The Prince (2 page)

Mimmo Ferro's tavern, which overlooked Salemi's central piazza, was on the side opposite the church,
Chiesa Madre
, facing the imposing walls of the Norman castle where Giuseppe Garibaldi had proclaimed himself dictator of Sicily in 1860. The tavern, along with the house of God, was the only area of town where one could gather after a hard day's work. The church was favored by women and the elderly; the tavern, by men and the young.

That late October afternoon, Mimmo Ferro served a second carafe of red wine at the table where the game of
Tocco
was being played. The table was crowded with townspeople. There were workers from the stone quarries and sulfur mines, along with managers and private guards from the landed estates. Rarely did farmers or shepherds join the game—not just because you had to have a little money to participate but also because you had to have a certain degree of oratorical skill, which peasants and flock tenders were known to lack.

Around the table were Nicola Cosentino, one of Rosario Losurdo's guards, and Curzio Turrisi, one of the Marquis Pietro Bellarato's. Seated near them were Domenico the barber, Turi Toscano the salt miner, Pericle Terrasini the charcoal burner, Alfio the quarryman, Fabio from the sulphur mine, and an indeterminate number of villagers who clamored behind them, some standing, some sitting on small stools, rooting first for one group then the other.

The object of the game was to allow one's cronies to drink the most glasses of wine and at the same time humiliate one's rivals by getting one of them drunk and leaving the others thirsty. The “boss,” who was responsible for doling out the carafe of wine, was chosen by drawing lots. But the one who actually determined the outcome, by deciding each time who would drink and who would lose—that is, go thirsty—was his helper, the real boss of the game, which lasted the time it took to consume three carafes of wine. No one would move from Mimmo Ferro's tavern until the last drop of nectar had been poured into the glasses, even if it meant returning home late.

Ninì Trovato's drum roll attracted the attention of the tavern's customers. Those who weren't playing headed for the door, going outside to hear what the old town crier had to proclaim.

At that moment, Prince Ferdinando Licata and Monsignor Antonio Albamonte were strolling up Via Garibaldi, a narrow winding street that terminated at Piazza del Castello.

Licata loved talking with the cultured monsignor. They often met toward the end of the day while both were awaiting the dinner hour. Their frequent discussions led them to endless ruminations, since their concepts of the world and of life were drastically different. Nevertheless, they respected each other: the monsignor had given up on converting the prince to his mystical notions, and Ferdinando Licata had abandoned his attempts to modify the priest's views on Voltaire.

Together they were an odd couple. Licata, tall and slender, towered almost comically over Don Antonio, who was short and stout with a plump, round face and big eyes that twinkled with cunning and wit. Physically, aside from the prince's wavy black hair, there was nothing typically Sicilian about him. In addition to being over six feet tall, he had eyes as blue as the May sky, a trait inherited from his father, a nobleman of Welsh origin. Nor did his extremely formal manner correspond to the Sicilian temperament. However, he did betray his ancient island origins, on his great-grandmother's side, in his behavior: his actions were always measured, and he was reluctant to reveal his emotions. Licata's humor and “stiff upper lip” suggested the Anglo-Saxon strains of his great-grandfather, a member of the venerable English aristocracy to whom he owed his title.

Ninì Trovato had shaken the town's peaceful atmosphere. Several children ran gleefully around the crier trying to touch that fascinating instrument, likely an ancient relic from the Napoleonic campaigns. A number of people went to their windows, among them Peppino Ragusa, the district physician. He was even more impoverished than his fellow townsmen, who were rarely able to pay him for his miraculous interventions.

Interrupting his examination of a little boy afflicted with lice, he moved to the window to hear the words of the proclamation. The boy's mother, curious, went over as well, though she respectfully remained a step behind him.

The two looked on as Ninì approached the center of the piazza and in a loud voice began his incredible announcement.

The words bellowed by the town crier made Dr. Ragusa shudder.

Ninì pounded his drum again and repeated the odious edict: “Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! . . . The mayor decrees that all Jews must be reported to the authorities and recorded in the civil status registry. And he demands that all residents of the town belonging to the Jewish race appear at the registry office.”

