The Sicilian (22 page)

The Abbot nodded. He held out his arms to Guiliano, who came forward to embrace him. Guiliano understood everything now. The peculiar accent on the word “Father” was not how a man addressed his priest but as a son addressed his parent.

The Abbot said, “I ask you for this man’s life, as a boon to me.”

Guiliano took the ropes off Andolini’s arms and feet. “He is yours,” Turi Guiliano said.

Andolini was sagging to the ground; the fear rushing out of his body made him weak. The Abbot supported him with his own frail frame. He said to Guiliano, “Come into my dining room. I will have your men fed and the three of us can talk about what we must do.” He turned to Andolini and said, “My dear son, you are not yet out of danger. What will Don Croce think when he learns of all this? We must take counsel together or you are lost.”

The Abbot had his own small coffee room and the three men sat comfortably. Cheese and bread were brought for the two younger men.

The Abbot turned and smiled sadly at Guiliano. “One of my many sins. I fathered this man when I was young. Ah, nobody knows the temptations of a parish priest in Sicily. I did not resist them. The scandal was covered up and his mother was married to an Andolini. A great deal of money passed and I was able to rise in the Church. But the irony of heaven no man can foretell. My son grew up to be a murderer. And that is a cross I have to bear though I have so many of my own sins to answer for.”

The Abbot’s tone changed when he turned to Andolini. He said, “Listen to me carefully, my son. For a second time you owe your life to me. Understand your first loyalty. It is now to Guiliano.

“You cannot go back to the Don. He will ask himself, Why did Turi spare your life and kill the other two? He will suspect treachery and that will be your death. What you must do is confess everything to the Don and ask to remain with Guiliano’s band. That you will give him information and serve as a link between the Friends of the Friends and Guiliano’s army. I will go to the Don myself and tell him the advantages of this. I will also tell him that you will remain faithful to Guiliano but that will not be to his disadvantage. He will think you will betray this man here who spared your life. But I tell you that if you do not remain faithful to Guiliano I will damn you to hell forever. You will bear your father’s curse to the grave.”

He addressed himself again to Guiliano. “So now I ask you a second favor, my dear Turi Guiliano. Take my son into your band. He will fight for you and do your bidding and I swear he will be faithful to you.”

Guiliano thought about this carefully. He was sure he could, with time, secure Andolini’s affection, and he knew the man’s devotion to his father, the Abbot. The chances of betrayal were therefore small and could be guarded against. Stefan Andolini would be a valuable subchief in the operations of his band but even more valuable as a source of information about the empire of Don Croce.

Guiliano asked, “And what will you tell Don Croce?”

The Abbot paused for a moment. “I will speak to the Don. I have influence there. And then we shall see. Now will you take my son into your band?”

“Yes, by my sworn word to you,” Guiliano said. “But if he betrays me your prayers will not be swift enough to catch him on his way to hell.”

Stefan Andolini had lived in a world of little trust which perhaps was why over the years his face had become formed in such a murderer’s mask. He knew that in the coming years he would be like a trapeze artist, constantly teetering on the wire of death. There was no safe choice. It comforted him that the spirit of mercy that radiated from Guiliano’s person had saved him. But he had no illusions. Turi Guiliano was the only man who had ever made him afraid.

From that day Stefan Andolini was a member of Guiliano’s band. And in the years to come he became so known for ferociousness and religious piety that his nickname,
Fra Diavalo
, became famous all over Sicily. The piety came from the fact that every Sunday he went to Mass. He usually went in the town of Villaba, where Father Benjamino was the priest. And in the confessional he told the secrets of Guiliano’s band to his confessor to be relayed to Don Croce. But not the secrets Guiliano ordered him not to tell.

