The mountains ended in a hundred yards of green pasture that led to the back walls formed by the houses on the Via Bella. Behind these walls, each house had its garden of tomatoes, and some, a lonely olive or lemon tree. The gate to the Guiliano garden fence was unlocked, and the two young men slipped through quietly and found Guiliano’s mother waiting for them. She rushed into Turi Guiliano’s arms, the tears streaming down her face. She kissed him fiercely and whispered, “My beloved son, my beloved son,” and Turi Guiliano found himself standing in the moonlight not responding to her love for the first time in his life.
It was now nearly midnight, the moon still bright, and they hurried into the house to escape observation by spies. The windows were shuttered, and relatives of the Guiliano and Pisciotta families had been posted along all the streets to warn of police patrols. In the house Guiliano’s friends and family waited to celebrate his homecoming. A feast worthy of Holy Easter had been laid out. They had this one night with him before Turi went to live in the mountains.
Guiliano’s father embraced him and slapped him on the back to show his approval. His two sisters were there, and Hector Adonis. Also there was a neighbor, a woman called La Venera. She was a widow of about thirty-five. Her husband had been a famous bandit named Candeleria, who had been betrayed, then ambushed by the police, only a year ago. She had become a close friend of Guiliano’s mother, but Turi was surprised that she was present at this reunion. Only his mother could have invited her. For a moment he wondered why.
They ate and drank and treated Turi Guiliano as if he had returned from a long holiday in foreign countries. But then his father wanted to see his wound. Guiliano lifted his shirt out of his trousers and revealed the great flaming scar, the tissue around it still blue-black from the trauma of the gunshot. His mother broke into lamentations. Guiliano said to her with a smile, “Would you rather have seen me in prison with the marks of the bastinado?”
Though the familiar scene duplicated the happiest days of his childhood, he felt a great distance from them all. There were all his favorite dishes, the inky squid, the fat macaroni with its herbed sauce of tomato, the roasted lamb, the great bowl of olives, green and red salad doused with the pure first pressing of olive oil, bamboo-covered bottles of Sicilian wine. Everything from the earth of Sicily. His mother and father told their fairy tales about life in America. And Hector Adonis regaled them on the glories of the history of Sicily. Of Garibaldi and his famous Redshirts. Of the day of the Sicilian Vespers, when the people of Sicily had risen to slaughter the French occupying army so many hundreds of years ago. All the tales of Sicily oppressed starting with Rome, followed by the Moors and Normans and the French and the Germans and the Spanish. Woe was Sicily! Never free, its people always hungry, their labor sold so cheap, their blood spilled so easily.
And so now there was not a Sicilian who believed in government, in law, in the structured order of society which had always been used to turn them into beasts of burden. Guiliano had listened to these stories through the years, imprinting them on his brain. But only now did Guiliano realize that he could change this.
He watched Aspanu smoking a cigarette over his coffee. Even at this joyful reunion, Aspanu had an ironic smile on his lips. Guiliano could tell what he was thinking and what he would say later: All you have to do is to be stupid enough to get shot by a policeman, commit murder, become an outlaw, and then your loved ones will show their affection and treat you like a saint from heaven. And yet Aspanu was the only one he did not feel cut off from.
And then there was the woman, La Venera. Why had his mother invited her, and why did she come? He saw that her face was still handsome, bold and strong with jet-black eyebrows and lips so dark and red that they seemed almost purple in this smoky curtained light. There was no way to tell what her figure was like, for she wore the Sicilian widow’s shapeless black dress.
Turi Guiliano had to tell them the whole story of the shooting at the Four Crossroads. His father, a little drunk with wine, emitted growls of approval at the death of the policeman. His mother was silent. His father told the story of how the farmer had come looking for his donkey and his own remark to the farmer: “Stay content you have lost a donkey. I have lost a son.”
Aspanu said, “A donkey looking for a donkey.”
They all laughed. Guiliano’s father went on: “When the farmer heard that a policeman was killed he was too afraid to make his claim, that he might be bastinadoed.”
Turi said, “He will be repaid.”
Finally Hector Adonis outlined his plans to save Turi. The family of the dead man would be paid an indemnity. Guiliano’s parents would have to mortgage their little piece of land to raise the money. Adonis himself would contribute a sum. But this tactic would have to wait until feelings of anger had died down. The influence of the great Don Croce would be brought to bear on government officials and the family of the slain man. After all, it had been more or less an accident. There had been no real ill will on either side. A farce could be played out as long as the victim’s family and key government officials cooperated. The only drawback was the identity card at the scene of the killing. But in a year’s time Don Croce could cause that to vanish from the prosecutor’s files. Most important, Turi Guiliano must remain out of trouble for that year. He must disappear into the mountains.
Turi Guiliano listened to them all patiently, smiling, nodding his head, not showing his irritation. They still thought of him as he had been at Festa time over two months ago. He had taken off his sheepskin jacket and stripped himself of arms; his guns lay at his feet beneath the table. But that had not impressed them, nor the ugly huge scar. They could not imagine how his mind had been torn apart by that great blow to his body, or that he would never again be the young man they had known.