On October 6, 1938, the Fascist Grand Council had issued the infamous “racial laws,” a series of decrees intended to exalt the Italian race as pure Aryan. This was the apparent justification, subscribed to, moreover, by ten scientists of dubious principles. But the entire world realized that it was a concession that Premier Benito Mussolini had made to his friend Adolf Hitler of Nazi Germany, who just a few months earlier had come to Rome on an official visit. The aim was to crush the Jewish people. Their Italian citizenship was taken away, mixed marriages were nullified, and the race was declared unfit for military posts and public employment, as well as for several professions, such as teacher, lawyer, journalist, and magistrate.

For a segment of Italians, including Dr. Ragusa, the future promised to be more wretched than the already bleak present.

“Those poor Jews still haven't finished atoning for their deicide,” observed Don Antonio Albamonte, stopping in front of Mimmo Ferro's tavern.

Not even on this score did he and his friend the prince find themselves in agreement. Licata, in fact, shook his head. “Don Antonio, don't you understand that the Jews are just a scapegoat? It's been that way for centuries, and it will always be so.”

“Still, they're a greedy people,” the priest concluded as, trailed by the prince, he entered the tavern. The monsignor purchased his Tuscan cigars only from Mimmo Ferro. The entrance of the two interrupted the excited voices of the men playing
Tocco
. Everyone turned toward them. Those who were seated rose as a sign of respect, and those wearing caps took them off. Don Antonio asked Mimmo for his Tuscan cigars and glanced at the little crowd of players.

“You see, Prince, the entire philosophy of our people is summed up in this game. Never mind Aristotle and your Voltaire.” Mimmo handed the priest five cigars wrapped in wax paper. Don Antonio took one out, lit it, and inhaled a few puffs with pleasure.

“This is one of my many vices.” He smiled with false modesty.

“The cigar is a perfect symbol of pleasure,” remarked the prince. “Exquisite, yet it leaves us unsatisfied.” He smiled ironically and headed toward the door, followed by the monsignor. “But what did you mean to tell me about that game?” Licata prodded him.

The priest waved his hand in a sweeping gesture, as if to embrace the houses, the palazzi, and the people passing by. “You see all this? Here in Sicily, this is by no means reality. It is only a facade. The real world—who controls things and who makes the important decisions—remains underground. Invisible. Like in
Tocco
. The one who decides things is the boss's helper, who only
seems
to be under the boss but is the real one calling the shots.”

– 1920 –

B
ack in 1920, the Italian population was experiencing a period of intense crisis, with discontent among all social classes contributing to levels of extreme intolerance. The harvest that year produced the most disastrous yield farmers could remember, forcing the government to buy two-thirds of the country's required wheat abroad, at a price much higher than what the average Italian could afford to pay. In many cities, clashes between protesters and police became commonplace, with numerous strikes by the working classes, professional groups, and even government employees and teachers.

The situation was not as dramatic in Sicily as in the rest of Italy, because the farmers' discontent lacked the crucial backing of the masses of workers in large industries; but even there, the common people managed to make their voices heard violently, supported by socialist and popular fronts.

For these reasons, the great feudal landowners of western Sicily chose to meet in a secret assembly to chart the course of Sicily's economy in such a way that they would not lose control of power.

The meeting took place in the heart of Palermo on October 14, 1920, in the rooms of Palazzo Cesarò, whose proprietors were the Count and Countess Colonna, descendents of a branch of a famous Roman family that had arrived in Sicily in the thirteenth century. Invitations were distributed secretly to thirty-eight large-estate owners, as well as representatives of the clergy, politicians, and members of the press. Thirty-four turned up at the meeting: all of them men. Wives and lovers were excluded from the assembly, with the exception of the Countess Paola Colonna—in fact, the originator of the conspiracy—who acted as hostess.

Ferdinando Licata, who had recently turned forty, was among the last guests to arrive. He kissed the countess's hand before addressing her. “Donna Paola, it is an honor for me to meet you. I must admit that what they say about your charm is inadequate to convey what is felt in person.”