BOOK III

MICHAEL
CORLEONE

1950

CHAPTER 16

T
HE
F
IAT SKIRTED
the town of Trapani and took a road along the beach. Michael Corleone and Stefan Andolini came to a villa, larger than most, with three outlying houses. There was a wall around the villa with only a gap left on the beach side. The gate to the villa was guarded by two men, and just inside Michael could see a wide fat man dressed in clothes that looked alien in this landscape: a sport jacket and slacks with an open, knit polo shirt. As they waited for the gate to open Michael saw the grin on the man’s broad face and was astonished to see it was Peter Clemenza.

Clemenza was the chief underling of Michael Corleone’s father back in America. What was he doing here? Michael had last seen him that fatal night when Clemenza had planted the gun he had used to assassinate the police captain and the Turk, Sollozzo. He had remembered the look of pity and sadness on Clemenza’s face at that moment over two years ago. Now Clemenza was genuinely overjoyed to see Michael. He pulled him out of the tiny Fiat and almost crushed him in a bear hug.

“Michael, it’s great to see you. I’ve been waiting for years to tell you how proud I am of you. What a great job you did. And now all your troubles are over. In a week you’ll be with the family, there’ll be a great feast. Everybody’s waiting for you, Mikey.” He stared into Michael’s face fondly while holding him within his two massive arms, and as he did so he made an assessment. This was no longer just the young war hero. During his time in Sicily the boy had grown into a man. That is to say, Michael’s face was no longer open; it had the proud closed look of the born Sicilian. Michael was ready to take his rightful place in the family.

Michael was happy to see Clemenza’s huge, bulky form, his broad heavily featured face. He asked for news of his family. His father had recovered from the assassination attempt, but his health was not good. Clemenza shook his head mournfully. “It never does anybody any good when they get holes punched in their body, no matter how good they recover. But it’s not the first time your father was shot. He’s like an ox. He’ll be okay. Sonny getting killed, that’s what did the damage to him and your mother. It was brutal, Mikey—they cut him to pieces with machine guns. That wasn’t right, they didn’t have to do that. That was spite work. But we’re making plans. Your father will tell you when we get you home. Everybody is happy you’re coming back.”

Stefan Andolini nodded to Clemenza; they obviously had met before. He shook hands with Michael and said he had to leave—there were things he had to do back in Montelepre. “Remember this, whatever you may hear,” he said, “that I always remained faithful to Turi Guiliano and that he trusted me to the end. If he is betrayed it is not I who will have betrayed him.” He stuttered with sincerity. “And I will not betray you.”

Michael believed him. “Won’t you come and rest and have something to eat and drink?” he asked.

Stefan Andolini shook his head. He got into the Fiat and drove back out the gates which immediately clanged shut behind him.

Clemenza led Michael across the open grounds to the main villa. There were armed men patrolling the walls and on the beach where the estate was open to the sea. A small dock stretched toward the faraway coast of Africa, and tethered to the dock was a large sleek motorboat flying the flag of Italy.

Inside the villa were two old crones dressed in black without one color of light on their persons, their skin dark with the sun, black shawls over their heads. Clemenza asked them to bring a bowl of fruit to Michael’s bedroom.

The terrace of the bedroom looked over the blue Mediterranean Sea which seemed to part in the middle when hit by a shaft of morning sunlight. Fishing boats with bright blue and red sails bobbed on the horizon like balls skipping over the water. There was a small table on the terrace covered with a heavy dark brown cloth, and the two men sat on the chairs around it. There was a pot of espresso and a jug of red wine.

“You look tired,” Clemenza said. “Get some sleep and then I’ll spell everything out for you in detail.”

“I could use it,” Michael said. “But first, tell me, is my mother all right?”

“She’s fine,” Clemenza said. “She’s waiting for you to get home. We can’t disappoint her, it would be too much for her after Sonny.”

Michael asked again, “And my father, he’s completely recovered?”

Clemenza laughed; it was an ugly laugh. “He sure is. The Five Families will find out. Your father is just waiting for you to get home, Mike. He’s got big plans for you. We can’t let him down. So don’t worry too much for Guiliano—if he shows up we’ll take him with us. If he keeps screwing off we leave him here.”

