We chugged up a long, steep hill, surrounded by acres of wheat on all sides. Workers dotted the fields, cutting and stacking the crop, moving like a ragged line of infantry, stooping for cover and then moving forward again, mowing down the enemy that faced them in never-ending rows. We passed a donkey, laden with bundles of grain, led by a peasant woman. She wore a gray tattered dress, her stooped head covered by a black scarf. Adding to the donkey's burden, a man sat astride it, his feet scraping the road.
"He will wear out his wife and his donkey before he walks," Sciafani said. "Then he will have nothing and will look back with longing on the days when he used to ride an ass."
The driver laughed. I'd been right-he understood English. I looked at Sciafani, and he shrugged, an eloquent gesture that said, What can we do?
The car crested a rise and picked up speed as the village of Villalba came into view. The sun was setting behind us and lit the town, bathing the gray and brown stone walls in soft light, casting jagged shadows into the streets. Villalba sat on a gentle slope, surrounded by cultivated fields and a hilltop overlooking it to the north. It looked like any other town we'd passed through, but this was the end of the line, one way or the other. No troops were digging entrenchments; no machine guns covered the road into town. Villalba was not a crossroads, not a strategic center. Its only military value lay in what one man might or might not do, in how much weight a silk handkerchief carried, and how convincing I could be.
The car turned into a large piazza, anchored at one end by a two-story building with BANCO DI SICILIA in large letters at the top and at the other by a tall church tower. I wasn't surprised when the driver stopped right between them, in front of a house where a young man lounged against the wall next to an iron gate, his lupara slung over his shoulder. The windows were narrow and guarded with iron grilles. I wrapped the burlap bag around Tommy the C's revolver and shoved it under the seat in front of me. I glanced at Sciafani and he nodded wearily in agreement. There were bound to be more shotguns inside, and two guys bringing a dead caporegime 's pistol into a Mafia chief 's house would mean a very short stay.
The driver got out and signaled us to follow the guard through the gate. As I did, I felt an odd satisfaction at having made it this far. A few days ago, I'd had no idea who I was or why I was here. I'd fought the Germans, escaped a Mob trap, been smuggled across the mountains, bombed, faced down bandits, and regained most of my memory in the process. Two men had been murdered, and others, including Harry, had died, all for this damn silk handkerchief stuffed deep in my pocket. I realized I didn't know exactly what to say to Don Calo, or if he'd understand me. Nick was the one who spoke the Sicilian dialect fluently, and who knew where the hell he had ended up.
The walls of the house were thick, and the entryway opened into a small courtyard with a covered walkway around it. The windows facing the inner courtyard were wide and open, with welcoming soft yellow light spilling out onto the stones. I heard the clatter of dishes and women's laughter. It was strange, delightful, and disorienting.
The guard put his palm out, signaling us to wait. He removed his cap, stamped his feet to shake off the dirt and dust, and opened a door, leaving us alone in the darkening courtyard. If it wasn't for the guard on the other side of an iron gate, I would've been tempted to run, grab the car, and head for the hills. Except we were already in the hills. Surrounded by Italians and Germans. I shivered, chilled by this thought and by the night air. Sciafani brushed at his suit and tucked in his shirt, doing his best to make himself presentable. With all the dirt, blood, and sweat he'd soaked up, it was hard to see any improvement. He looked nervous, and I wondered if this was the end of his mission too.
The door opened slowly, squeaking on its hinges. A silver-haired man with a slight paunch descended the two stone steps into the courtyard. His eyebrows were bushy and jet black, in sharp contrast to his slicked-back hair. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, and his suspenders pulled his baggy pants above his waist. He had a broad face and a wide mouth and his eyes narrowed as if he was studying us, trying to understand exactly what we were. Behind him, a wide-shouldered man, his hands behind him, stood in the doorway and stared at us. He didn't have a paunch and his eyes were steady.
" Benvenuto," the older man said, approaching us and staring at Sciafani. He cocked his head, the way people do when they're trying to place a face.
"Don Calogero," I said, then surprised myself by nearly bowing.
"Welcome," he said, "but please wait."
He spoke slowly in a thick accent, holding his hand up and waving it back and forth, as if he couldn't be bothered with the first American soldier to make it to Villalba. He spoke rapidly to Sciafani, a stream of questions that reminded me of a small automatic snapping off a series of shots. Sciafani's face crumpled. A lifetime, perhaps, of knowing this man had killed his father, and decades of fear holding him back, until everything he'd seen and endured in this war had conspired to make him a killer. It all played out on his face as Don Calogero Vizzini, whom the Allies considered the single most important Sicilian, stood inches from him, asking who he was.
