The Prince (3 page)

Taking advantage of the lull, Count Calogero Colonna moved to the center of the room and, clapping his hands, requested his guests' attention. “Dear friends, thank you for coming and participating,” he began, clearing his throat. From his jacket pocket he withdrew a sheet with a list of names. “I must inform you that four of us are absent. In the interest of protecting our holdings, you should know who they are: Baron Vincenzo Aprile, Count Gabriele Amari, Marquis Enrico Ferro, and Baron Giovanni Moleti. It is important to understand who are our friends and who are our enemies. And now I turn the floor over to our spokesman, the eminent Raffaele Grassini.”

That said, the count sat back down. The journalist stepped forward to the center of the room and, wasting no time, began speaking, turning to the countess, who was sitting in the middle of the semicircle:

“First of all, our thanks to our gracious hostess, Countess Paola Colonna, who has been kind enough to welcome us into her beautiful home.” He waited for the applause to die down before continuing. “On the agenda, and the reason why we are meeting this evening, is the need to decide what stance we should take regarding the provocations that all of us have had to put up with in recent weeks. Tenant farmers occupying our lands, who no longer want to pay rent; thieves who steal our livestock and then sell it to estate managers in distant areas. The situation is grave.

“The central government is far away and at the point of economic collapse itself,” Grassini continued. “The budget's expenditures exceed revenues three times over. The farmers who fought in the war, where they were able to eat at least one meal a day, have returned to a miserable, poverty-stricken life. Now these same farmers look with envy on those who stayed home to make their fortune. The lands are abandoned, partly for lack of workers, but in greater part because it's to our advantage to let them lie fallow. Under these conditions, it doesn't take much for the fuse of rebellion to be ignited, and, I assure you, there are certain ringleaders who are capable of fomenting revolutions even when there is much less rancor in people's hearts. The question is, What should we do to stop this madness? The debate is open. To avoid confusion, try to speak one at a time and raise your hand first. Thank you all.” He moved to the side of the room and remained standing.

“There is only one answer.” First to take the floor was Marquis Pietro Bellarato. “An answer that comes from the depths of centuries past, from our ancestors; an answer that has never failed: the force of arms! I, like all of you, have in my service an army of killers that cost me a fortune. Let's give the people a good example, and everything will go back to the way it was before, you'll see.”

He sat down again. A hand went up beside him, and Baron Adragna spoke up: “The peasant farmers are like children to me. And children need to be spanked to make them obey. That's all they listen to. I agree with the marquis.”

The assents from the assembly seemed to indicate a general consensus.

Prince Ferdinando Licata, who had remained silent and for the most part unobserved until then, raised his hand to speak.

“I don't think that's a wise idea,” he began in a resolute voice, quieting the assembly. Marquis Bellarato, in particular, stiffened in his chair. Licata continued in a decisive tone, “Times are changing, and we must change with the times. Enough violence. We've had far too many deaths and losses. Our farmers want to form cooperatives? Let's allow them to do so. They want to occupy the lands and petition the courts to recognize their rights? Let them make their demands. Let's not oppose them; on the contrary, let's support their petitions, help them prepare the papers.

“I will go even further and say let's make a little effort and participate in these cooperatives ourselves along with our most trusted friends. Let's help them request funds from the Cassa Rurale, the agricultural bank, for the collective tenancies.”

He paused, surveying his audience, and then continued in a more insinuating tone: “Who manages the Cassa? Is it not we? And won't we be the ones who postpone the loans indefinitely?” He smiled slyly, and those present breathed a sigh of relief, though not everyone had fully understood the prince's subtle humor and had to ask his neighbor to explain.

“If I understand correctly,” Marquis Bellarato replied sarcastically, “we should assist them in their designs. Is that right?”

