The Prince (25 page)

“So that's what it's about?” Lucia asked, stunned. “This young man is a disgrace to the whole town!”

“He's been buzzing around the farm like a hornet for some time now,” Rosita kept pressing him. “Marshal, I'm afraid one of my sons might do something foolish.”

“If I see him around the farm again, I'll shoot him,” Michele threatened boastfully.

“Young man, you won't shoot anybody!” the marshal admonished. Then, approaching Mena, he asked, “Is what they're saying true?”

“Jano is a bully,” Mena replied. “Once, when I went to bring lunch to Michele and Donato, he climbed onto the buggy. We were alone, and he tried to kiss me. But I made him behave.”

“Scumbag!” Michele snarled.

“Easy now, let's not get excited,” Marshal Montalto was now really worried. “I'll speak to Jano myself. But don't do anything on your own, or the results may be tragic. Listen to me, Michele. You're in charge of the family now. Don't do anything crazy.”

The young man, who had only recently turned twenty-one, nodded, his head bowed as if accepting the responsibility the marshal had just placed on him.

After that first stop, Rosita continued on to the home of Dr. Ragusa.

As soon as Annachiara opened the door and saw her standing there, she burst into uncontrollable weeping. The two women held each other in a long, sisterly embrace. Annachiara could not stop sobbing. She was genuinely touched by Rosita's visit. Ester went to her mother and handed her a handkerchief, as Saro led Mena and Michele inside.

“Don't cry, Annachiara. I've already been to see Marshal Montalto. He'll set everything straight, you'll see,” Rosita told her as she went in and sat down at the dining table.

“You don't know how much I appreciate this gesture of yours, Rosita,” Annachiara said, wiping her eyes and smoothing back the blonde curls that had come loose when they embraced.

“We have to help each other. Those swine have it in for our men. But we'll give them a dose of their own medicine.”

“We've lost everything. They treat us like lepers.” Annachiara was about to burst into tears again.

Mena went over to Saro. “I'd like some water.”

“Come with me, Mena.”

They went into the big kitchen, and Saro picked up a glazed earthenware jug. He tipped it over slowly to pour water into a glass, but the pitcher was empty. He smiled at his oversight. “I'll go to the well and get some,” Saro said.

“I'll go with you,” Mena said simply.

Saro's heart jumped. They went out the back of the house and headed toward the well. Beside it stood a flourishing fig tree that in summer offered a pleasing canopy of shade known throughout the neighborhood.

“My mother is inconsolable,” said Saro, his heart clamoring, taking the metal pail as Mena held the rope.

“Mine, instead, is like a man,” Mena said with a smile. “If it were up to her, she would already have bumped off all the mayors and fascists in the surrounding area.”

“I can't see your mother in the role of dark avenger.” Saro smiled too as he lowered the pail into the well. “Are you like her?” he asked after a moment of silence.

But Mena didn't answer. She continued letting out the rope that Saro held firmly in his hands. “Saro, how old are you?” she asked him out of the blue.

“Me?”

“Do you see anyone else around?” she teased.

Saro's heart was about to burst. “Twenty-one,” he said, as he began hauling up the pail full of water.

“And at your age you're not married?”

Not only was Saro still unmarried, but he was still a virgin. Despite the fact that all his friends had already been to the prostitutes in Marsala more than once.

Mena's question made him blush. “What kind of question is that to ask?”

“Answer me.”

“No, I'm not married. Do you see any wife around here?” Saro playfully answered.

“Well, there could be,” Mena murmured softly.

The rope slipped through the young man's hands, and the pail fell into the water with a splash. He almost lost the rope altogether. Mena burst out laughing, covering her mouth with pale, slender hands that had not yet been ruined by heavy farm work.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“I would never do that, Saro,” she said, pronouncing his name with sincere fervor.

The two gazed into each other's eyes, not moving; enjoying that moment of intimacy. Mena was the first to break the spell: “Pull up the water.”

