BELLA MAFIA (74 page)

Luka's terror cut through his throbbing head, his hazy, drugged mind. His screams were interspersed with crazed curses, some in Sicilian, some in English, crude, foul gutter language that a child might use.

Sophia walked calmly into the kitchen and returned with a large pan of cold water. "Throw this over him; he's hysterical."

The cold water made him gasp. He stopped thrashing and sat, head down, his chest heaving as he panted.

They sat around the table, confronting his pitiful figure, not sure how to begin. They looked to Sophia for guidance.

She opened the large manila envelope and placed on the table the photographs of her children, of Constantino, Filippo, and Don Roberto Luciano. Then she returned to her seat. The pictures were not for Luka but for the women, a reminder.

The other women waited for Sophia to speak. Finally she said, "We want to know the truth, we have to know, and we do not care how long it takes us to find out, how many days, how many nights. We will wait for you to tell us what we need to know."

Unable to see her through the scarf, he turned his head as if to hear better. It was
her
voice; it was Sophia. ... He moaned her name pitifully, asking why she was doing this to him. . . .

"Sophia is not alone. We are all here, all of us."

That was Graziella, or was it Teresa? His chest began to heave again, and panic-stricken, he started to wail. Graziella whispered to Rosa, and she slipped out of the room. Another pot of ice-cold water was thrown over him. It hit him with such force that it jerked his head back. As before, his howling stopped.

"Why don't you tell us who you are? We know you are not Johnny Moreno."

He went still and gave a shuddering sigh. The scarf, soaked, clung to his face like a second skin.

Teresa looked at Sophia and bit her lip, then cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered, "Remember how he always hated being locked in his room at the top of the house. Maybe we should lock him in now?"

Sophia nodded and gestured for Teresa to lock the door.

His head jerked as he tried to hear what was going on: first the sound of chairs scraping, the echo of footsteps. His body twisted toward the sounds. They were taking over, growing louder. . . . His nails scratched at the arms of the chair, and he stiffened as if in preparation for the sound that terrified him the most: the sound of a key turning in a lock.

The fear eclipsed all rationality. He fought it, rubbing harder against the back of his chair, trying to loosen his blindfold. But the memory swept over him; he was back in the suffocating, dark, airless cupboard, his face pressed against the door, his small body hunched as he tried to find a tiny crack of light, a small aperture he could see through, breathe through. But in that chink of light he had seen the men brought into the room, seen them pay over their money; then came the sickness in his stomach, knowing that the door would open and he would be dragged out. . . .

His bound feet pressed harder against the floor, his fingers clawed at the chair, but he was so small, so tiny, nothing he did could stop them. No one ever came to help him; no one stopped them; there was no one but himself. The wringing, twisting motion of his body ceased, and he sighed as he listened to the rhythm of his breathing, concentrating on hearing only that sound. He could float away from the pain; he didn't feel the whippings; the lacerations crisscrossing his back hurt him only momentarily. He could be suspended in a sanctuary of his own making, a place where he was free from the darkness.

Giorgio Carolla had been the only one who had understood Luka's darkness, who knew Luka's suffering, because he himself had suffered. The two boys had needed each other, been entwined with one another. The night Giorgio died, the night he had held Luka in his arms, his gentle hands tracing the white scars across his back, the dying child had comforted his sweet, tortured friend. As his heart weakened, he had thought not of himself but of encouraging Luka to talk, to release the darkness he was so terrified of. In whispering sobs Luka had put into words the nightmare, and when at last he had slept and the nightmare returned, he had screamed himself awake, the terror as vivid as always. But then came relief because his beloved friend was beside him. Smiling, he had reached out for comfort, but Giorgio was cold. . . .

The death of Giorgio had taken from Luka the only love he had ever known, and try as he would, he could not breathe through the overpowering darkness that had descended. It

swallowed him, swamped him, and he gave way to it.

The women had unknowingly locked Luka into his past, and now he was experiencing again the pain he had hidden inside him for so long. They watched in sickened fascination as Luka's body relaxed, momentarily, as he gasped for breath. Then the chair banged, his body twisted, and a blubbering, infantile voice shrieked ceaselessly as his head rolled from side to side, the mouth hanging open. ... If he was speaking, the words were unintelligible.

Graziella was unable to stand another moment; her body strained as if to go to him, comfort him. Sophia gripped her hand tightly. Rosa covered her face, whispering, "Oh, God, stop him! What's the matter with him?"

He couldn't hear her. The straps binding his arms and legs were the ropes they had used to tie him down. . . . He was hearing the chanting, the susurration of feet in leather-soled sandals, smelling the incense. ... He whimpered and in a small, plaintive voice began to speak, the words clearer but half formed.

"It hurt me . . . hurt me. . . . No, no, please, no. . . . Please . . . please . . . please ..."

On and on the voice whispered, pleading, as Luka became still, his head bowed. Suddenly Teresa leaned across the table and took the key, got up, and unlocked the door. Rosa followed her and, after a moment, Sophia. Only Graziella remained in the dining room, still sitting opposite Luka.

In the living room Sophia poured brandies, handing a glass to Teresa. "This all could be an act."

"What if it isn't? We don't know."

Sophia snapped, "We know he's lied to us; we know everything that Pirelli told me. We know he is a killer; we knew that back at the villa. And we protected him, so don't look at me as if I have done something wrong now. The only crime I want to know about, care about, is the murder of my children, my husband, because whoever killed them didn't just end their lives; they took mine, too. They took everything that made me a person; they took everything that made my life worth living, everything I had—"

Teresa interrupted, shouting, "We all lost, Sophia! We all want to know; we all want justice! But not this way ..."

