Antonio to make him plead guilty. He wondered what Brother Thomas would make of the secret hidden under his mattress: a custom-made .44 magnum. He could not resist getting off the bed and taking it out. He caressed it, feeling the hard coldness against his skin. He touched the special bullets, the ones into which he had bored the minute holes to ensure that they would shatter on impact, fragmenting, dispersing. He gave a contented sigh and carefully replaced the gun in the velvet-lined case. Then he lay facedown on the bed.
The shutters were partly open, and the breeze soothed him into a dreamless sleep. His skin was like white marble, yet across his back, down to his tightly rounded buttocks, were shining zigzag scars, some almost half an inch in width.
When the bodies were released by the police, they were taken to the funeral home. Graziella, accompanied only by Mario Domino, carried two suitcases of clothes for the dead to wear.
She carefully examined each body while two embalmers followed her at a respectful distance. When she stood by the two children, she asked if their wounds could be concealed. They assured her that the plastic they used would most certainly disguise them. She astounded the men by remaining with them through every stage of the embalming, sitting silently as they washed the corpses and pumped in the embalming fluid.
Don Roberto was the last to be embalmed. She came to stand at the table. "Can I do that? I have been watching. Please allow me to do it."
The fluid, after being pumped into the veins, makes the body seem almost alive. But the deceased's hands often have to be massaged until the fluid reaches the fingertips and turns the skin from deathly blue to pink. Graziella rubbed and squeezed Roberto's hands gently until they once more looked alive, then bent her head and kissed them. Next she insisted on washing his thick white hair, drying it, and combing it the way he did, swept back from his high forehead. She sat down then, while the men worked on his face, threading clips from his jaw to his nose to keep the mouth firmly closed.
"Signora Luciano, we are ready now. Would you like to see them?"
Graziella moved from one son to the next, checking their appearances. She stood looking at the two angelic faces of her grandsons, then turned, calling one of the men to her side. "He has too much color. Nunzio is always very pale. A little more powder, perhaps?"
She nodded her approval when the child's face was finished, then stood again beside her husband. She seemed completely in control of her emotions, but the embalmers felt moved to tears as she bent and kissed her husband's lips. Then she thanked each man for his care and attention and gave them envelopes containing more money than they earned in a year.
"Thank you for allowing me to be with my family. I came for a reason. My firstborn son died tragically. When he was brought home, it was as if I were burying a stranger. My grief was indescribable. My daughters must see their loved ones as they were; they have suffered enough. Thank you again, gentlemen."
By six o'clock, the first mass, the crowds had begun to gather. Men, women, and children came from the villages, came from the mountains.
They came by train, by boat, by bus, in horse-drawn carts, to bid farewell to il Papa , to show their last respects to their beloved don. Hundreds gathered in the square in front of the cathedral.
The carabinieri had withdrawn their guards from the villa, but as a show of respect sixteen motorbike riders moved ahead of the procession. Many off-duty police came of their own accord and joined the silent crowds that lined the road all the way from the Villa Rivera to the cathedral square.
The cathedral choir was joined by a string quartet, a harpist, and four leading singers from La Scala Opera Company. There were white lilies in such profusion that the cathedral was heady with their perfume, and hundreds of candles lit during the mass shimmered.
The
The shutters were partly open, and the breeze soothed him into a dreamless sleep. His skin was like white marble, yet across his back, down to his tightly rounded buttocks, were shining zigzag scars, some almost half an inch in width.
When the bodies were released by the police, they were taken to the funeral home. Graziella, accompanied only by Mario Domino, carried two suitcases of clothes for the dead to wear.
She carefully examined each body while two embalmers followed her at a respectful distance. When she stood by the two children, she asked if their wounds could be concealed. They assured her that the plastic they used would most certainly disguise them. She astounded the men by remaining with them through every stage of the embalming, sitting silently as they washed the corpses and pumped in the embalming fluid.
Don Roberto was the last to be embalmed. She came to stand at the table. "Can I do that? I have been watching. Please allow me to do it."
The fluid, after being pumped into the veins, makes the body seem almost alive. But the deceased's hands often have to be massaged until the fluid reaches the fingertips and turns the skin from deathly blue to pink. Graziella rubbed and squeezed Roberto's hands gently until they once more looked alive, then bent her head and kissed them. Next she insisted on washing his thick white hair, drying it, and combing it the way he did, swept back from his high forehead. She sat down then, while the men worked on his face, threading clips from his jaw to his nose to keep the mouth firmly closed.
"Signora Luciano, we are ready now. Would you like to see them?"
Graziella moved from one son to the next, checking their appearances. She stood looking at the two angelic faces of her grandsons, then turned, calling one of the men to her side. "He has too much color. Nunzio is always very pale. A little more powder, perhaps?"
She nodded her approval when the child's face was finished, then stood again beside her husband. She seemed completely in control of her emotions, but the embalmers felt moved to tears as she bent and kissed her husband's lips. Then she thanked each man for his care and attention and gave them envelopes containing more money than they earned in a year.
"Thank you for allowing me to be with my family. I came for a reason. My firstborn son died tragically. When he was brought home, it was as if I were burying a stranger. My grief was indescribable. My daughters must see their loved ones as they were; they have suffered enough. Thank you again, gentlemen."
By six o'clock, the first mass, the crowds had begun to gather. Men, women, and children came from the villages, came from the mountains.
They came by train, by boat, by bus, in horse-drawn carts, to bid farewell to il Papa , to show their last respects to their beloved don. Hundreds gathered in the square in front of the cathedral.
The carabinieri had withdrawn their guards from the villa, but as a show of respect sixteen motorbike riders moved ahead of the procession. Many off-duty police came of their own accord and joined the silent crowds that lined the road all the way from the Villa Rivera to the cathedral square.
The cathedral choir was joined by a string quartet, a harpist, and four leading singers from La Scala Opera Company. There were white lilies in such profusion that the cathedral was heady with their perfume, and hundreds of candles lit during the mass shimmered.
The
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