The Prince (7 page)

“What's going on?” he asked. But Ester was sobbing and couldn't get out a word. Saro broke out of her embrace and demanded to know what had happened to his mother. Then he noticed how disheveled his father was, his shirt wet and soiled with blood and vomit, his hair dirty. Moaning, Annachiara turned her head to one side, opened her eyes, and saw Saro. She moved a hand weakly to touch him, and her son rushed to her and held her close.

“Mama . . .” He managed to choke back the lump that had formed in his throat. The woman seemed to feel better at the sight of her husband, who had remained beside her. Her gaze also took in Mimmo and Turi at the foot of the bed, and Ester, crying distraughtly. She closed her eyes again, and the sedative's action made her sink into a dreamless sleep.

Saro got up. The room was in complete disarray, a pool of water on the floor, a bottle upended. He turned to his father. “Who did this to you?” Ragusa didn't answer.

“It was Jano. Him and his Black Shirts,” said Mimmo.

“I'll kill him!” cried Saro.

But his father took him by the shoulders and gripped him firmly. “Calm down. You're not killing anyone. We have to pretend that nothing happened. We have to disappear. They're the stronger ones now. Not even the carabinieri can do anything against the fascist combat league.”

– 1939 –

P
rince Ferdinando Licata was pessimistic about the island's future. Not a day passed when he didn't hear about some injustice, some abuse, suffered by the poor at the hands of those who held political and administrative power in the town. Fascism had put men lacking any moral value in positions of control, crushing admirable men of profound ethics and demoting them to marginal roles.

In its own small way, Salemi itself was a perfect example of how corrupt the regime was. The town's mayor, Lorenzo Costa, was said to have ruthlessly wiped out entire families, and had appointed a pitiable misfit, Jano Vassallo, perpetrator of ill-advised, reckless actions, as head of the town militia. Now, though, that psychopath had begun to exceed all limits, and some residents of Salemi felt the need to redraw the boundaries of common civic decency.

With these thoughts in mind, Prince Ferdinando Licata decided to confront Jano and his notorious associates. Not just because Dr. Peppino Ragusa was a dear friend but also for his own mysterious reasons that were buried in the depths of his heart. Otherwise he never would have stooped to come to terms with such a mediocre individual as Jano.

The libertarian spirit and profound sense of justice that flowed in the prince's veins came from his great-grandfather, a Londoner named Frederick Leicester, who at the end of the eighteenth century, following in the footsteps of those who made the grand tour of Europe, had traveled far and wide throughout Italy. Finding in Sicily not only the colors and landscapes he had been seeking but love as well, the young Leicester decided to remain there for the rest of his life. When the birth of his son, Ferdinando's grandfather, was recorded, his surname was misspelled, thanks to an error by the registry clerk, though some said it was to deny his past: from Leicester it became Licata, and so from that day forward, Sicily acquired a new pedigree of princes.

When Ferdinando Licata was still a child, his family was struck by a tragedy. While traveling to Palermo, both parents were killed by a gang of bandits during a robbery. From then on, his grandfather and his sister, Lavinia, served as father and mother to him.

Thanks to his abilities and educational preparation, Ferdinando had been able to skillfully manage the few lands inherited from his grandfather. For many years, he was considered an excellent match by blue-blooded, Sicilian young ladies. But Licata was very reserved, not believing in marriage and, though he'd had numerous lovers, he'd always managed to escape being shackled by a wife.

He was also a great diplomat and had always avoided disputes with his neighbors and the various “dons” of the surrounding area. He had never wanted to get mixed up with them, men whom he considered extremely coarse and uncultured.

One Sunday morning at a little past six, Prince Ferdinando Licata stationed himself near the drinking trough two blocks away from where Carmela Petrulli lived. He knew—the whole town knew—that every Saturday night Jano sneaked into Carmela's house and left early the next morning at dawn. Carmela was not the town prostitute, but one of several war widows, another victim of the emigration that had depopulated many of the towns in Sicily in the 1920s.

At the customary time that Sunday morning, Carmela's door opened, and Jano slipped out furtively. He drew a black cloak over his shirt, also black, which he now wore like a second skin.

Ferdinando Licata's dark horse was drinking at the trough when Jano came around the corner. Though he was startled to see the prince, he concealed it. Licata, on the other hand, pretended to be surprised at running into him at that hour.

