The Sicilian by Mario Puzo

want to let this young man know that the favor he was about to do had such little value. He said, “And why are they searching for you?”
    Pisciotta hesitated. If the Abbott knew that a policeman was dead he might refuse them sanctuary. But if he were unprepared for the search that was sure to come, he might be surprised into betraying them. He decided to tell the truth. He did so very quickly.
    The Abbot lowered his eyes in sorrow for another soul lost to hell and to study closely Guiliano’s unconscious form. Blood was leaking through the shirt tied around his body. Perhaps the poor lad would die as they talked, and solve the whole problem.
    As a Franciscan monk, the Abbot was filled with Christian charity, but in these terrible times he had to consider the practical and material consequences of his merciful deeds. If he gave sanctuary and the boy died, he could only come out with a profit. The authorities would be satisfied with the corpse, the family would be forever in his debt. If Guiliano recovered, his gratitude might be even more valuable. A man who could, while grievously wounded, still fire his pistol and kill a policeman was a man worth having in your debt.
    He could of course deliver both of these rascals to the National Police, who would then make short work of them. But what would be the profit? The authorities could do no more for him than they were doing now. The area in which they held power was already secure to him. It was on the other side of the fence he needed friends. Betraying these youngsters would only earn him enemies among the peasants and the undying hatred of two families. The Abbot was not so foolish as to think his cassock could protect him from the vendetta that would surely follow, and also he had read Pisciotta’s mind; this was a young fellow who would go far before he trod the road to hell. No, the hatred of the peasant Sicilian could never be taken lightly. True Christians, they would never shame a statue of the Virgin Mary, but in the hot blood of vendetta they would shotgun the Pope himself for breaking
omerta
, the ancient code of silence to any authority. In this land with its countless statues of Jesus, there was no belief in the doctrine of turning the other cheek. In this benighted land “forgiveness” was the refuge of the coward. The Sicilian peasant did not know the meaning of mercy.
    Of one thing he was sure. Pisciotta would never betray him. In one of their little smuggling deals, the Abbot had arranged for Pisciotta to be arrested and interrogated. The interrogator, a member of the Palermo Security Police, not one of the
carabinieri
blockheads, had been subtle and then blunt. But neither cunning nor cruelty had moved Pisciotta. He had remained silent. The interrogator released him and assured the Abbot that this was a lad who could be trusted with more important errands. Since then the Abbot had always held a special place in his heart for Aspanu Pisciotta and often said a prayer for his soul.
    The Abbot put two fingers in his bony shrunken mouth and whistled. Monks came running and the Abbot instructed them to carry Guiliano into a far wing of the monastery, the Abbot’s own special quarters where he had hidden deserters, sons of rich farmers, from the Italian Army during the war. Then he sent one of his monks for the doctor in the village of San Giuseppe Jato, only five miles away.
    Pisciotta sat on the bed and held his friend’s hand. The wound was no longer bleeding, and Turi Guiliano’s eyes were open, but there was a glaze over them. Pisciotta, almost in tears, did not dare to speak. He wiped Guiliano’s forehead, which was running with perspiration. There was a blue tinge to the skin.
    It was an hour before the doctor arrived and, having observed a horde of
carabinieri
scouring the mountainside, was not surprised that his friend, the Abbot, was concealing a wounded man. This did not concern him; who cared about the police and government? The Abbot was a