The Sicilian

CHAPTER 16

The Fiat skirted the town of Trapani and took a road along the beach. Michael Corleone and Stefano Andolini came to a villa, larger than most, with three outlying houses. There was a wall around the villa with only a gap left on the beach side. The gate to the villa was guarded by two men, and just inside Michael could see a wide fat man dressed in clothes that looked alien in this landscape: a sport jacket and slacks with an open, knit polo shirt. As they waited for the gate to open Michael saw the grin on the man's broad face and was astonished to see it was Peter Clemenza.

Clemenza was the chief underling of Michael Corleone's father back in America. What was he doing here? Michael had last seen him that fatal night when Clemenza had planted the gun he had used to assassinate the police captain and the Turk, Sollozzo. He had remembered the look of pity and sadness on Clemenza's face at that moment over two years ago. Now Clemenza was genuinely overjoyed to see Michael. He pulled him out of the tiny Fiat and almost crushed him in a bear hug.

"Michael, it's great to see you. I've been waiting for years to tell you how proud I am of you. What a great job you did. And now all your troubles are over. In a week you'll be with the family, there'll be a great feast. Everybody's waiting for you, Mikey." He stared into Michael's face fondly while holding him within his two massive arms, and as he did so he made an assessment. This was no longer just the young war hero. During his time in Sicily the boy had grown into a man. That is to say, Michael's face was no longer open; it had the proud closed look of the born Sicilian. Michael was ready to take his rightful place in the family.

Michael was happy to see Clemenza's huge, bulky form, his broad heavily featured face. He asked for news of his family. His father had recovered from the assassination attempt, but his health was not good. Clemenza shook his head mournfully. "It never does anybody any good when they get holes punched in their body, no matter how good they recover. But it's not the first time your father was shot. He's like an ox. He'll be okay. Sonny getting killed, that's what did the damage to him and your mother. It was brutal, Mikey – they cut him to pieces with machine guns. That wasn't right, they didn't have to do that. That was spite work. But we're making plans. Your father will tell you when we get you home. Everybody is happy you're coming back."

Stefano Andolini nodded to Clemenza; they obviously had met before. He shook hands with Michael and said he had to leave – there were things he had to do back in Montelepre. "Remember this, whatever you may hear," he said, "that I always remained faithful to Turi Guiliano and that he trusted me to the end. If he is betrayed it is not I who will have betrayed him." He stuttered with sincerity. "And I will not betray you."

Michael believed him. "Won't you come and rest and have something to eat and drink?" he asked.

Stefano Andolini shook his head. He got into the Fiat and drove back out the gates which immediately clanged shut behind him.

Clemenza led Michael across the open grounds to the main villa. There were armed men patrolling the walls and on the beach where the estate was open to the sea. A small dock stretched toward the faraway coast of Africa, and tethered to the dock was a large sleek motorboat flying the flag of Italy.

Inside the villa were two old crones dressed in black without one color of light on their persons, their skin dark with the sun, black shawls over their heads. Clemenza asked them to bring a bowl of fruit to Michael's bedroom.

The terrace of the bedroom looked over the blue Mediterranean Sea which seemed to part in the middle when hit by a shaft of morning sunlight. Fishing boats with bright blue and red sails bobbed on the horizon like balls skipping over the water. There was a small table on the terrace covered with a heavy dark brown cloth, and the two men sat on the chairs around it. There was a pot of espresso and a jug of red wine.

"You look tired," Clemenza said. "Get some sleep and then I'll spell everything out for you in detail."

"I could use it," Michael said. "But first, tell me, is my mother all right?"

"She's fine," Clemenza said. "She's waiting for you to get home. We can't disappoint her, it would be too much for her after Sonny."

Michael asked again, "And my father, he's completely recovered?"

Clemenza laughed; it was an ugly laugh. "He sure is. The Five Families will find out. Your father is just waiting for you to get home, Mike. He's got big plans for you. We can't let him down. So don't worry too much for Guiliano – if he shows up we'll take him with us. If he keeps screwing off we leave him here."

"Are those my father's orders?" Michael asked. Clemenza said, "A courier comes by air every day to Tunis and I go over by boat to talk to him. Those were my orders yesterday. At first Don Croce was supposed to help us, or so your father told me before I left the States. But you know what happened in Palermo after you left yesterday? Somebody tried to knock off Croce. They came over the wall of the garden and killed four of his bodyguards. But Croce got away. So what the hell is going on?"

