The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [83]
And now the Prince took the same attitude toward Guiliano. As if his captor were only his servant who wanted to share his life, the enviable life of a very rich and powerful man. The Prince was suddenly aware that he could turn his period of captivity into an advantage that might even make paying his ransom worthwhile. But he knew he had to be very careful. That he had to exert his charm to the utmost without any condescension. That he had to be frank and sincere and as truthful as he could be. And that he could not try to make too much capital of the situation. For Guiliano could spring from weakness to strength.
So now he answered Guiliano’s question seriously and with great genuineness. He said with a smile, “Why do you wear that emerald ring, that gold buckle?” He waited for an answer, but Guiliano only smiled. The Prince went on. “I married a woman even richer than myself. I have power and political duties. I have estates here in Sicily and an even larger estate in Brazil through my wife. People in Sicily kiss my hands as soon as I take them out of my pockets, and even in Rome I am held in great esteem. For in that city, money commands. Everyone’s eyes are upon me. I feel ridiculous—I have done nothing to earn all this. But it is mine to keep and I must keep it, I cannot disgrace that public person. Even when I go out hunting in what seems to be a rough garb of the countryman, I must look the part perfectly. That of a rich and great man going hunting. How I envy men like you and Don Croce sometimes, who hold your power in your head and your heart. Who have won your power by your courage and your cunning. Isn’t it laughable that I do almost the same thing by going to the best tailor in London?”
He delivered this speech so prettily that Guiliano laughed aloud. In fact Guiliano was so amused that the two of them ate dinner together and talked long of the miseries of Sicily and the poltrooneries of Rome.
The Prince knew of Don Croce’s hope to enlist Guiliano and tried to further that aim. “My dear Guiliano,” he said, “how is it that you and Don Croce do not join together to rule Sicily? He has the wisdom of age, you have the idealism of youth. There is no question that both of you love Sicily. Why can you not join forces in the times ahead which are dangerous for all of us? Now that the war is over, things are changing. The Communists and Socialists hope to degrade the Church, destroy blood ties. They dare to say that duty to a political party is more important than the love for your mother, the devotion you owe your brothers and sisters. What if they were to win the elections and set these policies in motion?”
“They can never win,” Guiliano said. “Sicilians will never vote Communist.”
“Don’t be so sure,” the Prince said. “You remember Silvio Ferra, he was your boyhood friend. Good boys like Silvio went to the war and came back infected with radical notions. Their agitators promise free bread, free land. The innocent peasant is like a donkey following a carrot. They may very well vote Socialist.”
“I have no love for the Christian Democrats, but I would do everything to prevent a Socialist government,” Guiliano said.
“Only you and Don Croce can ensure the freedom of Sicily,” the Prince said. “You must join together. Don Croce speaks always as if you were his son—he has a positive affection for you. And only he can avert a great war between you and the Friends of the Friends. He understands that you do what you must do; I understand it too. But even now the three of us can work together and preserve our destinies. If not we can all go down to destruction.”
Turi Guiliano could not contain his anger. What insolence the rich had. He said with lethal calm, “Your own ransom has not yet been settled and yet you propose an alliance. You may be dead.”
The Prince slept badly that night. But Guiliano showed no further ill will, and the Prince spent his next two weeks in a very profitable fashion. His health improved and his body toned