The Prince (29 page)

“Brother Antonino, you said?” Jano wanted to know.

“Yes, he's actually a Franciscan friar. He's the one who runs the whole operation. But really, you didn't know? I can't believe it.” The doctor shook his head incredulously. “It must be at least two or three years that this has been going on.”

“I
get it
, Doctor!” Jano was irritated by Bizzarri's prolonged account, which only underscored their stupidity.

“Maybe it would have been better not to tell you. But the cat is out of the bag now. What's done is done.”

The doctor's revelation had rekindled Jano's hopes of being able to capture the three fugitives. But to begin with, he had to get his hands on the monk.

The following day, along with Nunzio, he went to Calatafimi. Consulting the registry records, he learned everything there was to know about the friar. Brother Antonino was a foundling; his parents had abandoned him at the Capuchin monastery in Salaparuta, and he had spent his entire adolescence and early adulthood there. The friars had raised him like a son; it was natural that at age twenty he would take his vows, mainly because he had always refused to leave the community, despite the fact that the good brothers had encouraged him to seek work outside the monastery's walls.

Jano couldn't figure out a way to lure him over to their side.

Nunzio had no qualms. “Let's take him and put him in the box.”

“Are you nuts? Do you want me to get in trouble with the mayor? The Church would demand our heads in retaliation if we were to do such a thing.”

“What if we raid the sanctuary?”

“It's not allowed. The churches are taboo for us.”

“Then we have to come up with something devious.”

“Yeah, something very clever. But what?” Jano agreed thoughtfully.

“For example, blackmail,” Nunzio suggested. “Everyone has something to hide in his life. Brother Antonino is certainly no exception.”

“All we have to do is find his weak point. Do you feel like tailing him for a while?”

“With pleasure,” Nunzio replied.

Nunzio's theory, which held that every man has a skeleton in his closet, proved to be true.

The following day, he stuck closely to the monk, alternating with Ginetto, whom Jano had called in to give them a hand. The three never left him, from morning, when he went out to celebrate Mass in the nearby chapel, till night, when he returned to the sanctuary for evening Vespers. Brother Antonino was a small, thin man with hollow cheeks and a thick, dark beard. He was always on the go. He went to the market to buy whatever food the monks did not produce themselves; he taught catechism to children about to make their first communion; in the afternoon he played soccer with a group of kids on the dusty field in front of the sanctuary, without taking off his cassock. When the game was over, it took him a good while to dust himself off as the kids stood around laughing; he liked to clown around with them. Sometimes he went out before dark, accompanied by an altar boy, to administer communion to some elderly person who was ill and couldn't get out of bed. Brother Antonino's conduct seemed to run along the lines of a normal, exemplary ecclesiastical life.

Except that one afternoon, when Ginetto was tailing him, he went into a house with the altar boy, who was carrying the holy water, and stayed there beyond the usual time. Ginetto crept up to the ground floor windows, but there appeared to be no one inside. In fact, he noticed that the kitchen looked abandoned, its cupboards hanging open and the wood stove cold, its doors broken. “Maybe they're upstairs,” he thought. The small fire escape was easily reached thanks to a pile of masonry debris stacked up against the house. Ginetto decided to attempt the climb, even though his weight would not make it easy. He grabbed the railing and struggled to haul himself up. He climbed over the railing without making a sound. The floor was littered with trash paper, shards of tiles, and crumbled bricks, suggesting that the house must have been abandoned for a long time. He leaned forward to peer inside the room. On a rickety dresser without drawers he saw the holy water and the little prayer book. Then turning his gaze toward the center of the room, he saw Brother Antonino sitting on the edge of a bedspring; kneeling between his legs was the altar boy. It looked like the monk was hearing the child's confession. He was holding the boy's cheeks in his two hands and saying something to him with great tenderness. Ginetto couldn't hear the words, however.

Then he saw him lift the boy's face and kiss him on the forehead. The child did not stop him; it was as if he were mesmerized. Then the friar bent the boy's head and pushed it down between his legs.

