The Sicilian (36 page)

Clemenza ordered the driver to go even more slowly. He and Michael watched for any sign of Pisciotta. They were now on the outskirts of Castelvetrano, ascending a hilly road, and stopping so that they could look down the main street of the town lying below them. From their high vantage point Michael could see the road from Palermo clogged with vehicles—military vehicles; the streets were swarming with
carabinieri
in their black uniforms with white piping. There was the wail of many sirens that did not seem to scatter the crowds of people in the main street. Overhead two small planes were circling.

The driver cursed and stepped on the brake as he pulled the car to the side of the road. He turned to Clemenza and said, “Do you want me to go on?”

Michael felt a queasiness at the pit of his stomach. He said to Clemenza, “How many men do you have waiting for us in town?”

“Not enough,” Clemenza said sourly. His face had an almost frightened look. “Mike, we have to get out of here. We have to get back to the boat.”

“Wait,” Michael said, now seeing the cart and donkey toiling slowly up the hill toward them. The driver was an old man with a straw hat pulled down tight around his head. The cart was painted with legends on the wheels, the shafts, and the sides. It halted alongside of them. The driver’s face was wrinkled and showed no expression, and his arms, incongruously muscled, were bare to his shoulders, for he wore only a black vest over his wide canvas trousers. He came abreast of their car and said, “Don Clemenza, is that you?”

There was relief in Clemenza’s voice. “Zu Peppino, what the hell is going on there? Why didn’t my men come out and warn me?”

Zu Peppino’s stony wrinkled face did not change expression. “You can go back to America,” he said. “They have massacred Turi Guiliano.”

Michael found himself strangely dizzy. Suddenly at that moment the light seemed to fall out of the sky. He thought of the old mother and father, of Justina waiting in America, of Aspanu Pisciotta and Stefan Andolini. Of Hector Adonis. For Turi Guiliano had been the starlight of their lives, and it was not possible his light no longer existed.

“Are you sure it’s him?” Clemenza asked harshly.

The old man shrugged. “It was one of Guiliano’s old tricks, to leave a corpse or dummy to entice the
carabinieri
so that he could kill them. But it’s been two hours now and nothing has happened. The body is still lying in the courtyard where they killed him. There are already newspapermen from Palermo here with their cameras taking pictures of everybody, even my donkey. So believe what you like.”

Michael was feeling ill but he managed to say, “We’ll have to go in and look. I have to make sure.”

Clemenza said roughly, “Alive or dead, we can’t help him anymore. I’m taking you home, Mike.”

“No,” Michael said softly. “We have to go in. Maybe Pisciotta is waiting for us. Or Stefan Andolini. To tell us what to do. Maybe it’s not him, I can’t believe it’s him. He couldn’t die, not when he was this close to getting away. Not when his Testament is safe in America.”

Clemenza sighed. He saw the look of suffering on Michael’s face. Perhaps it wasn’t Guiliano; perhaps Pisciotta was waiting to make a rendezvous. Perhaps even this was part of the plot to distract attention from his escape if the authorities were close on his heels.

Now the sun had fully risen. Clemenza ordered his men to park their cars and to follow him. Then he and Michael walked down the rest of the street which was crowded with people. They were gathered around the entrance to a side street that was filled with army cars and blocked by a cordon of
carabinieri
. On this side street was a row of separate houses split apart by courtyards. Clemenza and Michael stood at the rear of the crowd watching with the others. The
carabinieri
officer was admitting journalists and officials past the cordon of guards after examining their credentials. Michael said to Clemenza, “Can you get us past that officer?”

Clemenza took Michael by the arm and led him out of the crowd.

In an hour they were in one of the small houses on a side street. This house, too, had a small courtyard and was only about twenty houses from where the crowd had gathered. Clemenza left Michael there with four men, and then he and two others went back into the town. They were gone for an hour and when Clemenza came back he was obviously badly shaken.

“It looks bad, Mike,” he said. “They’re bringing Guiliano’s mother from Montelepre to identify the body. Colonel Luca is here, the Commander of the Special Force. And newspapermen from all over the world are flying in, even from the States. This town is going to be a madhouse. We gotta get outta here.”

“Tomorrow,” Michael said. “We’ll run tomorrow. Now let’s see if we can get past those guards. Did you do anything about that?”

“Not yet,” Clemenza said.

“Well let’s go out and see what we can do,” Michael said.