“Are those my father’s orders?” Michael asked.

Clemenza said, “A courier comes by air every day to Tunis and I go over by boat to talk to him. Those were my orders yesterday. At first Don Croce was supposed to help us, or so your father told me before I left the States. But you know what happened in Palermo after you left yesterday? Somebody tried to knock off Croce. They came over the wall of the garden and killed four of his bodyguards. But Croce got away. So what the hell is going on?”

Michael said, “Jesus.” He remembered the precautions Don Croce had taken around the hotel. “I think that was our friend Guiliano. I hope you and my father know what you’re doing. I’m so tired I can’t think.”

Clemenza rose and patted him on the shoulder. “Mikey, get some sleep. When you wake up you’ll meet my brother. A great man, just like your father, just as smart, just as tough, and he’s the boss in this part of the country, never mind Croce.”

Michael undressed and got into bed. He had not slept for over thirty hours and yet his mind jumped and would not let his body rest. He could feel the heat of the morning sun though he had closed the heavy wooden shutters. There was a heavy fragrance of flowers and lemon trees. His mind worked over the events of the past few days. How did Pisciotta and Andolini move around so freely? Why did Guiliano seem to have decided Don Croce was his enemy at this most inappropriate of times? Such an error was not Sicilian. After all, the man had lived seven years in the mountains as an outlaw. Enough was enough. He must want to live a better life—not possible here, but certainly in America. And he definitely had such plans or he would not be sending his fiancée, pregnant, to America before him. The clarifying thought struck him that the answer to all this mystery was that Guiliano was bent on fighting one last battle. That he did not fear to die here on his native ground. There were plans and conspiracies spinning out to their final conclusions that he, Michael, could not be aware of, and so he must be wary. For Michael Corleone did not want to die in Sicily. He was not part of this particular myth.

Michael awoke in the huge bedroom and opened the shutters, which swung outward to a white stone balcony glittering in the morning sun. Below the balcony, the Mediterranean Sea rolled like a deep blue carpet out to the horizon. Streaks of crimson laced the water, and on these boats fishermen sailed out of sight. Michael watched them for a few minutes, utterly bewitched by the beauty of the sea and the majestic cliffs of Erice up the coast to the north.

The room was full of huge rustic furniture. There was a table on which stood a blue enameled basin and a jug of water. Over a chair there was a rough brown towel. On the walls were paintings of saints and the Virgin Mary, with the infant Jesus in her arms. Michael washed his face and then left the room. At the bottom of the stairs Peter Clemenza was waiting for him.

“Ah, now you look better, Mikey,” Clemenza said. “A good meal to give you back your strength and then we can talk business.” He led Michael into a kitchen that held a long wooden table. They sat down and an old woman in black appeared magically at the stove and poured two cups of espresso and served them. Then just as magically she produced a platter of eggs and sausage which she put on the table. From the oven came a great sun-shaped brown-crusted loaf of bread. Then she disappeared into a room beyond the kitchen. She did not acknowledge Michael’s thanks. At that moment a man entered the room. He was older than Clemenza but looked so much like him that Michael knew immediately that this was Don Domenic Clemenza, Peter Clemenza’s brother. Don Domenic was attired much differently. He was in black velvet trousers that tucked into sturdy brown boots. He wore a white silk shirt with ruffled sleeves and a long black vest. On his head was a short-billed cap. In his right hand he carried a whip which he threw into a corner. Michael rose to greet him and Don Domenic Clemenza took him into his arms with a friendly embrace.

They sat at the table together. Don Domenic had a natural dignity and air of command that reminded Michael of his own father. He also had the same old-fashioned courtliness. Peter Clemenza obviously was in awe of his older brother who treated him with the indulgent affection an older brother shows a flighty sibling. This astonished Michael and amused him too. Peter Clemenza was his father’s most trusted and deadly
caporegime
back in America.

