The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [101]
Michael asked again, “And my father, he’s completely recovered?”
Clemenza laughed; it was an ugly laugh. “He sure is. The Five Families will find out. Your father is just waiting for you to get home, Mike. He’s got big plans for you. We can’t let him down. So don’t worry too much for Guiliano—if he shows up we’ll take him with us. If he keeps screwing off we leave him here.”
“Are those my father’s orders?” Michael asked.
Clemenza said, “A courier comes by air every day to Tunis and I go over by boat to talk to him. Those were my orders yesterday. At first Don Croce was supposed to help us, or so your father told me before I left the States. But you know what happened in Palermo after you left yesterday? Somebody tried to knock off Croce. They came over the wall of the garden and killed four of his bodyguards. But Croce got away. So what the hell is going on?”
Michael said, “Jesus.” He remembered the precautions Don Croce had taken around the hotel. “I think that was our friend Guiliano. I hope you and my father know what you’re doing. I’m so tired I can’t think.”
Clemenza rose and patted him on the shoulder. “Mikey, get some sleep. When you wake up you’ll meet my brother. A great man, just like your father, just as smart, just as tough, and he’s the boss in this part of the country, never mind Croce.”
Michael undressed and got into bed. He had not slept for over thirty hours and yet his mind jumped and would not let his body rest. He could feel the heat of the morning sun though he had closed the heavy wooden shutters. There was a heavy fragrance of flowers and lemon trees. His mind worked over the events of the past few days. How did Pisciotta and Andolini move around so freely? Why did Guiliano seem to have decided Don Croce was his enemy at this most inappropriate of times? Such an error was not Sicilian. After all, the man had lived seven years in the mountains as an outlaw. Enough was enough. He must want to live a better life—not possible here, but certainly in America. And he definitely had such plans or he would not be sending his fiancée, pregnant, to America before him. The clarifying thought struck him that the answer to all this mystery was that Guiliano was bent on fighting one last battle. That he did not fear to die here on his native ground. There were plans and conspiracies spinning out to their final conclusions that he, Michael, could not be aware of, and so he must be wary. For Michael Corleone did not want to die in Sicily. He was not part of this particular myth.
Michael awoke in the huge bedroom and opened the shutters, which swung outward to a white stone balcony glittering in the morning sun. Below the balcony, the Mediterranean Sea rolled like a deep blue carpet out to the horizon. Streaks of crimson laced the water, and on these boats fishermen sailed out of sight. Michael watched them for a few minutes, utterly bewitched by the beauty of the sea and the majestic cliffs of Erice up the coast to the north.
The room was full of huge rustic furniture. There was a table on which stood a blue enameled basin and a jug of water. Over a chair there was a rough brown towel. On the walls were paintings of saints and the Virgin Mary, with the infant Jesus in her arms. Michael washed his face and then left the room. At the bottom of the stairs Peter Clemenza was waiting for him.
“Ah, now you look better, Mikey,” Clemenza said. “A good meal to give you back your strength and then we can talk business.” He led Michael into a kitchen that held a long wooden table. They sat down and an old woman in black appeared magically at the stove and poured two cups of espresso and served them. Then just as magically she produced a platter of eggs and sausage which she put on the table. From the oven came a great sun-shaped brown-crusted loaf of bread. Then she disappeared into a room beyond the kitchen. She did not acknowledge Michael’s thanks. At that moment a man entered the room. He was older than Clemenza but looked so much like him that Michael knew immediately that this was Don