Against Clemenza’s protest, they went out into the street. The whole town seemed to be covered with
carabinieri
. There must be at least a thousand of them, Michael thought. And there were literally hundreds of photographers. The street was clogged with vans and automobiles and there was no way of getting near the courtyard. They saw a group of high-ranking officers going into a restaurant, and the whisper went around that this was Colonel Luca and his staff having a celebration lunch. Michael caught a glimpse of the Colonel. He was a small wiry man with a sad face, and because of the heat he had taken off his braided cap and was wiping his partially bald head with a white handkerchief. A crowd of photographers was taking his picture and a mob of journalists was asking him questions. He waved them aside without answering and disappeared into the restaurant.

The town streets were so dense with people that Michael and Clemenza could hardly move. Clemenza decided they should go back to the house and wait for information. Late that afternoon word was brought by one of his men that Maria Lombardo had identified the body as that of her son.

They ate dinner in an open-air café. It had a blaring radio giving news reports of Guiliano’s death. The story was that the police had surrounded a house in which they believed Guiliano to be hiding. When he came out he was ordered to surrender. He had immediately opened fire. Captain Perenze, Colonel Luca’s chief of staff, was giving interviews on the radio to a panel of journalists. He told how Guiliano had started to run and he, Captain Perenze, had followed him and cornered him in the courtyard. Guiliano had turned like a lion at bay, Captain Perenze said, and he, Perenze, had returned his fire and killed him. Everybody in the restaurant was listening to the radio. Nobody was eating. The waiters made no pretense of serving; they also listened. Clemenza turned to Michael and said, “The whole thing is fishy. We leave tonight.”

But at that moment the street around the café filled with Security Police. An official car pulled up to the curb and out of it stepped Inspector Velardi. He came up to their table and placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “You are under arrest,” he said. He fastened his icy blue eyes on Clemenza. “And for good luck we’ll take you with him. A word of advice. I have a hundred men around this café. Don’t make a fuss or you’ll join Guiliano in hell.”

A police van had pulled up to the curb. Michael and Clemenza were swarmed over by Security Police, searched and then pushed roughly into the van. Some newspaper photographers eating in the café had jumped up with their cameras and were immediately clubbed back by the Security Police. Inspector Velardi watched all this with a grim satisfied smile.

The next day the father of Turi Guiliano spoke from the balcony of his home in Montelepre to the people in the street below. In the old tradition of Sicily, he declared a vendetta against the betrayers of his son. Specifically he declared a vendetta against the man who had killed his son. That man, he said, was not Captain Perenze, not a
carabiniere
. The man he named was Aspanu Pisciotta.

CHAPTER 28

A
SPANU
P
ISCIOTTA HAD
felt the black worm of treachery growing in his heart for the past year.

Pisciotta had always been loyal. Since childhood he had accepted Guiliano’s leadership without jealousy. And Guiliano had always proclaimed that Pisciotta was co-leader of the band, not one of the subchiefs like Passatempo, Terranova, Andolini and the Corporal. But Guiliano’s personality was so overwhelming that the co-leadership became a myth; Guiliano commanded. Pisciotta accepted this without reservation.

Guiliano was braver than all the others. His tactics in guerrilla warfare were unmatched, his ability to inspire love in the people of Sicily unequaled since Garibaldi. He was idealistic and romantic, and he had the feral cunning so admired by Sicilians. But he had flaws that Pisciotta saw and tried to correct.

When Guiliano insisted on giving at least fifty percent of the band’s loot to the poor, Pisciotta told him, “You can be rich or you can be loved. You think the people of Sicily will rise and follow your banner in a war against Rome. They never will. They will love you when they take your money, they will hide you when you need sanctuary, they will never betray you. But they don’t have a revolution in them.”

Pisciotta had opposed listening to the blandishments of Don Croce and the Christian Democratic party. He had opposed crushing the Communist and Socialist organizations in Sicily. When Guiliano hoped for a pardon from the Christian Democrats, Pisciotta said, “They will never pardon you, and Don Croce can never permit you to have any power. Our destiny is to buy our way out of our banditry with money, or someday to die as bandits. It’s not a bad way to die, not for me anyway.” But Guiliano had not listened to him, and this finally aroused Pisciotta’s resentment and started the growth of that hidden worm of treachery.

Guiliano had always been a believer, an innocent; Pisciotta had always seen clearly. With the advent of Colonel Luca and his Special Force, Pisciotta knew the end had come. They could win a hundred victories, but a solitary defeat would mean their death. As Roland and Oliver had quarreled in the legend of Charlemagne, so Guiliano and Pisciotta had quarreled and Guiliano had been too stubborn in his heroism. Pisciotta had felt like Oliver, repeatedly begging Roland to blow his horn.

Then when Guiliano fell in love with Justina and married her, Pisciotta realized his and Guiliano’s destinies were indeed separate. Guiliano would escape to America, have a wife and children. He, Pisciotta, would be a fugitive forever. He would never have a long life; a bullet or his lung disease would finish him off. That was his destiny. He could never live in America.

