Godfather 01 The Godfather pdfdrive com

luparas were always in the house. Don Tommasino himself went heavily armed
and a personal bodyguard attended him at all times.
The morning sun was now too strong. Michael stubbed out his
cigarette and put on work pants, work shirt and the peaked cap most Sicilian

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men wore. Still barefooted, he leaned out his bedroom window and saw
Fabrizzio sitting in one of the garden chairs. Fabrizzio was lazily combing his
thick dark hair, his lupara was carelessly thrown across the garden table.
Michael whistled and Fabrizzio looked up to his window.
“Get the car,” Michael called down to him. “I’ll be leaving in five
minutes. Where’s Calo?”
Fabrizzio stood up. His shirt was open, exposing the blue and red lines
of the tattoo on his chest. “Calo is having a cup of coffee in the kitchen,”
Fabrizzio said. “Is your wife coming with you?”
Michael squinted down at him. It occurred to him that Fabrizzio had
been following Apollonia too much with his eyes the last few weeks. Not that he
would dare ever to make an advance toward the wife of a friend of the Don’s. In
Sicily there was no surer road to death. Michael said coldly, “No, she’s going
home to her family first, she’ll join us in a few days.” He watched Fabrizzio
hurry into the stone hut that served as a garage for the Alfa Romeo.
Michael went down the hall to wash. Apollonia was gone. She was
most likely in the kitchen preparing his breakfast with her own hands to wash
out the guilt she felt because she wanted to see her family one more time before
going so far away to the other end of Sicily. Don Tommasino would arrange
transportation for her to where Michael would be.
Down in the kitchen the old woman Filomena brought him his coffee
and shyly bid him a goodbye. “I’ll remember you to my father,” Michael said
and she nodded.
Calo came into the kitchen and said to Michael, “The car’s outside,
shall I get your bag?”
“No, I’ll get it,” Michael said. “Where’s Apolla?”
Calo’s face broke into an amused grin. “She’s sitting in the driver’s
seat of the car, dying to step on the gas. She’ll be a real American woman before
she gets to America.” It was unheard of for one of the peasant women in Sicily
to attempt driving a car. But Michael sometimes let Apollonia guide the Alfa
Romeo around the inside of the villa walls, always beside her however because
she sometimes stepped on the gas when she meant to step on the brake.
Michael said to Calo, “Get Fabrizzio and wait for me in the car.” He
went out of the kitchen and ran up the stairs to the bedroom. His bag was already
packed. Before picking it up he looked out the window and saw the car parked in
front of the portico steps rather than the kitchen entrance. Apollonia was sitting
in the car, her hands on the wheel like a child playing. Calo was just putting the

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lunch basket in the rear seat. And then Michael was annoyed to see Fabrizzio
disappearing through the gates of the villa on some errand outside. What the hell
was he doing? He saw Fabrizzio take a look over his shoulder, a look that was
somehow furtive. He’d have to straighten that damn shepherd out. Michael went
down the stairs and decided to go through the kitchen to see Filomena again and
give her a final farewell. He asked the old woman, “Is Dr. Taza still sleeping?”
Filomena’s wrinkled face was sly. “Old roosters can’t greet the sun.
The doctor went to Palermo last night.”
Michael laughed. He went out the kitchen entrance and the smell of
lemon blossoms penetrated even his sinus-filled nose. He saw Apollonia wave to
him from the car just ten paces up the villa’s driveway and then he realized she
was motioning him to stay where he was, that she meant to drive the car to
where he stood. Calo stood grinning beside the car, his lupara dangling in his
hand. But there was still no sign of Fabrizzio. At that moment, without any
conscious reasoning process, everything came together in his mind, and Michael
shouted to the girl, “No! No!” But his shout was drowned in the roar of the
tremendous explosion as Apollonia switched on the ignition. The kitchen door
shattered into fragments and Michael was hurled along the wall of the villa for a
good ten feet. Stones tumbling from the villa roof hit him on the shoulders and
one glanced off his skull as he was lying on the ground. He was conscious just
long enough to see that nothing remained of the Alfa Romeo but its four wheels
and the steel shafts which held them together.
He came to consciousness in a room that seemed very dark and heard
voices that were so low that they were pure sound rather than words. Out of
animal instinct he tried to pretend he was still unconscious but the voices
stopped and someone was leaning from a chair close to his bed and the voice
was distinct now, saying, “Well, he’s with us finally.” A lamp went on, its light
like white fire on his eyeballs and Michael turned his head. It felt very heavy,
numb. And then he could see the face over his bed was that of Dr. Taza.
“Let me look at you a minute and I’ll put the light out,” Dr. Taza said
gently. He was busy shining a small pencil flashlight into Michael’s eyes.
“You’ll be all right,” Dr. Taza said and turned to someone else in the room.
“You can speak to him.”
It was Don Tommasino sitting on a chair near his bed, Michael could
see him clearly now. Don Tommasino was saying, “Michael, Michael, can I talk
to you? Do you want to rest?”
It was easier to raise a hand to make a gesture and Michael did so and

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Don Tommasino said, “Did Fabrizzio bring the car from the garage?”
Michael, without knowing he did so, smiled. It was in some strange
way, a chilling smile, of assent. Don Tommasino said, “Fabrizzio has vanished.
Listen to me, Michael. You’ve been unconscious for nearly a week. Do you
understand? Everybody thinks you’re dead, so you’re safe now, they’ve stopped
looking for you. I’ve sent messages to your father and he’s sent back
instructions. It won’t be long now, you’ll be back in America. Meanwhile you’ll
rest here quietly. You’re safetoryin the mountains, in a special farmhouse I own.
The Palermo people have made their peace with me now that you’re supposed to
be dead, so it was you they were after all the time. They wanted to kill you while
making people think it was me they were after. That’s something you should
know. As for everything else, leave it all to me. You recover your strength and
be tranquil.”
Michael was remembering everything now. He knew his wife was
dead, that Calo was dead. He thought of the old woman in the kitchen. He
couldn’t remember if she had come outside with him. He whispered,
“Filomena?” Don Tommasino said quietly, “She wasn’t hurt, just a bloody nose
from the blast. Don’t worry about her.”
Michael said, “Fabrizzio. Let your shepherds know that the one who
gives me Fabrizzio will own the finest pastures in Sicily.”
Both men seemed to sigh with relief. Don Tommasino lifted a glass
from a nearby table and drank from it an amber fluid that jolted his head up. Dr.
Taza sat on the bed and said almost absently, “You know, you’re a widower.
That’s rare in Sicily.” As if the distinction might comfort him.
Michael motioned to Don Tommasino to lean closer. The Don sat on
the bed and bent his head. “Tell my father to get me home,” Michael said. “Tell
my father I wish to be his son.”
But it was to be another month before Michael recovered from his
injuries and another two months after that before all the necessary papers and
arrangements were ready. Then he was flown from Palermo to Rome and from
Rome to New York. In all that time no trace had been found of Fabrizzio.

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