In this house, he was for this moment safe. Trusted people patrolled the streets and watched the carabinieri barracks to give him warning of any attack. The house itself, built many hundreds of years ago, was made of stone; its windows had heavy wooden shutters locked and a foot thick. The wooden door was strong and iron barred. Not a chink of light could escape this house, no enemy could force his way in quickly in a surprise attack. And yet Turi Guiliano felt himself in danger. These loved ones would trap him into his former life, persuade him to become a peasant farmer, to lay down his arms against his fellow men and leave him helpless to their laws. At that moment he knew that he would have to be cruel to those he loved most. It had always been the young man’s dream to acquire love rather than power. But that was all changed. He now saw clearly that power came first.
He spoke gently to Hector Adonis and to the others. “Dear godfather, I know you speak out of affection and concern. But I can’t let my mother and father lose their little bit of land to help me out of my trouble. And all of you here, don’t worry so much about me. I’m a grown man who must pay for his carelessness. And I won’t have anyone paying an indemnity for that carabinieri I shot. Remember, he tried to kill me just because I was smuggling a bit of cheese. I would never have fired at him except that I thought I was dying and wanted to even the score. But all that’s past. I won’t be so easy to shoot the next time.”
Pisciotta said with a grin, “It’s more fun in the mountains anyway.”
But Guiliano’s mother was not to be distracted. They could all see her panic, the fear in her burning eyes. She said desperately, “Don’t become a bandit, don’t rob poor people who have enough misery in their lives. Don’t become an outlaw. Let La Venera tell you what kind of life her husband lived.”
La Venera raised her head and looked directly at Guiliano. He was struck by the sensuality in her face, as if she were trying to attract his passion toward her. Her eyes were bold and stared at him almost in invitation. Before he had thought of her only as an older woman; now he felt her sexually.
When she spoke her voice was husky with emotion. She said, “In those same mountains you wish to go to my husband had to live like an animal. Always in fear. Always.
He could not eat. He could not sleep. When we were in bed together every little noise would make him jump. We slept with guns on the floor beside the bed. But that didn’t help him. When our daughter was ill, he tried to visit her, and they were waiting for him. They knew he was softhearted. He was shot down like a dog in the streets. They stood over him and laughed in my face.”
Guiliano could see the grin on Pisciotta’s face. The great bandit, Candeleria, softhearted? He had massacred six men as suspected informers, preyed on wealthy farmers, extorted money from poor peasants, struck terror into a whole countryside. But his wife saw him differently.
La Venera did not notice Pisciotta’s smile. She went on: “I buried him and then buried my child a week later. They said it was pneumonia. But I know her heart was broken. What I remember most was when I visited him in the mountains. He was always cold and hungry, and sometimes ill. He would have given anything to return to the life of an honest peasant. But worst of all, his heart became as hard as an olive pit. He was no longer human, may he rest in peace. So, dear Turi, don’t be so proud. We will help you in your misfortune, don’t become what my husband was before he died.”
Everyone was silent. Pisciotta was no longer smiling. Guiliano’s father murmured that he would be glad to be rid of the farm; he could sleep late mornings. Hector Adonis was staring down at the tablecloth, frowning. None of them spoke.
The silence was broken by a quick tapping on the door, a signal from one of the watchers. Pisciotta went to speak to the man. When he came back he made a signal for Guiliano to arm himself. “The carabinieri barracks are blazing with light,” he said. “And there is a police van blocking the end of the Via Bella where it enters the town square. They are getting ready to raid this house.” He paused for a moment. “We must be quick with our goodbyes.”
What struck everyone was the calmness with which Turi Guiliano prepared his escape. His mother rushed into his arms and as he embraced her he already had his sheepskin jacket in his hands. He said his goodbyes to the others and in the next instant seemed to be fully armed, his jacket on, his rifle slung. And yet he had not moved quickly or hurriedly. He stood there for a moment smiling at them and then said to Pisciotta, “You can stay and meet me in the mountains later, or you can come with me now.” Wordlessly Pisciotta moved to the back door and opened it.
Guiliano gave his mother a final embrace, and she kissed him fiercely and said, “Hide, don’t do anything rash. Let us help you.” But he was already out of her arms.
Pisciotta was leading the way, across the fields to the beginning slopes of the mountains. Guiliano whistled sharply and Pisciotta stopped and let Turi catch up to him. The way was clear to the mountains, and his watchers had told him there were no police patrols in that direction. They would be safe in the Grotta Bianca after a four-hour climb. If the carabinieri chased them through the darkness, it would be an extraordinary act of bravery and foolishness.
Guiliano said, “Aspanu, how many men do the carabinieri have in their garrison?”
“Twelve,” Pisciotta said. “And the Maresciallo.”
Guiliano laughed. “Thirteen is an unlucky number. And why are we running away from so few?” He paused for a moment and then said, “Follow me.”
