The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [36]
For the weeks of his convalescence, he played over and over in his mind the days he and his fellow villagers had congregated in the town square waiting for the gabellotti, the overseers of the large land estates, to pick them out for a day’s work, offering starvation wages with the contemptuous take-it-or-leave-it sneer of men who had all the power. The unfair sharing of crops that left everyone impoverished after a year’s hard work. The overbearing hand of the law which punished the poor and let the rich go free.
If he recovered from his wound, he swore he would see justice done. He would never again be a powerless boy at the mercy of fate. He would arm himself, physically and mentally. Of one thing he was sure: He would never again stand helpless before the world, as he had before Guido Quintana, and the policeman who had shot him down. The young man who had been Turi Guiliano no longer existed.
At the end of a month, the doctor advised another four weeks of rest with some exercise, and so Guiliano donned a monk’s habit and strolled around the grounds of the monastery. The Abbot had become fond of the young man, and often accompanied him, telling stories about his youthful travels to far-off lands. The Abbot’s affection was not lessened when Hector Adonis sent him a sum of money for his prayers for the poor and Don Croce himself advised the Abbot that he had an interest in the young man.
As for Guiliano, he was astonished at how these monks lived. In a countryside where people were almost starving, where laborers had to sell their sweat for fifty cents a day, the monks of Saint Francis lived like kings. The monastery was really a huge and rich estate.
They had a lemon orchard, a scattering of stout olive trees as old as Christ. They had a small bamboo plantation and a butcher shop into which they fed their flock of sheep, their pen of piglets. Chickens and turkeys roamed at will, crowds of them. The monks ate meat every day with their spaghetti, drank homemade wine from their own huge cellar, and traded on the black market for tobacco, which they smoked like fiends.
But they worked hard. During the day they labored barefoot in cassocks tucked up to their knees, sweat pouring down their brows. On their tonsured heads, to protect them from the sun, they wore oddly shaped American fedoras, black and brown, which the Abbot had acquired from some military government supply officer for a cask of wine. The monks wore the fedoras in many different styles, some with the brims snapped down, gangster style, others with the brims flapped upward all around to form gutters in which they kept their cigarettes. The Abbot had come to hate these hats and had forbidden their use except when actually working in the fields.
For the second four weeks, Guiliano was a fellow monk. To the Abbot’s astonishment he worked hard in the fields and helped the older monks carry the heavy baskets of fruit and olives back to the storage shed. As he grew well, Guiliano enjoyed the work, enjoyed showing off his strength. They piled his baskets high and he never let his knees buckle. The Abbot was proud of him and told him he could stay as long as he liked, that he had the makings of a true man of God.
Turi Guiliano was happy that four weeks. He had after all returned from the dead in body and in his head he was weaving daydreams and miracles. And he enjoyed the old Abbot, who treated him with absolute trust and revealed the secrets of the monastery to him. The old man boasted that all