Michael said, "Jesus." He remembered the precautions Don Croce had taken around the hotel. "I think that was our friend Guiliano. I hope you and my father know what you're doing. I'm so tired I can't think."

Clemenza rose and patted him on the shoulder. "Mikey, get some sleep. When you wake up you'll meet my brother. A great man, just like your father, just as smart, just as tough, and he's the boss in this part of the country, never mind Croce."

Michael undressed and got into bed. He had not slept for over thirty hours and yet his mind jumped and would not let his body rest. He could feel the heat of the morning sun though he had closed the heavy wooden shutters. There was a heavy fragrance of flowers and lemon trees. His mind worked over the events of the past few days. How did Pisciotta and Andolini move around so freely? Why did Guiliano seem to have decided Don Croce was his enemy at this most inappropriate of times? Such an error was not Sicilian. After all, the man had lived seven years in the mountains as an outlaw. Enough was enough. He must want to live a better life – not possible here, but certainly in America. And he definitely had such plans or he would not be sending his fiancee, pregnant, to America before him. The clarifying thought struck him that the answer to all this mystery was that Guiliano was bent on fighting one last battle. That he did not fear to die here on his native ground. There were plans and conspiracies spinning out to their final conclusions that he, Michael, could not be aware of, and so he must be wary. For Michael Corleone did not want to die in Sicily. He was not part of this particular myth.

Michael awoke in the huge bedroom and opened the shutters, which swung outward to a white stone balcony glittering in the morning sun. Below the balcony, the Mediterranean Sea rolled like a deep blue carpet out to the horizon. Streaks of crimson laced the water, and on these boats fishermen sailed out of sight. Michael watched them for a few minutes, utterly bewitched by the beauty of the sea and the majestic cliffs of Erice up the coast to the north.

The room was full of huge rustic furniture. There was a table on which stood a blue enameled basin and a jug of water. Over a chair there was a rough brown towel. On the walls were paintings of saints and the Virgin Mary, with the infant Jesus in her arms. Michael washed his face and then left the room. At the bottom of the stairs Peter Clemenza was waiting for him.

"Ah, now you look better, Mikey," Clemenza said. "A good meal to give you back your strength and then we can talk business." He led Michael into a kitchen that held a long wooden table. They sat down and an old woman in black appeared magically at the stove and poured two cups of espresso and served them. Then just as magically she produced a platter of eggs and sausage which she put on the table. From the oven came a great sun-shaped brown-crusted loaf of bread. Then she disappeared into a room beyond the kitchen. She did not acknowledge Michael's thanks. At that moment a man entered the room. He was older than Clemenza but looked so much like him that Michael knew immediately that this was Don Domenico Clemenza, Peter Clemenza's brother. Don Domenico was attired much differently. He was in black velvet trousers that tucked into sturdy brown boots. He wore a white silk shirt with ruffled sleeves and a long black vest. On his head was a short billed cap. In his right hand he carried a whip which he threw into a corner. Michael rose to greet him and Don Domenico Clemenza took him into his arms with a friendly embrace.

They sat at the table together. Don Domenico had a natural dignity and air of command that reminded Michael of his own father. He also had the same old-fashioned courtliness. Peter Clemenza obviously was in awe of his older brother who treated him with the indulgent affection an older brother shows a flighty sibling. This astonished Michael and amused him too. Peter Clemenza was his father's most trusted and deadly caporegime back in America.

Don Domenico said gravely but with a twinkle in his eye, "Michael, it is such a great pleasure and honor to me that your father, Don Corleone, has put you in my care. Now you can solve my curiosity. My good-for-nothing brother here, is his success in America as great as he claims? Has he climbed so high, this younger brother of mine I could never trust to slaughter a pig properly? Does Don Corleone really set him on his right hand? And he says he commands over a hundred men. How can I believe all this?" But as he said this he patted his younger brother's shoulder fondly.

"It's all true," Michael said. "My father always says he would be selling olive oil if not for your brother."

They all laughed. Peter Clemenza said, "I would have spent most of my life in jails. He taught me how to think instead of just using a gun."