He led the way back through the fields so that they entered the town of Montelepre further down the street. Then across the Via Bella so that they could watch the Guiliano house from the safety of a dark narrow alley. They crouched in the shadows waiting.
Five minutes later they could hear a jeep rattling down the Via Bella. Six carabinieri were crammed into it including the Maresciallo himself. Two of the men immediately went through the side street to block the back entrance. The Maresciallo and three of his men went up to the door and hammered on it. At the same time a small covered truck pulled up behind the jeep and two more carabinieri, rifles ready, jumped out to command the street.
Turi Guiliano watched all this with interest. The police raid was based on the assumption that the targets would never be in a position to launch a counterattack; that their only alternative would be to run from a superior force. Turi Guiliano at that moment made it a basic principle always to be in a position to counterattack when he was being hunted, no matter how great the odds, or perhaps the greater the odds the better.
This was Guiliano’s first tactical operation and he was astonished at how easily he could command the situation if he chose to shed blood. True, he could not shoot at the Maresciallo and the three men at the door since the bullets might go into the house and hit his family. But he could easily slaughter the two men commanding the street and the two drivers in their vehicles. If he wished, he could do this as soon as the Maresciallo and his men were in the Guiliano house. They would not dare come out, and he and Pisciotta could make their way through the fields at their leisure. As for the police blocking the end of the street with their van, they would be too far out of the way to be a factor. They would not have the initiative to come up the street without receiving orders.
But at this point he had no desire to shed blood. It was still an intellectual maneuver. And he particularly wanted to see the Maresciallo in action, since this was the man who would be his principal opponent in the future.
At that moment the door of the house was being opened by Guiliano’s father, and the Maresciallo took the old man roughly by the arm and thrust him out into the street with a shouted order to wait there.
A Maresciallo of the Italian carabinieri is the highest ranking noncommissioned officer of the National Police force and usually is the commander of a small town detachment. As such he is an important member of the local community and treated with the same respect as the local Mayor and priest of the parish. So he was not expecting the greeting from Guiliano’s mother when she barred his way and spit on the ground in front of him to show her contempt.
He and his three men had to force their way into the house and search it while being scathingly abused and cursed by Guiliano’s mother. Everyone was taken out into the street to be questioned; the neighboring houses emptied of their women and men who also verbally abused the police.
When the search of the house proved fruitless, the Maresciallo attempted to question the inhabitants. Guiliano’s father was astonished. “Do you think I would inform on my own son?” he asked the Maresciallo, and a great roar of approval came from the crowd in the streets. The Maresciallo ordered the Guiliano family back into their house.
In the shadow of their alley, Pisciotta said to Guiliano, “Lucky for them your mother doesn’t have our weapons.” But Turi didn’t answer. The blood had rushed to his head. It took an enormous effort to control himself. The Maresciallo lashed out with his club and hit a man in the crowd who dared to protest the rough treatment of Guiliano’s parents. Two other carabinieri began grabbing citizens of Montelepre at random and throwing them into the waiting truck, kicking and clubbing them on their way, ignoring their cries of fear and protest.
Suddenly there was one man standing alone on the street facing the carabinieri. He lunged at the Maresciallo. A shot rang out, and the man fell to the cobblestones. From one of the houses a woman began to scream and then she ran out and threw her body over her fallen husband. Turi Guiliano recognized her; she was an old friend of his family who always brought his mother freshly baked Easter cake.
Turi tapped Pisciotta on the shoulder and whispered, “Follow me,” and started running down the narrow crooked streets toward the central square of the town, at the other end of the Via Bella.
Pisciotta yelled fiercely, “What the hell are you doing?” but then fell silent. For he suddenly knew exactly what Turi had in mind. The truck full of prisoners would have to go down the Via Bella to turn around and make its run back to the Bellampo Barracks.
As he ran down the dark parallel street, Turi Guiliano felt invisible, godlike. He knew the enemy would never dream, could never even imagine, what he was doing, that they thought he was running for safety in the mountains. He felt a wild elation
. They would learn they could not raid his mother’s home with impunity, they would think twice before doing it again. They could not again shoot a man in cold blood. He would make them show respect for his neighbors and his family.
He reached the far side of the square, and in the light of its single streetlamp he could see the police van blocking the entrance into the Via Bella. As if he could have been caught in such a trap. What could they have been thinking of? Was that a sample of official cleverness? He switched to another side street to bring him to the back entrance of the church that dominated the square, Pisciotta following him. Inside, they both vaulted the altar rail and then both stopped for a fraction of a second on the holy stage where long ago they had performed as altar boys and served their priest while he was giving the people of Montelepre Sunday Mass and Communion. Holding their guns at the ready they genuflected and crossed themselves clumsily; for a moment the power of the wax statues of Christ crowned with thorns, the gilded chalky blue-robed Virgin Marys, the batteries of saints blunted their lust for battle. Then they were running up the short aisle to the great oaken door that gave a field of fire to the square. And there they knelt again to prepare their weapons.