got out of the car, then smiled with amusement at his short stature.
It was Pisciotta who opened the door and led him inside. Guiliano’s mother and father were in the kitchen waiting, a breakfast of cold sausage, bread and coffee on the table. Maria Lombardo was calm, reassured by her beloved Aspanu that her son would recover. She was more angry than fearful. Guiliano’s father looked more proud than sad. His son had proved himself a man; he was alive and his enemy was dead.
Again Pisciotta told his story, this time with comforting humor. He made light of Guiliano’s wound and very little of his own heroism in carrying Guiliano down to the monastery. But Hector Adonis knew that helping an injured man over three miles of rough terrain must have been grueling for the slightly built Pisciotta. Also, he thought Pisciotta skipped over the description of the wound too glibly. Adonis feared the worst.
“How did the
carabinieri
know enough to come here?” he asked. Pisciotta told him about Guiliano giving up his identity card.
Guiliano’s mother broke out in lamentation. “Why didn’t Turi let them have the cheese? Why did he fight?”
Guiliano’s father said harshly to his wife, “What would you have him do? Inform on that poor farmer? He would have disgraced the family name forever.”
Hector Adonis was struck by the contradiction in these remarks. He knew the mother was much stronger and more fiery than the father. Yet the mother had uttered the words of resignation, the father the words of defiance. And Pisciotta, this boy Aspanu—who would have thought he would be so brave, to rescue his comrade and bring him to safety? And now lying so coolly to the parents about the hurt their son had suffered.
Guiliano’s father said, “If only he had not given up his identity card. Our friends would have sworn he was in the streets here.”
Guiliano’s mother said, “They would have arrested him anyway.” She began to weep. “Now he will have to live in the mountains.”
Hector Adonis said, “We must make certain the Abbot does not deliver him to the police.”
Pisciotta said impatiently, “He will not dare. He knows I’ll hang him in his cassock.”
Adonis gave Pisciotta a long look. There was a deadly menace in this young boy. It was not intelligent to damage the ego of a young man, Adonis thought. The police never understood that you can, with some impunity, insult an older man who has already been humiliated by life itself and will not take to heart the small slights of another human being. But a young man thinks these offenses mortal.
They were looking for help to Hector Adonis, who had helped their son in the past. Hector said, “If the police learn his whereabouts, the Abbot will have no choice. He is not above suspicion himself in certain matters. I think it best, with your permission, to ask my friend, Don Croce Malo, to intercede with the Abbot.”
They were surprised that he knew the great Don, except for Pisciotta, who gave him a knowing smile. Adonis said to him sharply, “And what are you doing here? You’ll be recognized and arrested. They have your description.”
Pisciotta said contemptuously, “The two guards were scared shitless. They wouldn’t recognize their mothers. And I have a dozen witnesses who will swear I was in Montelepre yesterday.”
Hector Adonis adopted his most imposing professional manner. He said to the parents, “You must not attempt to visit your son or tell anyone, even your dearest friends, where he is. The police have informers and spies everywhere. Aspanu will visit Turi at night. As soon as he can move I’ll make arrangements for him to live in another town until this all quiets down. Then, with some money, things can be arranged, and Turi can come home. Don’t worry about him, Maria, guard your health. And you, Aspanu, keep me informed.”
He embraced the mother and father. Maria Lombardo was still weeping when he left.
He had many things to do—most
It was Pisciotta who opened the door and led him inside. Guiliano’s mother and father were in the kitchen waiting, a breakfast of cold sausage, bread and coffee on the table. Maria Lombardo was calm, reassured by her beloved Aspanu that her son would recover. She was more angry than fearful. Guiliano’s father looked more proud than sad. His son had proved himself a man; he was alive and his enemy was dead.
Again Pisciotta told his story, this time with comforting humor. He made light of Guiliano’s wound and very little of his own heroism in carrying Guiliano down to the monastery. But Hector Adonis knew that helping an injured man over three miles of rough terrain must have been grueling for the slightly built Pisciotta. Also, he thought Pisciotta skipped over the description of the wound too glibly. Adonis feared the worst.
“How did the
carabinieri
know enough to come here?” he asked. Pisciotta told him about Guiliano giving up his identity card.
Guiliano’s mother broke out in lamentation. “Why didn’t Turi let them have the cheese? Why did he fight?”
Guiliano’s father said harshly to his wife, “What would you have him do? Inform on that poor farmer? He would have disgraced the family name forever.”
Hector Adonis was struck by the contradiction in these remarks. He knew the mother was much stronger and more fiery than the father. Yet the mother had uttered the words of resignation, the father the words of defiance. And Pisciotta, this boy Aspanu—who would have thought he would be so brave, to rescue his comrade and bring him to safety? And now lying so coolly to the parents about the hurt their son had suffered.
Guiliano’s father said, “If only he had not given up his identity card. Our friends would have sworn he was in the streets here.”
Guiliano’s mother said, “They would have arrested him anyway.” She began to weep. “Now he will have to live in the mountains.”
Hector Adonis said, “We must make certain the Abbot does not deliver him to the police.”
Pisciotta said impatiently, “He will not dare. He knows I’ll hang him in his cassock.”
Adonis gave Pisciotta a long look. There was a deadly menace in this young boy. It was not intelligent to damage the ego of a young man, Adonis thought. The police never understood that you can, with some impunity, insult an older man who has already been humiliated by life itself and will not take to heart the small slights of another human being. But a young man thinks these offenses mortal.
They were looking for help to Hector Adonis, who had helped their son in the past. Hector said, “If the police learn his whereabouts, the Abbot will have no choice. He is not above suspicion himself in certain matters. I think it best, with your permission, to ask my friend, Don Croce Malo, to intercede with the Abbot.”
They were surprised that he knew the great Don, except for Pisciotta, who gave him a knowing smile. Adonis said to him sharply, “And what are you doing here? You’ll be recognized and arrested. They have your description.”
Pisciotta said contemptuously, “The two guards were scared shitless. They wouldn’t recognize their mothers. And I have a dozen witnesses who will swear I was in Montelepre yesterday.”
Hector Adonis adopted his most imposing professional manner. He said to the parents, “You must not attempt to visit your son or tell anyone, even your dearest friends, where he is. The police have informers and spies everywhere. Aspanu will visit Turi at night. As soon as he can move I’ll make arrangements for him to live in another town until this all quiets down. Then, with some money, things can be arranged, and Turi can come home. Don’t worry about him, Maria, guard your health. And you, Aspanu, keep me informed.”
He embraced the mother and father. Maria Lombardo was still weeping when he left.
He had many things to do—most
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