What worried Pisciotta most was that Guiliano, who had found love and tenderness in a young girl, had become more ferocious as a bandit. He killed
carabinieri
where previously he had captured them. He had executed Passatempo while on his honeymoon. He showed no mercy to anyone he suspected of informing. Pisciotta was in terror that the man he had loved and defended all these years might turn on him. He worried that if Guiliano learned of some of the things he had recently done, he, too, might be executed.

Don Croce had studied the relationship between Guiliano and Pisciotta closely for the last three years. They were the sole danger to his plans of empire. They were the only obstacles to his rule of Sicily. At first he had thought he could make Guiliano and his band the armed forces of the Friends of the Friends. He had sent Hector Adonis to sound Guiliano out. The proposition was clear. Turi Guiliano would be the great warrior, Don Croce the great statesman. But Guiliano would have to bend his knee, and this he refused to do. He had his own star to follow, to help the poor, to make Sicily a free country, to lift the yoke of Rome. This Don Croce could not comprehend.

But from 1943 to 1947, Guiliano’s star was in ascendency. The Don still had to forge the Friends into one unified force. The Friends had not recovered from the terrible decimation of their ranks by Mussolini’s Fascist government. So the Don gentled Guiliano’s power by enticing him into an alliance with the Christian Democratic party. Meanwhile he built the Mafia empire anew and bided his time. His first stroke, the engineering of the massacre at the Portella della Ginestra, with the blame falling on Guiliano, had been a masterpiece, but he could not claim the credit his due. That stroke destroyed any chance that the government in Rome might pardon Guiliano and support his bid for power in Sicily. It also stained forever the hero’s mantle Guiliano wore as the champion of the poor in Sicily. And when Guiliano executed the six Mafia chiefs the Don had no choice. The Friends of the Friends and Guiliano’s band had to fight each other to the death.

So Don Croce had focused more intently on Pisciotta. Pisciotta was clever, but as young men are clever—that is, he did not give full weight to the hidden terror and evil in the hearts of the best of men. And Pisciotta, too, had a taste for the fruits and temptations of the world. Where Guiliano disdained money, Pisciotta loved the rewards money brought. Guiliano did not have a penny for his personal fortune though he had earned over a billion lire with his crimes. He distributed his share of the spoils to the poor and to help support his family.

But Don Croce had observed that Pisciotta wore the finest tailored suits in Palermo and visited the most expensive prostitutes. Also that Pisciotta’s family lived much better than Guiliano’s. And Don Croce learned that Pisciotta had money stored in Palermo’s banks under false names, and had taken other precautions that only a man interested in staying alive would make. Like false identity papers in three different names, a safe house prepared in Trapani. And Don Croce knew that all this was a secret held from Guiliano. So he awaited Pisciotta’s visit, a visit requested by Pisciotta, who had known the Don’s house was always open to him, with interest and pleasure. And also with prudence and foresight. He was surrounded by armed guards, and he had alerted Colonel Luca and Inspector Velardi to be ready for a conference if all went well. If it did not, if he had misjudged Pisciotta or if this was a triple-dyed treachery cooked up by Guiliano to have the Don killed, then it would be the grave for Aspanu Pisciotta.

Pisciotta allowed himself to be disarmed before he was led into the presence of Don Croce. He had no fear, for he had just a few days before done the Don an enormous service; he had warned him of Guiliano’s plan to attack the hotel.

The two men were alone. Don Croce’s servants had prepared a table of food and wine, and Don Croce, an old-fashioned rustic host, filled Pisciotta’s plate and glass.

“The good times are over,” Don Croce said. “Now we must be very serious, you and I. The time has come to make the decision that will decide our lives. I hope you are ready to listen to what I have to say.”

“I don’t know what your trouble is,” Pisciotta said to the Don. “But I know that I have to be very clever to save my skin.”

“You don’t wish to emigrate?” the Don asked. “You could go to America with Guiliano. The wine isn’t as good and the olive oil is water and they have the electric chair, after all they are not as civilized as our government here. You couldn’t do anything rash. But it’s not a bad life there.”

Pisciotta laughed. “What would I do in America? I’ll take my chances here. Once Guiliano is gone, they won’t look so hard for me, and the mountains are deep.”

The Don said solicitously, “You still have troubles with your lungs? You still get your medicine?”

“Yes,” Pisciotta said. “That isn’t a problem. The chances are that my lungs will never get the chance to kill me.” He grinned at Don Croce.

