the people I represent are firmly determined not to lose their money. They told me that they are capable of any action, even going outside the law. In fact, I believe that at this very moment they have taken possession of all the cattle at Baglio di Buturro.”

The marquis sprang to his feet. The doorbell then began ringing furiously, and someone knocked at the door. A voice from the street shouted, “Open up!”

“Perfect timing,” Prince Licata thought.

The marquis, like an enraged husband who has just discovered his wife in bed with his best friend, stormed out of the room.

Ferdinando Licata went to the window and peered out at the scene in the street. A man was gesturing and explaining to the marquis what had happened a few hours earlier at Baglio di Buturro. The marquis didn't say a word but clenched his fists until his knuckles went white. Then he left the man and reentered the palazzo. Ferdinando Licata watched the messenger get back on his horse and gallop away. He sat back down in his chair, and shortly thereafter the marquis burst into the room.

“Prince Licata, how far will this blackmail go?”

“I told you before. I'm merely an ambassador.” Licata displayed a seraphic calm. “I was simply instructed to ask you to withdraw the preemptive offer on the former Baucina estate. That's all. The property will end up complicating the lives of you and your cousin. It's too sprawling and almost entirely abandoned. To undertake any reclamation, you would need a lot of cash—and at this time, neither you, Marquis, nor your cousin has coffers full of gold
tarì
. Listen to me. I respect you, and I know you can be a practical man. If you will be kind enough to pull out, I will see to it that your cattle are returned safe and sound.” After a moment's pause, he concluded, “I advise you to be reasonable.”

The marquis was seething with rage. He felt like kicking the prince but managed to restrain himself. “The little bastards, sons of bitches, ignorant assholes, penniless cocksuckers! They want to tell me what I can and cannot do? How dare they give orders to the Marquis Pietro Bellarato? I don't take orders from anyone, least of all from a gang of mafiosi! And you, Prince, how could you lend a hand to this extortion! I'll denounce you all, every last one of you, to the carabinieri!”

Ferdinando Licata smiled. “Let's leave the carabinieri out of our disagreement. They have enough headaches to resolve as it is.”

“I will never give up Baucina. Go tell your charges that the estate will be mine.” He moved closer to Licata. “You will never succeed in getting the full amount in time. The Cassa Rurale will not be able to grant you the loan within a week.”

“How can you be so sure?” the prince asked, this time seriously worried.

Bellarato cheered up, and the shadow of a sneer crossed his face. He responded enigmatically: “I
know
.”

Ferdinando Licata saw that the discussion was not leading to anything positive. He rose from his chair. “I think our conversation must end here. I'm sorry, but not for me; I'm sorry for you.” So saying, he turned to leave without bidding his host good-bye.

Bellarato, surprised at how the prince had broken off their talk, became apprehensive. “What are they planning to do to me?”

Ferdinando Licata paused at the door. He turned and said, “You have no idea what a desperate mind can come up with. And when there are three hundred ninety-five of them, they can trigger a real earthquake. I don't know what they're planning to do; they didn't tell me. All I know is that you, Marquis, will be wiped out, economically speaking.”