The Last Don - Mario Puzo [88]
The three men saw with dismay that she was having one of her fits. Her hair was wild, her makeup was bizarre, and her clothing was twisted. Most serious, her mouth was open but no words were coming out. She used her body and hand flailing to take the place of speech. Her gestures were startlingly vivid, better than words. She hated them, she wanted them dead, she wanted their souls to burn in hell for eternity. They should choke on their food, go blind from the wine, their cocks should fall off when they slept with their wives. Then she took Giorgio’s plate and Pippi’s plate and smashed them on the floor.
This was all permitted, but the first time, years ago, when she had her first fit, she treated the Don’s plate in the same fashion and he had ordered her seized and locked in her room and then had her dispatched for three months to a special nursing home. Even now the Don quickly put the lid on his cheese bowl; she did a lot of spitting. Then suddenly it was over, she became very still. She spoke to Pippi. “I wanted to say good-bye. I hope you die in Sicily.”
Pippi felt an overwhelming pity for her. He rose and took her in his arms. She did not resist. He kissed her on the cheek and said, “I wish to die in Sicily rather than come home and find you like this.” She broke out of his arms and ran back up the stairs.
“Very touching,” Giorgio said, almost sneering. “But you don’t have to put up with her every month.” He gave a slight leer with this, but they all knew that Rose Marie was far past menopause and she had the fits more than once a month.
The Don seemed the least upset by his daughter’s fit. “She will get better or she will die,” he said. “If not I will send her away.”
Then he addressed Pippi. “I’ll let you know when you can come back from Sicily. Enjoy the rest, we’re all getting older. But keep your eyes open for new men to recruit for the Enclave. That is important. We must have men we can count on not to betray us, who have omertà in their bones, not like the rascals born in this country who want to lead a good life but not pay for it.”
The next day, with Pippi on his way to Sicily, Dante was summoned to the Quogue mansion to spend the weekend. The first day Giorgio let Dante spend all his time with Rose Marie. It was touching to see their devotion to each other, Dante was a totally different person with his mother. He never wore one of his peculiar hats, he took her on walks around the estate, took her out for dinner. He waited on her like some eighteenth-century French gallant. When she broke into hysterical tears, he cradled her in his arms, and she never went into one of her fits. They spoke to each other constantly in low, confidential tones.
At supper time, Dante helped Rose Marie set the table, grate the Don’s cheese, kept her company in the kitchen. She cooked his favorite meal of penne with broccoli and then roast lamb studded with bacon and garlic.
Giorgio was always struck by the rapport between the Don and Dante. Dante was solicitous, he spooned the penne and broccoli into the Don’s plate and ostentatiously wiped and polished the great silver spoon he used to dip into the grated parmesan. Dante teased the old man. “Grandfather,” he said, “if you got new teeth, we wouldn’t have to grate this cheese. The dentists do great work now, they can plant steel in your jaw. A miracle.”
The Don was playful in kind. “I want my teeth to die with me,” he said. “And I’m too old for miracles. Why should God waste a miracle on an ancient like me?”
Rose Marie had prettied herself for her son, and traces of her young beauty could be seen. She seemed happy to see her father and her son on such familiar terms. It banished her constant air of anxiety.
Giorgio, too, was content. He was pleased that his sister seemed happy. She was not so nerve-racking and she was a better cook. She didn’t stare at him with accusing eyes and she would not be subject to one