“Let’s talk Sicilian together,” the Don said gravely. “When we are children, when we are young, it is natural to love our friends, to be generous to them, to forgive their faults. Each day is fresh, we look forward to the future with pleasure and without fear. The world itself is not so dangerous; it is a happy time. But as we grow old and have to earn our bread, friendship does not endure so easily. We must always be on our guard. Our elders no longer look after us, we are no longer content with those simple pleasures of children. Pride grows in us—we wish to become great or powerful or rich, or simply to guard ourselves against misfortune. I know how much you love Turi Guiliano, but now you must ask yourself, what is the price of this love? And after all these years does it still exist or is it just the memory that exists?” He waited for Pisciotta to make an answer, but Pisciotta looked at him with a face stonier than the rocks on the Cammarata Mountains and as white. For Pisciotta’s face had gone very pale.

Don Croce went on. “I cannot permit Guiliano to live or escape. If you remain faithful to him then you, too, are my enemy. Know this. With Guiliano gone, you cannot remain alive in Sicily without my protection.”

Pisciotta said, “Turi’s Testament is safe with his friends in America. If you kill him that Testament will become public and the government will fall. A new government may force you to retire to your farm here in Villaba or even worse.”

The Don chuckled. Then roared with laughter. He said with contempt, “Have you read this famous Testament?”

“Yes,” Pisciotta said, bewildered by the Don’s reaction.

“I have not,” the Don said. “But I have decided to act as if it does not exist.”

Pisciotta said, “You ask me to betray Guiliano. What makes you think that is possible?”

Don Croce smiled. “You warned me about his attack on my hotel. That was an act of friendship?”

“I did that for Guiliano, not for you,” Pisciotta said. “Turi is no longer rational. He plans to kill you. Once you are dead, then I know there is no longer hope for any of us. The Friends of the Friends will never rest until we are dead, Testament or no Testament. He could have been out of the country days ago but he lingers, hoping to get his revenge and your life. I came to this meeting to make an arrangement with you. Guiliano will leave this country within the next few days, he will end his vendetta with you. Let him go.”

Don Croce leaned back from his plate of food on the table. He sipped his glass of wine. “You’re being childish,” he said. “We have come to the end of the history. Guiliano is too dangerous to remain alive. But I cannot kill him. I must live in Sicily—I cannot kill its greatest hero and do the things I must do. Too many people love Guiliano, too many of his followers will seek revenge for his death. It must be the
carabinieri
to do the job. That is how it must be arranged. And you are the only one who can lead Guiliano into such a trap.” He paused for a moment and then said deliberately, “The end of your world has come. You can stay with it through its destruction or you can step out of that world and live in another.”

Pisciotta said, “I could be under the protection of Christ, but I wouldn’t live long if it was known that I betrayed Guiliano.”

“You have only to tell me where you are meeting him again,” Don Croce said. “No one else will know. I will arrange things with Colonel Luca and Inspector Velardi. They will take care of the rest.” He paused a moment. “Guiliano has changed. He is no longer your childhood companion, no longer your best friend. He is a man who is looking after himself. As now you must do.”

And so on the evening of July 5, as Pisciotta made his way to Castelvetrano, he had committed himself to Don Croce. He had told him where he would meet Guiliano, and he knew that the Don would tell Colonel Luca and Inspector Velardi. He had not told them that it would be at Zu Peppino’s house, but only that it would be in the town of Castelvetrano itself. And he had warned them to be careful, that Guiliano had a sixth sense about traps.

But when Pisciotta arrived at Zu Peppino’s house the old carter greeted him with an uncharacteristic coldness. Pisciotta wondered if the old man suspected him. He must have noticed the unusual activity of the
carabinieri
in the town and with that unerring Sicilian paranoia, put two and two together.

For a moment Pisciotta felt a thrilling pain of anguish. And then another agonizing thought. What if Guiliano’s mother learned that it had been her beloved Aspanu who betrayed her son? What if one day she stood before him and spit in his face and called him traitor and murderer? They had wept in each other’s arms and he had sworn to protect her son and he had given her a Judas kiss. For a moment he thought of killing the old man and thought too of killing himself.

Zu Peppino said, “If you’re looking for Turi, he’s been and gone.” He took pity on Pisciotta; the man’s face was white, he seemed to be gasping for air. “Do you want an anisette?”

Pisciotta shook his head and turned to leave. The old man said, “Be careful, the town is full of
carabinieri
.”

Pisciotta felt a flash of terror. He had been a fool not to know that Guiliano would smell out the trap. And what if now Guiliano smelled out the betrayer?

Pisciotta ran out of the house, circled the town and then took the field paths that would lead him to the fallback meeting place, the Acropolis of Selinus in the ancient ghost town of Selinunte.