The Sicilian

Michael corleone stood on a long wooden dock in Palermo and watched the great ocean liner set sail for America. He was to have sailed on that ship, but new instructions had come from his father.

He waved goodbye to the men on the little fishing boat who had brought him to this dock, men who had guarded him these past two years. The fishing boat rode the white wake of the ocean liner, a brave little duckling after its mother. The men on it waved back; he would see them no more.

The dock itself was alive with scurrying men in caps and baggy clothes unloading other ships, loading trucks that had come to the long dock. They were small, wiry men who looked more Arabic than Italian, wearing billed caps that obscured their faces. Among them would be new body-guards making sure he came to no harm before he met with Don Croce Malo, capo di capi of the Friends of the Friends, as they were called here in Sicily. Newspapers and the outside world called them the Mafia, but in Sicily the word Mafia never passed the lips of the ordinary citizen--as he would never call Don Croce Malo the capo di capi but only the Good Soul.

In his years of exile in Sicily, Michael had heard many tales about Don Croce, some so fantastic, that he almost did not believe in the existence of such a man. But the instructions relayed from his father were explicit: He was ordered to have lunch with Don Croce this very day. And the two of them were to arrange for the escape from Sicily of the country's greatest bandit, Salvatore Guiliano. Michael Corleone could not leave Sicily without Salvatore Guiliano.

Down at the end of the pier, no more than 50 yards away, a huge dark car was parked in the narrow street. Standing before it were three men, dark rectangles cut out of the glaring sheet of light that fell like a wall of gold from the noonday sun. Michael walked toward them. He paused for a moment to light a cigarette and survey the city.

Palermo rested in the bottom of a bowl created by an extinct volcano, over-whelmed by mountains on three sides and escaping into the dazzling blue of the Mediterranean Sea on the fourth side. The city shimmered in the golden rays of the Sicilian noontime sun. Veins of red light struck the earth, as if reflecting the blood shed on the soil of Sicily for countless centuries. The gold rays bathed stately marble columns of Greek temples, spidery Moslem turrets, the fiercely intricate facades of Spanish cathedrals; on a far hillside frowned the turrets of an ancient Norman castle--all left by diverse and cruel armies that had ruled Sicily since before Christ was born. Beyond, cone-shaped mountains held the slightly effeminate city of Palermo in a strangler's embrace, as if both were sinking gracefully to their knees, a cord being pulled tightly around the city's neck. Far above, countless tiny red hawks darted across the brilliant blue sky.

Michael walked toward the three men waiting for him at the end of the pier. Their features and bodies were formed out of their black rectangles. With each step he could see them more clearly, and they seemed to loosen, to spread away from one another as if to envelop him in their greeting.

All three of these men knew Michael's history: that he was the youngest son of the great Don Corleone in America, the Godfather, whose power extended even into Sicily. That he had murdered a high police official of New York City while executing an enemy of the Corleone empire. That he had been in hiding and exile here in Sicily because of those murders and that now, finally, matters having been "arranged," he was on his way back to his homeland to resume his place as crown prince to the Corleone family. They studied Michael, the way he moved so quickly and effortlessly, his watchful wariness, the caved-in side of his face, which gave him the look of a man who had endured suffering and danger. He was obviously a man of respect.

As Michael stepped off the pier, the first man to greet him was a priest, body plump in cassock, his head crowned by a greasy, bat like hat. The white clerical collar was sprinkled with red Sicilian dust; the face above was worldly with flesh.

This was Father Benjamino Malo, brother to the great Don Croce. He had a shy and pious manner, but he was devoted to his renowned relative and never flinched at having the Devil so close to his bosom. The malicious even whispered that he handed over the secrets of the confessional to Don Croce.

Father Benjamino smiled nervously as he shook Michael's hand and seemed surprised and relieved by Michael's friendly, lopsided grin, so unlike that of a famous murderer.

The second man was not so cordial, though polite enough. This was Inspector Frederico Velardi, head of the security police of all Sicily. He was the only one of the three who did not have a welcoming smile on his face. Thin and far too beautifully tailored for a man who received a government salary, his cold blue eyes shot two genetic bullets from long-ago Norman conquerors. Inspector Velardi could have no love for an American who had killed a high-ranking police official. He might try his luck in Sicily. Velardi's handshake was like the touching of swords.

The third man was taller and bulkier; he seemed huge beside the two others. He imprisoned Michael's hand, then pulled him forward into an affectionate embrace. "Michael," he said. "Welcome to Palermo." He drew back and regarded Michael with a fond but wary eye. "I am Stefan Andolini; your father and I grew up together in Corleone. I saw you in America when you were a child. Do you remember me?"

Oddly enough, Michael did remember, for Stefan Andolini was that rarest of all Sicilians, a redhead. Which was his cross, for Sicilians believe that Judas was a redheaded man. His face, too, was unforgettable. The mouth was huge and irregular, the thick lips like bloody hacked meat; above were hairy nostrils and eyes cavernous in deep sockets. Although he was smiling, it was a face that made you dream of murder.

With the priest, Michael understood the connection at once. But Inspector Velardi was a surprise. Andolini, carrying out the responsibility of a relative, carefully explained to Michael the. inspector's official capacity. Michael was wary. What was the man doing here? Velardi was reputed to be one of Salvatore Guiliano's most implacable pursuers. And it was obvious that the inspector and Andolini disliked each other; they behaved with the deadly courtesy of two men readying themselves for a duel to the death.

The chauffeur had the car door open for them. Father Benjamino and Andolini ushered Michael into the back seat with deferential pats. Father Benjamino insisted with Christian humility that Michael sit by the window while he sat in the middle, for Michael must see the beauty of Palermo. Andolini took the other back seat. The inspector had already jumped in beside the chauffeur. Michael noticed that Inspector Velardi held the door handle so that he could twist it open quickly. The thought passed through Michael's mind that perhaps Father Benjamino had scurried into the middle seat to make himself less of a target.

Like a great black dragon, the car moved slowly through the streets of Palermo. On this avenue rose graceful Moorish-looking houses, massive Greek-columned public buildings, Spanish cathedrals. Private houses painted blue, painted white, painted yellow, all had balconies festooned with flowers that formed another highway above their heads. It would have been a pretty sight except for squads of carabinieri, the Italian national police, who patrolled every corner, rifles at the ready. And more of them stood on the balconies above.

They turned off the avenue and a huge black-lettered poster on a house wall caught Michael's eye. He just had time to see the word Guiliano on the top line. Father Benjamino had been leaning toward the window and said, "It is one of Guiliano's proclamations. Despite everything, he still controls Palermo at night."

"And what does it say?" Michael asked.

"He permits the people of Palermo to ride the streetcars again," Father Benjamino said.

"He permits?" Michael asked with a smile. "An outlaw permits?"

On the other side of the car, Andolini laughed. "The carabinieri ride the trams, so Guiliano blows them up. But first he warned the public not to use them. Now he is promising not to blow them up anymore."

Michael said dryly, "And why did Guiliano blow up trams full of police?"

Inspector Velardi turned his head, blue eyes glaring at Michael. "Because Rome, in its stupidity, arrested his father and mother for consorting with a known criminal, their own son. A Fascist law never repealed by the republic."

Father Benjamino said with quiet pride, "My brother, Don Croce, arranged for their release."

The car stopped in front of a block-long, rose-colored building. Blue minarets crowned each separate corner. Before the entrance an extraordinary wide, green-striped canopy lettered hotel umberto was guarded by two doormen stuffed into dazzling gold-buttoned uniforms. But Michael was not distracted by this splendor.

His practiced eye photographed the street in front of the hotel. He spotted at least ten bodyguards walking in couples, leaning against the iron railings. These men were not disguising their function. Unbuttoned jackets revealed weapons strapped to their bodies. Two of them, smoking thin cigars, blocked Michael's path for a moment when he came out of the car, scrutinizing him closely--measuring him for a grave. They ignored Inspector Velardi and the others.

