The Prince (6 page)

“This battle can't be won with force, however,” the doctor went on. “They will always be stronger.”

There was another knock at the door. Everyone turned around.

A smile lit up Annachiara's lovely face. “It must be your other friends. You see? They've come too.” She went to the door and opened it, ready to welcome the latecomers.

But in front of her, in the darkness of night, stood a leering Jano surrounded by three of his most loyal comrades: Ginetto, Nunzio, and Prospero.

“Good evening, Annachiara, aren't you going to invite us in?” Leaning against the doorframe, Jano took a quick look inside.

At that same moment, at the farmstead of Prince Ferdinando Licata's
gabellotto
or overseer, Rosario Losurdo, a small party was being held. One of Losurdo's armed guards, his
campiere
Manfredi, had just returned from Africa, from Addis Ababa, where he gone a year and a half earlier to try his luck as an immigrant, prompted by the regime's illusory promises. He had traveled to Ethiopia in the hope of becoming the owner of a piece of land—a large estate—where he could live out the rest of his life, but those eighteen months had proved a bitter disappointment.

The farmhouse was lit in celebration. Everyone had questions for Manfredi, but he responded impatiently in monosyllables.

Rosario Losurdo was very attached to Manfredi. When Losurdo had been imprisoned on charges, later dropped, that he had been behind the massacre at Borgo Guarine, Manfredi had held the reins of the estate for five years, without anyone bemoaning the gabellotto's absence.

Manfredi had devoted himself to protecting Losurdo's family as if it were his own. He had not let them lack for anything and had continued carrying on the affairs of the estate, collecting the taxes as if the gabellotto had never been away. This honesty and dedication had won over Losurdo, who, once he was released from prison and assumed control of Prince Licata's property again, began treating him as an equal, like a brother.

Among the young men most interested in Manfredi's venture was Saro, who asked him what the land was like, if it was true that it was easy to get permission to plant there, how much farms cost, if seeds had to be brought from Italy, what were the most productive crops, why he had come back after only eighteen months, whether the people there were very hostile toward whites—and if it was true that the girls were beautiful and that they were all willing.

At that question, the other young men burst out laughing, making risqué remarks under their breath and whispering double entendres.

Manfredi dampened their enthusiasm. “It's all a fraud. Everything they tell us to convince us to go to Ethiopia is false.”

“But what about the empire, the place in the sun, the promised land?” Saro asked dejectedly.

“All lies. The only ones really getting rich are the ‘sharks': the upper echelons, military men, diplomats, big contractors—in short, friends of friends of the government. They live in houses that have been expropriated from the old Ethiopian bourgeoisie, and their wives drive around the city in official cars that should be off-limits to them, but their use is tolerated.”

“I've always said it: it's America that's the promised land,” Saro told his friends.

“It's true. Those who have come back say that in New York anyone can become a millionaire,” claimed Michele, one of Losurdo's sons.

“Then what are we waiting for? Let's get out of this thankless land.” Setting out for other worlds had been Saro's dream since childhood.

Rosario Losurdo approached the group of young men who were besieging Manfredi.

“Give this poor soul a chance to breathe.” His voice had the presence to silence them all as they turned toward him. “And you, Saro, where do you want to go? To America? Do you want your father and mother to die of a broken heart?”

Glasses began being passed around. Everyone toasted Manfredi's return and drank good wine from Rosario Losurdo's vineyards.

“So, you want to go away?” The feminine voice made Saro spin around, nearly spilling his wine on Mena's dress. “You want to go to America? Haven't you thought about me?” Those words only increased Saro's embarrassment.

“Actually—”

The girl burst out laughing. “Come on, I'm kidding, I'm teasing you, silly.”

“It's just an idea. I'd like to, but I don't know if I'll ever have the courage.” He stared into her eyes. She couldn't hold his gaze. “But why did you say I don't think of you?” Saro asked.

This time it was Mena who felt embarrassed. “Is that what I said?”

“Don't pretend you don't remember.”

“I meant just what I said.” Her voice cracked a little, and Saro noticed it.

For a few moments, the two young people stared intensely into each other's eyes.

