The Prince (19 page)

He had to keep his nerves steady. He had to find out who was responsible for that butchery. Then he would take his revenge. Whoever was behind the massacre would curse the day his mother had brought him into this world.

He tried to catch a name, a clue, anything the carabinieri might say. But he couldn't afford to draw suspicion upon himself, so he wandered among the little knots of peasants, pretending to be curious, asking first one then the other what had happened. He also had to be careful to avoid meeting the eyes of anyone who might know him, even though in his beggar's disguise it would be hard to recognize him.

After that ill-fated night, Vassallo felt as if he himself were dead. Consumed by guilt for not having been able to help his loved ones, he abandoned any idea of revenge and disappeared. No one ever heard any more about him, and some speculated that he'd hanged himself because he could no longer bear the weight on his conscience.

Chief Montalto discovered the trap door to the cellar, which had previously been perfectly hidden by the cradle. He walked through the entire tunnel before emerging two hundred yards away in a cave in the nearby mountain. The soil in some places had been recently disturbed. Cigarette butts indicated that someone had been waiting there for quite some time. By the end of his search, he had formed a clear idea of what had happened.

“I think Vassallo came to visit his family with these two felons,” he said to Captain Costa, pointing to the two outlaws lying near the doorway. “Someone set a trap for him, but he managed to escape through the tunnel and that ‘someone'—more than one, of course—took it out on his entire family.”

“I wonder who could have hated him so vehemently,” Captain Costa mused. “In any case, I wouldn't want to be in their shoes now. If Vassallo finds out who did this, he'll skin them alive with his own hands,” he concluded with a shudder.

“There is only one justice, and that's divine justice. But whoever did this will have to answer to human justice as well,” the chief brigadier agreed.

“But who could have such a deep-seated grudge against Vassallo?” Captain Costa purposely went on wondering.

“Vassallo has many friends who protect him, but just as many enemies who hate him. That outlaw has a pair of files filled with reports and accusations. Still, such savagery has never occurred around here.” Montalto thought for a long moment. “Yes, it's very unusual. These are people who come from outside.” The chief brigadier was beginning to come closer to the truth.

“I have an idea, however,” Captain Costa offered, to lead Montalto onto the desired track. “I heard from an informer that not so long ago Rosario Losurdo, Prince Ferdinando Licata's gabellotto, went to ask a favor of someone: guess who?”

“Vassallo?” Montalto deduced.

“The very one! And remember Marquis Bellarato, who was killed so atrociously in his palazzo that went up in flames?” The chief, all too aware of the incident, nodded. “Remember the charred body found in the palazzo, alongside the marquis?”

“Of course, I was the one who conducted the investigation. It was the corpse of Salvatore Turrisi,” Montalto said.

“Right. Naturally, you know that Turrisi was a member of Vassallo's band and that he was there to perform the favor that Losurdo had asked of Vassallo, most certainly as ordered by Prince Licata.”

“In fact, the prince had a vested interest in the marquis's death,” Montalto remarked.

“Because the marquis had gotten in the way of the purchase of a certain estate,” the captain went on. “The motive fits perfectly. At that point, Vassallo must have blackmailed the prince, and he decided to have Vassallo killed. Losurdo was sent to do the job. But when Vassallo escaped, he reacted ruthlessly against his family.”

Chief Brigadier Montalto shook his head. “I'm not convinced. Around here, we're all farmers and laborers. This is the work of professional cutthroats. No one commits such a reckless act of butchery, unless he's an outsider and a swine.”

– 1939 –

T
hat morning, the town clerk, Michele Fardella, himself brought Mayor Lorenzo Costa the notes he had found wedged under the knocker of the town hall door.

“Two more anonymous notes,” he told his former superior in the Royal Guard, placing the double-folded sheets on the desk.

Lorenzo Costa continued to leaf through the newspaper,
Il Giornale di Sicilia,
and didn't pay any attention to the notes.

Every day, at least two or three anonymous messages arrived at the town hall, through the oddest channels. Sometimes people were unhappy with how things were going, other times someone was denounced for having stolen someone else's animals, or, more prosaically, a betrayed lover exposed the duplicity of a woman who had dishonored him. All in all, the notes aptly represented the theater of everyday life in Salemi and the surrounding area.