As the group entered the hotel, the guards sealed off the entrance behind them. In the lobby, four more guards materialized and escorted them down a long corridor. These particular men had the proud looks of palace servants to an emperor.

The end of the corridor was barred by two massive oaken doors. A man seated in a high, thronelike chair stood up and unlocked the doors with a bronze key. He bowed, giving Father Benjamino a conspiratorial smile as he did so.

The doors opened into a magnificent suite of rooms, open French windows revealed a luxuriously deep garden beyond and the wind blew in the smell of lemon trees. As they entered, Michael could see two men posted inside the suite. Michael wondered why Don Croce was so heavily guarded. He was Guiliano's friend; he was the confidant of the minister of justice in Rome and therefore safe from the carabinieri who filled the town of Palermo. Then who, and what, did the great don fear? Who was his enemy?

The furniture in the living room of the suite had been originally designed for an Italian palace--gargantuan armchairs, sofas as long and as deep as small ships, massive marble tables that looked as if they had been stolen from museums. They suitably framed the man who now came in from the garden to greet them.

His arms were held out to embrace Michael Corleone. Standing, Don Croce was almost as wide as he was tall. Thick gray hair, as crinkly as a Negro's and carefully barbered, crowned a head massively leonine. His eyes were lizard-dark, two raisins embedded on top of heavily fleshed cheeks. These cheeks were two great slabs of mahogany, the left side planed smooth, the other creased with overgrown flesh. The mouth was surprisingly delicate, and above it was a thin dandy's mustache. The thick, imperial spike of a nose nailed his face together.

But beneath that emperor's head, he was all peasant. Huge ill-fitting trousers encircled his enormous middle, and these were held up by wide off-white suspenders. His voluminous shirt was white and freshly laundered but not ironed. He wore no tie or coat, and his feet were bare on the marble floor.

He did not look like a man who "wet his beak" from every business enterprise in Palermo down to the lowly market stalls in the square. It was hard to believe that he was responsible for 1000 deaths. That he ruled western Sicily far more than did the government in Rome. And that he was richer than the dukes and barons who owned great Sicilian estates.

The embrace he gave Michael was swift and light as he said, "I knew your father when we were children. It is a joy to me that he has such a fine son." Then he inquired as to the comfort of his journey and his present necessities. Michael smiled and said he would enjoy a morsel of bread and a drop of wine. Don Croce immediately led him out into the garden, for like all Sicilians he ate his meals out of doors when he could.

A table had been set up by a lemon tree. It sparkled with polished glass and fine white linen. Wide bamboo chairs were pulled back by servants. Don Croce supervised the seating with a vivacious courtesy, younger than his age; he was now in his 60s. He sat Michael on his right and his brother, the priest, on his left. He placed Inspector Velardi and Stefan Andolini across from him and regarded them both with a certain coolness.

All Sicilians are good eaters, when there is food to be had, and one of the few jokes people dared to make about Don Croce was that he would rather eat well than kill an enemy. Now he sat with a smile of benign pleasure on his face, knife and fork in hand, as the servants brought out the food. Michael glanced around the garden. It was enclosed by a high stone wall and there were at least ten guards scattered around at their own small luncheon tables, but no more than two at each table and well away to give Don Croce and his companions privacy. The garden was filled with the fragrance of lemon trees and olive oil.

Don Croce served Michael personally, ladling roasted chicken and potatoes onto his plate, supervising the tossing of grated cheese on his little side dish of spaghetti, filling his wineglass with cloudy local white wine. He did this with an intense interest, a genuine concern that it was a matter of importance for his new friend to eat and drink well. Michael was hungry; he had not tasted food since dawn, and the don was kept busy replenishing his plate. He also kept a sharp eye on the plates of the other guests and, when necessary, made a gesture for a servant to fill a glass or cover an empty dish with food.

Finally they were done and, sipping his cup of espresso, the don was ready for business.

He said to Michael, "So you're going to help our friend Guiliano run off to America."

"Those are my instructions," Michael said. "I must make certain he enters America without misfortune."

Don Croce nodded. His massive mahogany face wore the sleepy, amiable look of the obese. His vibrant tenor voice was surprising from that face and his body. "It was all arranged between me and your father: I was to deliver Salvatore Guiliano to you. But nothing runs smooth in life; there is always the unexpected. It is now difficult to keep my part of the bargain." He held up his hand to keep Michael from interrupting. "Through no fault of my own. I have not changed. But Guiliano no longer trusts anyone, not even me. Five thousand Italian soldiers and field police are searching the mountains. Still he refuses to put himself in my hands."

"Then there is nothing I can do for him," Michael said. "My orders are to wait no more than seven days; then I must leave for America."

And even as he said this, he wondered why it was so important for his father to have Guiliano escape. Michael desperately wanted to get home after so many years of exile. Why was his father delaying his return? It could only be for something of the utmost importance connected with Guiliano.

Suddenly he was aware of Inspector Velardi's cold blue eyes studying him. The thin, aristocratic face was scornful, as if Michael had shown cowardice.

"Be patient," Don Croce said. He paused for a moment and smiled, a smile that did not break the massiveness of his cheeks. "I have been told of your plans. All of them." He said this with peculiar emphasis; but, Michael thought, he could not possibly know all the plans. The Godfather never told anyone all of anything.

Don Croce went on smoothly. "All of us who love Guiliano agree on two things. He can no longer stay in Sicily and he must emigrate to America. Inspector Velardi is in accord."

"That is strange even for Sicily," Michael said with a smile. "The inspector is head of the security police sworn to capture Guiliano."

Don Croce laughed, a short, mechanical laugh. "Who can understand Sicily? But this is simple. Rome prefers Guiliano happy in America, not screaming accusations from the witness cage in a Palermo court. It's all politics."

Michael was bewildered. He felt an acute discomfort. This was not going according to plan. "Why is it in Inspector Velardi's interest to have him escape? Guiliano dead is no danger."

Inspector Velardi answered in a contemptuous voice. "That would be my choice," he said. "But Don Croce loves him like a son."

Stefan Andolini stared at the inspector malevolently. Father Benjamino ducked his head as he drank from his glass. But Don Croce said sternly to the inspector, "We are all friends here; we must speak the truth to Michael. Guiliano holds a trump card. He has a diary he calls his testament. In it he gives proofs that the government in Rome, certain officials, have helped him during his years of banditry, for purposes of their own--political purposes. If that document becomes public, the Christian Democratic government would fall and we would have the Socialists and Communists ruling Italy. Inspector Velardi agrees with me that anything must be done to prevent that. So he is willing to help Guiliano to escape with the testament with the understanding that it will not be made public."

"Have you seen this testament?" Michael said. He wondered if his father knew about it. His instructions had never mentioned such a document.

"I know all of its contents," Don Croce said.

Inspector Velardi said sharply, "If I could make the decision, I would say kill Guiliano and be damned to his testament."

Stefan Andolini glared at the inspector with a look of hatred so naked and intense that for the first time, Michael realized that here was a man almost as dangerous as Don Croce himself. Andolini said, "Guiliano will never surrender and you are not a good enough man to put him in his grave. You would be much wiser to look after yourself."

Don Croce raised his hand slowly and there was silence at the table. He spoke slowly to Michael, ignoring the others. "It may be I cannot keep my promise to your father to deliver Guiliano to you. Why Don Corleone concerns himself in this affair, I can't tell you. Be assured he has (continued on page 238)The Sicilian(continued from page 118) his reasons and that those reasons are good. But what can I do? This afternoon you go to Guiliano's parents, convince them their son must trust me and remind those dear people that it was I who had them released from prison." He paused for a moment. "Then perhaps we can help their son."

