The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [150]
“Well, Turi,” Pisciotta said, grinning, “was she worth us risking our lives for?”
Guiliano said quietly, “I’m a happy man. Now tell me about those twenty rabbits you’ve shot.”
“One of Luca’s patrols, but in strength,” Pisciotta said. “We stopped them at the perimeter. Two armored cars. One of them ran into our minefield and burned as badly as your new wife will burn those rabbits. The other car fired its guns at the rocks and ran home to Montelepre. They will come back in the morning, of course, to find their comrades. In force. I suggest you leave here tonight.”
“Justina’s father is coming for her at dawn,” Guiliano said. “Have you arranged our little meeting?”
“Yes,” Pisciotta said.
“After my wife leaves—” Guiliano stuttered over the word “wife” and Pisciotta laughed. Guiliano smiled and continued, “—bring those men to me in the chapel and we will settle the matter.” He paused for a moment and said, “Were you surprised when I told you the truth about Ginestra?”
“No,” Pisciotta said.
“Will you stay for dinner?” Guiliano asked.
“On the last night of your honeymoon?” Pisciotta shook his head. “You know the proverb: ‘Beware of the cookery of a new bride.’ ” The old proverb of course referred to the latent treachery of new friends as partners in crime. What Pisciotta was saying once again was that Guiliano should never have married.
Guiliano smiled. “All this can’t last much longer—we have to prepare for a different life. Make sure the perimeter holds tomorrow until we have finished all of our business.”
Pisciotta nodded. He glanced over to the campfire where Justina was cooking. “What a beautiful girl she is,” he said. “And to think she grew up under our very noses and we never noticed her. But watch out, her father says she has a temper. Don’t let her handle your guns.”
Again this was sly Sicilian peasant vulgarity, but Guiliano seemed not to hear and Pisciotta swung himself over the garden wall to disappear through the olive groves.
Justina had gathered flowers and put them into an old vase she had found in the castle. These graced the table. She served the food she had cooked, rabbit with garlic and tomatoes, a wooden bowl of salad with olive oil and red wine vinegar. She seemed to Turi a little nervous, a little sad. Perhaps it was the gunfire, perhaps it was Aspanu Pisciotta appearing in their Garden of Eden with his saturnine face, black guns dangling from his body.
They sat opposite each other eating slowly. She wasn’t a bad cook, Guiliano thought, and she was quick to supply him with bread, more meat and fill his wineglass; she had been well trained by her mother. He noticed with approval that she was a good eater—she wasn’t sickly. She raised her eyes and saw him watching her. She grinned at him and said, “Is the food as good as your mother’s?”
“Better,” he said. “But never tell her that.”
She was still looking at him like a cat. “And is it as good as La Venera’s?”
Turi Guiliano had never had a love affair with a young girl. He was caught by surprise, but his tactical mind processed the question quickly. Next would come questions about his love-making with La Venera. He didn’t want to hear such questions or answer them. He had not felt the love for the older woman that he felt for this young girl; still he felt a tenderness and respect for La Venera. She was a woman who had suffered tragedies and pain this young girl for all her charms had no knowledge of.
He smiled at Justina gravely. She had risen to clear the