Don Domenico sighed. "I'm only a poor country farmer. It's true my neighbors come to me for counsel and here in Trapani they say I'm an important man. They call me 'The Unfaithful' because I won't do Don Croce's bidding. Perhaps that's not very clever, perhaps the Godfather would find ways to get along better with Don Croce. But I find it impossible. 'Unfaithful' I may be, but only to those who have no honor. Don Croce sells information to the government and to me that is an infamita. No matter how subtle the reasons. The old ways are still the best, Michael, as you will see after you have been here the next few days."

"I'm sure I will," Michael said politely. "And I must thank you for the help you are giving me now."

"I have work to do," Don Domenico said. "If you need anything, send for me." He picked up his whip and went out the door.

Peter Clemenza said, "Michael, your father agreed to help Turi Guiliano get out of this country out of his friendship and respect for Guiliano's father. But your safety comes first. Your father still has enemies here. Guiliano has a week to make a rendezvous with you. But if he doesn't appear you must go back to the United States alone. Those are my orders. We have a special plane waiting in Africa and we can leave anytime. You just give the word."

Michael said, "Pisciotta said he'd bring Guiliano to me very soon."

Clemenza whistled. "You saw Pisciotta? Hell, they're looking for him as hard as they are for Guiliano. How did he get out of the mountains?"

Michael shrugged. "He had one of the special red-bordered passes signed by the Minister of Justice. And that worries me too."

Peter Clemenza shook his head.

Michael continued. "That guy who brought me here, Andolini, do you know him, Pete?"

"Yeah," Peter Clemenza said. "He worked for us in New York, a couple of button jobs, but Guiliano's father was straight and a great artist with brick. They were both stupid to come back. But a lot of Sicilians are like that. They can't forget their shitty little houses in Sicily. I brought two men over with me this time, to help out. They haven't been back in twenty years. So we take a walk in the country up near Erice, a beautiful town, Mikey, and we were out in the fields with all those sheep they have and drinking wine and we all had to take a leak. So there we were pissing and when we finished, these two guys jump about ten feet in the air and yell, 'Long live Sicily.' What are you gonna do? That's how they are, Sicilians till they die."

Michael said, "Yeah, but what about Andolini?"

Clemenza shrugged. "He's your father's cousin. He's been one of Guiliano's right-hand men for the last five years. But before that he was close with Don Croce. Who knows? He's dangerous."

Michael said, "Andolini is bringing Guiliano's fiancee here. She's pregnant. We have to ship her to the States and she sends back a code word to Guiliano saying that the route works and then Guiliano comes to us. I promised we'd do it. Is that okay?"

Clemenza whistled. "I never heard Guiliano had a girl. Sure we can do it."

They went outside to a huge garden. Michael could see guards at the gate and down at the beach at least six armed men strolling up and down. There was a large motorboat docked against a short pier. In the garden itself was a group of men obviously waiting for an audience with Peter Clemenza. There were about twenty of them, all typical Sicilians with their dusty clothes and brimmed caps, like poorer versions of Don Domenico.

In a corner of the garden, beneath a lemon tree, was an oval wooden table with rustic wooden chairs around it. Clemenza and Michael sat in two of the chairs and then Clemenza called out to the group of men. One of them came over and sat down. Clemenza asked questions about the man's personal life. Was he married? Did he have children? How long had he worked for Don Domenico? Who were his relatives in Trapani? Did he ever think of going to America to make his fortune? The answer to this last question was invariably a Yes.

An old woman in black brought out a huge jug of wine mixed with fresh lemons, then brought out a tray with many glasses. Clemenza offered each man he interviewed a drink and a cigarette. When he had finished and the last one was gone and the group had left the garden, Clemenza said to Michael, "Any of them hit you wrong?"

Michael shrugged and said, "They all seemed the same to me. They all want to go to America."

Clemenza said, "We need fresh blood back home. We lost a lot of men and we might lose a lot more. Every five years or so I come back and bring about twelve guys back with me. I train them myself. Little jobs first – collections, strong-arm, guard duty. I test their loyalty. When I feel the time is right and the opportunity comes along, I give them a chance to make their bones. But I'm very careful about that. Once they get that far they know they have a good living for the rest of their lives as long as they remain loyal. Everybody here knows I'm the recruiter for the Corleone Family and every man in the province wants to see me. But my brother picks them out. Nobody gets to see me without his okay."

