BELLA MAFIA (27 page)

"I'll just dab them on, and I'll be as careful as I can so it doesn't hurt. Now, can you just lean on me? That's it, lean on me while I do your ass."Giorgio could smell the institutional carbolic soap on Lu-ka's neck and see the tide line of dirt where he hadn't washed himself. He had never known such a rush of emotion. His face rested on Luka's shoulder, and before he could stop himself, he kissed his friend's neck. It was the first time in his life that he had kissed anyone. In a soft voice he whispered, "I love you, Luka."

Luka held Giorgio gently in his arms and kissed his big, flat face: strange, fluttering, childish kisses. "I've never done this for anybody before, so I guess I love you too, you big, ugly bugger," he grinned. Then he eased a clean nightshirt over the big head and buttoned the front.

Luka wasn't laughing now in the darkness. He sobbed aloud, "You big ugly bugger, you bastard!
Why did you leave me?"

Giorgio had cheated death for years but had somehow clung on, his death sentence postponed by Luka. Tragically, just as he began to appear physically stronger, his heart condition grew worse. He was barely strong enough to undergo the necessary operation, yet if it were not performed, the doctors said he would die within weeks. When told of the dilemma, Luka had screamed that there was nothing wrong with his friend's heart, and Giorgio shouted back that just as the rest of him was fucked up, so, of course, was his heart.

"What do you mean?"

"It's got a hole in it."

"Can they fix it?"

"What do you think I'm having an operation for, wind? It's all arranged, Luka, and you'll be coming with me. I won't leave you behind, Luka; my father's promised. We'll both go to Rome. It was going to be a surprise."

Luka had cupped his friend's face in his hands, planting frantic kisses of delight on his head and cheeks. But as the date drew closer for them to leave, Giorgio's condition deteriorated rapidly. The doctors were called, and they told Giorgio's father that they doubted the boy would be fit enough to travel, let alone undergo surgery.

They were two children, but one seemed so old, so wise. Giorgio knew by the expression in the doctor's eyes after his last examination that there would be no stay of execution, no operation. He said nothing to Luka, wanting to use the time he had left to prepare his friend for when he was gone. He waited for the bell to signal the end of classes, watched from his window for Luka to come running.

Luka hurtled madly toward the high garden wall, made the insane leap by the skin of his teeth, laughing at his own madness. His strength, his health, his astonishing beauty represented to the sick Giorgio the very essence of life. Giorgio's room was always in shadow, but the brilliance of the blue sky, the bright sunlight entered his cell with Luka.

Luka's exercise books were sent flying across the room with a curse. He was always at the bottom of his class, and Giorgio, on this afternoon, his last afternoon, had wagged a finger, admonishing him. "If you don't read, you won't learn that there is a world beyond this place. It's so big, Luka, and without knowledge it will overpower you. You'll never make anything of yourself."

Laughing, Luka replied that there was no need for him to acquire knowledge; he could always ask Giorgio for it.

This was the moment Giorgio had dreaded. "No, Luka, I won't always be here."

"Bullshit! After Rome you will run with me."

Giorgio patted his bed. "Sit! You lazy slob, sit. I'm going to read to you, Luka, and no, it's not your favorite, Signor Anon."

He was referring to the time when he had asked Luka who his favorite poet was, and Luka had replied in all seriousness that someone called Anon wrote the best stuff. So Signor Anonymous had become one of their many private jokes.

Luka had spent many hours listening to Giorgio reading Byron's
The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair
, and
Lara-,
they'd even waded through
The Siege of Corinth
and wept together over
Werner,
but the ease and fluency of the beautiful verse were beyond Luka's grasp. He had moaned that the only reason Giorgio read Byron was that the poet had been a cripple, too.

Giorgio opened a thin, leather-bound book, but before he could begin reading Byron's
Don Juan,
Brother Louis tapped on the door and ushered Giorgio's father into the room. His presence meant only one thing: There was less time than Giorgio had hoped.

Luka was asked to leave the room, but he was not concerned as he presumed they were there to finish the arrangements for the long-awaited trip to Rome. Giorgio saw the gleeful way he scurried out and called after him, "Read Rupert Brooke tonight!"

To the astonishment and embarrassment of old Brother Louis, Luka yelled back, "Brooke was a fairy," as he ran down the corridor so as not to be caught.

Giorgio lay back, gasping for breath. Paying no attention to his father, he spoke to Brother Louis, "Forgive my incorrigible friend. The
Faerie Queene
was written by Edmund Spenser."

Exhausted, he closed his eyes, his white moon face glistening with sweat. He had nothing to say to his father or to the cloying old Louis with his smell of mold and mothballs and his clinking rosary. Their presence tired him, and he was too drained even to talk.

All Giorgio wanted was to be left in peace. He let rip the longest and loudest fart he could muster, one that he knew Luka would have applauded, in the hope that its pungency would make the men leave the room. It did.

Later that afternoon, eager for news, Luka peeked around Giorgio's door and became concerned at the state of his friend. The effort of holding out his hand to Luka seemed too much for him.

Luka held the tiny, soft hand gently in his own, whispering, "What is it?"

"I'm dying, Luka, I'm sorry."

The two boys who had blasphemed against the Virgin Mary, who had delighted in giving the finger to the figure of the bleeding Christ on the cross in the monastery chapel now prayed to them not on their knees but cradled in each other's arms. Luka's arm lay lightly across his beloved friend's body, his head so close that he could hear the fragile heart with the hole he was so sure could be repaired. He gave his word that they would never be parted; he was sure that because they had prayed so seriously, God would be kind. He would give them time; they would always be together. By morning Giorgio was dead.