Don Domenic said gravely but with a twinkle in his eye, “Michael, it is such a great pleasure and honor to me that your father, Don Corleone, has put you in my care. Now you can solve my curiosity. My good-for-nothing brother here, is his success in America as great as he claims? Has he climbed so high, this younger brother of mine I could never trust to slaughter a pig properly? Does Don Corleone really set him on his right hand? And he says he commands over a hundred men. How can I believe all this?” But as he said this he patted his younger brother’s shoulder fondly.

“It’s all true,” Michael said. “My father always says he would be selling olive oil if not for your brother.”

They all laughed. Peter Clemenza said, “I would have spent most of my life in jails. He taught me how to think instead of just using a gun.”

Don Domenic sighed. “I’m only a poor country farmer. It’s true my neighbors come to me for counsel and here in Trapani they say I’m an important man. They call me ‘The Unfaithful’ because I won’t do Don Croce’s bidding. Perhaps that’s not very clever, perhaps the Godfather would find ways to get along better with Don Croce. But I find it impossible. ‘Unfaithful’ I may be, but only to those who have no honor. Don Croce sells information to the government and to me that is an
infamita
. No matter how subtle the reasons. The old ways are still the best, Michael, as you will see after you have been here the next few days.”

“I’m sure I will,” Michael said politely. “And I must thank you for the help you are giving me now.”

“I have work to do,” Don Domenic said. “If you need anything, send for me.” He picked up his whip and went out the door.

Peter Clemenza said, “Michael, your father agreed to help Turi Guiliano get out of this country out of his friendship and respect for Guiliano’s father. But your safety comes first. Your father still has enemies here. Guiliano has a week to make a rendezvous with you. But if he doesn’t appear you must go back to the United States alone. Those are my orders. We have a special plane waiting in Africa and we can leave anytime. You just give the word.”

Michael said, “Pisciotta said he’d bring Guiliano to me very soon.”

Clemenza whistled. “You saw Pisciotta? Hell, they’re looking for him as hard as they are for Guiliano. How did he get out of the mountains?”

Michael shrugged. “He had one of the special red-bordered passes signed by the Minister of Justice. And that worries me too.”

Peter Clemenza shook his head.

Michael continued. “That guy who brought me here, Andolini, do you know him, Pete?”

“Yeah,” Peter Clemenza said. “He worked for us in New York, a couple of button jobs, but Guiliano’s father was straight and a great artist with brick. They were both stupid to come back. But a lot of Sicilians are like that. They can’t forget their shitty little houses in Sicily. I brought two men over with me this time, to help out. They haven’t been back in twenty years. So we take a walk in the country up near Erice, a beautiful town, Mikey, and we were out in the fields with all those sheep they have and drinking wine and we all had to take a leak. So there we were pissing and when we finished, these two guys jump about ten feet in the air and yell, ‘Long live Sicily.’ What are you gonna do? That’s how they are, Sicilians till they die.”

Michael said, “Yeah, but what about Andolini?”

Clemenza shrugged. “He’s your father’s cousin. He’s been one of Guiliano’s right-hand men for the last five years. But before that he was close with Don Croce. Who knows? He’s dangerous.”

Michael said, “Andolini is bringing Guiliano’s fianceé here. She’s pregnant. We have to ship her to the States and she sends back a code word to Guiliano saying that the route works and then Guiliano comes to us. I promised we’d do it. Is that okay?”

Clemenza whistled. “I never heard Guiliano had a girl. Sure we can do it.”

They went outside to a huge garden. Michael could see guards at the gate and down at the beach at least six armed men strolling up and down. There was a large motorboat docked against a short pier. In the garden itself was a group of men obviously waiting for an audience with Peter Clemenza. There were about twenty of them, all typical Sicilians with their dusty clothes and brimmed caps, like poorer versions of Don Domenic.