it.
Rogan smiled at her. “And who are you?” he asked.
“I am Mrs. Genco Bari,” she said. “But you may call me Lucia.” At that moment there was a knock on the bolted door. She smiled at him. “And that is my husband come to reward you.”
Lucia went to unbolt the door while Rogan reached to where his jacket hung on a chair, groping for his Walther pistol. Before he could find it the door swung open and Genco Bari came into the room. Behind his frail, wasted figure loomed two Sicilian peasants, shotguns cradled in their arms. One of the peasants was Tullio. He stared at Rogan impassively.
Genco Bari sat at his wife’s dressing table. He smiled in a kindly way at Rogan. “Have no fear; I am not the typical, jealous Sicilian husband,” he said. “As you see, it is obvious I can no longer fulfill my husbandly duties. I am a more worldly man than my fellow peasants, and so I permit my wife to satisfy her very natural needs. But never with someone from this village, and always with discretion. Last night I am afraid my poor Lucia became carried away by the new wine and her passion. But no matter. Here is your reward.” He tossed a purse stuffed with money on the bed. Rogan did not move to take it.
Genco Bari turned to his wife. “Lucia, did he acquit himself well?”
Lucia flashed Rogan a brilliant smile and nodded. “Like a fine bull,” she said mischievously.
Bari laughed, or rather he tried to laugh. But since there was no flesh on his face, it was merely a grimace of loose bones and skin and teeth. “You must forgive my wife,” he said to Rogan. “She is a simple peasant girl with forthright, lusty ways. That is why I married her three years ago when I learned I was dying. I thought I could hold on to life by feasting on her body. But that soon ended. And then when I saw her suffering I broke all the traditions of our land. I permitted her to have lovers. But under conditions dictated by me, so that my honor and the honor of my family would remain untarnished. So let me warn you now: If you boast of this to anyone in Sicily, I will set my ferrets after you and you will never lie with women again.”
Rogan said curtly, “I don’t need that money, and I never tell stories about women.”
Genco Bari stared at him intently. “There is something familiar about your face,” he said. “And you speak Italian almost like a native. Have our paths ever crossed?”
“No,” Rogan said. He was looking at Bari with pity. The man weighed no more than seventy pounds. His face was a skin-covered skull.
Genco Bari said musingly, as if talking to himself, “You were searching for me when you were in Palermo. Then the American agent Bailey set you on my trail. Tullio here”-he jerked his head at the armed guard-“tells me that at his wine booth you were inquiring where I lived and that I had invited you here. So we must know each other.” He leaned toward Rogan. “Have you been sent here to kill me?” He smiled his ghastly smile. He flung out his arms jestingly. “You are too late,” he said. “I am dying. There is no point in your killing me.”
Rogan said quietly, “When you remember who I am, I’ll answer that question.”
Bari shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “But until I do remember, I insist that you remain a guest here at my villa. Take a little holiday. You will amuse my wife, and perhaps you can spare an hour each day to chat with me. I am always curious about America. I have many friends there. Say yes to my request; you won’t be sorry for it.”
Rogan nodded, then shook the hand outstretched to him. When Bari and his guards had left the bedroom Rogan asked Lucia, “How long does your husband have to live?”
Lucia shrugged. “Who knows? A month, a week, an hour. I feel sorry for him, but I am young; I have my life to live, so perhaps it is better for me if he dies soon. But I will weep for him. He is a very kind man. He has given my parents a farm, and he has promised to leave his whole estate to me when he dies. I would have gone without lovers. It was he who insisted. Now I am glad.” She came and sat on Rogan’s lap, ready for more of the same.
Rogan spent the next week at Genco Bari’s villa. It became obvious that he could never hope to escape Sicily after he killed Bari. The Mafia organization would intercept him easily at the Palermo airport. His only hope was to kill Bari in such a way that his body would not be discovered for at least six hours. That would give him time to get on the plane.
