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wife had to remain on the villa grounds. Michael passed the time by teaching Apollonia

to read and write English and to drive the car along the inner walls of the villa. About

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this time Don Tommasino seemed to be preoccupied and poor company. He was still

having trouble with the new Mafia in the town of Palermo, Dr. Taza said.

One night in the garden an old village woman who worked in the house as a servant

brought a dish of fresh olives and then turned to Michael and said, "Is it true what

everybody is saying that you are the son of Don Corleone in New York City, the

Godfather?"

Michael saw Don Tommasino shaking his head in disgust at the general knowledge of

their secret. But the old crone (старуха, старая карга) was looking at him in so

concerned a fashion, as if it was important for her to know the truth, that Michael

nodded. "Do you know my father?" he asked.

The woman's name was Filomena and her face was as wrinkled and brown as a

walnut, her brown-stained teeth showing through the shell of her flesh. For the first time

since he had been in the villa she smiled at him. "The Godfather saved my life once,"

she said, "and my brains too." She made a gesture toward her head.

She obviously wanted to say something else so Michael smiled to encourage her. She

asked almost fearfully, "Is it true that Luca Brasi is dead?"

Michael nodded again and was surprised at the look of release on the old woman's

face. Filomena crossed herself and said, "God forgive me, but may his soul roast in hell

for eternity."

Michael remembered his old curiosity about Brasi, and had the sudden intuition that

this woman knew the story Hagen and Sonny had refused to tell him. He poured the

woman a glass of wine and made her sit down. "Tell me about my father and Luca

Brasi," he said gently. "I know some of it, but how did they become friends and why was

Brasi so devoted to my father? Don't be afraid, come tell me."

Filomena's wrinkled face, her raisin-black (raisin [reızn] – изюм) eyes, turned to Don

Tommasino, who in some way signaled his permission. And so Filomena passed the

evening for them by telling her story.

Thirty years before, Filnmena had been a midwife in New York City, on Tenth Avenue,

servicing the Italian colony. The women were always pregnant and she prospered. She

taught doctors a few things when they tried to interfere in a difficult birth. Her husband

was then a prosperous grocery store owner, dead now poor soul, she blessed him,

though he had been a card player and wencher (бабник; wench – девушка, молодая

женщина /шутл./) who never thought to put aside for hard times. In any event one

cursed night thirty years ago when all honest people were long in their beds, there came

a knocking on Filomena's door. She was by no means frightened, it was the quiet hour

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babes prudently chose to enter safely into this sinful world, and so she dressed and

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opened the door. Outside it was Luca Brasi whose reputation even then was fearsome.

It was known also that he was a bachelor. And so Filomena was immediately frightened.

She thought he had come to do her husband harm, that perhaps her husband had

foolishly refused Brasi some small favor.

But Brasi had come on the usual errand. He told Filomena that there was a woman

about to give birth, that the house was out of the neighborhood some distance away

and that she was to come with him. Filomena immediately sensed something amiss.

Brasi's brutal face looked almost like that of a madman that night, he was obviously in

the grip of some demon. She tried to protest that she attended only women whose

history she knew but he shoved a bandful of green dollars in her hand and ordered her

roughly to come along with him. She was too frightened to refuse.

In the street was a Ford, its driver of the same feather as Luca Brasi. The drive was

no more than thirty minutes to a small frame house in Long Island City right over the

bridge. A two-family house but obviously now tenanted only by Brasi and his gang. For

there were some other ruffians in the kitchen playing cards and drinking. Brasi took

Filomena up the stairs to a bedroom. In the bed was a young pretty girl who looked Irish,

her face painted, her hair red; and with a belly swollen like a sow. The poor girl was so

frightened. When she saw Brasi she turned her head away in terror, yes terror, and

indeed the look of hatred on Brasi's evil face was the most frightening thing she had

ever seen in her life. (Here Filomena crossed herself again.)

To make a long story short, Brasi left the room. Two of his men assisted the midwife

and the baby was born, the mother was exhausted and went into a deep sleep. Brasi

was summoned and Filomena, who had wrapped the newborn child in an extra blanket,

extended the bundle to him and said, "If you're the father, take her. My work is finished."

Brasi glared at her, malevolent, insanity stamped on his face. "Yes, I'm the father," he

said. "But I don't want any of that race to live. Take it down to the basement and throw it

into the furnace."

For a moment Filomena thought she had not understood him properly. She was

puzzled by bis use of the word "race." Did he mean because the girl was not Italian? Or

did he mean because the girl was obviously of the lowest type; a whore in short? Or did

he mean that anything springing from his loins he forbade to live. And then she was

sure he was making a brutal joke. She said shortly, "It's your child, do what you want."

And she tried to hand him the bundle.

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At this time the exhausted mother awoke and turned on her side to face them. She

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was just in time to see Brasi thrust violently at the bundle, crushing the newborn infant

against Filomena's chest. She called out weakly, "Luc, Luc, I'm sorry," and Brasi turned

to face her.

It was terrible, Filomena said now. So terrible. They were like two mad animals. They

were not human. The hatred they bore each other blazed through the room. Nothing

else, not even the newborn infant, existed for them at that moment. And yet there was a

strange passion. A bloody, demonical lust so unnatural you knew they were damned

forever. Then Luca Brasi turned back to Filomena and said harshly, "Do what I tell you,

I'll make you rich."

