"The Sicilian" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mario Puzo)

Stefano Andolini reached over to caress Michael's shoulder and said, "It does my heart good to see you, my dear cousin. Did you know that the Guilianos are related to us?"



Michael was sure this was a lie; there was something in that foxily red smile. "No," he said. "I only knew the parents worked for my father in America."



"As I did," Andolini said. "We helped build your father's house on Long Island. Old Guiliano was a fine bricklayer, and though your father offered him a place in the olive oil business, he stuck to his trade. He worked like a Negro for eighteen years and saved like a Jew. Then he came back to Sicily to live like an Englishman. But the war and Mussolini made their lire worthless and now he owns only his house and a small piece of land to farm. He curses the day he left America. They thought their little boy would grow up a prince and now he is a bandit."



The Fiat had stirred up a cloud of dust; alongside the road growths of prickly pears and bamboo had a ghostly appearance, the pears in their clusters seeming to form human hands. In the valleys they could see the olive groves and grapevines. Suddenly Andolini said, "Turi was conceived in America."



He saw Michael's questioning glance. "Yes, he was conceived in America but born in Sicily. A few months' wait and Turi would be an American citizen." He paused for a moment. "Turi always talks about that. Do you really think you can help him 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 his foot pressed 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 last 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 tight rope between the two, but I will never betray Guiliano."



Michael thought, What the hell was 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. Tyrants and Inquisitors had tortured them for the truth over thousands of years. The government in Rome with its legal forms demanded the truth. The priest in the confessional box commanded the truth under pain of everlasting hell. But truth was a source of power, a lever of control, why should anyone give it away?



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, statues of a weeping Jesus in every home, Christian forgiveness was a contemptible refuge of the coward.



"Why did Guiliano and Don Croce become enemies?" Michael asked.



"Because of the tragedy at the Portella della Ginestra," Andolini said. "Two years ago. After that it was never the same. Guiliano blamed Don Croce."