Omerta - Mario Puzo [122]
They passed a few old men playing cards on wooden benches. On the far side of the piazza was a stately Catholic church. And it was into this church, Saint Sebastian’s, that the mayor first took Astorre, who had not said a formal prayer since the murder of Don Aprile. The mahogany pews were ornately carved, and dark blue votives held holy candles. Astorre knelt, head bowed, to be blessed by Father Del Vecchio, the village priest.
Afterward, Mayor DiMarco led Astorre to the small house in which he would stay. Along the way, Astorre noticed several carabinieri, or Italian National Police, leaning against the houses, with rifles at the ready. “Once night falls, it is safer to stay in the village,” the mayor explained. “But during the days, it is a joy to be in the fields.”
For the next few days Astorre took long walks through the countryside, fresh with the scent of the orange and lemon orchards. His primary purpose was to meet the villagers and explore the ancient stone-carved houses built like Roman villas. He wanted to find one he could make his home.
By the third day he knew he would be happy there. The usual wary and solemn villagers greeted him in the street, and as he sat in the café in the piazza, the old men and children teased him playfully.
There were only two more things he must do.
The following morning Astorre asked the mayor to show him the way to the village cemetery.
“For what purpose?” DiMarco asked.
“To pay my respects to my father and my mother,” Astorre replied.
DiMarco nodded and quickly grabbed a large wrought-iron key from the office wall.
“How well did you know my father?” Astorre asked him.
DiMarco quickly made the sign of the cross on his chest. “Who did not know Don Zeno? It is to him we owe our lives. He saved our children with expensive medicines from Palermo. He protected our village from looters and bandits.”
“But what was he like as a man?” Astorre asked.
DiMarco shrugged. “There are few people left who knew him in that way, and even fewer who will speak to you about him. He has become a legend. So who would wish to know the real man?”
I would, Astorre thought.
They walked through the countryside and then climbed a steep hill, with DiMarco stopping occasionally to catch his breath. Finally, Astorre saw the cemetery. But instead of grave-stones, there were rows of small stone buildings. Mausoleums, all surrounded by a high, cast-iron fence, which was locked at a gate. The sign above read: WITHIN THESE GATES, ALL ARE INNOCENT.
The mayor unlocked the gate and led Astorre to his father’s gray marble mausoleum, marked by the epitaph VINCENZO ZENO: A GOOD AND GENEROUS MAN. Astorre entered the building and on the altar studied the picture of his father. It was the first time he’d seen a picture of him, and he was struck by how familiar his face looked.
DiMarco then took Astorre to another small building, several rows away. This stone was white marble, the only hint of color a light blue raiment of the Virgin Mary carved into the arch of the entrance. Astorre walked in and examined the picture. The girl was not more than twenty-two years old, but her wide green eyes and radiant smile warmed him.
Outside, he said to DiMarco, “When I was a boy, I used to dream of a woman like her, but I thought she was an angel.”
DiMarco nodded. “She was a beautiful girl. I remember her from church. And you’re right. She sang like an angel.”
. . .
Astorre rode bareback across the countryside, only stopping long enough to eat the fresh goat-milk cheese and crusty bread that one of the village women had packed.
Finally, he reached Corleone. He could no longer put off seeing Michael Grazziella. He owed the man at least that courtesy.
He was tan from all his time in the fields, and Grazziella greeted him with open arms and a crushing bear hug. “The Sicilian sun has been good to you,” he said.
Astorre struck the proper note of gratitude: “Thank you for everything. Especially your support.”
Grazziella walked with him toward his villa. “And what brings you