Michael looked around the beautiful garden with its many colored flowers, fragrant lemon trees, the old statues of the gods dug from ancient ruins, other newer ones of holy saints, the rose-colored walls around the villa. It was a lovely setting for the examination of twelve murderous apostles.

In the late afternoon the small Fiat reappeared at the villa gates and was waved through by the guards. Andolini was driving, and beside him there was a girl with long jet-black hair and the exquisite oval features of a painter's Madonna. When she got out of the car Michael could see she was pregnant; though she wore the modest loose dress of the Sicilian woman it was not black, rather a hideous floral rose and white. But her face was so pretty the dress didn't matter.

Michael Corleone was surprised to see the small figure of Hector Adonis get out of the back seat. It was Adonis who made the introductions. The girl's name was Justina. She had none of the shyness of the young; and at only seventeen years of age, her face had the strength of an older woman, as if she had already tasted the same tragedies of life. She studied Michael closely before she bowed her head to acknowledge his introduction. As if she were studying him to find any hint of treachery in his face.

One of the old women took her away to her room and Andolini took her luggage out of the car. It consisted of only a small suitcase. Michael carried it into the house himself.

That night they all had dinner together except for Andolini, who had left in the Fiat. Hector Adonis remained. At the dinner table they made plans to get Justina to America. Don Domenico said the boat to Tunis was ready; it always would be since they did not know when Guiliano would arrive and they would have to move quickly when he did. "Who knows what evil companions he will bring after him," Don Domenico said with a little smile.

Peter Clemenza said he would accompany Justina to Tunis and make sure she was put on a special plane with special documents that would enable her to enter the United States without trouble. Then he would return to the villa.

When Justina arrived in America she would send her code word back and the final operation to save Guiliano would begin.

Justina said very little during the meal. Don Domenico asked her if she was up to making the journey this very night after she had traveled so much of the day.

When she answered Michael could see the attraction she must have had for Guiliano. She had the same flashing black eyes, the determined jaw and mouth of the strongest Sicilian women and spoke as imperiously.

"Traveling is easier than working and less dangerous than hiding," she said. "I've slept in the mountains and in the fields with sheep, so why can't I sleep in a ship or on an airplane? Surely it won't be as cold?" She said this with all the pride of the young, but her hands trembled as she lifted her glass of wine. "I worry only that Turi be able to escape. Why couldn't he come with me?"

Hector Adonis said gently. "Justina, he didn't want to endanger you with his presence. It is more difficult for him to travel; more precautions must be taken."

Peter Clemenza said, "The boat takes you to Africa just before dawn, Justina. Perhaps you'd better get some rest."

Justina said, "No, I'm not tired and I'm too excited to sleep. Could I have another glass of wine?"

Don Domenico poured her glass full. "Drink, it's good for your baby and it will help you sleep later. Did Guiliano give you any messages for us?"

Justina smiled at him sadly. "I haven't seen him for months. Aspanu Pisciotta is the only one he trusts. Not that he thinks I would betray him but that I am his weakness through which they might snare him. It's from his reading all those romances where the love of women brings about the downfall of heroes. He thinks his love for me his most terrible weakness, and of course he never tells me his plans."

Michael was curious to find out more about Guiliano, the man he might have been if his father had remained in Sicily, the man Sonny might have been. "How did you meet Turi?" he asked Justina.

She laughed. "I fell in love with him when I was eleven years old," she said. "That was almost seven years ago and the first year that Turi was an outlaw, but he was already famous in our little village in Sicily. My younger brother and I were working in the fields with my father and Papa gave me a packet of lire notes to bring back to my mother. My brother and I were silly children and we flaunted the notes, we were so excited at having that much money in our hands. Two carabinieri saw us on the road and took away our money and laughed at us when we cried. We didn't know what to do, we were afraid to go home and we were afraid to go back to our father. Then this young man came out of the bushes. He was taller than most men in Sicily and much broader in the shoulders. He looked like the American soldiers we had seen during the war. He carried a machine gun under his arm yet he had such gentle brown eyes. He was very handsome. He asked us, 'Children, why are you crying on such a wonderful day? And you, young lady, you're ruining your beautiful looks, who will want to marry you?' But he was laughing and you could see that the sight of us delighted him for some reason. We told him what had happened and he laughed again and said we must always beware of the carabinieri and that this was a good lesson for us to learn so early in life. Then he gave my brother a huge wad of lire to bring home to our mother and to me he gave a note for my father. I can still remember it word for word. It said, 'Don't reproach your two beautiful children who will be the pleasure and comfort of your old age. The money I have given them is far greater than you have lost. And know this: From today on, you and your children are under the protection of GUILIANO.' I thought that name was so wonderful and he had written it in large letters. I saw that name in my dreams for months. Just those letters. GUILIANO.