“Do you have any orders for me this morning?” the trusted Fardella asked.

“No, Michele. You can go,” the mayor told him. “When you leave, turn on the radio.”

He tossed the newspaper on the desk and picked up the two notes. The first was carefully typed and signed “a group of employees.” “How conscientious,” the captain thought. Then, ensconced in his chair, he began reading.

“Your Excellency, We would like to inform you that Sicilian Insurance Company has fired all of its Jewish personnel, but ironically enough has kept its manager. The law should apply equally to everyone, especially fascist law, and we request that Your Excellency will take appropriate measures, since this is an abuse and contrary to the Duce's wishes.

“The manager has always been a tyrant, and he is no longer wanted at this firm, otherwise we will alert the proper authorities. Our respects . . .”

“Bastards, another headache to deal with,” the mayor fumed, slamming the sheet of paper onto the desk. One way or another, the issue had to be resolved. But he would think about it tomorrow.

He opened the second anonymous note. This one was just a few lines written by hand, but when he finished reading it he straightened up in his chair, alarmed, and carefully read it again.

“Open Salvatore Turrisi's coffin, and you will find a nice surprise. If you guess who the real corpse is, they'll dub you a knight. A friend.”

The mayor ran to the window to try to call back Michele Fardella. But the town clerk had already disappeared from view.

He read the note one more time and then let his memory travel back nineteen years. He recalled the murder of Marquis Bellarato, which was the reason he'd been sent from Palermo to Salemi in 1920. He remembered finding a second charred body, that of Salvatore Turrisi. Lorenzo Costa cursed the Sicilians and their habit of hiding behind anonymous notes. His sixth sense told him that the matter was covering up something very serious.

What joke did fate have in store for him?

Jano had become obsessed with Mena. The girl was able to make him forget his animosities and smoldering rage, and her good humor, irony, and no-nonsense ways stirred feelings that he had never felt for anyone, not even his mother. Was that perhaps love? Her lovely face, the green eyes that contrasted with her long black hair, made him feel almost dizzy. He couldn't get her out of his mind. He absolutely had to have her as his wife.

Jano was musing on these sweet thoughts as he sat hunched beside the window of the truck that Nunzio was driving, headed toward Borgo Fazio. They had to pick up some furniture for the mayor there.

They hadn't yet said a word since leaving Salemi. Nunzio was whistling a catchy little tune to keep himself company. Jano was studying the landscape in front of him when he saw a buggy pulled by an amber-colored mare appear around a curve, coming in the opposite direction. He recognized Mena immediately; there wasn't a woman in Salemi who could handle the reins as capably as she could. In fact, as soon as the girl saw the truck coming toward her, in the center of the roadway, she slowed the mare's pace and directed her to the side of the road.

“Slow down, slow down.” Jano shook Nunzio, who was lost in his own thoughts.

Nunzio braked and steered the truck to the edge of the road. “Stop. It's Mena.”

Even before the truck came to a halt, after passing the buggy, Jano leaped to the ground and turned back to the young woman, who had stood up.

“Mena. What a surprise. I never thought I'd meet you here.” He walked over to the buggy, resting his hand on the iron handhold for climbing up.

“I brought lunch to my brothers,” she said coolly.

Without giving her a chance to react, Jano got into the carriage and took the reins from her hands. “I'll take you home,” he said and then turned to Nunzio, who was watching from the window of the truck. “You go on, I'll see you later.”

He was as happy as a child over that unexpected meeting. The truck drove off, and only then did Mena realize that she was left alone with Jano.

“We can't ride together. If my father sees me, he'll tear me limb from limb,” the girl said firmly.

But Jano had already whipped the mare, who, with a sudden jerk, started trotting briskly again, sensing a more authoritative hand guiding her. The buggy's lurch made Mena fall against Jano, who smiled and put his arm around her waist.

“Hey, Mena, don't get me all roused up, though.”

“Don't touch me.” She made him move his hand. “You're really determined to make me lose my honor today, aren't you, Jano?”