He spent part of each day making plans and cultivating Bari. He found the Mafia Don extremely likeable, courteous, and helpful. They became almost good friends in that week. And although he went horseback riding and on amorous picnics with Lucia, he found his conversations with Genco Bari more entertaining. Lucia’s sexual appetite and grape smell were overwhelming. It was with relief that Rogan settled down every evening to share Genco Bari’s light supper and glass of grappa. Bari had changed completely from the murderer he had been ten years before. He treated Rogan like a son, and he was extremely interesting, especially when telling strange stories about the Mafia in Sicily.
“Do you know why no stone wall in Sicily is over two feet high?” he asked Rogan. “The government in Rome felt that too many Sicilians were ambushing each other from behind stone walls, so they thought that if they reduced the height of the walls they would reduce the number of murders. How foolish. Nothing will stop people from killing each other. Don’t you agree?” And he gave Rogan a sharp look. Rogan merely smiled. He did not want to be led into any philosophical discussions about murder.
Bari told Rogan stories about the old Mafia feuds and protection rackets. How every branch of industry had its own Mafia branch clinging like a leech and sucking blood. That there was even a branch of the Mafia that collected protection money from young men who serenaded their ladies beneath their balconies. The whole island was unbelievably corrupt. But you could live in peace-if you, too, were a member of the Mafia.
Bari had become a farmer in 1946, because he had refused to have anything to do with the traffic in narcotics that sprang up after the war. “I was an evil man in those days,” Genco Bari told Rogan with a deprecating smile. “I was violent. But I never harmed a woman, and I would never deal in narcotics. That is
Rogan smiled politely. Bari had forgotten about the Munich Palace of Justice, and he had forgotten the screams of Christine preserved on the brown wax phonograph cylinder. It was time to remind him.
By the end of the week Rogan had thought of a plan that would let him kill Bari and make a clean getaway. He proposed to the Mafia Don that they both go for a picnic in Rogan’s car. They would drive out into the country with a basket of food and jugs of wine and grappa and sit in the shade of a tree. The outing would do the ailing man good.
Bari smiled at Rogan. “That would be very fine. It is very thoughtful of you to waste your time on an old wreck like me. I’ll give orders to have your car stocked with food and drink. Shall we take Lucia with us?”
Rogan frowned and shook his head. “She’s too lively, and men can’t talk with women around. I like your company too much to have it spoiled by a female’s idle chatter.” Bari laughed and they were agreed; they would leave early the next morning and return late in the evening. Genco Bari had some business in a few small villages that could be taken care of along the way. Rogan was glad to see that these villages were on the road to Palermo.
They started off the next morning with Rogan driving and Genco Bari, his skull-like face shielded by his inevitable cream-colored Panama hat, seated next to him. They drove a few hours on the main road to Palermo, and then Bari directed Rogan to take a side road that wound up in the hilly regions. The road ended in a narrow trail, and Rogan had to stop the car.
“Bring the food and wine,” Genco Bari said. “We’ll picnic beneath the rocks.”
Rogan carried the basket to where Bari was standing in the shadow of the hill. There was a red-checked tablecloth to spread over the ground, and on top of that he put the covered dishes of fried aubergine, cold sausage, a loaf of crusty bread wrapped in a white napkin. There were wide short glasses for the wine, and Bari poured from the jug. When they had finished eating, Bari offered Rogan a long, thin black cigar. “Sicilian tobacco, rare, but the best in the world,” Bari said. He flared his lighter and lit Rogan’s cigar for him, then said in exactly the same tone of voice, “Why are you going to kill me today?”
Rogan, surprised, took a quick glance to see if he had been led into a trap. Genco Bari shook his head. “No, I have not taken any precautions to guard my life. It is of no value to me any longer. But I still like to satisfy my curiosity. Who are you and why do you wish to kill me?”
Rogan said slowly, “You told me once that you had never done violence to a woman. But you helped to kill my wife.” Bari looked puzzled, so Rogan went on. “On