Filomena could not speak in her terror. She shook her head. Finally she managed to

whisper, "You do it, you're the father, do it if you like." But Brasi didn't answer. Instead

he drew a knife from inside his shirt. "I'll cut your throat," he said.

She must have gone into shock then because the next thing she remembered they

were all standing in the basement of the house in front of a square iron furnace.

Filomena was still holding the blanketed baby, which had not made a sound. (Maybe if it

had cried, maybe if I had been shrewd enough to pinch it, Filomena said, that monster

would have shown mercy.)

One of the men must have opened the furnace door, the fire now was visible. And

then she was alone with Brasi in that basement with its sweating pipes, its mousy odor.

Brasi had his knife out again. And there could be no doubting that he would kill her.

There were the flames, there were Brasi's eyes. His face was the gargoyle (горгулья –

выступающая водосточная труба в виде фантастической фигуры /в готической

архитектуре/ ['gα:goıl]) of the devil, it was not human, it was not sane. He pushed her

toward the open furnace door.

At this point Filomena fell silent. She folded her bony hands in her lap and looked

directly at Michael. He knew what she wanted, how she wanted to tell him, without using

her voice. He asked gently, "Did you do it?" She nodded.

It was only after another glass of wine and crossing herself and muttering a prayer

that she continued her story. She was given a bundle of money and driven home. She

understood that if she uttered a word about what had happened she would be killed. But

two days later Brasi murdered the young Irish girl, the mother of the infant, and was

arrested by the police. Filomena, frightened out of her wits, went to the Godfather and

told her story. He ordered her to keep silent, that he would attend to everything. At that

time Brasi did not work for Don Corleone.

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Before Don Corleone could set matters aright, Luca Brasi tried to commit suicide in

his cell, hacking at his throat with a piece of glass. He was transferred to the prison

hospital and by the time he recovered Don Corleone had arranged everything. The

police did not have a case they could prove in court and Luca Brasi was released.

Though Don Corleone assured Filomena that she had nothing to fear from either Luca

Brasi or the police, she had no peace. Her nerves were shattered and she could no

longer work at her profession. Finally she persuaded her husband to sell the grocery

store and they returned to Italy. Her husband was a good man, had been told everything

and understood. But he was a weak man and in Italy squandered (to squander –

проматывать) the fortune they had both slaved in America to earn. And so after he died

she had become a servant. So Filomena ended her story. She had another glass of

wine and said to Michael, "I bless the name of your father. He always sent me money

when I asked, he saved me from Brasi. Tell him I say a prayer for his soul every night

and that he shouldn't fear dying."

After she had left, Michael asked Don Tommasino, "Is her story true?" The capo-

mafioso nodded. And Michael thought, no wonder nobody wanted to tell him the story.

Some story (ну и история, ничего себе история). Some Luca.

The next morning Michael wanted to discuss the whole thing with Don Tommasino but

learned that the old man had been called to Palermo by an urgent message delivered

by a courier. That evening Don Tommasino returned and took Michael aside. News had

come from America, he said. News that it grieved him to tell. Santino Corleone had

been killed.

Chapter 24

The Sicilian sun, early-morning lemon-colored, filled Michael's bedroom. He awoke

and, feeling Apollonia's satiny body against his own sleep-warm skin, made her come

awake with love. When they were done, even all the months of complete possession

could not stop him from marveling at her heauty and her passion.

She left the bedroom to wash and dress in the bathroom down the hall. Michael, still

naked, the morning sun refreshing his body, lit a cigarette and relaxed on the bed. This

was the last morning they would spend in this house and the villa Don Tommasino had

arranged for him to be transferred to another town on the southern coast of Sicily.

Apollonia, in the first month of pregnancy, wanted to visit with her family for a few weeks

and would join him at the new hiding place after the visit.

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The night before, Don Tommasino had sat with Michael in the garden after Apollonia

had gone to bed. The Don had been worried and tired, and admitted that he was

concerned about Michael's safety. "Your marriage brought you into sight," he told

Michael. "I'm surprised your father hasn't made arrangements for you to go someplace

else. In any case I'm having my own troubles with the young Turks in Palermo. I've

offered some fair arrangements so that they can wet their beaks more than they

deserve, but those scum (пена, накипь; подонки; мерзавец) want everything. I can't

understand their attitude. They've tried a few little tricks but I'm not so easy to kill. They

must know I'm too strong for them to hold me so cheaply. But that's the trouble with

young people, no matter how talented. They don't reason things out and they want all

the water in the well (родник; колодец; водоем)."

And then Don Tommasino had told Michael that the two shepherds, Fabrizzio and

Calo, would go with him as bodyguards in the Alfa Romeo. Don Tommasino would say

his good-byes tonight since he would he off early in the morning, at dawn, to see to his

affairs in Palermo. Also, Michael was not to tell Dr. Taza about the move, since the

doctor planned to spend the evening in Palermo and might blab (проболтаться).

Michael had known Don Tommasino was in trouble. Armed guards patrolled the walls

of the villa at night and a few faithful shepherds with their 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 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 (to squint – косить /глазами/; бросить взгляд украдкой) 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

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