Omerta - Mario Puzo [69]
“And the amyl nitrate?” Astorre asked.
“Of that she is innocent. Her affair with the professor had been going on before she met you, and he insisted on the drug. No, what we have here is a girl who straightforwardly thinks of her own happiness to the exclusion of everything else. She has no social inhibitions. My advice to you is stay in touch. You may want to make some professional use of her.”
“I agree,” Astorre said. He was surprised that he felt no anger toward Rosie. That her charm was all she needed to be forgiven. He would let it go, he told Mr. Pryor.
“Good,” Mr. Pryor said. “After a year here, you will go to Don Aprile.”
“And what will happen to Bianco?” Astorre asked.
Mr. Pryor shook his head and sighed. “Bianco must yield. The Corleonesi cosca is too strong. They will not pursue you. The Don made the peace. The truth is that Bianco’s success has made him too civilized.”
Astorre kept track of Rosie. Partly out of caution, partly out of fond remembrance of the great love of his life. He knew that she had returned to school and was working toward her Ph.D. in psychology at New York University and that she lived in a secure apartment building nearby where she had finally become more professional with older and richer men.
She was very clever. She ran three liaisons at a time and apportioned her rewards among expensive gifts of money, jewelry, and vacations to the spas of the rich—where she made further contacts. No one could call her a professional call girl, since she never asked for anything, but she never refused a gift.
That these men fell in love with her was a foregone conclusion. But she never accepted their offers of marriage. She insisted that they were friends who loved each other, that marriage was not suitable for her or them. Most of the men accepted this decision with grateful relief. She was not a gold digger; she did not press for money and showed no evidence of greed. All she wanted was to live in a luxurious style, free of encumbrance. But she did have an instinct to squirrel money away for a rainy day. She had five different bank accounts and two safe-deposit boxes.
It was a few months after the Don’s death that Astorre decided to see Rosie again. He was certain that it was only to get her help in his plans. He told himself that he knew her secrets and she could not dazzle him again. And she was in his debt and he knew her fatal secret.
He knew also that in a certain sense she was amoral. That she put herself and her pleasure in an exalted realm, an almost religious belief. She believed with all her heart that she had a right to be happy and that this took precedence over everything else.
But more than anything, he wanted to see her again. Like many men, the passage of time had lessened her betrayals and heightened her charms. Now her sins seemed more a youthful carelessness, not some proof that she did not love him. He remembered her breasts, how they blotched with pink when she made love; the way she ducked her head in shyness; her infectious high spirits; her gentle good humor. The way she walked so effortlessly with her stiltlike legs and the incredible heat of her mouth on his lips. Despite all this, Astorre convinced himself that this visit was strictly business. He had a job for her to do.
Rosie was about to enter her apartment building when he stepped in front of her, smiled, and said hello. She was carrying books in her right arm and she dropped them on the pavement. Her face blushed with pleasure; her eyes sparkled. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.
“I knew I’d see you again,” she said. “I knew you’d forgive me.” Then she pulled him into the building and led him up one flight of stairs to her apartment.
There she poured them drinks, wine for her, brandy for him. She sat next to him on the sofa. The room was luxuriously furnished, and he knew where the money came from.
“Why did