The Sicilian (26 page)

“That reassures me,” Guiliano said. “Your personal guarantee shows the kindness of your heart and why people in Sicily call you ‘The Good Soul.’ But the treachery of Rome is notorious, and politicians—we know what they are. I would like someone I trust to hear Trezza’s promise from his own lips and a document from him that gives some assurances.”

The Don was astounded. All during the interview he had had feelings of fondness for Turi Guiliano. He had thoughts of what it would have been if this youth had been his son. Oh, how they could have ruled Sicily together. And with what grace he had said, “I kiss your hand.” The Don for one of the few times in his life had been charmed. But now he realized that Guiliano was not accepting his assurances, and his feeling of affection dimmed. He was conscious of those curiously half-closed eyes resting on him with a peculiar stare awaiting further proofs, further assurances. The guarantees of Don Croce Malo were not enough.

There was a long silence, the Don considering what he should say, the rest waiting. Hector Adonis tried to cover his dismay at Guiliano’s persistence and his fear of the Don’s reaction. Father Benjamino’s white pudgy face had the look of an insulted bulldog. But finally the Don spoke and reassured them all. He had reasoned out what was in Guiliano’s mind and what he would need.

“It is to my interest that you agree,” he said to Guiliano, “and so perhaps I was carried away with my own arguments. But let me help you decide in this fashion. Let me say first of all that Minister Trezza will never give you any document—that is too dangerous. But he will speak to you and speak the promises he spoke to me. I can secure letters from Prince Ollorto and other powerful members of the nobility who are committed to our cause. Perhaps better than that, I have a friend who may convince you more—the Catholic Church will support your pardon. I have the word of the Cardinal of Palermo. After you hear Minister Trezza I will arrange an audience with the Cardinal. He, too, will make the promise directly to you. And there you have it, the promise of the Minister of Justice for all of Italy, the sacred word of a Cardinal of the Holy Catholic Church who might someday be our Pope, and myself.”

It was impossible to describe the manner in which the Don spoke the last two words. His tenor voice sank humbly as if he almost did not dare to include his name with the others, and there was an extra charge of energy in the words “and myself” that left no doubt as to the importance of his promise.

Guiliano laughed. “I can’t go to Rome.”

Don Croce said, “Then send someone you trust absolutely. I will bring him to Minister Trezza personally. And then I will bring him to the Cardinal. Surely you can trust the word of a prince of the Holy Church?”

Guiliano watched Don Croce intently. Warning signals were going off in his brain. Why was the Don so anxious to help him? Certainly he knew that he, Guiliano, could not go to Rome, that he would never take that risk, even if a thousand cardinals and ministers gave their word. So whom did the Don expect him to name as his emissary?

“There is no person I trust more than my second in command,” he said to the Don. “Bring Aspanu Pisciotta with you to Rome, and to Palermo. He likes the big cities, and maybe if the Cardinal hears his confession, even his sins will be forgiven.”

Don Croce leaned back and motioned to Hector Adonis to fill his coffee cup. It was an old trick of his, to mask his satisfaction and sense of triumph. As if the matter at hand was so uninteresting that an external desire could take its place. But Guiliano, who had proved such a brilliant guerrilla fighter once he became a bandit, had an intuitive insight into the reading of men’s motions and patterns of thought. He immediately sensed the feeling of satisfaction. Don Croce had won a very important goal. He could not guess that Don Croce wanted more than anything else time to be alone with Aspanu Pisciotta.

Two days later Pisciotta accompanied Don Croce to Palermo and Rome. Don Croce treated him as if he were royalty. And indeed Pisciotta had the face of the Borgia general, Cesare. The sharp planes, the tiny mustache, the Asiatic sallow darkness of the skin, the cruel and insolent eyes, so alive with charm and an impudent suspicion of everything in the world.

In Palermo they stayed in the Hotel Umberto, owned by Don Croce, and Pisciotta was shown every courtesy. He was taken out to buy new clothes for his meeting in Rome with the Minister of Justice. He dined with Don Croce at the finest restaurants. And then Pisciotta and Don Croce were received by the Cardinal of Palermo.