They heard Graziella's voice, talking so softly they could not decipher her words, but she was talking to Luka. Sophia went back to the dining room but paused in the doorway, her hand raised in warning to the others. They moved silently to look over her shoulder.

Graziella was sitting next to Luka, holding his hand. She stroked it, patted it. One by one the younger women crept farther into the room.

Graziella spoke so quietly that they had to strain to hear her. She was asking his name, over and over, asking him who he was.

"It's all right, you can tell me. No one is going to hurt you. Tell me, you can tell me."

The child's voice answered, "My name is Luka, but you must not tell him; he mustn't know I've told you."

"Who mustn't I tell? Who mustn't know who you are?" Graziella looked to Sophia, warning her to remain silent.

Luka tensed, his blindfolded head jerked, and he cowered back again. Graziella asked him over and over who he was afraid of, and now she was stroking his head, standing close to him, bending down to hear as he whispered his own name, weeping.

"Luka, Luka . . ."

Graziella gave a small look to Sophia, not understanding. He had said he was afraid of Luka, yet he also said he
was
Luka.

"Are there two Lukas?" Graziella asked gently.

"Yes," he whispered, "there are two of us."

He began to relate a long, rambling story about stealing a chicken leg, nothing that made sense to the waiting women. The tension of watching him was exhausting. The sweat glistened on Graziella's face, her body was stiff from standing in such an awkward position, and her hand ached from his unrelenting grasp; but she did not leave his side.

"Was Luka a bad boy when he was older?"

"Yes."

Not one of them dared move as the strange, high-pitched voice described how Lenny Cavataio, the man Roberto Luciano had replaced as a witness, had died. Graziella patted Luka's hand, interrupting his description of knifing Cavataio.

"Was Luka given orders? Did someone tell him to do these bad things?"

Eerily the voice suddenly deepend in tone. He spoke rapidly, "He is a professional, do you understand? No one can catch him, no one knows who he is. . . . Riding a bicycle, little boy on a bicycle. He felt no pain, no hurt. The innocent must feel no pain, must be done quickly."

Sophia sat back in her chair and closed her eyes as Luka continued to describe how the child had been offered an icecream cone, a raspberry-flavored ice-cream— She knew he was talking about the Paluso child, could remember the photographs of him lying in the gutter beside his bicycle.

Facing them all was the man Pirelli had tried to trace for so long, the dangerous psychopath, the mass murderer, the cold, calculating killer. Yet here was a pitiful, cowering boy, talking in the high-pitched voice of a child no older than her elder son had been. She could not even contemplate revenge; justice was a meaningless word.

The women had no anger left, felt no satisfaction in having the insane being before them trapped like an animal. Their faces registered their feelings. As Sophia glanced covertly at them, she could feel their wretchedness.

The click of her gold cigarette lighter broke the silence. She inhaled deeply and let the smoke drift from her mouth. They all could smell the heavy Turkish tobacco, and like a dog, Luka lifted his head, sniffing. . . . His body stiffened.

Sophia spoke loudly, "So now we know you killed the Paluso child, do you hear me, Luka?"

Luka's grip on Graziella's hand tightened, hurting her; she had to wrench herself away. She looked angrily at Sophia. "Why did you say that?"

"Maybe, Mama, we need to speak to his other self, tell the child Luka to go to hell. He's acting; he's playing with us."

Graziella eased herself away from him and turned to look at the scattered photographs on the table. She reached out and drew them into her arms. She didn't want to hear anymore, did not think she could bear anymore. Slowly, holding the photographs to her chest, she moved toward the door. Teresa, seeing her sway slightly, got up to assist her from the room.

Rosa pushed back her chair and followed the others. Sophia remained sitting, smoking, each breath labored. Then she drew the ashtray close and stubbed out the cigarette. She studied her perfectly manicured nails resting on the edge of the table and wanted to gouge the shining surface in which her own face was mirrored.

Luka's head lifted, and he turned sideways, listening intently. "Sophia? Sophia?"

She waited, but he said no more. Eventually she replied in a whisper, "You murdered my sons. They were innocents. Why? Why did you kill my babies, Luka?"

His head twisted, and his hands curled, making wringing motions as if he were trying to free himself. He remembered them, lying together, that was how he had first seen them from outside the window. His orders had been to radio in to the men waiting when the Lucianos left the villa, no more, no less, but the picture of the two children innocently sleeping with their arms entwined had stopped his heart. To him they were not Carlo and Nuncio Luciano; they were Luka and Giorgio. Hidden by the darkness, drawn to the soft, glowing light from the children's room, Luka had watched, then like a thief in the night had crept into the room. His gun was heavy, unwieldy, and he had winced as he attached the silencer, sure the scraping of metal on metal would wake the boys. Perhaps if they had woken, the murder would never have happened, but their steady breathing continued and assured him that what he was doing had to be done.

Even when he slid a pillow from the bed, the brothers did not wake. Neither made a sound as he covered their faces with it. Pressing the gun into the pillow, he had fired quickly, once, twice.

When at last he lifted the pillow, the gaping wounds in their heads upset him, so with great care, he had turned the children to face each other, their wounds hidden from view. He was still not content until he had laid Nunzio's arm across his brother's heart. These two boys would always be together.

Luka had stood there awhile, unable to leave them, because that was the way it should have been for Luka and Giorgio.

"Who gave the order, Luka? Who told you to murder my children?"

He made a guttural sound. She moved beside the table until she was close enough to smell his sweat. He cowered in the chair.

"You will die without a prayer unless you answer me.

Your soul will remain in hell, burn there. . . ."