He laughed heartily and cracked the whip, making the mare pick up her pace.

“Being here with you is a dream. Do you know you've bewitched me? I'm always distracted while I'm working, because I'm thinking about your eyes.” He tried to slow the horse's trot now, not wanting that enchanted moment to end too soon.

“I didn't know you worked,” the girl teased him. He fell for it. “I'm a big shot, what do you think? You won't see me ending up like these yokels. A wife of mine will be looked up to and respected like a lady.” He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.

Mena, however, drew away from him and moved to the far end of the seat.

“Come on, don't be like that.” Jano took both reins in one hand and, with his right hand, tried to pull the girl toward him. “My intentions are serious.” His eyes blazed with desire, and with a tug he managed to grab hold of her.

Mena became more adamant. “Listen, I don't like this. Get out, now.” She realized that Jano was about to overstep his bounds.

Jano stopped the horse in the middle of the road and then turned to the girl, trying to take her by the shoulders and put his arms around her. “Mena, I'm crazy about you. I want to marry you. Please, don't say no.” He tried to kiss her neck, but the girl twisted free.

“Jano, stop, for the love of God!” She struck him with her fists, but Jano, stirred by the contact with her soft skin, could no longer control himself.

“One kiss! Just one kiss! Mena, you'll see, it will be beautiful. You need someone like me . . . You'll like it.”

Mena tried to break away and get out of the buggy. She stood up from the seat, but Jano grabbed her by the wrist, forced her to sit down again and threw himself on her. Mena cried out frantically and clawed his face with her fingernails. He drew back, rubbing the scratches. Mena watched him, terrified, and began whimpering.

Jano stopped the bleeding with his hand and sat up, incredulous. “Forgive me! I beg you to forgive me! I told you: you drive me crazy. I don't know what came over me. Mena, I beg you to forgive me.” Sincerely distraught, he took her hand and kissed it humbly, continuing to ask for her forgiveness.

Mena was truly frightened. She dabbed her hand with the edge of her blouse, wiping away the traces of blood left by Jano. Then in a faint voice she said, “Take me home now. My parents will be worried.”

Jano, without another word, took the reins and signaled the mare, who resumed her rhythmic trot. They did not speak the rest of the way.

Jano was trying to find a way to salvage the regrettable situation. With a handkerchief, he cleaned away the blood that had clotted over the scratches. In the distance he saw the houses of Borgo Tafèle.

Mena recognized the trees and clusters of prickly pear surrounding the farm before he did.

A few minutes later, they entered the courtyard of the farmstead. Nicola, one of Manfredi's sons, left the cart he was using to transport cow dung out to the manure heap and ran to slow the horse, grabbing the mare by the bit. The figure of Rosita appeared at the kitchen window. Spotting Jano and seeing her daughter's face, the woman realized that something distasteful had happened. She went to meet the two, while Rosario Losurdo hurried back to the farm from the toolshed, where he had seen Mena's buggy returning, though driven by Jano.

Rosita was the first to reach the two young people. “Mountains never meet—” the woman said to Jano.

“—but sooner or later, people do,” the young man said, completing the proverb.

Rosita couldn't help but notice the bloody scratches on his cheek. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“A branch along the way, nothing serious.”

Meanwhile, Rosario Losurdo joined them, worried as well about the unusual arrival. “Mena, did you get lost?”

The girl didn't answer. Lowering her eyes, she went into the house, followed by Rosita. Nicola took the opportunity to lead the horse and buggy toward the barn.

His daughter's silence alarmed Losurdo, who stiffened and took a step toward Jano.

“Jano, where's your horse? Should I begin to worry?” Then he focused on the marks on the young man's face. “What did you do to your cheek?”

Finally, Jano decided to speak: “You know how highly I regard you and how much I respect your entire family. I've seen how you raised your children. I am honored to be a friend of Michele and Donato.” He uttered the last lie with his gaze down, not to give himself away. Then he looked up and met Rosario Losurdo's eyes. “I'm in love with Mena, and today I'm asking you formally for her hand. I have a good job, and I can support her in excellent style—”