"But what made me love him was the pleasure he received in doing a good deed. He was really delighted to help someone else. That never changed. I always saw the same pleasure, as if he gained more from the giving than they did from the taking. That is why the people of Sicily love him."

Hector Adonis said quietly, "Until the Portella della Ginestra."

Justina lowered her eyes and said fiercely, "They love him still."

Michael said quickly, "But how did you meet him again?"

Justina said, "My older brother was a friend of his. And maybe my father was a member of the band. I don't know. Only my family and Turi's chiefs know we were married. Turi swore everybody to secrecy, afraid the authorities would arrest me."

Everybody at the table was stunned at this news. Justina reached inside her dress and drew out a small purse. From it she took out a cream-colored stiff-papered document with a heavy seal and offered it to Michael, but Hector Adonis took it and read it. Then he smiled at her. "You will be in America tomorrow. Can I tell Turi's parents the good news?"

Justina blushed. "They always thought I was pregnant without being married," she said. "They thought less of me for it. Yes, you can tell them."

Michael said, "Have you ever seen or read the Testament that Turi has hidden?"

Justina shook her head. "No," she said. "Turi never spoke of it to me."

Don Domenico's face had gone wintry, but he also looked curious. He had heard about the Testament, Michael thought, but didn't approve of it. How many people did know? Certainly not the people of Sicily. Only members of the government in Rome, Don Croce and Guiliano's family and his inner circle of outlaws.

Hector Adonis said, "Don Domenico, may I ask to be your guest until word arrives from America that Justina is safely there? Then I can arrange for Guiliano to receive the news. It should be for no more than an extra night."

Don Domenico said with blunt forcefulness, "You will do me an honor, my dear Professor. Stay as long as you like. But now it's time for us all to go to bed. Our young Signora must get some sleep for her long journey and I am too old to stay up so late. Avanti ." And he made a shooing gesture like a great affectionate bird, to send them on their way. He personally took Hector Adonis by the arm to lead him to a bedroom, shouting orders to the women servants to take care of the rest of his guests.

When Michael rose the next morning Justina was gone.

Hector Adonis had to sleep over for two nights before the courier letter came from Justina that she was safely in America. Somewhere in the letter was the code word that satisfied Adonis, and the morning he was to leave he asked Michael for a private conference.

Michael had spent the two days tense with anticipation, anxious to get home to America himself. Peter Clemenza's description of Sonny's murder had filled Michael with a sense of foreboding about Turi Guiliano. In his mind the two men were growing intertwined. They looked somewhat alike and they both had the same sense of physical vitality and power. Guiliano was only Michael's age, and Michael was intrigued by the man's fame; he was anxious at the thought that they would finally meet face to face. He wondered what use his father could put Guiliano to in America. For he had no doubt that was his father's purpose. Otherwise the assignment of bringing Guiliano home with him did not make sense.

Michael walked with Adonis down to the beach. The armed guards saluted them both: " Vossia, " Your Lordship. Not one of them showed any sign of derision at the sight of the tiny elegantly dressed Hector Adonis. The motorboat had come back, and now closer to it Michael could see it was almost as big as a small yacht. The men aboard it were armed with lupare and machine guns.

The July sun was very hot and the sea so blue and so still that the sun reflected off of it as if it were metal. Michael and Hector Adonis sat on two chairs on the pier.

"Before I leave this morning, I have a final instruction for you," Hector Adonis said quietly. "It is the most important thing that you can do for Guiliano." "With all my heart," Michael said.

"You must send Guiliano's Testament to America immediately, to your father," Adonis said. "He will know how to use it. He will make sure that Don Croce and the government in Rome will know it is safely in America and then they will not dare harm Guiliano. They will let him emigrate safely."