" Lei e il figlio di Nunzio Infantino? "
" Si." Sciafani drew himself up straight.
"They told me to kill the child too," Don Calo said to me, in that slow cadence of someone who is translating his speech, putting an emphasis on the last word to show how glad he was to be done with the sentence. He gestured all around him, meaning everyone had said to kill the child.
"So he wouldn't take his revenge as a man," I said.
" La vendetta," Don Calo said. "Yes, Nunzio and I fought, first with words, then with fists. Finally, with the lupara. Your father, he was stubborn. If I had known your dear mother was sick and would die soon, I might not have killed him." His dark eyebrows knitted in contemplation of what might have been as his shoulders threw off the burdens of the past.
"But you did," Sciafani said.
" Si."
"My mother?"
"Your mother, no, no. Nunzio and I fought in the hills, when he tried to take his wheat to the mills without paying the toll. I told him he had to pay, even just a little. If he did not, the others would soon make trouble. He would not give me a single lira, he was so stubborn. So we fought like men. He died at my hands, and I offered payment to your mother so you and she would not be put out on the street. It was then I found out she was dying. Tubercolosi. "
Don Calo took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. I thought about the one in my pocket, and how the sharp-eyed guy in the doorway might react if I pulled it out.
"My friends said it would be best to kill you after your mother died, that you would grow up to take your revenge, but I could not kill a bambino. So I did the next best thing. I gave you to a dottore and told him to raise you to be one yourself, if you were smart enough."
"The Sciafanis were your people?"
"They truly wanted a child, so what does it matter? Did they not treat you well?"
"Very well," Sciafani said, his eyes to the ground. "You wanted me to become a dottore so I would not easily take a life?"
"It was better than slitting your throat and burying you in the hills. Was I wrong?"
Don Calo jutted his chin forward, daring Sciafani to challenge his logic. He seemed affronted that this young man was not thanking him for sparing his life after Don Calo had killed his father.
"I cannot say, Don Calo."
"Have you deserted?" Don Calo asked.
"No, I have been released. I was captured but the Americans are releasing all Sicilian prisoners."
"The Americans are smarter than I believed then," Don Calo said, shifting his gaze to me, but still addressing Sciafani. "But how did you get blood on your clothes?"
"We were caught in the bombardment of Agrigento," I said. "Dottore Sciafani cared for the wounded Italian troops until the Americans set up an aid station." I hoped the killing of Tommy the C would not come out while we were here.
Don Calo nodded, tilting his head to the side as he did so, indicating that yes, perhaps, he might believe that. He sat on a stone bench set against the house, grunting as he exhaled. He mopped his face again, soaking tiny beads of sweat from his upper lip into his white handkerchief.
"This is a bad business," Don Calo finally said. "The Fascists from Rome hunted us, the Americans invade us, the Germans make our island a battleground, and now you walk into my home. Both of you have the smell of trouble."
I knew he was thinking it wasn't too late to correct his mistake in letting Sciafani live, and that I might as well be thrown into an unmarked grave in the hills with him. Don Calo scowled, looking back to the man in the doorway. He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up, a grim look on his face.
"Don Calo," I said, stepping in front of Sciafani. To try to divert his attention, I was about to take out the handkerchief.
"No, we will talk later. It is Enrico I speak to now," he said. "It was wrong of you to wait so long to come here. If you were a hotheaded youth and I was younger also, we could have fought each other. But so many years have passed. You are now a dottore, and I have a position here, as the head of a society. When a man is on his way up, he uses everything he can to rise to the top. But when he gets there, he can no longer act like a bandit. Today I grant favors to people. If I can do a man a favor, no matter who he is, I will. So people do me favors in return: a vote or an errand, whatever they can. That is who I am now, not a young man with a lupara in his hands."
"The world is indeed turned upside down. You are mafiusu yet you tell me you don't wish to kill me. I have sworn an oath to protect life, and I would take yours," Sciafani said, sounding surprised at himself.
"Would you?" Don Calo asked. Sciafani opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. He cast his eyes to the ground.
"I will tell you a secret, Enrico. I sent you away in hopes that you would become a dottore not for myself, to avoid la vendetta, but for you also. I had no argument with your dear mother or you. You deserved a better life than the one your father and I left you. Don't be surprised that I include him now. If he hadn't been so stubborn we could have worked things out. But that was not his nature, nor mine."
"This is not what I expected," Sciafani said, raising his eyes to meet Don Calo's.
"You are a ghost I did not expect to meet today either. Now, if you can promise not to take your revenge tonight, I will offer you both the hospitality of my home. We will eat in one hour. Do you promise?"
"On my honor."
"Good. With a contented stomach, your heart is forgiving; with an empty stomach, the heart is hard."