BELLA MAFIA (11 page)

Brother Guido returned with the jug of water.

"Thank you, Guido," Father Angelo said, "and if you will assist me back to my room, I shall leave this boy in peace. There's a robe and sandals, Luka, should you wish to change, and mass will be in one hour. At supper we shall hear all your news. ..."

Luka whispered a soft thank-you as they left, then waited, listening to their footsteps, until there was silence. He closed his eyes and sighed; he had come home.

The wooden shutter creaked as Luka pushed it open. There was his old vegetable patch, sadly neglected. He remembered how much he had raised there, how he and old Brother Louis had toiled there. . . . Beyond was the small walled garden, and beyond that the wild, open fields. Beyond that was the sea. . . . He used to believe they were on the edge of the world. The faint, musty smell of incense that always clung to the monks' robes, the rooms, still lingered.

He stripped quickly, wanting to be naked, wanting to be cleansed. He poured the cold water into the bowl and picked up a wooden nail brush, its bristles tough and hard. Without soap, he scrubbed himself until his white skin was red raw. Finally he slipped the robe over his head, tied the sash, and slipped his feet into the sandals.

He unpacked his clothes from the soft leather bag: two fine cotton lawn shirts and a pair of pants identical to those he had been wearing. Then he took out two pairs of black socks and carried them to the paper-lined drawers. He produced a cloth and polished his shoes, which he placed neatly at the bottom of the wardrobe, next to the empty bag. His shaving equipment, in its matching leather bag, he placed on the chest of drawers, next to the long case he had brought with him. He could not resist touching the case lightly before lifting the mattress and stowing it underneath.

He made the bed carefully, tucking the rough white sheets tightly at the corners, turning over the top six inches. When he was satisfied, he looked at his Gucci watch and smiled. He would not be needing it here; he would know the time by the ringing of the bells. He laughed to himself as they began pealing for the seven o'clock mass, and for a moment he wondered whether to join the brothers. He decided to make the excuse that he had fallen asleep, though sleep was the last thing he could think of. He climbed silently from the window and headed for his old vegetable patch.

He walked between the rows of dried and rotting lettuces, noticed the tangled beans and the strawberry patch that had been allowed to run wild. The potato patch was wretched. He sighed. . . . How many hours had he spent digging and hoeing, cutting and planting? He was deep in thought as he made his way to the low stone wall, lifted his robe, and in one fluid movement landed on the other side. He surveyed the fields that stretched far into the distance, seeming to merge with the skyline. He reached the top of the slope, stood caught between earth and sky, and there was the dark, glittering sea. The breeze tugged at the edge of his robe. He tilted his head to feel the coolness on his face. Then, as if in slow motion, he fell to his knees, lifted his hands, and stretched his arms high.

"Forgive me, forgive me, I have sinned, I have sinned. . . . Hail, Mary, Mother of Jesus ..."

The bells ceased, leaving only the sound of the sea and wind.

He would give himself a penance; he would not leave the monastery until he had sown and reaped; he would not rest until he had made good the neglected vegetable garden.

Luka joined the brothers at the long refectory table in the cavernous dining hall. There had been fifteen or sixteen monks when he had last been there, but now their numbers were depleted. Brother Guido was the youngest, and he sat with two others whom Luka had not seen before.

Father Angelo patted the seat next to him and bowed his head in prayer, thanking the good Lord for bringing their son Luka to visit. Supper was always eaten in silence, the only sound the scraping of the spoons on the thick-rimmed white bowls. A basket containing thick chunks of homemade crusty bread was passed; but the bread tasted stale, and the thick, congealed soup was tasteless. Still Luka ate ravenously. His last meal had been many hours ago.

Supper over, the plates were cleared by Brother Guido, who placed a bowl of bruised pears and apples in the center of the table as a signal that the meal was at an end and conversation could begin. Some of the brothers helped themselves to fruit, but the heavy red wine was relished more. Luka refused wine but accepted a glass of water.

"So, Luka, how was America?"

Beneath the table Luka's hands were tightly clenched, but he answered with a shy, sweet smile, "America was very different."

"Did you go to college?"

"Yes, but as you no doubt recall, studies were never the top of my list. I learned English. Sometimes I have to think twice before I speak Sicilian now. Do I sound American?"

Father Angelo nodded, his eyes bright points.

"I lived with my father in New York City," Luka continued.

Their attention was unwavering, unnerving. He could think of nothing to tell them, no anecdotes, no amusing incidents. He flushed, his cheeks so red that Father Angelo touched his face.

"You are tired, I can tell. Perhaps we should wait to hear your news another time?"

Luka gave him a grateful nod, his hands beneath the table twisting frantically. But Brother Guido studied the visitor closely.

"I have a brother in New York. What part of the city did you live in?" the monk said in English.

Luka's body tingled as he said quietly, "We moved around, my father and I. We never stayed in one apartment too long, but I think I liked Manhattan the best. Have you been in New York, Brother Guido?"

The blue eyes met Guido's in a direct stare. It was Guido's turn to flush; Luka had spoken in English, and he had been unable to follow all of the words. "I have never been in America. London once . . ."

Guido had not meant to pry, but he thirsted for knowledge of the outside world. Only he among them was an avid reader and had been to a university. He was fully aware of the trials taking place in Palermo, although it was frowned upon to read newspapers so he had no one to discuss them with. There was neither radio nor television in the monastery.

Guido was about to ask another question when Brother Thomas turned to him and said, "When Luka was here as a boy, we had an incident. A chicken was stolen from the pantry and consumed, and we were determined to discover the culprit. We knew it was one of the boys, but which one? They were told they would be denied all their privileges until the thief was caught: no football, no games, no country walks. Do you remember, Luka?"