Saro recovered the pail and poured water into the pitcher that Mena was holding; placing her lips on the rim, the young woman took a long drink. A trickle of water dripped onto her blouse and slid down her chest. When she was done she handed the jug to Saro, turning it around so that he could drink from the same place she had. Saro gripped the pitcher and drank, placing his lips exactly where Mena had rested hers, without once taking his eyes off Mena's green gaze.

“Let's go back now,” the girl said and started out, followed by the young man.

Saro stored that meeting in his heart as one of the most intense moments of his life. Mena too would never forget it.

The following day, Jano went to the town hall to report the arrests of Rosario Losurdo and Dr. Ragusa to the mayor. But Lorenzo Costa received him with an expression that did not bode well. Michele Fardella, the mayor's trusted shield, was also present.

“You disobeyed my orders,” the mayor began, coming straight to the point. “I told you to make the arrests all together, at dawn.”

“That's just what I did,” Jano said, trying to appease him.

“No!” yelled Costa, banging his fist on the desk and rising from his chair. “You did not do that! You're a liar and, what's more, unreliable, since you don't follow orders!” When Costa got angry, he made the windowpanes tremble.

“It's unfair of you to say that.”

“You couldn't wait until dawn, no! You had to hurry and arrest the doctor so you could have your little satisfaction over Saro, right? Couldn't you have waited?”

Jano, stammering, didn't know what to say to justify himself.

“You gave the prince a chance to get away! Losurdo would have skipped out too, if he wasn't the idiot he is.” The mayor strode around the office as Jano, dazed, stood in the center of the room. He hung his head, annoyed by the presence of Fardella, who was laughing quietly to himself.

“Tell me, what am I going to do with you?” Costa asked as he walked over to him. “Go ahead, you may speak now.”

“I arrested the doctor and Losurdo.”

“That much I already knew. Tell me something I don't know.” Costa was now having fun with his subordinate. He threw a knowing glance at Fardella, who responded with the same crafty look.

“They're in a cell. In the basement of the building.”

“I already knew that too. I'm the mayor of this shitty town, and the least I can do is be aware of who is in my building.”

“The prince left for Europe and will be back in a year.”

“That's what they made you believe. Prince Ferdinando Licata is still in Sicily, and perhaps not too far from here.” Costa always knew what he was talking about.

But the discussion was interrupted when someone knocked at the door. The figure of Montalto appeared unexpectedly in the doorway.

“Come in, Chief,” Costa said amiably.

The marshal entered the room and got straight to the reason for his visit. “You're the very man I was looking for, Jano, and it's appropriate that the mayor be present.”

“What's this about, Montalto?” the mayor said with a scowl. The marshal approached the desk to address Costa.

“We made a pact, long ago, when you were installed in that chair, concerning this young man,” he said, indicating Jano, indifferent to the latter's reaction. “Do you remember?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Not all that well, if I may say so. Because he was supposed to deal only with dissidents and individuals sent into political confinement.” Montalto took a breath. “Not criminal cases. For those there are the carabinieri. Otherwise dissolve the
arma
and do as you please!”

“There's no need to raise your voice,” the mayor said, keeping his anger in check. “You can't win when you try to do someone a favor.” Then he started to explain in a conciliatory tone, “It was done because I didn't want to involve the carabinieri in an awkward situation. You know what it means to arrest an aristocrat around here, don't you?”

“What are you saying?” The marshal didn't understand what the mayor was getting at.

“It means making an enemy of the landowners and other noblemen. Everyone would have seen you as an aggressor—someone unsympathetic toward power, toward maintaining the status quo. In short, I wanted to insure that the unpopularity of the action would fall on the combat league. And this is how you thank me?”

“Much too kind, Mayor. But you shouldn't have troubled yourself. Now we must see that things are put right, and I've come here to inform you that I will take the two prisoners into my custody.”

“Not on your life!” Jano exploded, already tired of all the simpering. But a look from Costa stopped him.

