The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [154]
Michael thought, What a strange story. Why does he tell it to me?
They went back into the bedroom and Michael closed the shutters. Pisciotta picked up the severed head of the black Madonna off the floor and handed it to Michael. “I threw this on the floor to wake you,” he said. “The Testament was inside, isn’t that true?”
“Yes,” Michael said.
Pisciotta’s face sagged. “Maria Lombardo lied to me. I asked her if she had it. She said no. Then she gave it to you in front of my very eyes.” He laughed bitterly. “I have been like a son to her.” He paused for a moment and then said, “And she has been like a mother to me.”
Pisciotta asked for another cigarette. There was still some wine left in the jug on the night table. Michael poured a glass for both of them, and Pisciotta drank it gratefully. “Thank you,” he said. “Now we must get down to our business. I will turn over Guiliano to you outside the town of Castelvetrano. Ride in an open car so I can recognize you, and come directly on the road from Trapani. I will intercept you at a point of my own choosing. If there is danger, wear a cap and we will not appear. The time will be as soon as dawn breaks. Do you think you can manage that?”
“Yes,” Michael said. “Everything is arranged. There is one thing I should tell you: Stefan Andolini did not keep his appointment with Professor Adonis yesterday. The Professor was very worried.”
Pisciotta was startled for the first time. Then he shrugged. “The little man was always bad luck,” he said. “Now we must say goodbye until tomorrow at dawn.” He took Michael’s hand in his own.
Michael said impulsively, “Come with us to America.”
Pisciotta shook his head. “I have lived in Sicily all of my life and I have loved my life. And so I must die in Sicily if I must. But thank you.”
Michael was strangely moved by these words. Even with his scant knowledge of Pisciotta, he sensed that this was a man who could never be transplanted from the earth and mountains of Sicily. He was too fierce, too bloodthirsty; his coloring, his voice were all of Sicily. He could never trust a strange land.
“I’ll pass you through the gate,” Michael said.
“No,” Pisciotta said. “Our little meeting must remain a secret.”
After Pisciotta had left, Michael lay on his bed until dawn, unable to sleep. He would finally meet Turi Guiliano face to face; they would travel to America together. He wondered what kind of man he would find Guiliano to be. Would he be his legend? So much larger than life that he dominated this island and affected the course of a nation? He got up from the bed and opened the shutters. Dawn was finally breaking and he watched the sun move up in the sky and throw a golden highway across the sea, and riding on that broad beam of light he saw the motor launch speeding toward the dock. He rushed out of the villa and down to the beach to greet Peter Clemenza.
They had breakfast together, and Michael told him about Pisciotta’s visit. Clemenza did not seem surprised that Pisciotta had penetrated the guarded villa.
They spent the rest of the morning making their plans for the meeting with Guiliano. There might be spies watching the villa for any extraordinary movement; a column of automobiles would surely attract attention. Also Michael would certainly be under close observation. True, the Sicilian Security Police under Inspector Velardi would not interfere, but who knew what treacheries might be afoot?
When they had finished their planning, they had lunch, and then Michael went