"Do you have it with you?" Michael asked.

The little man smiled at him slyly and then laughed, "You have it," he said.

Michael was astonished. "You've been misinformed," he said. "No one has given it to me."

"Yes they have," Hector Adonis said. He put a friendly hand on Michael's arm and Michael noticed how small and dainty his fingers were, like a child's. "Maria Lombardo, Guiliano's mother, gave it to you. Only she and myself know where it is, not even Pisciotta knows."

He saw Michael's uncomprehending look. "It's in the black Madonna," Hector Adonis said. "It's true the Madonna has been in the family for generations and is valuable. Everybody knows about it. But Guiliano was given a replica. It is hollow. The Testament is written on very thin paper and each sheet has Guiliano's signature. I helped him compose it over the last few years. There are also some incriminating documents. Turi always knew what the end might be and wanted to be prepared. For a young man he has a great sense of strategy."

Michael laughed. "And his mother is a great actress."

"All Sicilians are," Hector Adonis said. "We trust no one and dissemble before everyone. Guiliano's father is certainly trustworthy, but he might be indiscreet. Pisciotta has been Guiliano's truest friend since their childhood, Stefano Andolini has saved Guiliano's life in battle with the carabinieri, but men change with time or under torture. So it's best they do not know."

"But he trusted you," Michael said.

"I am blessed," Hector Adonis said simply. "But you see how clever Guiliano can be? He trusts only me with the Testament and he trusts only Pisciotta with his life. Both of us must betray him if he is to fail."

CHAPTER 17

Michael Corleone and Hector Adonis walked back to the villa and sat under a lemon tree with Peter Clemenza. Michael was eager to read the Testament, but Hector Adonis said that Andolini was due to pick him up for the trip back to Montelepre and Michael waited to see if Andolini had any messages for him.

An hour passed. Hector Adonis looked at his watch, his face worried. Michael said, "His car probably broke down. That Fiat is on its last legs."

Hector Adonis shook his head. "Stefano Andolini has the heart of a murderer, but he is the soul of punctuality. And dependable. I'm afraid that since he is already an hour late, something has gone wrong. And I must be in Montelepre before dark when curfew begins."

Peter Clemenza said, "My brother will give you a car and driver."

Adonis thought about this for a moment. "No," he said, "I will wait. It's important that I see him."

Michael said, "Do you mind if we go on and read the Testament without you? How do you open the statue?"

Hector Adonis said, "Of course – read it. As for opening it there's no trick. It is carved out of solid wood. The head was soldered on after Turi put the papers inside. You simply chop off the head. If you have trouble reading it, I will be glad to assist you. Send one of the servants for me."

Michael and Peter Clemenza went up to Michael's bedroom. The statue was still in Michael's jacket; he had completely forgotten it. When he took it out, both men stared at the black Virgin Mary. The features were definitely African yet the expression was exactly that of the white Madonnas that decorated almost every poor household in Sicily. Michael turned it over in his hands. It was very heavy – you could not guess that it was hollow.

Peter Clemenza went to the door and shouted an order down to one of the woman servants. The woman appeared carrying the kitchen cleaver. She stared into the room for a moment and handed the cleaver to Clemenza. He shut the door to close out her curious eyes.

Michael held the black Madonna on the heavy wooden dresser table. He grasped the disc carved into the bottom with one hand and used his other to clasp the top of the statue's head. Clemenza carefully put the cleaver to the neck of the Madonna, raised his burly arm, and with one quick powerful stroke, chopped off the head and sent it flying across the room. A sheaf of papers bound with a piece of soft gray leather sprouted out of the hollow neck.

Clemenza had hit exactly on the seam where it had been soldered; the cleaver could never have cut through the hard olive wood. He put the cleaver on the table and pulled the papers out of the headless statue. He loosened the leather thong and spread the papers out on the table. They consisted of one sheaf of about fifteen onionskin pages covered with close handwriting in black ink. The bottom of each page was signed by Guiliano in the careless scrawl of kings. There were also documents with official government seals, letters with government letterheads and statements bearing notary seals. The papers were curling up to resume the shape of their confinement and Michael used the two pieces of the statue and the cleaver to hold them flat on the table. Then he ceremoniously poured two glasses of wine from the jug on the night table and handed one to Clemenza. They drank and then started to read the Testament. It took them almost two hours to finish. Michael marveled that Turi Guiliano, so young, so idealistic, had lived through these treacheries. Michael knew enough of the world to imagine that Guiliano harbored his own cunning, his own scheme of power, in order to remain dedicated to his mission. Michael was filled with an enormous sense of identification and commitment to the cause of Guiliano's escape.