“Exactly,” Licata confirmed. “We can control their movements, indefinitely put off the applications for expropriation, and later shelve them permanently, if it suits us. Let them think they will obtain loans for the leaseholds; we can deny them the funds with the excuse of some bureaucratic oversight or simply because the applications were lost in a fire and new documents will have to be filed. Or when it is to our advantage, we can give in and grant them those blessed pieces of paper.”

“One gunshot, and everything will return to normal more quickly,” the marquis maintained defiantly.

“Marquis, would you have our superb lands invaded by police and
carabinieri
from all over the continent?” the prince countered calmly. “Besides, violence leads to violence, death begets death.”

“Prince Licata is right! We can't have our lands invaded by the military police!”

Everyone's eyes turned to the source of the statement.

It was Salemi's parish priest, Don Antonio Albamonte, one of the most authoritative presences at the meeting despite his mere thirty-five years of age.

“We are a civilized people,” Don Antonio began. “Violence must be avoided. Our farmers are like a flock of sheep that need a dog and a shepherd to guide them. Perhaps we can allow them to choose their own path, but we must see to it that we are always the ones leading them. While we can recognize the desire for reform on the part of those we protect, we also have a duty to ensure that ultimately nothing changes.”

“But Don Antonio,” retorted the marquis, “if we do that, we'll be like capons, who think they're roosters even though they don't have the balls!” The marquis's laughter was echoed by most of the assembly. “Forgive me, Countess,” he apologized to the only woman in the room for his indelicate remark, before continuing. “They'll eat us alive! It's completely wrong! The shotgun is the only music these people understand, and the shotgun's tune is what we must play for them!” He looked around at his neighbors, seeking approval. But the room had fallen silent.

The moderator took the floor again. “Well, then. If I may interpret the thinking of this assembly,” said the journalist Raffaele Grassini, “we must choose between two streams of thought. That of Marquis Bellarato, who advocates the use of force, versus that of Prince Licata, who by contrast urges us to support the peasants' ambitious pipe dreams while maintaining control over their initiatives. At the entrance, you were handed invitation cards. Indicate on the back which of the two proposals you wish to support.”

The result of that vote would turn out to be a milestone for the Mafia in Sicily.

– 1938 –

T
he morning following Ninì Trovato's pronouncement, Ragusa, more distraught than ever, went to the town hall to try to find out what the absurd ordinance meant from a practical standpoint. He couldn't understand what being recorded as a member of the Jewish race in a civil status registry might lead to. Was it a good thing, or could it have ominous consequences? Someone would have to explain it to him.

He put on his best suit, knotted his tie, and, accompanied by his son, Saro, hastened toward the town clerk's office. He felt certain that fate did not have anything good in store. His thoughts went to his children. He had hoped for a better future for them than his own, even if it were far away from that grudging land. Stellina, his youngest daughter, had married a quiet boy from Marsala, a city on the west coast of the island, and was perhaps better off than all of them. But Ester, the eldest, his first wife's daughter, had just turned twenty-eight, and, despite her teaching diploma, she could not manage to find a job, much less a good husband. And then there was Saro, the little orphan they had adopted when he was still an infant and raised as their own son.

Saro was shy; too sober for someone his age. A very intelligent boy, a ray of sunshine, with a thatch of light brown hair that he tried in vain to keep out of his eyes. At school he had always been the brightest in the class, but he'd had to settle for working for Domenico the barber, and for this, Ragusa could not forgive himself.

When they arrived at town hall, Ragusa asked to see the town clerk.

At that time, the appointed mayor of Salemi was Lorenzo Costa, a Ligurian who had landed in Sicily in 1918 as commander of a troop of Royal Guardsmen. Costa had managed to adapt to the changing times and, after his experience with the Royal Guard, had gone on to the new police corps, eventually founding a section of the Italian League of Combatants in Salemi. His political climb ultimately had led him to the town's highest office. As mayor, he had appointed his most trusted man as town clerk: Michele Fardella, the only one who knew about all his misdeeds. He had assigned command of the local
Fasci
, the action squad or combat league, to Jano Vassallo, the son of Gaetano Vassallo. The elder Vassallo had been the leader of one of the most violent outlaw bands in the Salemi region prior to fascism and hadn't been heard of for many years now.

