The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [74]
He had sent word of his visit a few days before and his mother had prepared a feast. That night he slept in his childhood bed, and the next day, when his mother went to morning Mass, Guiliano accompanied her to church. He had a bodyguard of six men who were also visiting their families in the town but had orders to accompany Guiliano wherever he went.
As he came out of the church with his mother, his six bodyguards were waiting for him with Pisciotta. Aspanu’s face was white with fury as he said, “You have been betrayed, Turi. The Maresciallo has returned from Palermo with twenty extra men to arrest you. They have your mother’s house surrounded. They think you’re inside.”
Guiliano felt for one moment a kind of anger at his own rashness and stupidity and resolved he would never be so careless again. Not that the Maresciallo with his twenty men could have captured him even in his mother’s house. His bodyguards would have ambushed them, and there would have been a bloody battle. But that would have spoiled the spirit of his Easter homecoming. The day Christ had risen was not the day to break the peace.
He kissed his mother goodbye and told her to return home and freely admit to the police that she had left him at the church. In that way she could not be charged with any conspiracy. He told her not to worry, that he and his men were heavily armed and would easily escape; there would not even be any fighting. The carabinieri would not dare to follow them into the mountains.
Guiliano and his men left without even being sighted by the police. That night in the mountain camp, Guiliano questioned Pisciotta. How could the Maresciallo have known about the visit? Who was the informer? Everything must be done to find out. “That will be your special task, Aspanu,” he said. “And if there is one, there may be others. I don’t care how long it takes or how much money we spend, you must find out.”
Even as a child, Pisciotta had never liked the buffoonish barber of Montelepre. Frisella was one of those barbers who cut hair to suit his mood of the day, one time modishly, another time puckishly, another time with the extreme conservativeness of a peasant farmer. By varying his style he put forward his claim to being an artist. He was also too familiar with his superiors and too patronizing to his equals. With children he was playful in that particularly spiteful Sicilian style which is one of the less pleasant sides of the island character; he would nip their ears with his scissors and sometimes cut their hair so short that their heads looked like billiard balls. So it was with grim satisfaction that Pisciotta reported to Guiliano that Frisella the barber was the police spy and had broken the sacred code of omerta. It was obvious that the Maresciallo was not making a random strike that Easter day. He must have received information that Turi would be there. And how could he have gotten that information since Turi had sent word to his family only twenty-four hours before?
Pisciotta used his own informers in the village to check on every step the Maresciallo had taken during that twenty-four hours. And since only Guiliano’s mother and father had known about the visit, he questioned them casually to see if they might have accidentally given anything away.
Maria Lombardo soon smelled out his intention. She said to him, “I spoke to no one, not even my neighbors. I stayed in the house and cooked so that Turi would have an Easter feast.”
But Guiliano’s father had gone to the barber Frisella on the morning of his son’s visit. The old man was a little vain, and he wanted to look his best on the rare occasions when his son Turi came to visit at the house in Montelepre. Frisella had shaved and barbered the old man and made his usual jokes. “Was Signor perhaps going into Palermo to visit certain young ladies there? Was he receiving important visitors from Rome?” He, Frisella, would make Signor Guiliano look handsome enough to receive a “king.” And Pisciotta visualized the setting. Guiliano’s father with a little secretive smile on his