The noblewoman, advanced in years, was flattered by the prince's words and impressed by his elegant appearance. “Prince Licata, when a woman is young, she is said to be ‘beautiful,' but when she is on in years, the best thing that can be said of her is that she is ‘charming.' I would like to be remembered for my brain.”

Licata smiled. “Men are frightened of a woman who is beautiful and also endowed with intelligence. Your husband has indeed been fortunate.”

The countess gave him a smile of complicity, and, with that, let him know that he could consider himself free to move on.

Ferdinando Licata knew most of those present, and the few whom he had not yet had the pleasure of meeting were introduced to him by the host, Don Calogero Colonna himself.

Almost all of the attendees were noblemen who had inherited feudal estates that they held by the grace of God and the king. Among the political figures invited were the liberal Antonio Grassa, the republican parliamentarians Vito Bonanno and Ninì Rizzo. There was even a delegation of journalists with Raffaele Grassini, the official spokesman of the Agrarian Party, and in addition, there was a representative of the Church, Don Antonio Albamonte, who was also a member of the island's nobility.

At that time a simple parish priest of the Cathedral of Salemi, Don Antonio was the youngest of three brothers. Due to family arrangements, he had been forced by his father to embrace an ecclesiastical career. But in character and unscrupulousness, he did not differ significantly from the others present.

When introduced, Licata and Don Antonio took an instinctive and immediate liking to each other.

Ferdinando Licata approached the group that seemed most passionate. At its center, a baron waved his arms like a rabble-rouser. “It's all the fault of that idiot of a prime minister Salandra! To urge those few lazy good-for-nothings to fight during the war, he went and promised them that when they returned home, they would have ‘a piece of land all their own.' ”

“Salandra should have his tongue cut out,” echoed the honorable Ninì Rizzo.

“No one can stop them now. And it's not only the socialists,” ventured Marquis Pietro Bellarato, a short, stocky man who lacked the aristocratic bearing of a Licata.

“That plaster saint Don Sturzo and his Popular Party have also gotten into it,” a quarryman concurred. “Now they too want to divide up our estates to distribute them to the people. What kind of a revolution is this? I for one am against it.”

Paolo Moncada, the elderly prince of Valsavoia, joined in. “Devaluation is at historic lows and shows no sign of stopping. In one year, gold has risen from 5.85 liras per gram to well over 14.05 liras. That's 240 percent. A staggering figure!”

“The real plague to eradicate is the socialist scum,” Marquis Bellarato interjected firmly.

“The problem is that they possess a majority of seats in the Chamber of Deputies: one hundred fifty-six,” said Moncada, stroking his long white beard.

“But let's not forget,” the republican Vito Bonanno concluded with satisfaction, “that the socialists didn't even get one seat from Sicily.”

“True,” agreed Moncada. “And the fascists were also left empty-handed. In a couple of years, they too will disappear. The ones that worry me, on the other hand, are the hundred seats held by the Popular Party, by that damned priest—forgive me, Don Antonio—that Don Sturzo, who wears a black cassock, though it might as well be red.”

Raffaele Grassini, the journalist, joined the discussion. “Let's not overlook the fact, gentlemen, that these were the first genuinely free elections since the unification of Italy. We have to recognize that the socialists are the true representatives of the people.”

“This is the consequence of the right to vote, which our political signori chose to extend to all male citizens!” exclaimed Bellarato, the most hotheaded of the group. “Still, you have to consider that hardly more than fifty percent of the electorate voted.”

“That's because no one has ever had faith in parliament,” the quarryman offered. “Especially since the deputies were ignored by the king when it came time to decide on entering the Great War. Remember? The majority of deputies were in favor of not intervening, but the king decided all the same that we had to fight.”

“Today, however, it is parliament itself that sets the political price of bread. We can't support these prices anymore!” Marquis Pietro Bellarato shouted, attracting the attention of all present. “We're selling wheat at a quarter of its real price. Why should we have to take it out of our own pockets? These reds are ruining us!” The assembly nodded, concerned. “They want to sow terror among the peasantry; their goal is to create panic. They provoke us in order to fuel the people's resentment and incite them to take up arms to revolutionize the system, and gain possession of everything we own!” His final words silenced the entire gathering.