In his years of exile and hiding, Michael had developed an animal instinct for danger. He disliked Inspector Velardi; he feared the murderous Andolini; Father Benjamino gave him the creeps. But most of all, Don Croce sent alarm signals clanging through his brain.

All the men at the table hushed their voices when they spoke to Don Croce, even his own brother, Father Benjamino. They leaned toward him with bowed heads, waiting for his speech; they even stopped chewing their food. The servants circled around him as if he were a sun, the bodyguards scattered around the garden constantly keeping their eyes on him, ready to spring forward at his command and tear everyone to pieces.

Michael said carefully, "Don Croce, I am here to follow your every wish."

The don nodded his huge head in benediction, folded his well-shaped hands over his stomach and said in his powerful tenor voice, "We must be absolutely frank with each other. Tell me, what are your plans for Guiliano's escape? Speak to me as a son to his father."

Michael glanced quickly at Inspector Velardi. He would never speak frankly before the head of the security police of Sicily. Don Croce understood immediately. "Inspector Velardi is completely guided by my advice," he said. "You may trust him as you do me."

Michael raised his glass of wine to drink. Over it he could see the guards watching them, spectators at a play. He could see Inspector Velardi grimace, not liking even the diplomacy of the don's speech, the message being clear that Don Croce ruled him and his office. He saw the frown on the murderous huge-lipped face of Andolini. Only Father Benjamino refused to meet his gaze and bowed his head. Michael drank the glass of cloudy white wine and a servant immediately refilled it. Suddenly the garden seemed a dangerous place.

He knew in his bones that what Don Croce had said could not be true. Why should any of them at this table trust the head of the security police of Sicily? Would Guiliano? The history of Sicily was larded with treachery, Michael thought sourly. Don Croce was the top man of the Mafia. He had the most powerful connections in Rome and, indeed, served as its unofficial deputy here in Sicily. Then what did Don Croce fear? It could only be Guiliano.

But the don was watching. Michael tried to speak with the utmost sincerity. "My plans are simple: I am to wait in Trapani until Salvatore Guiliano is delivered to me by you and your people. A fast ship will take us to Africa. We will, of course, have the necessary papers of identity. From Africa, we fly to America, where it has been arranged for us to enter without the usual formalities. I hope it will be as easy as they have made it sound." He paused for a moment. "Unless you have another counsel."

The don sighed and drank from his glass. Then he fixed his lizardlike eyes on Michael. He started to speak slowly and impressively. "Sicily is a tragic land," he said. "There is no trust. There is no order. Only violence and treachery in abundance. You look wary, my young friend, and you have every right. Perhaps I should say, in all fairness, go home to America without Guiliano." The don paused for a moment and sighed again. "But, of course, you are our only hope, and I must beg you to stay and help our cause. I will assist in every way; I will never desert Guiliano." Don Croce raised his wineglass. "May he live a thousand years."

They all drank and Michael calculated. Did the don want him to stay or desert Guiliano? Andolini spoke. "Remember, we have promised the parents of Guiliano that Michael will visit them in Montelepre."

"By all means," Don Croce said gently. "We must give his parents some hope."

Father Benjamino said with a humble insistence, "And perhaps they will know something about the testament."

•

The road from Palermo to Montelepre was no more than a one-hour drive, but in that hour Michael and Andolini went from the civilization of a city to the primitive culture of the Sicilian countryside. Andolini drove the tiny Fiat, and in the afternoon sun his close-shaved cheeks and chin blazed with countless grains of scarlet hair roots. The Fiat panted as if short of breath as it wound uphill through the enormous range of mountains.

At five points they were stopped by roadblocks of the national police, platoons of at least 12 men backed by an armored car bristling with machine guns. Andolini's papers got them through.

It was strange to Michael that the country could become so wild and primitive such a short distance from the great city of Palermo. They passed tiny villages of stone houses that were precariously balanced on steep slopes. These slopes were carefully gardened by terraced narrow fields that bristled with neat rows of spiky green plants. Small hills were studded with countless huge white boulders half buried in moss and bamboo stalks; in the distance they looked like vast unsculptured cemeteries.

Suddenly Andolini asked, "Do you really think you can help Turi Guiliano escape?"

"I don't know," Michael said. "After lunch with the inspector and Don Croce, I don't know what anything means. Do they want me to help? My father said Don Croce would do so. He never mentioned the inspector."

Andolini brushed back his thinning hair. Unconsciously he pressed his foot down on the gas pedal and the Fiat scooted forward. "Guiliano and Don Croce are enemies now," he said. "But we have made plans without Don Croce. Turi and his parents count on you. They know your father has never been false to a friend."

Michael said, "And whose side are you on?"

Andolini sighed. "I fight for Guiliano," he said. "We have been comrades for the past five years, and before that he spared my life. But I live in Sicily and so cannot defy Don Croce to his face. I walk a tightrope between the two, but I will never betray Guiliano." Michael thought, What the hell is the man saying? Why couldn't he get a straight answer from any of them? Because this was Sicily, he thought. Sicilians had a horror of truth.

He would have to find his own way, Michael thought, or perhaps abandon the mission and hurry home. He was on dangerous ground here; there was obviously some sort of vendetta between Guiliano and Don Croce, and to be caught in the vortex of a Sicilian vendetta was suicidal. For the Sicilian believes that vengeance is the only true justice and that it is always merciless. On this Catholic island, with statues of a weeping Jesus in every home, Christian forgiveness was a contemptible refuge of the coward.

Suddenly the car seemed to drop almost vertically; the road was descending out of the mountains into a valley. They passed the ruins of a Norman castle, built to terrorize the countryside 1200 years ago and now crawling with harmless lizards and a few stray goats. Down below, Michael could see the town of Montelepre.

It was buried deep in the closely surrounding mountains, as if it were a bucket hanging in the bottom of a well. It formed a perfect circle--there were no outlying houses--and the late-afternoon sun bathed the stones of its walls with dark-red fire. Now the Fiat was coasting down a narrow, twisting street and Andolini braked it to a stop where a roadblock manned by a platoon of carabinieri barred their way. One motioned with his rifle For them to get out of the car.

Michael watched Andolini show his documents to the police. He saw the special red-bordered pass that he knew could be issued only by the minister of justice in Rome. Michael had one himself that he had been instructed to show only as a last resort. How had a man like Andolini gotten such a powerful document?

The Fiat stopped in front of a row of attached houses, one of which was painted a bright blue, with a gate in which the grillwork formed the letter G. The gate was opened by a small, wiry man of about 60 who wore an American suit, dark and striped, a white shirt and a black tie. This was Guiliano's father. He gave Andolini a quick but affectionate embrace. He patted Michael on the shoulder almost gratefully as he ushered them into the house.

Guiliano's father had the face of a man suffering the awaited death of a terminally ill loved one. It was obvious that he was controlling his emotions very strictly, but his hand went up to his face as if to force his features to keep their shape. His body was rigid, moving stiffly, yet wavering slightly.

They entered a large sitting room, luxurious for a Sicilian home in this small town. Dominating the room was a huge enlargement of a photograph, framed in oval cream-colored wood. Michael knew immediately this must be Salvatore Guiliano. Beneath, on a small, round black table, was a votive light. The face was extraordinarily handsome, like that of a Grecian statue, the features a little heavy, as though wrought in marble, the lips full and sensuous, the eyes oval, with half-closed lids set wide apart. It was a face of a man without self-doubt, determined to impose himself upon the world. But what no one had prepared Michael for was the extraordinary good-humored sweetness of that handsome face.

Guiliano's father led them into the kitchen. Guiliano's mother turned from the cooking stove to greet them. Maria Lombardo Guiliano's polite smile was like a rictus on the bone-set exhaustion of her face, her skin chapped and rough. Her hair was long and full over her shoulders but streaked with heavy ropes of gray. What was startling was her eyes. They were almost black with an impersonal hatred of this world that was crushing her and her son.