Ginetto had seen enough. He climbed down from the fire escape the way he had come. Now he had to run to Jano and Nunzio to tell them what he had seen.

A few minutes later, Jano, Nunzio, and Ginetto arrived at the abandoned house to take the monk by surprise, catching him in the act.

Luck was on their side, because Brother Antonino and the boy were still upstairs in the bedroom. They decided that Jano, being more nimble than Nunzio, would climb up the fire escape, while Nunzio would enter through one of the downstairs windows. Ginetto would stand guard outside so no one could get in, in case something unexpected happened.

The execution was swift. Jano smashed the window and rushed into the room while the friar was still locked in an embrace with the child, who was now completely naked. A few seconds later Nunzio came through the door. The monk was struck dumb. The boy began to cry. Jano picked up his tattered shorts off the floor with the end of his club and held them out to him. “Get dressed and go home.”

The boy took the shabby pants and hugged them to his chest; he started to leave, but Jano blocked his way with his club. “What's your name?” he asked him.

“Alessandro,” the child replied timidly.

“And your father?” Jano pressed him.

“Roberto Pizzi.” He ducked his head, expecting any number of blows for what he had done.

Jano raised his club, like the barrier of a railroad grade crossing. “Now scram.” The boy, still naked, bolted from the room.

“It's not what you think,” the monk started to say as soon as the child had fled.

But Jano glared at him. “What shall we call it, Padre? ‘New catechism'? You're not worthy to wear that robe.”

“I can explain . . . I don't harm them.”

But Jano interrupted him: “At least spare us your bullshit, Padre.”

“I'd like to let him have it but good, so he'll remember this night,” Nunzio broke in, eager to rough up the monk. But Jano stopped him.

“I'm good to them. Sometimes I give them food; to the family as well,” the monk was still explaining.

“Should we hear what his father and brothers think about it, Padre?”

The friar bowed his head. He realized there was no way out. “What do you want? You should know, though, that I don't have much money. Just a few coins the faithful give to the Church.”

That was just the offer Jano was waiting for. A nice trade. “I don't want your money, Padre, just some information.”

The next morning, bright and early, Jano stood before Mayor Costa's desk to deliver his daily report. “I managed to find out where they're hiding.”

“Well done, Jano; you're top-notch,” the mayor flattered him. “Where are they?”

“At the Sanctuary of Calatafimi. But I have another surprise for you, Mayor. There are also two Jewish families hiding at the sanctuary, waiting to embark for America.”

The mayor leaned forward in his chair. “Two Jewish families?” he repeated.

“Right, from Enna and Caltanissetta. I can hand them to you on a silver platter, Captain.”

“Who knows how much they've paid to escape to America. Enna and Caltanissetta, you said—” The mayor was thinking about the value of land in those regions.

“You can confiscate everything they own.” Jano read his thoughts.

“Right. Even if they've sold everything, I'll void the transaction.” Costa saw the confines of his lands continuing to expand.

“But I must ask a favor of you,” Jano said, pretending to be deferential, though he knew the mayor wouldn't be able to refuse him.

“I knew it. Whenever you offer a gift, there are always strings attached.”

“I learned that Vito Pizzuto, one of Vicaretto's gabellotti, is also hiding in the monastery, waiting to leave for America. We should look the other way where he's concerned. We should insure his departure.”

“And why is that?”

“Because no matter what, he's a man who's done good for a lot of people,” Jano lied.

“It wouldn't be because you want to take everything he owns while he's in America, would it?” The mayor smiled, well aware of Jano's insatiable greed.

“Well! I can never hide anything from you, can I?”

“All right, agreed. You get the mafioso, and I get the Jews.”

Toward noon, Brother Antonino entered the chamber where all the fugitives were gathered. He walked to the center of the room and said, “I have good news. The ship owner has finally decided on the day of departure: it's scheduled for next Wednesday, May 3. So you will leave here the day before, the night of May 2, understood?”