It was extraordinary that Pisciotta, a young man from a small town in Sicily, brought up in the Catholic faith, was not awed by this audience, by the great halls of the Cardinal’s palace, the dignified obsequiousness to the holy power shown by all. When Don Croce kissed the Cardinal’s ring, Pisciotta looked at the Cardinal with a proud stare.

The Cardinal was a tall man. He wore a red beret and a scarlet sashed cloak. His features were coarse and marked with smallpox. He was not a man who would ever receive a single vote for the papacy, despite Don Croce’s rhetoric, but he was a seasoned intriguer, a Sicilian born.

There were the usual politenesses. The Cardinal gravely inquired after Pisciotta’s spiritual health. He reminded him that whatever sins were committed here on earth, no man must forget that eternal forgiveness awaited him if he were a proper Christian.

After thus assuring Pisciotta of his spiritual amnesty, the Cardinal got down to the pit of the olive. He told Pisciotta that the Holy Church was in mortal danger here in Sicily. If the Communists won the national elections, who could know what would happen? The great cathedrals would be burned and gutted and turned into machine tool plants. The statues of the Virgin Mary, the crosses of Jesus, the effigies of all the saints would be thrown into the Mediterranean. The priests would be murdered, nuns raped.

At this last, Pisciotta smiled. What Sicilian, no matter how mad dog a Communist, would ever dream of raping a nun? The Cardinal saw that smile. If Guiliano would help suppress the Communist propaganda before the next election, he, the Cardinal himself, would preach a sermon on Easter Sunday exhorting the virtues of Guiliano and asking the clemency of the government in Rome. And Don Croce could tell the same thing to the Minister when they met in Rome.

With this the Cardinal concluded the interview and blessed Aspanu Pisciotta. Before he left, Aspanu Pisciotta asked the Cardinal for a little note he could give to Guiliano to show the interview had taken place. The Cardinal complied. The Don was astonished by this idiocy on the part of a Prince of the Holy Church but said nothing.

The meeting in Rome was more Pisciotta’s style. Minister Trezza did not pretend to the spiritual qualities of the Cardinal. After all he was a Minister of Justice and this Pisciotta merely a bandit’s courier. He explained to Pisciotta that if the Christian Democratic party lost the election, the Communists would take extraordinary measures to wipe out the last bandits remaining in Sicily. It was true that the
carabinieri
still mounted expeditions against Guiliano, but that could not be helped. Appearances must be preserved or the radical newspapers would scream to the high heavens.

Pisciotta interrupted him. “Is Your Excellency telling me that your party can never give Guiliano amnesty?”

“It will be difficult,” Minister Trezza said, “but not impossible. If Guiliano helps us win the election. If he then remains quiet for a time without committing any kidnappings or robberies. If he lets his name be not so notorious. Perhaps he could even emigrate to America for a time and return forgiven by everyone. But one thing I can guarantee, if we win the election. We will not mount serious efforts to capture him. And if he wishes to emigrate to America we will not prevent him or persuade the American authorities to deport him.” He paused for a moment. “Personally I will do everything in my power to persuade the President of Italy to pardon him.”

Pisciotta said again with his slight smile, “But if we become model citizens, how do we eat, Guiliano and his men and their families? Is there perhaps a way of the government paying us? After all, we’re doing their dirty work.”

Don Croce who had been listening with his eyes shut, like a sleeping reptile, spoke quickly to stop the angry reply of the Minister of Justice who was bursting with fury that this bandit dared to ask the government for money.

“A joke, Your Excellency,” Don Croce said. “He’s a young lad his first time out of Sicily. He doesn’t understand the strict moralities of the outside world. The question of support does not concern you in the least. I will arrange that with Guiliano myself.” He gave Pisciotta a warning glance to keep still.

But the Minister suddenly had a smile on his face and said to Pisciotta, “Well, I’m glad to see the youth of Sicily have not changed. I was like that once. We’re not afraid to ask what’s due us. Maybe you would like something more concrete than promises.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a red-bordered laminated card. Tossing it to Pisciotta, he said, “This is a special pass signed by me personally. You can move anyplace in Italy or Sicily without the police bothering you. It’s worth its weight in gold.”