She ignored her husband and Stefan Andolini; she spoke directly to Michael: "Have you come to help my son or not?" The two other men looked embarrassed at the rudeness of her question, but Michael smiled at her gravely.

"Yes, I am with you."

Some of the tension went out of her, and she bowed her head into her hands as if she had expected a blow. Andolini said to her in a soothing voice, "Father Benjamino asked to come. I told him you did not wish it."

Maria Lombardo raised her head, and Michael marveled at how her face showed every emotion she felt. The scorn, the hatred, the fear, the irony of her words matching the flinty smile, the grimaces she could not repress. "Oh, Father Benjamino has a good heart, without a doubt," she said. "And with that good heart of his, he is like the plague; he brings death to an entire village. He is like the sisal plant: Brush against him and you will bleed. And he brings the secrets of the confessional to his brother; he sells the souls in his keeping to the Devil."

Guiliano's father said with quiet reasonableness, as if he were trying to quiet a madman, "Don Croce is our friend. He had us released from prison."

Guiliano's mother burst out furiously, "Ah, Don Croce, the Good Soul, how kind he is always. But let me tell you Don Croce is a serpent. He aims a gun forward and slaughters his friend by his side. He and our son were going to rule Sicily together, and now Turi is hiding alone in the mountains and the Good Soul is free as air in Palermo with his whores. Don Croce has only to whistle and Rome licks his feet. And yet he committed more crimes than our Turi. He is evil and our son is good. Ah, if I were a man, like you, I would kill Don Croce. I would put the Good Soul to rest." She made a gesture of disgust. "You men understand nothing."

Guiliano's father said impatiently, "I understand our guest must be on the road in a few hours and that he must eat something before we can talk."

Guiliano's mother suddenly became solicitous. "Poor man, you've traveled all day to see us, you had to listen to Don Croce's lies and my ravings. Where do you go?"

"I must be in Trapani by morning," Michael said. "I stay with friends of my father until your son comes to me."

There was a stillness in the room. He sensed they all knew his history. Guiliano's mother came to him and gave him a quick embrace.

"Have a glass of wine," she said. "Then you go for a walk through the town. Food will be waiting on the table within the hour. And by that time, Turi's friends will have arrived and we can talk sensibly."

As they walked down the Via Bella, Michael saw that the town was ideally built for ambush and guerrilla warfare. The streets were so narrow that only one motor vehicle could pass through, and many were wide enough for only the small carts and donkeys Sicilians still used for transport of goods. A few men could hold back any invading force and then escape to the white-limestone mountains that encircled the town.

They descended into the central square. Andolini pointed to the small church that dominated it and said, "It was in that church Turi hid when the national police tried to capture him that very first time. Since then, he has been a ghost." The three men watched the church door as if Salvatore Guiliano might them.

The sun dropped behind the mountains and they returned to the house just before curfew. Two strange men were waiting inside for them, strangers only to Michael, for they embraced Guiliano's father and shook Andolini's hand.

One was a slim young man with extremely pale skin and huge, dark, feverish eyes. He had a dandyish mustache and an almost feminine prettiness, but he was in no way effeminate-looking. He had the air of proud cruelty that comes to a man with a will to command at any cost.

When he was introduced as Gaspare Pisciotta, Michael was astonished. Pisciotta was Turi Guiliano's second-in-command, his cousin and his dearest friend. Next to Guiliano, he was the most wanted man in Sicily, with a price of 5,000,000 lire on his head. From the legends Michael had heard, the name Gaspare Pisciotta conjured up a more dangerous and evil-looking man. And yet here he stood, so slender and with the feverish flush of the consumptive on his face--here in Montelepre, surrounded by 2000 of Rome's military police.

The other man, so small that he could be taken for a dwarf, was elegant, or as elegant as a very short man could be. He had a craggy, handsome face with a generous but sensitively curved mouth.

He recognized Michael's discomfort and greeted him with an ironic but kindly smile. He was introduced as Professor Hector Adonis.

Maria Lombardo had dinner set out on the table in the kitchen. They ate by a window near the balcony where they could see the red-streaked sky, the darkness of night snuffing out the surrounding mountains. Michael ate slowly, aware they were all watching him, judging him. The food was very plain but good: spaghetti with the black, inky sauce of squid; rabbit stew, hot with red-pepper tomato sauce. Finally Pisciotta spoke in the local Sicilian dialect. "So, you are the son of Vito Corleone, who is greater even than our own Don Croce, they tell me. And it is you who will save our Turi."

His voice had a cool, mocking tone, a tone that invited you to take offense if you dared. His smile seemed to question the motive behind every action, as if to say, "Yes, it's true you are doing a good deed, but for what purpose of your own?" Yet it was not at all disrespectful: He knew Michael's history; they were fellow murderers.

Michael said, "I follow my father's orders. I am to wait in Trapani until Guiliano comes to me. Then I will take him to America."

Pisciotta said more seriously, "And once Turi is in your hands, you guarantee his safety? You can protect him against Rome, their thousands of police and soldiers, against Don Croce himself?"

Michael was aware of Guiliano's mother watching him intently, her face strained with anxiety. He said carefully, "As much as a man can guarantee anything against fate. Yes, I'm confident."

He saw the mother's face relax, but Pisciotta said harshly, "I am not. I want to know your plan of escape." He saw Michael hesitate. "Speak freely. If the people in this room cannot be trusted, then there is no hope for Turi."

The little man, Hector Adonis, spoke for the first time. He had an extraordinarily rich voice, the voice of a born orator, a natural persuader of men. "My dear Michael, you must understand that Don Croce is Turi Guiliano's enemy. Your father's information is behind the times. Obviously we can't deliver Turi to you without taking precautions." He spoke the elegant Italian of Rome, not the Sicilian dialect.

Guiliano's father broke in. "I trust Don Corleone's promise to help my son. Of that there can be no question."

Adonis said, "I insist, we must know your plans."

"I can tell you what I told Don Croce," Michael said. "But why should I tell anyone my other plans? If I asked you where Turi Guiliano was hiding now, would you tell me?"

Michael saw Pisciotta smile with genuine approval of his answer. But Adonis said, "It's not the same thing. You have no reason for knowing where Turi hides; we must know your plans to help.

They were all waiting for him to answer. Michael knew he must tell them something. Guiliano's mother was staring at him intently. He spoke directly to her. "It's very simple," Michael said. "First, I must warn you I can wait no longer than seven days. I have been away from home too long and my father needs my help in troubles of his own. Of course you understand how anxious I am to return to my family. But it is my father's wish that I help your son. My last instructions from the courier were that I visit Don Croce here, then proceed to Trapani. There I stay at the villa of the local don. Waiting there will be men from America whom I can trust absolutely. Qualified men." He paused for a moment. The word qualified had a special meaning in Sicily, usually applied to high-ranking Mafia executioners. He went on. "Once Turi comes to me, he will be safe. The villa is a fortress. And within a few hours, we will board a fast ship to a city in Africa. There a special plane waits to take us immediately to America, and there he will be under my father's protection and you need fear for him no more."

Suddenly Guiliano's mother burst into tears. "My poor Turi trusts no one any longer. He will not go to Trapani."

"Then I can't help him," Michael said coldly.

Guiliano's mother seemed to fold up with despair. It was Pisciotta, unexpectedly, who went to comfort her. He kissed her and held her in his arms. "Maria Lombardo, don't worry," he said. "Turi still listens to me. I will tell him we all believe in this man from America; isn't that true?" He looked at the other men inquiringly and they nodded. "I will take Turi to Trapani myself."

Everyone seemed content. Michael realized that his cold reply was what had persuaded them to trust him. Sicilians all, they were suspicious of a too warm and human generosity. On his part, he was impatient with their carefulness and the disarray of his father's plans. Don Croce was now an enemy; Guiliano might not come to him quickly--indeed, might not come at all. After all, what was Turi Guiliano to him? For that matter, he wondered, what was Guiliano to his father?