A month after Giorgio's death his father took Luka to be educated in America. Luka took with him Giorgio's collected works of Lord George Gordon Noel Byron, but he never read another line of poetry.

Years later Luka returned to Sicily and saw to it that Carlo Luciano and his little brother, Nunzio, embraced in death. The two sweet, sleeping children would never know the terror of staring, open eyes, of feeling cold, lifeless fingers. They would always be together.

Guido had been wakened by the sound of Luka's high-pitched laugh. He had come to the edge of the courtyard but dared not pass through the gate. He watched for a while, then returned to his cell. At five in the morning he crossed the courtyard again. Luka was still there, now on his hands and knees, pressing down the earth. Guido moved on, toward the kitchens. About to enter, he paused; the lid of one of the garbage cans was only balanced on top, not clamped down. In the heat of the day the flies would gather like clouds. He lifted the lid and discovered torn newspapers, which he took back to his cell.

The missing sections frustrated him, but he pored over the rest of them, then returned them to the can. He could see Luka working, and under the pretext of taking clean sheets for his bed, he went into his cell.

He searched quickly. There were few places to hide anything, and he soon found the missing articles. He scoured them, nervous of being caught, and quickly replaced them. When Luka walked in, he had his hand on the clean sheets, about to strip the bed.

Guido flushed guiltily. "Ah, you are here. ... I have brought you clean sheets."

"Thank you. I can change the bed myself. I know where the laundry is. There is no need—"

"Oh, but you are a guest. I insist."

He lifted the mattress to pull the sheet free. He did not see the gun case, but Luka did. He moved quickly, gripping Guido's wrist until it hurt. "Please leave my room."

Shaking, Guido stared into Luka's brilliant blue eyes. He could not draw himself away. Slowly Luka released his grip.

Guido rubbed his arm vigorously. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to intrude. Forgive me."

Luka's eyes did not waver from Guido until the door closed behind him. He waited a few moments. Then in two strides he was by the bed. He threw the mattress aside; he had to find another hiding place, and fast.

The chapel was dark. Luka crept between the familiar worn benches and reached the altar. After looking quickly around, he stepped into the crypt.

The ten-foot-high cross was more than a foot thick. It was held against the wall by two heavy wooden battens. Deftly he climbed up, tucked the gun case into position, and was just sliding back down the cross when the door creaked open. There was a muffled howl and the sound of hasty steps.

Brother Louis ran this way and that, straight into the wall at one point, before he was able to reach the corridor. Arms flapping in panic, he ran, calling for Father Angelo. "Christ has risen. ..."

Between bouts of hysterical weeping and praying, he insisted that he had seen the figure of Christ at the back of the crypt. No one paid him much attention; these states of his were not uncommon. The last time he had insisted he had seen a circus in the courtyard.

With Louis in such a state, Luka had a perfect excuse for not going to confession. He had been lucky but he believed his luck was running out. Returning to his cell, he pulled out the newspaper articles and knew immediately that they had been touched.

His anger at this discovery turned into disbelief as he read one of the articles, then checked the date. The headline read

legal loophole causes uproar in court.

Emanuel's telephone in Palermo had not stopped ringing for hours. In a state of exhaustion, he gestured for his assistant to answer it while he continued his harassed conversation with two of the prosecution team.

"The judge will surely chuck it out. It's utter madness, insanity. ..."

Dr. Inzerillo tried to calm Emanuel. "The judge can't. He's got to get the government to agree. They can't pass it, believe me."

"Jesus Christ, how long will it take?"

"As long as the government takes to make the deci- · »

sion. . . .

Emanuel wanted to weep. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. "Have the press got hold of it? Is it in print?"

Dr. Inzerillo nodded. "You bet, they ran from the courthouse before the defense counsel had stopped speaking. It'll be on the television news. Where are you going?"

"There's someone I have to tell, Luciano's widow."

Graziella had just returned from Mario Domino's funeral. She had therefore not been in the court that afternoon, nor had she read the newspapers.

Emanuel straightened his tie, checked his hair, then drove up the long approach to the Villa Rivera. He felt sick to his stomach.

Graziella offered wine, but Emanuel refused. He seemed unable to sit still; he had taken his pen from his pocket and was tapping it on the polished surface of the dining-room table.

"Signora, I wanted to see you, to tell you personally. . . . Today there was a new development in the court."

He adjusted his tie again and took a deep breath. "I don't know if you are aware of the fact, but here in Italy there is a law stipulating that no man can be held in prison for more than eighteen months without trial. As you know, the court process has been lengthy; hundreds of men have been charged, some separately, some in groups. The law says that it is every prisoner's right to have all his statements and the charges against him read aloud in court before sentences can be handed down. Today the defense counsel demanded that this be done. Do you understand?"

¹¹
Si,
I understand. I studied the law before I was married. Do you know about Mario Domino?"

"Please, Signora Luciano, let me finish. Forgive me, but my time is very limited, and I must get back. The majority of the prisoners have been held for a considerable time; for example, Paul Carolla has been in jail for more than sixteen months."

Her voice was hoarse, her eyes frightened as she interrupted. "How long will it take for these statements to be read?"

Emanuel licked his lips. "At a low estimate, more than one and a half years. If the law is upheld, most of the men will have to be freed."

"Paul Carolla?"

"Si,
signora, Paul Carolla would be freed."

She sat back in her chair and lifted her hands in a gesture of disbelief. Emanuel continued. "That is why I am here. I wanted to assure you that everything possible is being done. However, the judge does not have the power to dismiss these demands; the matter has to be turned over to the government. It will be up to it to make the final decision. I am sure, signora, very sure, that it will refuse. The trial will continue as if nothing had occurred, until we hear from the judge."