The route was detailed, which streets they would travel on, through which piazzas.
So difficult for Pasquale to hate the man who stood at the kitchen door, but the man had not spoken for him, and that was betrayal. There was such tiredness in the face of the man, there was no light in the eyes of the man. He caught the dulled eyes, and the man looked away. The route was confirmed. There was the clatter of the guns being armed.
The vests were thrown on. There was the thud of the feet down the staircase, and they passed a woman who climbed the staircase and carried a shopping bag from a boutique and bright flowers, and she gave them a glance of contempt.
They were in the sunshine on the pavement. The soldiers had their rifles readied.
The convoy pulled away. The sirens wailed, the tyres screamed on the corner. They went into the streets where there were, close- packed on either side, parked cars and parked vans and parked motorcycles. It was the day when Pasquale's replacement would be available. The maresciallo drove, and Pasquale was beside him with the machine-gun tight in his hands.
The prison was a part of the antiquity of Palermo.
The prison was a place of pain, torture, death, from the history of Palermo.
The walls of Ucciardione Prison, built by the Bourbons to impose their rule, were now covered with weeds in pretty flower, and the mortar crumbled in the joints between the stones. At the base of the walls the military trucks passed in continuous patrol, at the top of the walls the armed guards gazed down, listless, on the exercise yards. Beyond the exercise yards, spread out from the central building like the arms of an octopus, were the cell blocks. The cell blocks had failed to break the resistance of La Cosa Nostra.
The Men of Honour had been sent to the cell blocks by the officials of the king, and the officials of the Fascist Duce, and by the officials of the democratic state – and the officials through history had failed to break the spirit of La Cosa Nostra. It was the place of the Men of Honour, where they ruled and where they tortured and where they killed.
The cell blocks, that day, sweated under the brilliance of the sun.
There was a quiet, that day, in Ucciardione Prison, and word seeped along the corridors, and up iron staircases, and through locked doors, that Salvatore Ruggerio had requested a meeting with Rocco Tardelli, the magistrate who hunted his brother.
The men in the cells blocks waited.
The aircraft lifted. The journalist from Berlin sat rigid in his seat, and the aircraft banked over the beach at Ostia, and climbed, and turned again, and headed north. He thought he returned to the track towards civilization… champagne, yes, he would appreciate a glass of champagne. He thanked the Lufthansa girl… He could not remember when he had last felt such relief at the completion of an assignment. There were no headwinds, no turbulence pockets, it was a steady flight, and he tried to relax.
The problem, his difficulty, and it was a wound to his pride, he did not believe in the story he had written, it was his failure. When the champagne had been brought to him, he pulled down the table flap and laid his briefcase on it. He took his copy from the briefcase. He read back the story he carried home.
'There is the appearance of war on the island of Sicily. There are military road blocks, there are armed men guarding politicians and law-enforcement officials, there is talk of war. But, if there is combat, your correspondent has not found it.
'I remain unconvinced of the reality of conflict. It is possible there is only a delusion of war. My area of confusion, I could find no battle-lines and there is a complete absence of the traditional no-man's-land. There are military commanders and police chiefs who talk a good war, but I could not find, or touch, or feel, their alleged enemy.
'Your correspondent has reported from many of the world's darker corners. In Saigon I met with General William
Westmoreland; in Hanoi I was privileged to meet General Vo Nguyen Giap. I saw Saddam Hussein in Baghdad and General Norman Schwartzkopf in Riyadh. Yassir Arafat and George Habbash in Beirut. I drank coffee with the secessionist leader, in his Grozny bunker, as he was shelled by Russian tanks.
'Where is the enemy in Sicily? Does he exist? Is he a figment of Sicilian imagination, as they display their island trait of demanding uniqueness. The commander of La Cosa Nostra in Sicily, if indeed such a person exists, does not give news conferences or television interviews, nor does he issue war bulletins. For three weeks I have chased shadows. I remain in confusion.
'What is said: from this humble, poverty-ridden island are spewed the most sinister criminals of our time…'
He read no more. He returned his copy to the briefcase. He sipped his champagne.
They sat across a table.
'You are well, signore?'
'I am well. And you, dottore, you are well?'
'I thank you for your enquiry. Yes, I am well.'
The magistrate pushed across the table a packet of cigarettes. Salvatore Ruggerio, in Asmara and Ucciardione, would have as many cigarettes as he cared to smoke, but it was a gesture. The magistrate kept in his jacket pocket a packet of cigarettes, opened, with three taken out. To have passed Salvatore Ruggerio a full packet, unopened, would have offended his dignity, would have implied that he was short of cigarettes. It was necessary to maintain the dignity of the man. Salvatore Ruggerio lit a cigarette, and the smoke wafted over the table, and he pushed the packet back towards the magistrate.
'Your mother and father, they are well?'
It was a fascination to the magistrate, the calm politeness of these men. He was never aggressive with them, and he tried hard not to be arrogant towards them. They craved respect and he gave it them. And he made a rule, always, of asking a question to which he knew the answer. He knew that, for their age, the parents of Salvatore Ruggerio were well.
'I saw my mother last night, she seemed well.'
They were alone in the room. The maresciallo would be immediately outside the door with an officer of the prison staff. There were microphones built into the legs of the table, and their conversation would be recorded. Because he did not know the answer, he did not ask Salvatore Ruggerio why the meeting had been requested.
'And in two days you go on trial again?'
'They pluck fantasies from the skies. They bring new charges. What can a poor man do, dottore, an innocent man? They use old lies from the disgraced pentiti to persecute an old and poor and innocent man.'
There were some who threatened him. Sometimes he was warned. Did he take his guard to the toilet with him? He should. Was he concerned for his health? He should be.
Some had their friends and families send him funeral wreaths and photographs of coffins. He did not expect to be threatened by a man of the stature of Salvatore Ruggerio because to issue a threat would be beneath the dignity of a man who gave himself such importance. It was often his thought, why did such gifted men need to pursue criminality in order to find that craved dignity?
'Have you been recently to Prizzi, dottore?'
'Not recently.'
'You have not had the opportunity to see my parents' home?'
'I have not.'
'It is the humble home of old people who live in poverty.'
He did not know yet where the road of their conversation would lead. He shifted in his seat. It was hard for him, but he should not show impatience. He squirmed on his chair, and he felt the tickle of hair on his neck. His hair was too long, should have been trimmed, but it was a military operation to take him to a hairdresser, and the maresciallo would not permit a parrucchiere to be given access to the apartment. There was a woman in the offices of the squadra mobile who came occasionally to cut his hair, and then it was crudely done… He believed it valuable to talk with the brother of Mario Ruggerio. The body language was important, and the attitude. There were morsels to be gathered.