Michael said cautiously, "There is a testament written by Turi Guiliano. Where is it now?"

There was a long silence.

Finally Adonis spoke. "He started writing it on my advice and I helped him with it. Every page is signed by Turi. All the secret alliances with Don Croce, with the government in Rome. If it were made public, the government must surely fall. It is Guiliano's last card to play if things come to the worst."

"I hope, then, you have it in a safe place," Michael said.

Pisciotta said, "Yes, Don Croce would like to get his hands on the testament."

Guiliano's mother said, "At the proper time, we will arrange to have the testament delivered to you."

Michael rose and said his goodbyes. He was surprised when Guiliano's mother gave him a warm embrace.

"You remind me of my son," she said. "I trust you." She went to the mantel and took down a wooden statue of the Virgin Mary. It was black. The features were Negroid. "Take this as a gift; it is the only thing I own worthy to give you." Michael tried to refuse, but she pressed it on him.

Adonis said, "There are only a few of those statues left in Sicily. Curious, but we are very close to Africa."

Guiliano's mother said, "It doesn't matter what she looks like; you can pray to her."

"Yes," Pisciotta said. "She can do as much good as the other." There was contempt in his voice.

They said their goodbyes. Michael watched Pisciotta take his leave of Guiliano's mother. He could see the real affection between them. Pisciotta kissed her on both cheeks and patted her reassuringly. But she put her head on his shoulder for a brief moment and said, "Aspanu, Aspanu, I love you as I love my son. Don't let them kill Turi." She was weeping.

Pisciotta lost all his coldness, his body seemed to crumple, his dark, bony face softened. "You will all grow old in America," he said.

Then he turned to Michael. "I will bring Turi to you within the week," he said.

•

The Fiat skirted the town of Trapani and took a road along the beach. Michael Corleone and Stefan Andolini came to a villa, larger than most, with three outlying houses. There was a wall around the villa with only a gap left on the beach side. The gate to the villa was guarded by two men and, just inside, Michael could see a wide fat man dressed in clothes that looked alien in this landscape: a sports jacket and slacks with an open-knit polo shirt. As they waited for the gate to open, Michael saw the grin on the man's broad face and was astonished to see that he was Peter Clemenza.

Clemenza was the chief underling of Michael Corleone's father back in America. What was he doing here? Michael had last seen him that fatal night when Clemenza had handed him the gun to assassinate the police captain and the Turk, Solazzo. He had remembered the look of pity and sadness on Clemenza's face at that moment two years ago. Now Clemenza was genuinely overjoyed to see Michael. He almost pulled him out of the tiny Fiat and crushed him in a bear hug.

"Michael, it's great to see you. I've been waiting for years to tell you how proud I am of you. What a great job you did. And now all your troubles are over. In a week you'll be with the family; there'll be a great feast." He stared into Michael's face fondly while holding him within his two massive arms and, as he did so, made an assessment. This was no longer just the young war hero. During his time in Sicily, the boy had grown into a man. That is to say, Michael's face was no longer open; it had the proud, closed look of the born Sicilian. Michael was ready to take his rightful place in the family.

Michael was happy to see Clemenza's huge, bulky form, his broad, heavy-featured face. He asked for news of his family. His father had recovered from the assassination attempt but his health was not as good. Clemenza shook his head mournfully. "It never does anybody any good when he gets holes punched in his body, no matter how good he recovers. But it's not the first time your father was shot. He's like an ox. He'll be Ok. Sonny getting killed, that's what did the damage to him and your mother. It was brutal, Mikey, they cut him to pieces with machine guns. That wasn't right; they didn't have to do that. That was spite work. But we're making plans. Your father will tell you when we get you home. Everybody is happy you're coming back."

Andolini nodded to Clemenza; they obviously had met before. He shook hands with Michael and said he had to leave; there were things he had to do back in Montelepre. "Remember this, whatever you may hear," he said, "that I always remained faithful to Turi Guiliano and that he trusted me to the end. If he is betrayed, it is not I who will have betrayed him." He stuttered with sincerity. "And I will not betray you."

Clemenza led Michael across the open grounds to the main villa. There were armed men patrolling the walls and the beach, where the estate was open to the sea. A small dock stretched toward the faraway coast of Africa, and tethered to the dock was a large, sleek motorboat flying the flag of Italy.

Inside the villa were two old crones dressed in black, without one trace of color or light on their persons, their skin dark walnut with the sun, black shawls over their heads. Clemenza asked them to take a bowl of fruit to Michael's bedroom.

The terrace of the bedroom looked over the blue Mediterranean Sea, which seemed to part in the middle when hit by a shaft of morning sunlight. Fishing boats with bright blue and red sails bobbed on the horizon like balls skipping over the water. There was a small table covered with a heavy dark-brown cloth on the terrace, and the two men sat on the chairs around it. There was a pot of espresso and a jug of red wine.

"You look tired," Clemenza said. "Get some sleep and then I'll spell everything out for you in detail."

"I could use it," Michael said. "But first, tell me, is my mother all right?"

"She's fine," Clemenza said. "She's waiting for you to get home. We can't disappoint her; it would be too much for her after Sonny. And your father is just waiting for you to get home, Mike. He's got big plans for you. We can't let him down. So don't worry too much about Guiliano; If he shows up, we'll take him with us. If he keeps screwing off, we leave him here."

"Are those my father's orders?" Michael asked.

Clemenza said, "A courier comes by air every day to Tunis and I go over by boat to talk to him. Those were my orders yesterday. At first, Don Croce was supposed to help us, or so your father told me before I left the States. But you know what happened in Palermo after you left yesterday? Somebody tried to knock off Croce. He came over the wall of the garden and killed four of his bodyguards. But Croce got away. So what the hell is going on?"

Michael said, "Jesus." He remembered the precautions Don Croce had taken around the hotel. "I think that was the handiwork of our friend Guiliano. I hope you and my father know what you're doing."

Michael continued, "That guy that brought me here, Andolini; do you know him, Pete?"

Clemenza shrugged. "He's your father's cousin. He's one of Guiliano's right-hand men for the past five years. But before that he was close with Don Croce. Who knows? He's dangerous."

He rose and patted Michael on the shoulder. "Mikey, get some sleep."

Michael had not slept for more than 30 hours, yet his mind jumped and would not let his body rest.

There were plans and conspiracies spinning out to their final conclusions that he, Michael, could not be aware of and so must be wary of. For Michael Corleone did not want to die in Sicily. He was not part of this particular myth.

•

When Michael awoke, he was surprised to find Hector Adonis at the villa. He walked with him down to the beach.

The July sun was very hot and the sea so blue and so still that the sun reflected off it as if it were metal. Michael and Adonis sat on two chairs on the pier.

"I have a final instruction for you," Adonis said quietly. "It is the most important thing that you can do for Guiliano."

"With all my heart," Michael said.

"You must send Guiliano's testament to America immediately, to your father," Adonis said. "He will know how to use it. He will make sure that Don Croce and the government in Rome know it is safely in America and then they will not dare harm Guiliano. They will let him emigrate safely."

"Do you have it with you?" Michael asked.

The little man smiled at him slyly and then laughed. "You have it," he said.

Michael was astonished. "You've been misinformed," he said. "No one has given it to me."

"Yes, they have," Hector Adonis said. He put a friendly hand on Michael's arm and Michael noticed how small and dainty his fingers were, like a child's. "Maria Lombardo, Guiliano's mother, gave it to you. Only she and myself know where it is; not even Pisciotta knows."

He saw Michael's uncomprehending look. "It's in the black Madonna," Adonis said. "It's true the Madonna has been in the family for generations and is valuable. Everybody knows about it. But Guiliano was given a replica. It is hollow. The testament is written on very thin paper, and each sheet has Guiliano's signature. I helped him compose it over the past few years. There are also some incriminating documents. Turi always knew what the end might be and wanted to be prepared. For a young man, he has a great sense of strategy."