The action squad was made up of a group of dissolute young troublemakers, always ready to use their fists, emboldened by the authority conferred on them by Rome and by the personal protection of the mayor. In addition to Jano, the gang of tough guys included five of Salemi's most desperate young men. The youngest was Ginetto, a real coward, though in a group, he punched harder than anyone else. Then there was Nunzio, the eldest son of Manfredi, one of the many emigrants from the early days. Prospero Abbate, Cosimo, and Quinto were the other three for whom the word
bastards
could be considered a compliment. Jano, their worthy leader, was a strapping young man with brawny shoulders and legs, whose presence aroused dread among the area's inhabitants.

Lorenzo Costa, who now had to think mainly about maintaining public order in the territory under his jurisdiction, tolerated him and tried to contain his rages.

Jano had survived a rebellious childhood. He had been the despair of every teacher who, one after the other, had tried to tame him. The slaughter of his family, which he had witnessed as a child, had scarred his psyche for life. He hated the world and had turned violent. Luckily for him, with the dawn of fascism, he had been placed in an unprincipled organization that readily welcomed him. In some ways, the action squad represented his salvation, though paranoia had by that time enclosed him in a dark labyrinth.

Jano wanted payback, in blood. He hated Dr. Ragusa because the physician had failed to save his mother when she gave birth to twins. He hated Rosario Losurdo, Prince Ferdinando Licata's estate manager, because he had gotten away with only five years of prison for the massacre of Jano's family. He hated his own father, the outlaw Gaetano Vassallo, because at the time of the murders, he had thought only of saving himself, abandoning his family to the mercy of the killers. He hated his mother too because she had chosen that vile man as a husband. In short, he had a grudge against the entire world.

Jano and his militiamen had turned a room of the municipal building into their base of operations. Seeing Dr. Ragusa there in the town hall was a welcome surprise for them, an excellent chance to have some fun.

“Well, well, Doctor, you've come to pay us a visit!” Ginetto said loudly as he leaned against the doorway, smoking.

Ragusa strode past him without slowing down, followed by Saro. “Ginetto, why aren't you in school at this hour?” the doctor scolded him, asserting his authority.

The boy broke away from the door as if caught in the act and said uncertainly, “But I don't go anymore. I'm big.”

“Big? Don't make me laugh.” But by now Dr. Ragusa and his son were already climbing the staircase leading to the main floor, where the offices of the mayor and the town clerk were located. At that moment, Jano intervened.

“Hey, Doc, where do you think you're going?” Jano yelled after him.

“I was summoned by the town clerk,” Ragusa lied, not slowing his steps. Moments later, he entered the office of Michele Fardella and stood before him at his desk.

Fardella did not use the desk for working, since he couldn't actually read, much less write. It was merely a pretense to justify his salary. The real work was done by the clerks on the ground floor, crammed into a large room spilling over with papers and file folders.

“Signor Fardella, I won't waste your time,” the doctor began as he took a seat. “Yesterday I heard Ninì say that we had to come down to the town hall. Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

“What are you talking about, Doctor?”

“What do you mean, what am I talking about? Who sent Ninì around to tell the Jews that they had to report to the public records office? Was it a joke?” The doctor was beginning to lose patience. Saro gestured to his father to calm down.

“One moment.” Michele Fardella, who didn't like being caught off guard, stood up and went to the door. “De Simone!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Then he sat down with Ragusa again, smiling, and held out a pack of
Popolari
, which the doctor refused. Ignoring Saro, the clerk stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, leaning back in his chair. “A little patience, and we'll clear up the mystery.”

Seconds later, in came De Simone, an elderly clerk who performed the work of ten people at the town hall. He was out of breath after running up the stairs. He didn't even have the strength to introduce himself.

“What is all this about the Jews?” Fardella asked.