The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [107]
Peter Clemenza went to the door and shouted an order down to one of the women servants. The woman appeared carrying the kitchen cleaver. She stared into the room for a moment and handed the cleaver to Clemenza. He shut the door to close out her curious eyes.
Michael held the black Madonna on the heavy wooden dresser table. He grasped the disc carved into the bottom with one hand and used his other to clasp the top of the statue’s head. Clemenza carefully put the cleaver to the neck of the Madonna, raised his burly arm, and with one quick powerful stroke, chopped off the head and sent it flying across the room. A sheaf of papers bound with a piece of soft gray leather sprouted out of the hollow neck.
Clemenza had hit exactly on the seam where it had been soldered; the cleaver could never have cut through the hard olive wood. He put the cleaver on the table and pulled the papers out of the headless statue. He loosened the leather thong and spread the papers out on the table. They consisted of one sheaf of about fifteen onionskin pages covered with close handwriting in black ink. The bottom of each page was signed by Guiliano in the careless scrawl of kings. There were also documents with official government seals, letters with government letterheads and statements bearing notary seals. The papers were curling up to resume the shape of their confinement and Michael used the two pieces of the statue and the cleaver to hold them flat on the table. Then he ceremoniously poured two glasses of wine from the jug on the night table and handed one to Clemenza. They drank and then started to read the Testament.
It took them almost two hours to finish.
Michael marveled that Turi Guiliano, so young, so idealistic, had lived through these treacheries. Michael knew enough of the world to imagine that Guiliano harbored his own cunning, his own scheme of power, in order to remain dedicated to his mission. Michael was filled with an enormous sense of identification and commitment to the cause of Guiliano’s escape.
It was not so much Guiliano’s diary which recounted his history for the past seven years but the documents supporting it that could surely topple the Christian Democratic government in Rome. How could these powerful men have been so foolish, Michael wondered: a note signed by the Cardinal, a letter sent by the Minister of Justice to Don Croce asking what could be done to crush the demonstration at Ginestra, all coyly worded to be sure, but damning in the light of the events that followed. Each thing by itself was innocent enough, brought together they built a mountain of evidence as imposing as the Pyramids.
There was a letter from Prince Ollorto full of flowery compliments to Guiliano and assuring him that all the men in high places of the Christian Democratic government in Rome had assured the Prince that they would do everything in their power to have Guiliano pardoned, providing he did what they had asked of him. In his letter Prince Ollorto claimed he had a complete understanding with the Minister of Justice in Rome.
There were also copies of operational plans prepared by high officials of the carabinieri to capture Guiliano—plans that had been turned over to Guiliano in exchange for services rendered.
“No wonder they don’t want to catch Guiliano,” Michael said. “He can blow them all up with these papers.”
Peter Clemenza said, “I’m taking this stuff to Tunis right away. By tomorrow night they’ll be in your father’s safe.”
He picked up the headless Madonna and stuffed the papers back inside. He put the statue in his pocket and said to Michael, “Let’s get going. If I start now I can be back here tomorrow morning.”
They went out of the villa, Clemenza depositing the cleaver with the old crone in the kitchen,