Michael laughed. "And his mother is a great actress."

"All Sicilians are," Adonis said. "We trust no one and dissemble before everyone. Guiliano's father is certainly trustworthy, but he might be indiscreet. Pisciotta has been Guiliano's truest friend since their childhood; Stefan Andolini has saved Guiliano's life in battle with the carabinieri; but men change with time or under torture. So it's best they do not know."

"But he trusted you," Michael said.

"I am blessed," Hector Adonis said simply. "But you see how clever Guiliano can be? He trusts only me with the testament and he trusts only Pisciotta with his life. Both of us must betray him if he is to fail."

•

Michael Corleone and Hector Adonis walked back to the villa and sat under a lemon tree with Clemenza. Michael was eager to read the testament, but Adonis said that he had to return to Montelepre.

Michael said, "Do you mind if we go on and read the testament without you? How do you open it?"

Adonis said, "Of course not. As for opening it, there's no trick. It is carved out of solid wood. The head was soldered on after Turi put the papers inside. You simply chop off the head."

Michael and Clemenza went up to Michael's bedroom. The statue was still in Michael's jacket; he had completely forgotten it. When he took it out, both men stared at the black Virgin Mary. The features were definitely African, yet the expression was exactly that of the white Madonnas that decorated almost every poor household in Sicily. Michael turned it over in his hands. It was very heavy; you could not guess that it was hollow.

Clemenza went to the door and shouted an order down to one of the women servants to bring a kitchen cleaver.

Michael held the black Madonna on the heavy wooden dresser top. He grasped the disc carved into the bottom with one hand. Clemenza carefully put the cleaver to the neck of the Madonna, raised his arm and, with a quick, powerful stroke of his burly arm, chopped off the head and sent it flying across the room. A sheaf of papers bound with a piece of soft gray leather sprouted out of the hollow neck.

Michael ceremoniously poured two glasses of wine from the jug on the night table and handed one to Clemenza. They drank and then started to read the testament.

It took them almost two hours to finish.

Michael marveled that Turi Guiliano, so young, so idealistic, had lived through these treacheries. Michael knew enough of the world to imagine that Guiliano harbored his own cunning, his own scheme of power in order to remain dedicated to his mission. Michael was filled with an enormous sense of identification and commitment to the cause of Guiliano's escape.

It was not so much Guiliano's diary, which recounted his history for the past seven years, as the documents supporting it that could surely topple the Christian Democratic government in Rome. How could these powerful men have been so foolish? Michael wondered: a note signed by the cardinal, a letter sent by the minister of justice to Don Croce.

There were also copies of operational plans prepared by high officials of the carabinieri to capture Guiliano--plans that had been turned over to Guiliano in exchange for services rendered.

"No wonder they don't want to catch Guiliano," Michael said. "He can blow them all up with these papers."

Clemenza said, "I'm taking this stuff to Tunis right away. By tomorrow night, it'll be in your father's safe."

He picked up the headless Madonna and stuffed the papers back inside. He put the statue into his pocket and said to Michael, "Let's get going. If I start now, I can be back here tomorrow morning." The testament would be in America within 24 hours and Guiliano would be safe.

•

Michael was deep in sleep, then suddenly came awake. It was as if he had wrenched his body out of a pit. The bedroom was completely black; he had closed the wooden shutters to bar the pale-lemon light of the moon. There was no sound, just an eerie stillness broken now by the racing of his heart. He could feel the presence of someone else in the room.

He turned over in the bed and it seemed to him there was a lighter pool of blackness on the floor near his bed. He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. The pool became the severed head of the black Madonna. He thought it had fallen off the table and the sound had brought him awake. He relaxed and smiled with relief. At that moment, he heard a small rustling sound at the door. He turned toward it, and in the shadows the dim orange light of the lamp did not quite reach, he could see the dark, bony face of Aspanu Pisciotta.

He was sitting on the floor with his back against the door. The mustached mouth was spread in a triumphant grin, as if to say, "So much for your guards; so much for the security of your sanctuary."

Michael looked at his wrist watch on the night table. It was three o'clock. "You keep strange hours; what were you waiting for?" He got out of bed and dressed quickly, then opened the shutters. The moonlight entered the room like a ghost, appearing and disappearing. "Why didn't you wake me up?" Michael said.

Pisciotta rolled to his feet like a snake raising its head on its body to strike. "I like to watch people sleep. Sometimes in their dreams they shout out their secrets."

"I never tell secrets," Michael said. "Not even in my dreams." He stepped out onto the terrace and offered Pisciotta a cigarette. They smoked together. Michael could hear Pisciotta's chest rattle with suppressed coughs; and, indeed, his face looked ghastly in the moonlight, the bones skeletal, the skin so pale it was almost beautiful.

They were silent. Then Pisciotta said, "Did you ever get the testament?"

"Yes," Michael said.

Pisciotta sighed. "Turi trusts me more than anyone on earth, he trusts me with his life, I am the only person who can find him now. But he did not trust me with the testament. Do you have it?"

Michael hesitated for a moment. Pisciotta laughed. "You are like Turi," he said.

"The testament is in America," Michael said. "It is safe with my father." He did not want Pisciotta to know it was on its way to Tunis simply because he did not want anyone to know.

Michael almost dreaded to ask the next question. There could only be one reason for Pisciotta to be visiting him so secretly. Only one reason he had risked evading the guards surrounding the villa. It could only be that Guiliano was finally ready to appear. "When is Guiliano coming?" he said.

"Tomorrow night," Pisciotta said. "But not here."

"Why not?" Michael asked. "This is safe ground."

Pisciotta laughed. "But I got in here, didn't I?"

Michael was irritated by this truth. He wondered if Pisciotta had been passed in by the guards under the order of Clemenza. "It's for Guiliano to decide," he said.

"No," Pisciotta said. "I must decide for him. You promised his family he will be safe. But Don Croce knows you are here; so does Inspector Velardi. Their spies are everywhere. What do you plan for Guiliano? A wedding? A birthday party? A funeral? What kind of foolishness do you tell us? Do you think we are all donkeys here in Sicily?" He said this in a cold, dangerous tone.

"I'm not going to tell you my plan of escape," Michael said. "You can trust me or not, as you choose. Tell me where you will deliver Guiliano and I will be there. Don't tell me and tomorrow night I will be safe in America, while you and Guiliano are still running for your lives."

Pisciotta laughed and said, "Spoken like a true Sicilian; you haven't wasted the years in this country."

They went back into the bedroom and Michael closed the shutters. Pisciotta picked the severed head of the black Madonna up off the floor and handed it to Michael. "I threw this on the floor to wake you," he said. "The testament was inside, isn't that true?"

"Yes," Michael said.

Pisciotta's face sagged. "Maria Lom-bardo lied to me. I asked her if she had it. She said no. Then she gave it to you in front of my very eyes." He laughed bitterly. "I have been like a son to her." He paused for a moment and then said, "And she has been like a mother to me."

Pisciotta asked for another cigarette. There was still some wine left in the jug on the night table. Michael poured a glass for each of them and Pisciotta drank it gratefully. "Thank you," he said. "Now we must get down to our business. I will turn Guiliano over to you outside the town of Castelvetrano. Ride in an open car so that I can recognize you, and go directly on the road from Trapani. I will intercept you at a point of my own choosing. If there is danger, wear a cap and we will not appear. The time will be as soon as dawn breaks. Do you think you can manage that?"

"Yes," Michael said. "Everything is arranged."

He added impulsively, "Come with us to America."

Pisciotta shook his head. "I have lived in Sicily all of my life and I have loved my life. And so I must die in Sicily if I must. But thank you."