“You know what I say? You can go wherever you like, Saro Ragusa.” With that, Mena turned around and walked off, mingling with the other guests.

Jano, trailed by his three bloodhounds, entered the doctor's home without waiting for an invitation from the hostess, not giving a damn about the rules of hospitality. “Well, well. I see that you continue to hold subversive meetings, Dr. Ragusa, even though you've already received a warning from the mayor. Am I right?”

Annachiara, with her innate cordiality, invited Jano to come have a seat. “Jano, Nunzio, can I offer you some of our wine? Sit down, our house is your house.” So saying, she went to the cupboard to get some glasses and a bottle.

But Jano's voice made her freeze. “Don't bother, Annachiara. We're not here to have a drink. Or at least we won't be the ones drinking.” His jeering smile was imitated by the other three militiamen, who threw him looks of complicity. “I repeat. Don't you know that it's forbidden to hold seditious meetings? What are you cooking up?” he asked, turning to the four villagers sitting at the end of the table.

Mimmo Ferro, the one who least feared Jano's authority given the many times he had seen him drunk, replied sarcastically, “Anyone who has a clear conscience either has a bad memory or has never used his conscience. My dear Jano, we are guilty like every man who breathes on this earth.”

“You're being a smart-ass, right, Mimmo?”

Turi Toscano came to the aid of his companion. “Jano, you know very well why we come here to the doctor. Certainly not for a revolution.”

“At first I didn't even know how to do arithmetic,” Pericle, the charcoal burner, added.

Annachiara had brought four glasses and was filling them with wine.

“But I know that the doctor doesn't only teach you to count and read, isn't that so, Dr. Ragusa?”

He bowed his head, refusing to defend himself. He had nothing to say to the thug.

Jano pounded his fist violently on the table, making Annachiara cringe. “Answer me when I ask you a question!” One of the glasses toppled, and wine spilled onto the table. Jano reared back and stood up so he wouldn't get wet. He was furious. “In any case, your time has come, dear doctor. I know all about what you do during your meetings. The multiplication table is just an excuse. What interests you is putting socialist ideas in the heads of these dunces. You, Doctor, are plotting against the regime. For that alone, I could throw you in jail.”

“I am at your disposal, Jano,” Ragusa finally spoke up. “Go ahead and throw me in jail. You don't have a shred of evidence to prove what you say. You'll look like a fool in front of everyone, as usual.”

Jano rushed at him and struck him on the face with the club he always carried with him. Annachiara threw herself at Jano, screaming, but Ginetto stopped her, pulling her away. Mimmo Ferro tried to interfere, but Nunzio shouldered him, knocking him to the floor. A stream of blood ran down Ragusa's face. Turi, Pericle, and Ottavio Gravina tried to reach the door, but Prospero blocked their way out.

“The party isn't over, and you want to leave already?” Jano barked at the three men. “I need witnesses. Someone will have to report what happens to those who oppose us.”

Ragusa wiped his wound with his shirtsleeve.

At a sign from Jano, Nunzio and Prospero pinned the doctor's arms. He tried to free himself, but they were stronger, and after a while he stopped struggling. Annachiara kept screaming at them to leave him alone.

Jano appeared with a bottle in his hands. Annachiara saw him and let out a piercing shriek. Ginetto shook her forcefully to silence her, and when that didn't work, punched her in the face, knocking her out. Ragusa, seeing his wife on the floor, began thrashing about furiously again, yelling “Killers! Killers!” Nunzio and Prospero were having a hard time restraining him, so they threw him to the ground and held him down.

Jano went over, grabbed him by the hair, and lifted his head. Then he shoved a bottle of salt water into his mouth and began forcing him to gulp it down.

The salt water had the same effects as castor oil, but in addition caused a feeling of nausea that lasted several days.

Ragusa, in part due to his position, in part because of the deluge of water he was forced to swallow, began coughing to expel the liquid from his nose and other parts of his body. But Jano's job was finished only once the bottle was empty. Finally, Nunzio and Prospero let go of him. Ragusa, in a pool of filth, wheezed and went on vomiting, while Annachiara remained unconscious. The four friends were stunned and crushed by such callous cruelty.

