The Last Don - Mario Puzo [135]
Cross immediately sensed that the Don knew everything. “There is another problem,” Cross said, and explained the new deal he had made with Marrion. He was surprised when the Don laughed aloud.
“You did exactly right,” the Don said. “A court case might be a disaster. Let them have their victory. But what rascals they are. It’s a good thing we always stayed out of that business.” He paused for a moment. “At least you’ve made your ten million. That’s a tidy sum.”
“No,” Cross said. “Five for me and five for the Family, that is understood. I don’t think we should be discouraged so easily. I have some plans but I must have Family help.”
“Then we must discuss better shares,” Giorgio said. He was like Bantz, Cross thought, always pressing for more.
The Don interrupted impatiently. “First catch the rabbit then we will share it. You have the Family blessing. But one thing. Full discussion on everything drastic that is done. You understand me, nephew?”
“Yes,” Cross said.
He left Quogue with a feeling of relief. The Don had shown his affection.
Don Domenico Clericuzio, in his eighties, still commanded his Empire. A world he had created with great endeavor and at great cost and so therefore felt he had earned.
At a venerable age, when most men are obsessed with sins inevitably committed, the regrets of lost dreams, and even doubts of their own righteousness, the Don was still as unshakable in his virtue as when he was fourteen.
Don Clericuzio was strict in his beliefs and strict in his judgments. God had created a perilous world, and mankind had made it even more dangerous. God’s world was a prison in which man had to earn his daily bread, and his fellow man was a fellow beast, carnivorous and without mercy. Don Clericuzio was proud that he had guarded his loved ones safely in their journey through life.
He was content that, at his advanced age, he had the will to pass the sentence of death on his enemies. Certainly he forgave them, was he not a Christian who maintained a holy chapel in his own home? But he forgave his enemies as God forgives all men while condemning them to inevitable extinction.
In the world Don Clericuzio had created, he was revered. His family, the thousands who lived in the Bronx Enclave, the Brugliones who ruled territories and entrusted their money to him and came for his intercession when they got into trouble with the formal society. They knew that the Don was just. That in time of need, sickness, or any trouble, they could go to him and he would address their misfortunes. And so they loved him.
The Don knew that love is not a reliable emotion no matter how deep. Love does not ensure gratitude, does not ensure obedience, does not provide harmony in so difficult a world. No one understood this better than Don Clericuzio. To inspire true love, one also had to be feared. Love alone was contemptible, it was nothing if it did not also include trust and obedience. What good was love to him if it did not acknowledge his rule?
For he was responsible for their lives, he was the root of their good fortune, and so he could not falter in his duty. He must be strict in his judgment. If a man betrayed him, if a man damaged the integrity of his world, that man must be punished and restrained even if it meant a sentence of death. There could be no excuse, no mitigating circumstance, no appeal to pity. What must be done must be done. His son Giorgio had once called him archaic. He accepted that this could not be otherwise.
Now he had many things to ponder. He had planned well over the last twenty-five years since the Santadio war. He had been farsighted, cunning, brutal when necessary, and merciful when it was safe to be so. And now the Clericuzio Family was at the height of its power, seemingly safe from any attack. Soon it would disappear into the legal fabric of society and become invulnerable.
But Don Domenico had not survived so long by being optimistically shortsighted. He could spot a malignant weed before it popped its head above the