“Jano, it's too late to go hunting and too early if you're not going hunting. What are you doing here at this hour on a Sunday?” he asked, tugging the horse.

“Hey, Prince, I already shot my load, with all due respect.” He quickened his pace without stopping, but the prince was swift and came up beside him, leading his horse by the bit.

“Do you know what's tragic about aging? It's not so much actually being old, as one might think, but being still young in your mind and all your senses.” The prince touched his arm and stopped the horse, forcing Jano to stop as well.

“You young people see us old and graying now, but our desires, our will to act, is exactly as it was when we were twenty. How old are you, Jano?”

Taken aback by the question, Jano answered almost automatically, “Twenty-four.”

“Congratulations.” He started walking again, and this time it was Jano who followed him. He wanted to see what the prince was driving at with that gibberish. “Very few young men get to where you are at your age, Jano. You're clearly destined for a rewarding future. You deserve it, evidently.”

“But?” Jano beat him to it, showing an uncommon intelligence.

“It's true, there is a
but
,” the prince agreed, realizing that he was not dealing with an ignorant thug, as he had always thought. “You see, in life, we may care little about people, but we will always need a friend. It is essential to have someone you can trust.”

“Prince, why are you giving me this sermon?”

“Jano, I can see that you are also a fine young man, and I want to offer you my friendship.”

“That's very flattering, Prince Licata. And what do you want in return?”

“Well, it doesn't exactly work that way.” Ferdinando Licata was beginning to lose patience with the young man and his blunt, insolent ways. “Let's say that if we were to become friends, my friends would automatically become your friends, and, conversely, your friends would become part of my world. Do you understand what I'm offering you, Jano?”

“I'll become a prince?” Jano was beginning to act disrespectfully, but Ferdinando pretended not to notice.

“There's a friend of mine, Dr. Peppino Ragusa, whom I believe has been denounced as a subversive. There is nothing more unfortunate than an accusation like that. The doctor is a fine man, as demonstrated by the fact that all these years he's worked unstintingly for the good of us all, never asking anything in return. If the doctor were to decide to leave Salemi”—the prince kept pressing—“it would be a great misfortune for the entire community. For our town physician has also taken the trouble to teach reading and arithmetic to our peasants who've never gone to school.”

“Yes, but he also puts revolutionary ideas in their heads. He preaches socialism, the sharing of land, he's against the Duce. How can an individual like that be your friend?” Jano wasn't aware that he had raised his voice.

“But what harm could he do? I myself don't see eye to eye with him, but he's absolutely harmless. Jano, promise me you'll leave him in peace.”

“He's a dirty Jew besides,” was Jano's only reply. “The Jewish race is the cause of all evil. After the Great War, it led to the Russian Revolution, it advanced communism.”

“You imbecile, don't you understand that those are just stereotypes?” Ferdinando Licata realized that he wouldn't make any headway with Jano.

The young man, not at all intimidated, replied just as aggressively, “Prince, don't you understand that you aristocrats have had your day? For you and everyone like you, it's over! The fascist revolution has brought you to your knees. We're the ones who now impose order and command respect in the cities. No other power can exist within the fascist state!”

An icy contempt came over Ferdinando Licata's face. Making no reply, he placed his foot in the stirrup and mounted his horse.

“Jano, do you like
porchetta
?” he asked scornfully.

“What a question! Of course I like roast pork. Why?”

“I'll send you some. We're slaughtering a pig.” The prince spurred his mount and the horse cantered off toward the fields.

In other times, no one would even have dreamed of talking to the prince that way. Jano looked around to see if anyone had witnessed their exchange. There wasn't a living soul in the streets, but Jano was certain that behind the shutters a thousand eyes had observed how high his power now reached.

Encouraged by his victory over the powerful Prince Licata, Jano decided to take action and initiate the bureaucratic process to remove Peppino Ragusa from his official post as district physician. He knew it wouldn't be an easy matter, but you have to start somewhere. Thus he wrote a letter to the mayor, his friend Lorenzo Costa, requesting that Dr. Ragusa be removed from his post “in order to safeguard public order, and because of his Jewish origins, in accordance with the recently enacted racial laws.”

