The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [100]
Clemenza was the chief underling of Michael Corleone’s father back in America. What was he doing here? Michael had last seen him that fatal night when Clemenza had planted the gun he had used to assassinate the police captain and the Turk, Sollozzo. He had remembered the look of pity and sadness on Clemenza’s face at that moment over two years ago. Now Clemenza was genuinely overjoyed to see Michael. He pulled him out of the tiny Fiat and almost crushed him in a bear hug.
“Michael, it’s great to see you. I’ve been waiting for years to tell you how proud I am of you. What a great job you did. And now all your troubles are over. In a week you’ll be with the family, there’ll be a great feast. Everybody’s waiting for you, Mikey.” He stared into Michael’s face fondly while holding him within his two massive arms, and as he did so he made an assessment. This was no longer just the young war hero. During his time in Sicily the boy had grown into a man. That is to say, Michael’s face was no longer open; it had the proud closed look of the born Sicilian. Michael was ready to take his rightful place in the family.
Michael was happy to see Clemenza’s huge, bulky form, his broad heavily featured face. He asked for news of his family. His father had recovered from the assassination attempt, but his health was not good. Clemenza shook his head mournfully. “It never does anybody any good when they get holes punched in their body, no matter how good they recover. But it’s not the first time your father was shot. He’s like an ox. He’ll be okay. Sonny getting killed, that’s what did the damage to him and your mother. It was brutal, Mikey—they cut him to pieces with machine guns. That wasn’t right, they didn’t have to do that. That was spite work. But we’re making plans. Your father will tell you when we get you home. Everybody is happy you’re coming back.”
Stefan Andolini nodded to Clemenza; they obviously had met before. He shook hands with Michael and said he had to leave—there were things he had to do back in Montelepre. “Remember this, whatever you may hear,” he said, “that I always remained faithful to Turi Guiliano and that he trusted me to the end. If he is betrayed it is not I who will have betrayed him.” He stuttered with sincerity. “And I will not betray you.”
Michael believed him. “Won’t you come and rest and have something to eat and drink?” he asked.
Stefan Andolini shook his head. He got into the Fiat and drove back out the gates which immediately clanged shut behind him.
Clemenza led Michael across the open grounds to the main villa. There were armed men patrolling the walls and on the beach where the estate was open to the sea. A small dock stretched toward the faraway coast of Africa, and tethered to the dock was a large sleek motorboat flying the flag of Italy.
Inside the villa were two old crones dressed in black without one color of light on their persons, their skin dark with the sun, black shawls over their heads. Clemenza asked them to bring a bowl of fruit to Michael’s bedroom.
The terrace of the bedroom looked over the blue Mediterranean Sea which seemed to part in the middle when hit by a shaft of morning sunlight. Fishing boats with bright blue and red sails bobbed on the horizon like balls skipping over the water. There was a small table on the terrace covered with a heavy dark brown cloth, and the two men sat on the chairs around it. There was a pot of espresso and a jug of red wine.
“You look tired,” Clemenza said. “Get some sleep and then I’ll spell everything out for you in detail.”
“I could use it,” Michael said. “But first, tell me, is my mother all right?”
“She’s fine,” Clemenza said. “She’s waiting for you to get home. We can’t disappoint her, it would be too