The fugitives embraced one another, happy to at last be leaving that forced confinement. They hugged and kissed and congratulated one another. For a few minutes, there was an air of joy and celebration that had been bottled up for so long. The wait had made them all more anxious in the last couple of days. They crowded around the monk, asking him a thousand questions: how they would leave, who would take them to the port, if they should make sure to bring water and bread for the voyage. But brother Antonino was nervous and evaded their questions, saying everything would be done in due time. Then he motioned Vito Pizzuto to follow him.

After making their way through a few corridors, they reached the wing of the monastery where the monks' cells were located. Brother Antonino came to a door, opened it, and led Vito Pizzuto inside. In the center of the simply furnished room, which held a bed, a small table, and some chairs, stood Jano.

The monk went out and closed the door behind him, waiting in the hallway.

Vito Pizzuto was meeting Jano for the first time, and the Black Shirt made him wary.

Jano approached him and gave the Roman salute. “We don't know each other. I'm Jano Vassallo. Don't worry, I'm here to help you,” he said, sitting down. “Please, have a seat.” He motioned Pizzuto to a chair. The man did so without a word.

“I've come to ask for your cooperation. Let's say we have a deal to make: I'm interested in the Jewish families and the three men who arrived recently.”

The words alarmed Vito Pizzuto, because it meant that they had all been sold out by the friar.

“As far as you're concerned, we've decided to allow you to leave the country. Naturally, everything has a price. But I can spare you a long, distasteful stay in our prisons.”

“What do I have to do?”

Jano pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket. He unfolded it and placed it on the table, in front of Pizzuto, along with a fountain pen, saying, “You have to sign here.”

Vito Pizzuto read what was written there. Then he looked up at Jano, his eyes filled with hate. “If I sign, do I have your word that you will let me leave?”

“You have my word. I myself will escort you as far as Castellammare to see that you get on the fishing boat.”

“And what's your word worth?” the mafioso needled him, given that in other times, he would have crushed him under his shoes like a cockroach.

“Sorry, you can't certify its reliability. Take it or leave it. I'll just say this: if you sign, you can go away and forget all about me; if you don't sign, you'll find yourself in the league's cell in Salemi this evening, accused of treason along with the others.”

Vito Pizzuto cursed the friar who had sold him out to that fanatical fascist.

“It's to your advantage to trust me, Pizzuto.”

The gabellotto had never had to bow to extortion in his life and was demoralized. Then he made up his mind: he had no choice, so he took the pen and signed the document.

Jano, satisfied with how things were going, checked the signature at the bottom of the sheet and refolded the paper in four before sticking it back in his pocket. “You should thank me, Pizzuto. When you return to Sicily, you'll find your lands doubled, I promise.

“But about us”—Jano stood up—“naturally, we've never seen each other. You mustn't tell anyone about our meeting, otherwise the whole deal is off, except for this.” He tapped the sheet tucked away in his pocket. “The deal is also off if for one reason or another I don't manage to capture all the other prisoners, so mum's the word. If they ask you where you've been, tell them that . . . that you wanted to go to confession.

“And don't make such a face. You'll see,” he said, though his voice held a note of derision, “I'll be an excellent gabellotto for your lands.”

Jano went to the door and opened it. The friar, who had been waiting in the corridor, accompanied Pizzuto back to the dormitory where the fugitives were.

Unable to meet the mafioso's accusing glare, the monk bowed his head. He would have preferred to rot in hell than be thought of as a traitor—and toward a friend, besides, since Saro considered him one. But there was nothing he could do about it, so he went on with the deceit.

Finally, May 2 arrived. For the fugitives, the hours never seemed to pass. They had already packed their bags the day before. They were dressed from head to toe and wore many layers of clothing, especially the women and girls, who had put on two or three skirts, one over the other, along with several blouses and sweaters. It was hot, however, and as the hours went by, they gradually took off some of the garments, cramming them into bags or suitcases that were already stuffed with clothes and other things.