Luka's face bore a childish, puzzled frown, his fine pale eyebrows slightly raised. "A chicken?"

"Yes, yes!" Brother Thomas rose to his feet, leaning farther across the table. "And I found a chicken leg under your pillow! You must remember, I took it into class."

Luka's laugh was high-pitched, almost girlish. His whole demeanor altered. It was such a light, fresh laugh that it surprised and charmed Guido.

Thomas pressed on. "Tell me, Luka, you got away with it then. Little Antonio accepted the blame, but you put him up to it, didn't you?"

Luka's smile showed his perfect, small white teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. "Brother Thomas, let me swear on my father's life, on the life of our benefactor, who we thank for the new roof, the plumbing ... I did not, Brother Thomas, ever steal a chicken leg. Pencils and books, I believe I did, but never that chicken."

Thomas sat back with a sigh. Angelo patted Luka's shoulder.

"There, Thomas, at last you have your answer. Now may I suggest, we retire? Our young guest must be tired. He has come all the way from America."

They rose from the table, Luka assisting Father Angelo, but Guido hurried toward them, carrying the walker. Having made sure that the father was firmly on his feet, he turned to Luka.

"Your father, Luka, he is Paul Carolla, no?"

Luka spun around, and Guido stepped back. "I am sorry, I do not wish to intrude. I am just interested. I have read of the trials."

"Read, Brother Guido?"

Guido, flushing, gave a furtive look to right and left before continuing. "Newspapers are frowned upon here, but they are often displayed at the grocery store."

Luka hesitated, then gave him that sweet smile. "Sadly my father is held in jail, but he is an innocent man, Brother Guido. I am here to pray for him, pray for his release."

Luka's heart was beating fast. He had not expected anyone here, in this sanctuary, to know. "Guido, I am a very good gardener. Would I be permitted to work on the vegetable patch?"

Guido nodded and said he would be more than happy to assist.

"That will not be necessary. I need no help, and I know where all the tools are kept."

Guido remained standing in the shadowy corridor until he heard Luka's door close. He was excited. He had no desire to garden, but he wanted to know more about the trials. They were, so the papers said, opening a new era in Sicily, the end of the Mafia.

In the safety of his room Luka stripped off his robe. Naked, he dragged at the mattress, checking that his precious bag was still there. Satisfied, he lay naked on top of the cotlike bed. His body felt light now, and cool.

He smiled, recalling old Thomas and his chicken leg. Luka had stolen it and had threatened Antonio to make him plead guilty. He wondered what Brother Thomas would make of the secret hidden under his mattress: a custom-made .44 magnum. He could not resist getting off the bed and taking it out. He caressed it, feeling the hard coldness against his skin. He touched the special bullets, the ones into which he had bored the minute holes to ensure that they would shatter on impact, fragmenting, dispersing. He gave a contented sigh and carefully replaced the gun in the velvet-lined case. Then he lay facedown on the bed.

The shutters were partly open, and the breeze soothed him into a dreamless sleep. His skin was like white marble, yet across his back, down to his tightly rounded buttocks, were shining zigzag scars, some almost half an inch in width.

When the bodies were released by the police, they were taken to the funeral home. Graziella, accompanied only by Mario Domino, carried two suitcases of clothes for the dead to wear.

She carefully examined each body while two embalmers followed her at a respectful distance. When she stood by the two children, she asked if their wounds could be concealed. They assured her that the plastic they used would most certainly disguise them. She astounded the men by remaining with them through every stage of the embalming, sitting silently as they washed the corpses and pumped in the embalming fluid.

Don Roberto was the last to be embalmed. She came to stand at the table. "Can I do that? I have been watching. Please allow me to do it."

The fluid, after being pumped into the veins, makes the body seem almost alive. But the deceased's hands often have to be massaged until the fluid reaches the fingertips and turns the skin from deathly blue to pink. Graziella rubbed and squeezed Roberto's hands gently until they once more looked alive, then bent her head and kissed them. Next she insisted on washing his thick white hair, drying it, and combing it the way he did, swept back from his high forehead. She sat down then, while the men worked on his face, threading clips from his jaw to his nose to keep the mouth firmly closed.

"Signora Luciano, we are ready now. Would you like to see them?"

Graziella moved from one son to the next, checking their appearances. She stood looking at the two angelic faces of her grandsons, then turned, calling one of the men to her side. "He has too much color. Nunzio is always very pale. A little more powder, perhaps?"

She nodded her approval when the child's face was finished, then stood again beside her husband. She seemed completely in control of her emotions, but the embalmers felt moved to tears as she bent and kissed her husband's lips. Then she thanked each man for his care and attention and gave them envelopes containing more money than they earned in a year.

"Thank you for allowing me to be with my family. I came for a reason. My firstborn son died tragically. When he was brought home, it was as if I were burying a stranger. My grief was indescribable. My daughters must see their loved ones as they were; they have suffered enough. Thank you again, gentlemen."

By six o'clock, the first mass, the crowds had begun to gather. Men, women, and children came from the villages, came from the mountains.

They came by train, by boat, by bus, in horse-drawn carts, to bid farewell to
il Papa
, to show their last respects to their beloved don. Hundreds gathered in the square in front of the cathedral.

The carabinieri had withdrawn their guards from the villa, but as a show of respect sixteen motorbike riders moved ahead of the procession. Many off-duty police came of their own accord and joined the silent crowds that lined the road all the way from the Villa Rivera to the cathedral square.

The cathedral choir was joined by a string quartet, a harpist, and four leading singers from La Scala Opera Company. There were white lilies in such profusion that the cathedral was heady with their perfume, and hundreds of candles lit during the mass shimmered.