Jano pulled an embroidered cloth off the table and wiped his hands with it. “Remember what you saw. And tell everyone that this is what's in store for the Duce's enemies.” With that, he threw down the cloth and walked out, followed by his comrades.

At that moment at the farm, Rosita—Signora Losurdo, recognized as one of the best cooks in town—entered the party room carrying a huge fig and honey tart, borne with the care generally bestowed on newborns. Mena accompanied her mother with a bunch of teaspoons, while her brother Donato carried a stack of dessert plates.

Rosario Losurdo, like most of the
gabellotti
in Sicily, had become a powerful figure in the town, and the Limoges porcelain service with gold trim had been one of his wife's first acquisitions once they became rich. The crostata was cut, and plates flew from hand to hand.

Mena cut the last slice and personally took it to Saro. “Enjoy it, Saro, because in America there are no women who know how to make desserts this good,” she told him wryly, handing him the plate.

“Your mother is a great baker,” Saro said, licking his fingers, sticky with honey.

“Actually, I made the tart. My mother helped me, but I was the one who made it!”

The boy's eyes widened. “You're a phenomenon! I've never eaten anything so delicious.”

Mena smiled, and Saro impulsively gave her a peck on the cheek, but his fig-and-honey-smeared lips left a mark that he clumsily tried to wipe off using the edge of his shirt.

The young woman drew back, amused. “Saro, stop that. You're hopeless.” Then she took a handkerchief and wiped the traces of the tart off her cheek.

“Sorry, Mena,” he said sheepishly, embarassed and blushing.

“What's going on here?” Rosario Losurdo had witnessed the scene from across the room. Mena was still his little girl, and he didn't care for that behavior at all. His stern tone made Saro spin around hastily; when he saw the girl's father, he gave a start that was almost comical.

“Don Rosario—what's going on?” All he could do was repeat the question the host had asked.

Mena shook her head, smiling. “Papa, what do you think is going on? Saro is about to leave, and we were saying good-bye.” She pushed her father toward their guests. “Go back to your friends.”

Rosario Losurdo had a soft spot for his little Mena. Only she would dare to be impertinent toward him.

Saro held out his hand to say good-bye to Losurdo. “
Baciamo le mani
—my respects—Don Rosario.”

The man shook his hand, giving him a look that spoke volumes. When he released Saro's hand, he realized it was sticky with honey. He casually wiped it on his pants and walked away, proud of the “Don” that until then no one had ever afforded him.

Mena, who had noticed the little mishap, burst out laughing. “You're really impossible.” She took Saro by the hand and dragged him across the room, toward the door. “I'm sorry, but you really must go now. Otherwise if my father realizes I fooled him, I'm finished!”

“Sorry,” Saro stammered.

“If it was up to him, he'd keep me inside one of those glass bell jars we put patron saints in.”

“He's not all wrong. Who knows how many guys make eyes at you.”

“Oh, loads of them, I'd say.”

They both smiled. Upon reaching the door, they faced each other, and suddenly their expressions turned serious. Mena made an imperceptible movement, her face moving closer to his. A few very long seconds went by. Then Saro took her hands, deliberately ending that magical moment.

“I really should go.” So saying, he rested his lips gently on Mena's palms and let them linger there a second or two. Then, without turning around, he moved off into the evening shadows.

On the way back, Saro shivered with pleasure at the thought of having touched Mena's delicate skin. The girl was the daughter of Losurdo, the richest gabellotto in Salemi. And he was merely the son of a dirt-poor Jewish doctor.

Surely Losurdo had very different ambitions for his daughter; he'd better get her out of his mind. With these thoughts swirling in his head, Saro reached his house and saw a knot of people in front of the half-open door. He immediately realized that something serious had happened.

As soon as people noticed him, the group parted to let him through. Saro saw his mother lying on the bed. Mimmo Ferro and Turi Toscano were sitting at the foot of the bed, while his father was bent over his mother, giving her an injection. As soon as his sister Ester saw him come in, she ran crying to him and threw her arms around him.