The Prince (16 page)

“We'll see about that,” was Captain Lorenzo Costa's only response.

Curzio then got a personal introduction to the tub found in the middle of the room. It was one of the most common methods used at the time to force suspects to confess to things they would otherwise never have confessed to.

The prisoner was made to undress completely, and then, summer or winter, he was plunged into icy water. The tub was too small for him to fit in entirely. His arms and legs, which were left dangling, were secured with wire to the sides of the tub, where metal rings had been specially welded. Immersed in salt water, the unfortunate victim would then be flogged with a scourge made from dried, braided ox tendons. The lashes stung more because of the salt water, but in return they did not leave any marks. If the man managed to resist the whipping—since often they had nothing to confess—the torturers would rip out his beard or mustache, one hair at a time, then with pliers move on to his nails, and finally burn the soles of his feet. If he still refused to talk, then it was time for the electric current, applied to his most delicate, intimate parts. During the interims, a funnel was shoved in his mouth and, with his nostrils pinched, he was forced to swallow salt water until his stomach distended grotesquely.

Though this method would have made even the Jesuits of the Inquisition blanch, it managed to contain the spread of criminality and the rise of subversive organizations in Sicily well past the end of fascism.

Curzio Turrisi did not experience all the variations of the
cassetta
, or “box,” as the tub was referred to in jargon. He was only able to endure it until they started tearing out his whiskers; then he succumbed and said he was willing to sign any document. Captain Costa then personally dictated a statement accusing Gaetano Vassallo's band of having carried out the two murders on behalf of an anonymous third party. That confession was enough to give Lorenzo Costa license to operate above the law itself.

The strategy used by the captain to find Gaetano Vassallo was the same one he had used to capture Curzio Turrisi. Searching for the bandit in the mountains would have been like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. So instead of hunting him on his own terrain, where the chances of success would be much slimmer, Costa decided to keep the dwellings and farms of Vassallo's relatives under surveillance from a distance. Especially the homestead of Geremia Vassallo, the brother who, with his wife, Rosalia, had taken on the care of the newborn twins and the two other children: Jano, the oldest, seven years of age, and Giovanni, a year younger.

Geremia, a sharecropper on the estate of a nobleman from Palermo, lived on a modest farm in Borgo Guarine, not far from Montagna Grande, the mountains where Vassallo's band gathered when they had to plan some villainous deed.

Captain Lorenzo Costa was able to wait. He knew from experience that it was only a matter of time, weeks or months maybe, but sooner or later the rat would return to its hole, triggering the trap.

Finally, one evening in late July, the trap sprang shut—and by the following morning, Salemi's world would never be the same again.

– 1939 –

F
erdinando Licata was packing his own suitcase for the trip to Trapani. As he threw his personal effects into the leather bag, he found himself wondering whether he had more friends or enemies. It wasn't the first time such strange thoughts had surfaced. At first he had driven them back into the black hole of the mind, but recently his brain had begun to embellish them, and sometimes despair prevailed, casting him into a deep state of gloom. Even the trips to Trapani to which he periodically treated himself had become the source of poignant reflection. Up until ten years ago, those trips had taken place weekly. Then he had began to spread the visits out to a couple of times a month, and then once a month. But finally he'd let a good three months go by since he'd last set off. He considered the constant packing and unpacking one of the many failures of his life. Turning his back on a family of his own, a wife, a child, was a decision that at the beginning hadn't cost him much concern. On the contrary, when he saw married men his age continually complaining about their wives, he felt privileged. He had managed to dodge the snares of marriage and boasted about it when other aristocrats held him up as an example. And all thanks to his sister Lavinia, who took care of running the palazzo.

Over the years, he had become a devoted customer at Francesca Gravina's brothel, known as one of the most exclusive in all of Sicily. He'd had sexual relations with young girls experiencing their first encounter as well as with more mature ladies, not to mention noblewomen who in the privacy of Francesca's alcoves sought to commit adultery with one of the island's most renowned men, though few people could claim to truly know him. With some of these women, the encounters had even gone on for several months. But when he began to see that feelings were outweighing passion, Ferdinando Licata always managed to very gently break the hold and continue the life of a perpetual bachelor.

