The Sicilian

party might well lose its control of the government. The Catholic Church might well lose its legal position as the official state religion of Italy.

Don Croce did not respond to any of this. He ate steadily, and had to admit to himself that the food in Rome was far better than the food in his native Sicily. The Don bent his huge emperor's head close over his dish of spaghetti filled with truffles; the great jaws chewed steadily and inexorably. Occasionally he wiped his thin mustache with his napkin. The imperial beak of a nose stood sentinel over each new dish brought in by the servants as if scenting them for some poison. The eyes darted back and forth over the lavishly burdened table. He never said a word as the Minister droned on about momentous affairs of state.

They finished up with a huge platter of fruits and cheeses. Then over the ceremonial cup of coffee and a balloon glass of brandy, the Don made himself ready to speak. He shifted his huge bulk in the inadequate chair, and the Minister hastily led him into a drawing room with overstuffed armchairs. He ordered a servant to bring in the coffee and brandy and then dismissed him. The Minister himself poured the Don's espresso, offered a cigar which was refused, then prepared himself to hear the Don's wisdom which he knew would be to the point.

Don Croce regarded the Minister steadily. He was not impressed with the aristocratic profile, blunt thick features, the forcefulness. And he despised the Minister's beard which he thought an affectation. This was a man who could impress in Rome but never in Sicily. Yet this was the man who could consolidate the Mafia's power in Sicily. It had been a mistake in the old days to sneer at Rome; the result had been Mussolini and the Fascists. Don Croce had no illusions. A left-wing government could be serious about reforms, about the sweeping out of the subterranean government of the Friends of the Friends. Only a Christian Democratic government would maintain the legal processes that made Don Croce invulnerable, and he agreed to come to Rome with the satisfaction of a faith healer visiting a horde of crippled supplicants who suffered mostly from hysteria. He knew he could effect a cure.

'I can deliver Sicily to you in the next election,' he said to Minister Trezza. 'But we have need of armed men. You must assure me that you will not move against Turi Guiliano.'

'That is the one promise I cannot make,' said Minister Trezza.

'That is the one promise you must make,' answered Don Croce.

The Minister stroked his small beard. 'What kind of man is this Guiliano?' he asked reluctantly. 'He is far too young to be so ferocious. Even for a Sicilian.'

'Ah, no, he's a gentle lad,' said Don Croce, ignoring the Minister's sardonic smile and failing to mention that he had never met Guiliano.

Minister Trezza shook his head. 'I don't think that possible,' he said. 'A man who has killed so many carabinieri cannot be called a gentle lad.'

It was true. Don Croce thought that Guiliano had been particularly reckless during the past year. Since the time he had executed 'Father' Dodana, Guiliano had unleashed his fury against all his enemies, Mafia and Rome alike.

He had begun sending letters to the newspapers proclaiming he was the ruler of Western Sicily, let Rome do what it may. He also sent letters forbidding the carabinieri of the towns of Montelepre, Corleone and Monreale to go out on patrol in the streets after midnight. His explanation for this was that his men had to get to certain points to visit friends or family, and he did not want them arrested in their beds or shot when they came out of their houses or when he himself wished to visit his family in Montelepre.

The newspapers printed these letters with gleeful sidebars. Salvatore Guiliano forbade the cassetta . This bandit forbids the police from performing their lawful patrols in the towns of Sicily? What impudence. What colossal effrontery. Did this young man think he was the King of Italy? There were cartoons showing carabinieri hiding in an alley of Montelepre as the huge figure of Guiliano stepped majestically into the square.

Of course there was only one thing the Maresciallo of Montelepre could do. Every night he sent patrols into the streets. Every night his garrison, beefed up to one hundred men, were at alert, guarding the entries into the town from the mountains so that Guiliano could not mount an attack.