Michael was strangely moved by these words. Even with his scant knowledge of Pisciotta, he sensed that this was a man who could never be transplanted from the earth and mountains of Sicily. He was too fierce, too bloodthirsty; his coloring, his voice were of Sicily. He could never trust a strange land.

•

Michael and Clemenza had an early supper together. If they were to make the dawn meeting hour, the operation to collect Guiliano would have to start at dusk. They went over the plan again and added one detail: Michael was not to be armed. If something went wrong and the carabineri or the security police arrested them, no charges could be brought against Michael, and he could leave Sicily no matter what happened.

They had a jug of lemon and wine in the garden, and then it was time to go.

They boarded the motor launch, which was already full of armed men. The boat would make its way around the southwestern point of Sicily and lay out over the horizon until the dawn started to break, when it would zoom into the port of Mazara. Cars and men would be waiting for them. From there, it would not be more than a half-hour drive to Castelvetrano, despite the swing they would have to take north to meet the Trapani road that led to where Pisciotta would intercept them.

When they docked, there were three cars waiting. Clemenza led Michael to the lead vehicle, an open and ancient touring car that held only the driver. Clemenza got into the front seat and Michael got into the back. Clemenza said to Michael, "If we get stopped by a carabinieri patrol, you duck down to the floor. We can't fuck around here on the road; we just gotta blow them away and make our run."

The three wide-bodied touring cars were moving in the pale, pale early sunlight through a countryside almost unchanged since the birth of Christ. Ancient aqueducts and pipes spouted water over the fields. The sound of countless insects rose above the roar of the car motors. It was already warm and humid, and the air was filled with the smell of flowers beginning to rot in the heat of the Sicilian summer. They were passing through the Selinunte, the ruins of the ancient Greek city, and Michael could see from time to time the ruined columns of ancient marble temples scattered over western Sicily by the Greek colonists 2000 years before. Those columns loomed eerily in a yellow light, their fragments of roof dripping blackly like rain against the blue sky. The rich black earth foamed up against a wall of granite cliffs; ancient ruins were toppled into mounds of huge marble. There was not a house, not an animal, not a man to be seen. It was a landscape created by the slash of a giant sword.

Then they swung north to hit the Trapani-Castelvetrano road. And now Michael and Clemenza were more alert; it was along this road that Pisciotta would intercept them and take them to Guiliano. Michael felt an intense excitement. The three touring cars went more slowly now. Clemenza had a machine pistol lying on the seat on his left side so he could bring it up quickly over the car door. His hands were positioned on it. The sun had climbed into its rightful dominance, and its rays were a hot gold. The cars kept slowly on; they were almost upon the town of Castelvetrano.

Clemenza ordered the driver to go even more slowly. He and Michael watched for any sign of Pisciotta. They were now on the outskirts of Castelvetrano, ascending a hilly road and stopping so that they could look down the main street of the town lying below them.

From their high vantage point, Michael could see the road from Palermo clogged with vehicles--military vehicles. The streets were swarming with carabinieri in their black uniforms with white piping. There was the wail of many sirens that did not seem to scatter the crowds of people in the main street. Overhead, two small planes were circling.

Michael felt a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach. He said to Clemenza, "How many men do you have waiting for us in town?"

"Not enough," Clemenza said sourly. His face had an almost frightened look. "Mike, we have to get out of here. We have to get back to the boat."

"Wait," Michael said, now seeing cart and donkey toiling slowly up the hill toward them. The driver was an old man with a straw hat pulled down tight around his head. The cart was painted with legends on the wheels, the shaft and the sides. It halted alongside of them. The driver's face was wrinkled and showed no expression, and his arms, incongruously muscled, were bare to his shoulders, for he wore only a black vest over his wide canvas trousers. He came abreast of their car and said, "Don Clemenza, is that you?"

There was relief in Clemenza's voice. "Zu Peppino, what the hell is going on there? Why didn't my men come out and warn me?"

Zu Peppino's stony, wrinkled face did not change expression. "You can go back to America," he said. "They have massacred Turi Guiliano.

•

"Michael found himself strangely dizzy. Suddenly, at that moment, the light seemed to fall out of the sky. He thought of the old mother and father, of Aspanu Pisciotta and Stefan Andolini. Of Hector Adonis. For Turi Guiliano had been the starlight of their lives, and it was not possible that his light no longer existed.

"Are you sure it's him?" Clemenza asked harshly.

The old man shrugged. "He's still lying in the courtyard where they killed him. There are already newspapermen from Palermo here with their cameras taking pictures of everybody, even my donkey. So believe what you like."

Michael was feeling ill, but he managed to say, "We'll have to go in and look. I have to make sure."

Clemenza said harshly, "Alive or dead, we can't help him anymore. I'm taking you home, Mike."

"No," Michael said softly. "We have to go in. Maybe Pisciotta is waiting for us, or Andolini, to tell us what to do. Maybe it's not him; I can't believe it's him. He couldn't die, not when he was this close to getting away. Not when his testament is safe in America."

Clemenza sighed and ordered his men to park their cars and to follow him. Then he and Michael walked down the rest of the street, which was crowded with people. They were gathered around the entrance to a side street that was filled with army cars and blocked by a cordon of carabinieri.

Clemenza took Michael by the arm and led him out of the crowd to one of the small houses on the side streets. This house, too, had a small courtyard and was only about 20 houses from where the crowd had gathered. Clemenza left Michael there with four men, and then he and two others went back into the town. They were gone for an hour, and when Clemenza came back, he was obviously badly shaken.

"It looks bad, Mike," he said. "They're bringing Guiliano's mother from Montelepre to identify the body. Colonel Luca is here, the commander of the army to repress banditry. And journalists from all over the world are flying in, even from the States. This town is going to be a madhouse. We gotta get outa here."

"Tomorrow," Michael said. "We'll run tomorrow. Now let's go out and see what we can do."

Against Clemenza's protest, they went out into the street. The whole town seemed to be covered with carabinieri. There must be at least a thousand of them, Michael thought. And there were literally hundreds of photographers. The street was clogged with vans and automobiles, and there was no way of getting near the courtyard. The town streets were so dense with people that they could hardly move.

They ate dinner in an open-air café that had a blaring radio giving news reports of Guiliano's death. The story was that the police had surrounded a house in which they believed Guiliano to be hiding. When he came out, he was ordered to surrender. He had immediately opened fire. Captain Perenze, Colonel Luca's chief of staff, was giving interviews on the radio to a panel of journalists. He told how Guiliano had started to run and he, Captain Perenze, had followed him and cornered him in the courtyard. Guiliano had turned like a lion at bay, Captain Perenze said, and he had returned fire and killed him. Everybody in the restaurant was listening to the radio. Nobody was eating. Clemenza turned to Michael and said, "The whole thing is fishy. We leave tonight."

But at that moment, the street in front of the café filled with security police. An official car pulled up to the curb, and out of it stepped Inspector Velardi. He came up to their table and placed his hand on Michael's shoulder. "You are under arrest," he said. He fastened his icy blue eyes on Clemenza. "And for good luck, we'll take you with him. A word of advice. I have a hundred men around this café. Don't make a fuss or you'll join Guiliano in hell."

A police van had pulled up to the curb. Michael and Clemenza were swarmed over by security police, searched and then pushed roughly into the van. Some newspaper photographers in the café jumped up with their cameras and were immediately clubbed back by the security police. Inspector Velardi watched all this with a grim, satisfied smile.

•

Michael Corleone and Peter Clemenza were transported to the Palermo jail right after their arrest. From there they were taken to Inspector Velardi's office to be interrogated.

Velardi had six carabinieri, fully armed, with him. He greeted Michael and Clemenza with a cold courtesy and spoke to Clemenza first. "You are an American citizen," he said. "You have a passport that says you have come here to pay your brother a visit. Don Domenic Clemenza of Trapani. A very respectable man, they tell me. A man of respect." He said the traditional phrase with obvious sarcasm. "We find you with this Michael Corleone, and you are armed with lethal weapons in the town where Turi Guiliano has met his death just a few hours earlier. Would you care to make a statement?"

