The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [118]
“That reassures me,” Guiliano said. “Your personal guarantee shows the kindness of your heart and why people in Sicily call you ‘The Good Soul.’ But the treachery of Rome is notorious, and politicians—we know what they are. I would like someone I trust to hear Trezza’s promise from his own lips and a document from him that gives some assurances.”
The Don was astounded. All during the interview he had had feelings of fondness for Turi Guiliano. He had thoughts of what it would have been if this youth had been his son. Oh, how they could have ruled Sicily together. And with what grace he had said, “I kiss your hand.” The Don for one of the few times in his life had been charmed. But now he realized that Guiliano was not accepting his assurances, and his feeling of affection dimmed. He was conscious of those curiously half-closed eyes resting on him with a peculiar stare awaiting further proofs, further assurances. The guarantees of Don Croce Malo were not enough.
There was a long silence, the Don considering what he should say, the rest waiting. Hector Adonis tried to cover his dismay at Guiliano’s persistence and his fear of the Don’s reaction. Father Benjamino’s white pudgy face had the look of an insulted bulldog. But finally the Don spoke and reassured them all. He had reasoned out what was in Guiliano’s mind and what he would need.
“It is to my interest that you agree,” he said to Guiliano, “and so perhaps I was carried away with my own arguments. But let me help you decide in this fashion. Let me say first of all that Minister Trezza will never give you any document—that is too dangerous. But he will speak to you and speak the promises he spoke to me. I can secure letters from Prince Ollorto and other powerful members of the nobility who are committed to our cause. Perhaps better than that, I have a friend who may convince you more—the Catholic Church will support your pardon. I have the word of the Cardinal of Palermo. After you hear Minister Trezza I will arrange an audience with the Cardinal. He, too, will make the promise directly to you. And there you have it, the promise of the Minister of Justice for all of Italy, the sacred word of a Cardinal of the Holy Catholic Church who might someday be our Pope, and myself.”
It was impossible to describe the manner in which the Don spoke the last two words. His tenor voice sank humbly as if he almost did not dare to include his name with the others, and there was an extra charge of energy in the words “and myself” that left no doubt as to the importance of his promise.
Guiliano laughed. “I can’t go to Rome.”
Don Croce said, “Then send someone you trust absolutely. I will bring him to Minister Trezza personally. And then I will bring him to the Cardinal. Surely you can trust the word of a prince of the Holy Church?”
Guiliano watched Don Croce intently. Warning signals were going off in his brain. Why was the Don so anxious to help him? Certainly he knew that he, Guiliano, could not go to Rome, that he would never take that risk, even if a thousand cardinals and ministers gave their word. So whom did the Don expect him to name as his emissary?
“There is no person I trust more than my second in command,” he said to the Don. “Bring Aspanu Pisciotta with you to Rome, and to Palermo. He likes the big cities, and maybe if the Cardinal hears his confession, even his sins will be forgiven.”
Don Croce leaned back and motioned to Hector Adonis to fill his coffee cup. It was an old trick of his, to mask his satisfaction and sense of triumph. As if the matter at hand was so uninteresting that an external desire could take its place. But Guiliano, who had proved such a brilliant guerrilla fighter once he became a bandit, had an intuitive insight into the reading of men’s motions and patterns of thought. He immediately sensed the feeling of satisfaction. Don