But on the one occasion he sent his carabinieri into the mountains, Guiliano and his five chiefs – Pisciotta, Terranova, Passatempo, Silvestro and Andolini – each leading a band of fifty men, ambushed them. Guiliano showed no mercy, and six carabinieri were killed. Other detachments fled from a devastating fire of machine guns and rifles.

Rome was up in arms, but it was this very recklessness of Guiliano that could serve them all now if only Don Croce could convince this eggplant of a Minister of Justice.

'Trust me,' Don Croce said to Minister Trezza. 'Guiliano can serve our purposes. I will persuade him to declare war on the Socialist and Communist parties in Sicily. He will attack their headquarters, he will suppress their organizers. He will be my military arm on a broad scale. Then of course my friends and myself will do the necessary work that cannot be done in public.'

Minister Trezza did not seem shocked by this suggestion, but he said in a supercilious voice, 'Guiliano is already a national scandal. An international scandal. I have on my desk a plan from the Chief of Staff of the Army to move in troops to suppress him. There is a price of ten million lire on his head. A thousand carabinieri have been alerted to move to Sicily to reinforce the ones already there. And you ask me to protect him? My dear Don Croce, I expected you to help deliver him to us as you helped with the other bandits. Guiliano is the shame of Italy. Everyone thinks he must be eliminated.'

Don Croce sipped his espresso and wiped his mustache with his fingers. He was a little impatient with this Roman hypocrisy. He shook his head slowly. 'Turi Guiliano is far more valuable to us alive and doing heroic deeds in his mountains. The people of Sicily worship him; they say prayers for his soul and his safety. There is not a man on my island who will betray him. And he is far more cunning than all those other bandits. I have spies in his camp, but such is his personality that I don't know how loyal they are to me. That is the kind of man you talk about. He inspires affection from everyone. If you send your thousand carabinieri and your army and they fail – and they have failed before – what then? I tell you this: If Guiliano decides to help the leftist parties in the next election, you will lose Sicily and therefore, as you must surely know, your party loses Italy.' He paused for a long moment and fastened his gaze on the Minister. 'You must come to an accommodation with Guiliano.'

'And how would all this be arranged?' Minister Trezza asked with the polite, superior smile that Don Croce despised. It was a Roman smile and the man was Sicilian born. The Minister went on. 'I have it on good authority that Guiliano has no love for you.'

Don Croce shrugged. 'He has not endured for the last three years without being clever enough to forget a grudge. And I have a connection with him. Doctor Hector Adonis is one of my people, and he is also Guiliano's godfather and most trusted friend. He will be my intermediary and make my peace with Guiliano. But I must have the necessary assurances from you in some concrete form.'

The Minister said sarcastically, 'Would you like a signed letter saying I love the bandit I'm trying to catch?'

It was the Don's greatest strength that he never took notice of an insulting tone, a lack of respect, though he stored it away in his heart. He answered quite simply, his face an inscrutable mask. 'No,' he said. 'Simply give me a copy of your Army Chief of Staff plans to mount a campaign against Guiliano. Also a copy of your order to send a thousand carabinieri reinforcements to the island. I will show them to Guiliano and promise him you will not implement the orders if he helps us to educate the Sicilian voters. That will not incriminate you later on – you can always claim that a copy was stolen. Also I will promise Guiliano that if the Christian Democrats win the next election, he will receive a pardon.'

'Ah, that no,' Minister Trezza said. 'A pardon is beyond my powers.'

'A promise is not beyond your powers,' Don Croce said. 'And then if it can be done, very well. If you find it impossible, I will tell him the bad news.'

The Minister saw the light. He saw, as Don Croce intended him to see, that in the end Don Croce must be rid of Guiliano, that the two of them could not exist together in Sicily. And that Don Croce would take all the responsibility for this, that the Minister need not concern himself in solving the problem. Certainly promises could be made. He had only to give Don Croce copies of the two military plans.

The Minister pondered his decision. Don Croce lowered his massive head and said softly, 'If the pardon is at all possible I would urge it.'