Pisciotta bowed his thanks and put the pass in his jacket pocket, inside next to his breast. On their journey to Rome he had seen Don Croce use such a pass; he knew he had received something of value. But then the thought struck him: What if he were captured with it? There would be a scandal that would shake the country. The second in command of Guiliano’s band carrying a security pass issued by the Minister of Justice? How could that be? His mind raced to solve the puzzle, but he could come up with no answer.

The gift of such an important document showed an act of faith and good will on the Minister’s part. The magnificence of Don Croce’s hospitality on the trip was gratifying. But all this did not convince Pisciotta. Before he left he asked Trezza to write a note to Guiliano verifying that the meeting had taken place. Trezza refused.

When Pisciotta returned to the mountains Guiliano questioned him closely, making him repeat every word he could remember. As Pisciotta showed him the red-bordered pass and voiced his puzzlement as to why it had been given him and the dangers the Minister ran in signing such a pass, Guiliano patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a true brother,” he said. “You’re so much more suspicious than I am, and yet your loyalty to me has blinded you to the obvious. Don Croce must have told him to give you the pass. They hope you will make a special trip to Rome and become their informer.”

“That whore’s goat,” Pisciotta said with terrible anger. “I’ll use this pass to go back and slit his throat.”

“No,” Guiliano said. “Keep the pass. It will be useful to us. And another thing. That may look like Trezza’s signature, but of course it’s not. It’s a forgery. If it suits their purpose they can deny the pass is legitimate. Or if it suits their purpose they can say certainly it’s in order and produce records that the pass was authorized by Trezza. If they claim it’s a forgery they just destroy the records.”

Pisciotta recognized the truth of this. With each day he felt a growing amazement that Guiliano who was so open and honest in his feelings could fathom the twisted schemes of his enemies. He realized that at the root of Guiliano’s romanticism was the brilliant penetration of paranoia.

“Then how can we believe they will keep their promises to us?” Pisciotta said. “Why should we help them? Our business isn’t politics.”

Guiliano considered this. Aspanu had always been cynical, and a little greedy too. They had quarreled a few times about the spoils of some robberies, Pisciotta urging a larger share for members of the band.

“We have no choice,” Guiliano said. “The Communists will never give me amnesty if they win control of the government. Right now the Christian Democrats and Minister Trezza and the Cardinal of Palermo and of course Don Croce must be our friends and comrades in arms. We must neutralize the Communists, that’s the most important thing. We’ll meet with Don Croce and settle the matter.” He paused and patted Pisciotta’s shoulder. “You did well to get the Cardinal’s note. And the pass will be useful.”

But Pisciotta was not convinced. “We’ll do their dirty work for them,” he said. “And then we’ll hang around like beggars waiting for their pardon. I don’t believe any of them—they talk to us as if we were foolish girls, promising us the world if we get into bed with them. I say we fight for ourselves, keep the money we make with our work instead of distributing it to the poor. We could be rich and live like kings in America or Brazil. That’s our solution and then we won’t have to count on those
pezzonovanti
.”

Guiliano decided to explain exactly how he felt. “Aspanu,” he said, “we must gamble on the Christian Democrats and Don Croce. If we win and gain our pardon, the people of Sicily will elect us to lead them. We’ll win everything.” Guiliano paused for a moment and smiled at Pisciotta. “If they play us false, neither you nor I will faint with surprise. But how much will we have lost? We must fight the Communists in any case; they are more our enemies than the Fascists. And so their doom is certain. Now, listen to me carefully. You and I think alike. The final battle will be after we defeat the Communists and must take arms against the Friends of the Friends and Don Croce.”

Pisciotta shrugged. “We are making a mistake,” he said.

Guiliano, though he smiled, was thoughtful. He knew Pisciotta liked the life of an outlaw. It fitted his character, and though he was quick-witted and cunning, he did not have imagination. He could not make a jump into the future and see the inescapable fate that awaited them as outlaws.

Later that night, Aspanu Pisciotta sat on the edge of the cliff and tried to smoke a cigarette. But a sharp pain in his chest made him stub it out and put the butt in his pocket. He knew his tuberculosis was getting worse, but he also knew that if he rested in the mountains for a few weeks, he would feel better. What worried him was something he had not told Guiliano.