“I'm afraid that's out of the question, Marshal,” Costa said, conveying the same message, though with honeyed words.

“I'm sorry, Mayor, but I must insist. It's important to reestablish the roles in this town.” He glanced at Michele Fardella, who continued to remain silent in the corner.

“The decision has been made, Montalto. I have already arranged for their transfer to the district prison in Marsala the day after tomorrow.”

“That was up to us to do.”

“I've already told you: it's a very unusual case.”

“Don't you trust the carabinieri, Mayor?”

“I trust no one but myself. And now, Marshal, if you have nothing more to say, I have a lot to do.”

Montalto knew he would not get his way, and he played his last card. “Then allow me to escort the prisoners.”

“Are you serious?” Jano said, but the marshal didn't deign to look at him.

“Well?” Montalto insisted.

“I can't agree to that, Marshal. You already have too much to do here. And now, good afternoon.”

With those words, he abruptly dismissed him. The marshal snapped to attention, turned on his heel, and left the office.

“You see, these are your messes that I always have to clean up after,” the mayor burst out as soon as the door closed behind Montalto. “We must not make enemies of the carabinieri. Otherwise people will side with them, and that's just what we don't want,” Costa said irritably.

“Everything should have been done with the utmost discretion,” Michele Fardella added.

“When we take Ragusa and Losurdo away in shackles, people will realize who's in command here!” Jano exclaimed. “Not with the utmost discretion, as Fardella says, but with the utmost fanfare. Everyone must see them with irons on their wrists, and everyone must know that it is the Black Shirts who are putting them in jail. That's the only way we will win.”

The Duce could not have said it better. Mayor Costa bowed his head, and, for once, he had to admit that Jano was right.

“And now what you have to do, Mayor,” Jano continued, “is draft a nice writ of seizure confiscating the lands of Prince Licata and his gabellotto, Rosario Losurdo. For the time being, we'll freeze them. They'll no longer be able to profit from them until the trial is over. And we'll be the ones to benefit from the taxes they receive from their tenants.”

This time too, Costa and Fardella had to admit that the doggedly aggressive Jano was right.

History repeats itself because people never change. Marshal Mattia Montalto was an honorable, decent man. Injustice distressed him. However, with the abuse of power in those times, the law no longer served justice but, rather, the calculating individuals who had managed to secure the most profitable administrative posts.

The scene in Costa's office had a sense of déjà vu about it. Which was why he couldn't stomach the presence of a murderer like Michele Fardella alongside the mayor, the town's highest public official.

– 1921 –

B
rigadier Mattia Montalto's determined opposition made Captain Costa of the Royal Guard throw all caution to the wind. He had to get Michele Fardella out of hot water. He was afraid his trusted man might confess something compromising about the massacre at Borgo Guarine.

So Costa decided to take action.

The following day, he met with ten of his most intrepid hotheads, at the combat league's base of operations.

“It is absolutely imperative that any subversive activity be nipped in the bud,” he began in a stentorian tone. “I have heard from reliable sources that several groups of agitators here in Salemi are preparing to instigate an uprising against the Fasci. One of these groups is organized by Prince Licata.” The young men looked at one another, incredulous. The prince was highly respected by all; how could he side with subversives? “That's exactly how it is,” the captain continued, satisfied that he had made an impression on his men. “Prince Licata is a ringleader, but he can't be touched. We would end up making all his landowner friends our enemies, and that's something we don't want. So we'll strike his operational arm instead: Rosario Losurdo, his gabellotto. He was the one responsible for the Borgo Guarine massacre. It's time we made the bastard pay for it!”

A battle cry rang through the room, and everyone rushed to the racks to grab his club and pennants. But the captain again claimed their attention. “Stop! Hold on. This is not a punitive expedition, like the others. Losurdo is a tough bird. We must act shrewdly, devise a plan. Remember that he too is well liked by his men, and many campieri are willing to risk their lives for him and the prince. So, here's the plan I've come up with . . .”