Costa recorded the request and sent it on to the provincial governor. The official took note of it and turned it over to the prefect of the province, who in turn—without looking into the matter—forwarded the demand to the provincial health center director, who—without even reading it—passed it on to the administrator of the medical center of the town of Salemi.

All the latter had to do was choose a replacement for Dr. Ragusa. The administrator's decision was easy, because a certain Dr. Attilio Bizzarri had been working in the medical center for some time, badgering him with his perfectionism, finding flaws with everything. Though Bizzarri was highly respected by his colleagues, the bureaucrats in the health care world couldn't bear his fastidious character. He had a generous spirit, made no distinction between aristocrats and peasants, and was greatly esteemed by all his patients. Bizzarri also had a knack for diagnosis and an extraordinary intuition for deciding on the proper method of treatment. However, the administrator had a desk covered with letters of complaints the doctor had sent him. Bizzarri had even written to the Duce himself, griping about some sanitary deficiencies. It was a good opportunity to get rid of him.

So Dr. Attilio Bizzarri received a letter ordering him to take over the post of town physician of Salemi within one month of the date stamped on the envelope.

At the same time, the medical administrator wrote Dr. Ragusa a letter with the opposite orders to leave his assigned post within one month from the date on the envelope. Unfortunately, a postal service glitch prevented the letter from being delivered to Dr. Ragusa.

On a cold morning in 1939, Dr. Attilio Bizzarri boarded the bus that would take him to his new post. Bizzarri was just past fifty, but the profession's hard work—along with an altruistic nature that left him always ready to sacrifice for others—had worn him out so that he looked older.

When the doctor arrived at Peppino Ragusa's medical office and rang the bell, a dark-haired girl open the door. It was Ester, Ragusa's older daughter, who assisted her father as a nurse. Bizzarri introduced himself and asked to speak with Dr. Ragusa.

“Good morning, Doctor, I'm Dr. Bizzarri,” he introduced himself moments later, extending his hand with a smile. Ragusa didn't for a moment suspect the reason for that visit. Bizzarri realized his discomfort and came to his aid.

“Didn't you receive the letter from the provincial administrator?”

“In fact, I didn't receive any letter,” Ragusa replied, beginning to understand yet still unwilling to accept the evidence.

“I know it was sent to you a month ago.”

Ragusa glanced at his daughter, but she shook her head to confirm that no letter had come from the administration.

Dr. Bizzarri was crestfallen. “The usual bureaucratic slipup. You didn't receive any letter. Wonderful, what a sense of timing.”

“Have you come to replace me?” Ragusa finally asked.

“Exactly. Only they were supposed to inform you ahead of time and give you a chance to make plans.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his breast pocket and handed it to his colleague. “Here is my letter of appointment. Note when it was sent to me: on that same date, they should have sent you a letter about your new destination. They are truly bungling incompetents.”

Bizzarri went to a chair and sat down, setting his bag on the floor. Ragusa, meanwhile, quickly read the letter that assigned his medical post to Bizzarri. When he had finished, he passed it on to Ester, who hurriedly scanned the words in silence.

“After twenty years . . .”

“Unfortunately, it's the law. You're a Jew, aren't you?”

But Ragusa couldn't hear him, because he was clinging tightly to his daughter Ester in a despairing embrace. Finally, the girl said, “Come on, Papa. Let's go home. You'll see, we'll be all right.”

They left the medical office arm in arm and headed home to break the sad news to Annachiara.

– 1939 –

T
hat year too, as was the custom, Ciccio Vinciguerra had been invited by Prince Ferdinando Licata to the ceremony of the
Cento Santi
: the One Hundred Saints. It was like a reminder each November 1 that his impoverished condition had not changed. The destitute farm worker had no family. No one knew his origins, no one knew where he had come from, but one day he had appeared in Salemi begging for a few days' work as a field hand. Thanks to Prince Licata, he began working and became well liked by the town's residents. Ciccio Vinciguerra spoke very little and, when questioned, responded in monosyllables. That's why everyone in town had nicknamed him
U pisci
, because he was mute as a fish. Later on, however, his submissive character, his untiring strength, his discretion, and his skill with weapons won him the trust of Rosario Losurdo, who, with the blessing of Prince Licata himself, had enlisted him among his
campieri
, his army of private guards.