It was not so much Guiliano's diary which recounted his history for the past seven years but the documents supporting it that could surely topple the Christian Democratic government in Rome. How could these powerful men have been so foolish, Michael wondered: a note signed by the Cardinal, a letter sent by the Minister of Justice to Don Croce asking what could be done to crush the demonstration at Ginestra, all coyly worded to be sure, but damning in the light of the events that followed. Each thing by itself was innocent enough, brought together they built a mountain of evidence as imposing as the Pyramids.

There was a letter from Prince Ollorto full of flowery compliments to Guiliano and assuring him that all the men in high places of the Christian Democratic government in Rome had assured the Prince that they would do everything in their power to have Guiliano pardoned, providing he did what they had asked of him. In his letter Prince Ollorto claimed he had a complete understanding with the Minister of Justice in Rome.

There were also copies of operational plans prepared by high officials of the carabinieri to capture Guiliano – plans that had been turned over to Guiliano in exchange for services rendered.

"No wonder they don't want to catch Guiliano," Michael said. "He can blow them all up with these papers."

Peter Clemenza said, "I'm taking this stuff to Tunis right away. By tomorrow night they'll be in your father's safe." He picked up the headless Madonna and stuffed the papers back inside. He put the statue in his pocket and said to Michael, "Let's get going. If I start now I can be back here tomorrow morning."

They went out of the villa, Clemenza depositing the cleaver with the old crone in the kitchen, who examined it suspiciously as if for some sign of blood. They started down toward the beach when they were surprised by the sight of Hector Adonis still waiting. Stefano Andolini had not appeared.

The little man had unloosened his tie and taken off his jacket; his shiny white shirt was dulled with sweat though he was in the shade of a lemon tree. He was also a bit drunk – the big wine jug on the wooden garden table was empty.

He greeted Michael and Peter Clemenza despairingly. "The final treacheries are beginning. Andolini is three hours late. I must get to Montelepre and Palermo. I must send word to Guiliano."

Peter Clemenza said with rough good humor, "Professor, his car might have broken down, or he might have been detained by some other more urgent business, any number of things. He knows you're here in safety and will wait. Spend another night with us if he doesn't come today."

But Hector Adonis kept muttering, "It will all go badly, it will all go badly," and begged them for transportation. Clemenza ordered two men to use one of the Alfa Romeos and drive Hector Adonis as far as Palermo. He told the men to be sure to have the car back at the villa before nightfall.

They helped Hector Adonis get into the car and told him not to worry. The Testament would be in America within twenty-four hours and Guiliano would be safe. After the car rolled through the gates, Michael walked down to the beach with Clemenza and watched him get on the motor launch, and continued watching as the boat started its journey to Africa. "I'll be back in the morning," Peter Clemenza called out. And Michael wondered what would happen if this was the night Guiliano chose to appear.

Later he had dinner, the two old women serving him. Afterward he walked along the beach until turned back by the guards at the perimeter of the villa's estate. It was the few minutes before darkness, and the Mediterranean Sea was the deepest and most velvety blue and from beyond the horizon he could smell the continent of Africa, a perfume of wild flowers and wild animals.

Here by the water there was not the whirring of insects; those creatures needed the lush vegetation, the smoky heated air of the interior. It was almost as if a machine had stopped running. He stood on the beach feeling the peace and beauty of a Sicilian night and he pitied all the others voyaging fearfully in the darkness; Guiliano in his mountains, Pisciotta with the fragile shield of his special red-bordered pass going through enemy lines, Professor Adonis and Stefano Andolini searching for each other on the dusty roads of Sicily, Peter Clemenza riding the blue-black sea to Tunis; and where had Don Domenico Clemenza gone that he had not appeared for dinner? They were all shadows in the Sicilian night, and when they reappeared the stage would be set for the life or death of Turi Guiliano.