The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [98]
Stefan Andolini lost his fear for a moment in his outrage. “You would deceive your own father?” he shouted. “You call yourself a Sicilian son?” He spat on the ground. “Then kill me and go straight down to hell.”
Pisciotta, Terranova and Passatempo were also astonished. But they had been astonished many times in the past. Guiliano who was so honorable, who prided himself on keeping his word, who spoke always of justice for everyone, would suddenly turn and do something that seemed to them villainous. It was not that they objected to him killing Andolini—he could kill a hundred Andolinis, a thousand. But that he should break his word to his father and deceive him seemed to them unforgivable. Only Corporal Silvestro seemed to understand and said, “He can’t endanger all our lives because his father is softhearted.”
Guiliano said to Andolini in a quiet voice, “Make your peace with God.” He motioned to Passatempo. “You will have five minutes.”
Andolini’s red hair seemed to bristle all over his head. He said frantically, “Before you kill me speak to the Abbot Manfredi.”
Guiliano stared at him with amazement and the redheaded man spoke in an outpouring of words. “You once said to the Abbot that you owed him a service. That he could ask you for anything.” Guiliano remembered his promise well. How did the man know about it?
Andolini continued, “Let us go to him and he will beg for my life.”
Pisciotta said contemptuously, “Turi, it will take another day to send a messenger and get his answer back. And does the Abbot have more influence with you than your own father?”
Guiliano astonished them again. “Bind his arms and put a halter on his feet so that he can walk but not run. Give me a guard of ten men. I’ll bring him to the monastery myself, and if the Abbot does not ask for his life, he can make his last confession. I’ll execute him and give his body to the monks for burial.”
Guiliano and his band arrived at the monastery gates as the sun was rising and the monks were going out to work the fields. Turi Guiliano watched them, a smile on his lips. Was it only two years ago that he had gone into the fields with these priests, wearing his brown cloak and the crumpled black American fedora on his head? He remembered how this amused him. Who would have dreamed then of his future ferocity? A nostalgia came for those old days of peace working in the fields.
The Abbot himself was coming toward the gate to greet them. The tall black-robed figure hesitated when the prisoner stepped forward, then opened his arms. Stefan Andolini rushed to embrace the old man, kissed him on both cheeks and said, “Father, these men are going to kill me, only you can save me.”
The Abbot nodded. He held out his arms to Guiliano, who came forward to embrace him. Guiliano understood everything now. The peculiar accent on the word “Father” was not how a man addressed his priest but as a son addressed his parent.
The Abbot said, “I ask you for this man’s life, as a boon to me.”
Guiliano took the ropes off Andolini’s arms and feet. “He is yours,” Turi Guiliano said.
Andolini was sagging to the ground; the fear rushing out of his body made him weak. The Abbot supported him with his own frail frame.