Omerta - Mario Puzo [58]
Georgette shook his hand and complimented him on his singing. “You remind me of a young Dean Martin,” she said.
Astorre was delighted. “Thank you,” he said. “He’s my hero. I know his entire catalogue of songs by heart.”
“My husband is a big fan, too,” Georgette said. “I like his music, but I don’t like the way he treats women.”
Astorre sighed, knowing he was on the losing end of an argument, but one he had to make anyway as a certified soldier to the cause. “Yes, but we must separate the artist from the man.”
Georgette was amused by the gallantry of Astorre’s defense. “Must we?” she asked with a wry smile. “I don’t think we should ever condone that kind of behavior.”
Astorre could see Georgette wasn’t going to give in on this point, so all he did was begin to sing a few bars of one of Dino’s most famous Italian ballads. He looked deeply into her green eyes, swaying to the music, and he saw her beginning to smile.
“OK, OK,” she said. “I’ll admit the songs are good. But I’m still not ready to let him off the hook.”
She touched him gently on the shoulder before drifting away. Astorre spent the rest of the party observing her. She was a woman who did nothing to enhance her beauty but had a natural grace and a gentle kindness that took away any threat that beauty makes. And Astorre, like everybody in the room, fell a little bit in love with her. Yet she seemed genuinely unaware of the affect she had on people. She had not an ounce of the flirt in her.
By this time Astorre had read Marcantonio’s documentary notes on Cilke, a stubborn ferret on the trail of human flaws, coldly efficient in his work. And he also had read that his wife truly loved him. There was the mystery.
Halfway through the party, Nicole came up to him and whispered that Aldo Monza was in the reception room.
“I’m sorry, Nicole,” Astorre said. “I have to go.”
“OK,” Nicole said. “I was hoping you’d get to know Georgette better. She is absolutely the brightest and best woman I’ve ever met.”
“Well, she is beautiful,” Astorre said, and he thought to himself how foolish he still was about women—already he was building such fantasy on one meeting.
When Astorre went into the reception room, he found Aldo Monza sitting uncomfortably in one of Nicole’s fragile but beautiful antique chairs. Monza rose and whispered to him, “We have the twins. They await your pleasure.”
Astorre felt his heart sink. Now it would begin. Now he would be tested, again. “How long will it take to drive up there?”he asked.
“Three hours at least. We have a blizzard.”
Astorre looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty P.M. “Let’s get started,”he said.
When they left the building the air was white with snow and the parked cars were half buried in drifts. Monza had a huge dark Buick waiting.
Monza drove, Astorre beside him. It was very cold, and Monza turned on the heater. Gradually the car turned into an oven smelling of tobacco and wine.
“Sleep,” Monza said to Astorre. “We have a long ride ahead of us, and a night of labor.”
Astorre let his body relax and his mind slip into dreams. Snow blurred the road. He remembered the burning heat of Sicily and the eleven years during which the Don had prepared him for this final duty. And he knew how inevitable was his fate.
Astorre Viola was sixteen years old when Don Aprile ordered him to study in London. Astorre was not surprised. The Don had sent all his children to private schools and made them grow up in college; it was not only because he believed in education but to keep them isolated from his own business and way of life.
In London Astorre stayed with a prosperous couple who had emigrated many years before from Sicily and who seemed to have a very comfortable life in England. They were middle-aged and childless, and they had changed their name from Priola to Pryor. They looked extremely English, their skins bleached by English weather,