The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [12]
Hector Adonis said, “When will you be ready to accept Turi Guiliano?”
Michael said, “I will be in Trapani by early morning. Give me twenty-four hours from then.”
Suddenly Guiliano’s mother burst into tears. “My poor Turi trusts no one any longer. He will not go to Trapani.”
“Then I can’t help him,” Michael said coldly.
Guiliano’s mother seemed to fold up with despair. It was Pisciotta unexpectedly who went to comfort her. He kissed her and held her in his arms. “Maria Lombardo, don’t worry,” he said. “Turi still listens to me. I will tell him we all believe in this man from America, isn’t that true?” He looked at the other men inquiringly and they nodded. “I will bring Turi to Trapani myself.”
Everyone seemed content. Michael realized that his cold reply was what had convinced them to trust him. Sicilians all, they were suspicious of a too warm and human generosity. On his part, he was impatient with their carefulness and the disarray of his father’s plans. Don Croce was now an enemy, Guiliano might not come to him quickly, indeed might not come at all. After all, what was Turi Guiliano to him? For that matter, he wondered again, what was Guiliano to his father?
They were ushering him into the small living room where the mother served coffee and anisette, apologizing that there was no sweet. The anisette would warm Michael for his long night journey to Trapani, they said. Hector Adonis took a gold cigarette case out of his elegantly tailored jacket and offered it around, then put a cigarette into his own delicately cut mouth and so far forgot himself that he leaned back in his chair so that his feet no longer touched the floor. For a moment he looked like a puppet dangling from a cord.
Maria Lombardo pointed to the huge portrait on the wall. “Isn’t he handsome?” she said. “And he is as good as he is beautiful. My heart broke when he became an outlaw. Do you remember that terrible day, Signor Adonis? And all the lies they tell about the Portella della Ginestra? My son would never have done such a thing.”
The other men were embarrassed. Michael wondered for the second time that day what had happened at the Portella della Ginestra but did not want to ask.
Hector Adonis said, “When I was Turi’s teacher, he was a great reader, he knew the legends of Charlemagne and Roland by heart and now he is one of the myths himself. My heart broke, too, when he became an outlaw.”
Guiliano’s mother said bitterly, “He will be lucky if he remains alive. Oh, why did we want our son born here? Oh, yes, we wanted him to be a true Sicilian.” She gave a wild and bitter laugh. “And so he is. He goes in fear of his life and with a price on his head.” She paused and then said with fierce conviction, “And my son is a saint.”
Michael noticed that Pisciotta smiled in a peculiar way, as people do when listening to fond parents who speak too sentimentally about their children’s virtues. Even Guiliano’s father made a gesture of impatience. Stefan Andolini smiled in a crafty way and Pisciotta said affectionately but coolly, “My dear Maria Lombardo, don’t make out your son to be so helpless. He gave better than he received and his enemies fear him still.”
Guiliano’s mother said more calmly, “I know he’s killed many times, but he never committed an injustice. And he always gave them time to cleanse their souls and say their last prayers to God.” Suddenly she took Michael by the hand and led him into the kitchen and out onto the balcony. “None of those others really know my son,” she said to Michael. “They don’t know how kind and gentle he is. Maybe he has to be one way with other men, but he was his true self with me. He obeyed my every word, he never said a harsh word to me. He was a loving dutiful son. In his first days