these books you have brought me. Will you help me with one of them tonight before you leave?'
'Of course,' Hector Adonis said. And for the rest of the night in his magnificent professorial voice, he explained difficult passages in the books he had brought. Guiliano listened intently and asked questions. It was as if they were schoolmaster and child together as they had been so many years ago.
It was on that night that Hector Adonis suggested Guiliano keep a Testament. A document that would be a record of everything that happened to the band, that would detail any secret deal Guiliano made with Don Croce and Minister Trezza. It could become a great protection.
Guiliano was immediately enthusiastic. Even if it had no power, even if it were lost, he dreamed that perhaps in a hundred years some other rebel might discover it. As he and Pisciotta had discovered the bones of Hannibal's elephant.
CHAPTER 19
The historic meeting took place two days later. And in that short space of time the town of Montelepre was bursting with rumors that the great Don Croce Malo was coming, hat in hand, to meet with their own glorious hero, Turi Guiliano. How the secret got out was not known. Perhaps it was because Guiliano took extraordinary precautions for the meeting. His patrols moved into position to seal off the Palermo road, and almost fifty of his men who were related by blood to people living in Montelepre went to visit their relatives and stay in their houses overnight.
Passatempo was sent with his men to seal off the Bellampo Barracks and immobilize the
Don Croce came at twilight in a large Alfa Romeo touring car which parked in front of the house of Hector Adonis. He came with his brother, Father Beniamino, and two armed guards who remained in the car with the chauffeur. Hector Adonis was waiting for them at the door attired even more elegantly than usual in his specially London-tailored gray suit and a red and black striped tie on his dazzling white shirt. He made a startling contrast to the Don, who seemed to be attired even more carelessly than usual, his huge girth girdled by a pair of trousers that made him look like a huge goose waddling, his shirt, collarless and unbuttoned at the neck, and a heavy black jacket that did not even come together at the front, so that you could see the simple white suspenders, an inch wide, that held up the trousers. His shoes were thin slippers.
Father Beniamino was in his clerical garb and wore his usual dusty black hat shaped like a round pan. He blessed the house before he entered, making the sign of the cross and murmuring a benediction.
Hector Adonis owned the finest house in Montelepre and was proud of it. The furniture was from France and the paintings had been bought carefully from minor living artists of Italy. His dinnerplate was from Germany and his house servant was a middle-aged Italian woman who had been trained in England before the war. She served them coffee as the three men sat in the drawing room waiting for Guiliano.
Don Croce felt absolutely secure. He knew that Guiliano would not dishonor his godfather by betraying his word. The Don was filled with a pleasurable anticipation. He would now meet and judge for himself the true greatness of this rising star. And yet even he was a little startled at how quietly Guiliano slipped into the house. There was no sound out in the cobbled street, no sound of a door opening or being shut. But suddenly Guiliano was standing in the archway that led to the dining room. Don Croce was struck by his handsomeness.
Life in the mountains had broadened his chest and slimmed down his face. It was still oval and yet the cheeks were lean, the chin pointed. There were the statuelike eyes, golden brown with their curious circle of silver that seemed to embed the eyeballs into their sockets. His clothes too set him off to advantage – the moleskin trousers snug, a white shirt freshly washed and ironed. He wore a hunting jacket of russet velvet, loose, underneath which was slung a machine pistol he always carried. Above all he looked incredibly young, no more than a boy, though his age was twenty-four.
Could such a boy have defied Rome, outwitted the Friends of the Friends, inspired devotion in the murderous Andolini, kept in check the brutishness of Passatempo, conquered a quarter of Sicily and the love of the people of the whole island? Don Croce knew that Guiliano was incredibly brave, but Sicily was full of brave men who had gone to early graves, easy prey to treacheries.
And then even as Don Croce doubted him, Turi Guiliano did something that gladdened the Don's heart and reassured him that he was right to make this boy his ally. He came into the room and advanced directly to Don Croce and said,
It was the traditional Sicilian peasant greeting to a man of higher rank – a priest, a landowner or a noble. 'I kiss your hand.' And Guiliano had a cheerful grin on his face. But Don Croce knew exactly why he had said it. It was not to show his subservience to the Don or even in respect for his age. It was said because the Don had put himself in Guiliano's power and Guiliano was showing respect for the trust. Don Croce rose slowly, his heavy cheeks becoming darker with the effort of rising. He took Guiliano in his arms. This was a noble young man and he wanted to show his affection. As he did so he could see the face of Hector Adonis beaming proudly – his godson had shown himself a gentleman.
Pisciotta came through the archway and watched this with a small smile on his saturnine face. His handsomeness too was remarkable but in direct contrast to Guiliano. The illness of his lungs had thinned his body and his features. The bones of his face seemed to press outward against his olive skin. His hair was carefully combed and sleekly black whereas Guiliano wore his tawny hair closely cropped as if it were a helmet.
As for Turi Guiliano, he had expected to take the Don by surprise with his greeting and had been surprised in his turn by the Don's complete understanding and graceful affectionate acceptance. He studied the huge hulk of Don Croce and became even more alert. This was a dangerous man. Not only by reputation but by the aura of power around him. The bulk of his body, which should have been grotesque, seemed to give off a heated energy; it filled the room. And when the Don spoke, the voice coming from that massive head had almost the magic of choral music. There was an extraordinary fascination about him when he set out to convince that was a combination of sincerity, forcefulness and exquisite courtesy which was strange in a man who seemed so uncouth in everything else he did.
'I've watched you for years and waited long for this day. Now that it has arrived, you fulfill every expectation.'
Guiliano said, 'I am flattered.' He measured his next words, knowing what was expected of him. 'I have always hoped we would be friends.'
Don Croce nodded and proceeded to explain the agreement that he had come to with Minister Trezza. That if Guiliano helped 'educate' the populace of Sicily to vote properly in the next elections, then a way would be found for a pardon. Guiliano could return to his family as an ordinary citizen and no longer be a bandit. As evidence of the reality of this agreement, Minister Trezza had given the plans for the fight against Guiliano to the Don. The Don raised a hand in the air to emphasize his next point. 'If you agree, these plans will be vetoed by the Minister. There would be no army expedition or extra thousand
Don Croce saw that Guiliano was listening attentively but did not seem surprised by all this. He went on. 'Everyone in Sicily knows your concern for the poor. One might think that you would support the leftist parties. But I know of your belief in God, you are after all a Sicilian. And who does not know of your devotion to your mother? Do you really want Communists running Italy? What would happen to the Church? What would happen to the family? The young men of Italy and Sicily who fought in the war are infected by foreign beliefs, political doctrines that have no place in Sicily. Sicilians can find their own way to a better fate. And do you really want an all-powerful state that would brook no rebelliousness from its citizens? A left-wing government would surely mount a major campaign against both of us, for are we not the true rulers of Sicily? If the leftist parties win the next election, the day might come when there are Russians in the villages of Sicily deciding who might go to church. Our children would be made to go to schools that would teach them that the state comes before the sacred mother and father. What is worth