Lately his visits to Francesca's establishment had become increasingly sporadic. His mind was not as blithe and carefree as it was when he was young.

That day, as he packed his suitcase, a hundred questions arose in his mind. He felt an overwhelming need for affection other than the kind he had known so far, a deep attachment that only a son can give. For some time now the many mistakes he'd made in his lifetime had been rising to the surface of his consciousness. The prince had attempted to silence those inner voices, but so far without success. He had hoped that the humiliation of the
lavatio
, the washing of his peasants' feet, could produce the desired result, but it had all been useless.

He decided that after the visit to Trapani he would face Manfredi and tell him that he could no longer sell him the Madonnuzza land. He would go back on his word. And what is a man if he loses his honor and dignity? Rosario Losurdo, his partner in villainy, had asked him for a favor. He could have refused him, he had the power and authority.

For days and days Ferdinando Licata was undecided whether to follow the path of honor or that of expediency. In the end he chose the path of least resistance. Crime is an unyielding partner. You can only break away if you are very strong and determined to free yourself, despite having to suffer the consequences.

So he climbed into the Alfa Romeo, and, saying good-bye to his sister, Lavinia, headed for Trapani. He was still driving along the back road in the direction of Calatafimi, before reaching the state highway, when he saw the Fiat pickup belonging to Jano's gang of Black Shirts emerge from a side road at moderate speed and proceed in his direction. Only the driver was in the cab, sniggering while glancing into the external rear-view mirror to see what was happening behind him. In the truck bed were five rowdy thugs, shouting and waving clubs in the air. Ferdinando Licata followed their gaze to see who they were harassing. Finally, he realized who the object of their excitement was. He recognized the unmistakably thick beard of Ciccio Vinciguerra, the destitute farmworker who had been at the Hundred Saints ceremony. His hands were tied to a long rope attached to the truck's tailgate. The poor man had been running for countless miles, pulled along like an animal, trying to avoid falling to the ground and being dragged. He was exhausted and had no more strength left. His torturers' sadism, however, was well calibrated, because the truck was moving at a slow enough speed so that Vinciguerra would not stumble and fall. Seeing what was happening, Licata made an abrupt U-turn, accelerated, passed the truck, and with a sharp swerve stopped his car crossways on the road. Since the driver was distracted by his comrades' shrieks, Licata thought it wise to run toward the truck and shout for him to stop. When the driver finally noticed the obstacle, he stepped on the brake as hard as he could. The pickup slid a few yards along the dirt road. The five in back, taken by surprise, tumbled over one another on the bottom of the truck bed. Meanwhile, Ciccio Vinciguerra kept running from inertia and collapsed behind the stopped vehicle, worn out, his lungs gasping for breath.

Licata went to him and began undoing the rope's knots. Meanwhile, Jano appeared over the side of the truck bed, enraged by the unexpected occurrence.

“What the hell is going on?” he yelled, his eyes bulging from their sockets. He jumped down with his club in hand, ready to use it. “Who the devil is butting in?” he hollered.

Prince Ferdinando Licata rose to his full height. Jano came up to his chin. The prince was angrier than he was.

“Jano, I'm going to report you to the mayor! This man is one of my farmhands! You are forbidden to lay a hand on any of my laborers, do you understand?” he shouted in a commanding voice.

Meanwhile, Jano had been joined by the other four Black Shirts.

Nunzio, Manfredi's son, appeared to be the most ruthless one. “Jano, let's give him a little taste of our good old castor oil. Then we'll see if he still feels like shouting.”

Licata wasn't intimidated. “Nunzio, how dare you talk about me that way? You're a disgrace to your family.”

Nunzio was about to hurl himself at Licata, but Jano stopped him. “Hold it, Nunzio. We can't lay a finger on the prince. But on
him
, we can.” He pointed to Ciccio Vinciguerra, who had risen from the ground and still short of breath, was unable to speak. “He said that fascism has done more harm than good in Sicily. I heard it with my own ears. That's called
disfattismo:
defeatism!”