Clemenza said, "I was out hunting; we were looking for rabbits and foxes. Then we saw all the commotion in Castelvetrano when we stopped at a café for our morning coffee. So we went to see what had happened."

"In America, do you shoot rabbits with a machine pistol?" Inspector Velardi asked. He turned to Michael Corleone. "We have met before, you and I; we know what you are here for. And your fat friend knows, too. But things have changed since we had that charming lunch with Don Croce seven days ago. Guiliano is dead. You are an accomplice in a criminal conspiracy to effect his escape. I am no longer required to treat scum like you as if you were human. Confessions are being prepared, which I recommend you sign."

At that moment, a carabinière came into the room and whispered into Inspector Velardi's ear. Velardi said curtly, "Let him enter."

It was Don Croce, no better dressed than Michael remembered him from that famous lunch. His mahogany face was just as impassive. He waddled over to Michael and embraced him. He shook hands with Clemenza. Then he turned and, still standing, stared Inspector Velardi full in the face without saying a word. A brute force emanated from that hulk of a man. Power radiated from his face and eyes. "These two men are my friends," he said. "What possible reason do you have to treat them with disrespect?" There was no anger in that voice, no emotion. It seemed merely to be a question demanding an answer with facts. It was also a voice that stated that there was no fact that could justify their arrest.

Inspector Velardi shrugged. "They will appear before the magistrate and he will settle the matter."

Don Croce sat down in one of the arm-chairs next to Inspector Velardi's desk. He mopped his brow. He said in a quiet voice that again seemed to hold no threat, "Out of respect for our friendship, call Minister Trezza and ask his opinion on this matter. You will be rendering me a service."

Inspector Velardi shook his head. The blue eyes were no longer cold but blazing with hatred. "We were never friends," he said. "I acted under orders that are no longer binding now that Guiliano is dead. These two men will go before the magistrate. If it were within my power, you would appear with them."

At that moment, the phone on Inspector Velardi's desk rang. He ignored it, waiting for Don Croce's answer. Don Croce said, "Answer your telephone; that will be Minister Trezza."

The inspector slowly picked up the phone, his eyes watching Don Croce. He said, "Pronto," listened for about five minutes, then said, "Yes, your Excellency," and hung up the phone. He slumped down in his chair and then said to Michael and Clemenza, "You are free to go."

Don Croce rose to his feet and shepherded Michael and Clemenza out of the room with a shooing motion, as if they were chickens entrapped in a yard. Then he turned to Inspector Velardi. "I have treated you with every courtesy this past year, though you are a foreigner in my Sicily. And yet here in front of friends and in front of your fellow officers you have shown disrespect to my person. But I'm not the man to hold a grudge. I hope in the near future we can have dinner together and renew our friendship with a clearer understanding." Five days later, in broad daylight, Inspector Frederico Velardi was shot to death on the main boulevard of Palermo.

•

Two days later, Michael was home. There was a family feast; his brother Fredo flew in from Vegas; there was Connie and her husband, Carlo, and their baby; Clemenza and his wife; Tom Hagen and his wife. They hugged and toasted Michael and commented on how well he looked. It was a family homecoming party, as if he had been away to college or on a long vacation. He was seated on his father's right hand. Finally he was safe.

The next morning, he slept late, his first truly restful sleep in three years. His mother had breakfast waiting and kissed him when he sat down at the table, an unusual sign of affection from her. She had done it only once before, when he had returned from the war. He remembered that she had kissed him the first time she served him breakfast then.

When he had finished eating, he went to the library and found his father waiting for him.

Don Corleone ceremoniously poured out two glasses of anisette and handed one to Michael. "To our partnership," the don said.

Michael raised his glass. "Thank you," he said. "I have a lot to learn."

"Yes," Don Corleone said. "But we have plenty of time and I'm here to teach you."

"I will learn," Michael said. "But don't you think we should clear up the Guiliano business first?"

The don sat down heavily and wiped his mouth of the liqueur. "Yes," he said. "A sad business. I was hoping he would escape. His father and mother were my good friends."

Michael said, "I never really understood what the hell was happening; I never could get the sides right. You told me to trust Don Croce, but Guiliano hated him. I thought the testament's being held by you would keep them from killing Guiliano, but they killed him anyway. Why did they do it? We have the testament, which proves the government was hand in glove with Guiliano. The Italian government will fall when the papers print what we give them. It doesn't make any sense at all."

The don smiled slightly and said, "The testament will remain hidden. We won't give it to them."

It took a full minute for Michael to grasp what his father had said and what it meant. Then, for the first time in his life, he was truly angry with his father. His face white, he said, "Does that mean we were working with Don Croce all the time? Does that mean I was betraying Guiliano instead of helping him? That I was lying to his parents? That you betrayed your friends and led their son to his death? That you used me like a fool, a Judas goat? Pop, my God, Guiliano was a good man, a true hero to the poor people of Sicily. We must release the testament."

His father let him speak, then rose from his chair and put his hands on Michael's shoulders. "Listen to me," he said. "Everything was prepared for Guiliano's escape. I made no bargain with Don Croce to betray Guiliano. The plane was waiting; Clemenza and his men were instructed to help you in every way. Don Croce did want Guiliano to escape; it was the easiest way. But Guiliano swore a vendetta against him and lingered, hoping to fulfill it. He could have come to you within a few days, but he stayed away to make a final try. That is what undid him."

Michael walked away from his father and sat in one of the leather armchairs. "There's a reason you're not making the testament public," he said. "You made a deal."

"Yes," Don Corleone said. "I had to be absolutely sure you came home safely. So I made a deal with Don Croce. He protected you, and in return I promised that I would persuade Guiliano not to publish the testament when he escaped to America."

With a sickening shock, Michael recalled the night he had told Pisciotta that the testament was safe in America. In that moment, he had sealed Guiliano's fate. Michael sighed. "We owe it to his mother and father," he said. "We betray his father and mother if we do not publish the testament."

"No," Don Corleone said. "I've learned something over the years here in America. You have to be reasonable, negotiate. What good would publishing the testament do? Probably the Italian government would fall, but maybe it would not. Would publishing the testament help Guiliano's mother and father or his friends? The government would go after them, put them in jail, persecute them in many ways. Far worse. Don Croce might put them in his bad books. Let them have peace in their old age. I'll make a deal with the government and Don Croce to protect them. And so my holding the testament will be useful."

Michael said sardonically, "And useful to us if we should need it some day in Sicily"

"I can't help that," his father said with a twitch of a smile.

Michael said quietly after a long silence, "I don't know; it seems dishonorable. Guiliano was a true hero; he is already a legend. We should help his memory, not let that memory go down in defeat."

For the first time, the don showed annoyance. He poured himself another glass of anisette and drank it down. He pointed a finger at his son. "You wanted to learn," he said. "Now listen to me. A man's first duty is to keep himself alive. Then comes what everyone calls honor. The dishonor, as you call it, I willingly take upon myself; I did it to save your life as you once took on dishonor to save mine. You would never have left Sicily alive without Don Croce's protection. So be it. Do you want to be a hero like Guiliano, a legend? And dead? I love him as the son of my dear friends, but I do not envy him his fame. You are alive and he is dead. Always remember that and live your life not to be a hero but to remain alive. With time, heroes seem a little foolish."

Michael sighed. "Guiliano had no choice," he said.

"We are more fortunate," the don said.

•

It was the first lesson Michael received from his father and the one he learned best. It was to color his future life, persuade him to make terrible decisions he could never have dreamed of making before. It changed his perception of honor and his awe of heroism. It helped him survive but it made him unhappy. For despite the fact that his father did not envy Guiliano, Michael did.

"'Sicily is a tragic land. There is no trust. There is no order. Only violence and treachery.'"