“But we're not at war. ‘Defeatism!' ” Licata repeated scornfully. “Worry about maintaining public order and don't go picking on some poor man.” Prince Licata finished undoing the knots, and then took Vinciguerra by the shoulders and helped him walk as they started toward his car. “I'll take him home and pretend that none of this ever happened.”

“Hey, he can't treat us that way!” This time it was Ginetto, the youngest of the gang, who spoke up.

The prince heard him and turned around. “Ginetto, grow up for once and go to work. Your parents are sick and tired of supporting you.”

“Calm down, boys, let's all stay calm,” Jano said with authority. Then he shouted to the prince, who had now reached his car. “Prince Licata, there's no room for mummies like you anymore.” The five of them laughed uproariously at the jibe. Nunzio gave Jano a slap on the back, satisfied with how he had resolved the dispute in their favor. Ginetto and the others also exchanged rowdy punches to underscore their victory.

At that time, it didn't take much to make young troublemakers feel all-powerful.

Ferdinando Licata got in his Alfa Romeo and went back the way he had come, headed for Borgo Tafèle, where Rosario Losurdo's farmstead was located. Ciccio Vinciguerra needed protection, so Licata thought he should be moved from the Dell'Orbo estate, belonging to Prince Moncada, to the Castellana lands, belonging to Losurdo.

When they reached the farm, he found Losurdo negotiating the sale of some horses with two brokers who'd come from Marsala, on Sicily's west coast. Manfredi, his chief campiere, was helping Losurdo bargain. Seeing the prince arrive, Losurdo excused himself to his guests and went to meet him.

“Weren't you supposed to go to Trapani?” he asked the prince, surmising that there had been some mishap. Then he turned to Vinciguerra, who seemed more dead than alive. “Ciccio. What are you doing in the car with the prince?”

“
U patri
saved my life,” the man said, getting out of the car.

“Ciccio never says a word, but when he does he gets in trouble,” the prince declared as he approached Rosario Losurdo.

“What happened?”

“Jano and his buddies took him,” the prince explained in a loud voice so that everyone around could hear him. “They tied him to their truck with a rope and made him run through the countryside of Salemi.” Manfredi had also approached the group, though he remained a few feet away. The prince saw him and went over to him. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but your Nunzio was there as well.” The prince raised his voice, something he rarely did: “He disrespected me, do you understand? Me! He urged the others to give me castor oil! Nunzio, your son!” He tried to calm down. “I held Nunzio in my arms, didn't I, Manfredi? What have these children of ours become! Who recognizes them anymore! They've lost all respect and dignity. And they make their fathers lose it as well.”

Manfredi was mortified. He would have liked to disappear beneath the clods of soil if he could.
U patri
was right. Nunzio had lost respect for his elders. It was those revolutionary new ideas that the fascists had put in his head.

“Who knows what Jano and those other degenerates made him think he could become?” The prince had promised Manfredi possession of a plot of land in the Madonnuzza. Manfredi hoped with all his heart that the prince would not change his mind after what had happened.

But he was mistaken. Ferdinando Licata decided to take advantage of the situation to save a little of his own dignity. In fact, he took him by the arm and drew him away from the others to say in a regretful, albeit falsely so, tone: “I made you a promise a few weeks ago. And I was going to honor it when I returned from Trapani. But this incident really offended me. You can't be a benefactor to those who don't respect you.”

“But
patri
, you know how loyal and grateful I am to you. Nunzio, unfortunately, has latched on to that Jano like a leech. Damn him for what he did to you.”

“Let me finish. I know you, and I know how loyal you are to me. But these presumptuous usurpers are our enemy, do you understand what I mean, Manfredi? I can't stand by and allow them to eat my bread. Traitors must be kept at a distance. Them and those like them. I'm sorry Manfredi, but they've gone too far, enough is enough. Either your son falls back in line, or you and your family will have to clear out of Salemi.”