JК
The Sicilian :: Puzo Mario
Страница: 274 из 278He sent word to Don Croce that unless he was pardoned immediately, he would reveal all the contacts the band had with Trezza, how the new Premier had conspired with Don Croce to murder his own citizens at the Portella della Ginestra.
On the morning after Minister Trezza's ascension to the premiership of Italy, Aspanu Pisciotta awoke at eight in the morning. He had a large cell, filled with plants and large screens of needlework he had taken up during his time in jail. The brilliant silk of the embroidery patterns seemed to quiet his mind, for now he often thought of his childhood with Turi Guiliano, of their love for each other.
Pisciotta prepared his morning coffee and drank it. He had a fear of being poisoned. So everything in that cup of coffee had been brought to him by his family. The prison food he first fed in tiny portions to the pet parrot he kept in a cage. And for emergencies he kept on one of his shelves, with the embroidery needles and piles of fabric, a huge jar of olive oil. He hoped that by pouring it down his throat, he would counter the effect of the poison or cause himself to vomit it up. He did not fear any other violence – he was too well guarded. Only visitors he approved were allowed to his cell door; he was never permitted out of this room. He waited patiently for the parrot to eat and digest his food and then ate his own breakfast with good appetite.
Hector Adonis left his Palermo apartment and used the tram car to the Ucciardone Prison. The February sun was already hot though it was early morning, and he regretted wearing his black suit and tie. But he felt he must dress formally on such an occasion. He touched the important slip of paper in the breast pocket of his jacket, securely pressed to the bottom.
As he rode through the city the ghost of Guiliano rode with him. He remembered one morning watching a tram full of carabinieri blown up, one of Guiliano's retaliations for his parents being put in this same prison. And he wondered again how the gentle boy he had taught the classics could commit such a terrible act. Now, though the walls of the buildings he passed were blank, he could still see in his imagination the bold red paint that had inscribed 'long live Guiliano' so often painted on them. Well, his godson had not lived long. But what always troubled Hector Adonis was that Guiliano had been murdered by his lifelong and childhood friend. That was why he had been delighted to receive instructions to deliver the note in his jacket pocket. The note had been sent by Don Croce with specific instructions.
The tram stopped in front of the long brick building that was the Ucciardone Prison. It was separated from the street by a stone wall topped by barbed wire. Guards manned the gate, and the perimeter of the wall was patrolled by heavily armed police.
On the morning after Minister Trezza's ascension to the premiership of Italy, Aspanu Pisciotta awoke at eight in the morning. He had a large cell, filled with plants and large screens of needlework he had taken up during his time in jail. The brilliant silk of the embroidery patterns seemed to quiet his mind, for now he often thought of his childhood with Turi Guiliano, of their love for each other.
Pisciotta prepared his morning coffee and drank it. He had a fear of being poisoned. So everything in that cup of coffee had been brought to him by his family. The prison food he first fed in tiny portions to the pet parrot he kept in a cage. And for emergencies he kept on one of his shelves, with the embroidery needles and piles of fabric, a huge jar of olive oil. He hoped that by pouring it down his throat, he would counter the effect of the poison or cause himself to vomit it up. He did not fear any other violence – he was too well guarded. Only visitors he approved were allowed to his cell door; he was never permitted out of this room. He waited patiently for the parrot to eat and digest his food and then ate his own breakfast with good appetite.
Hector Adonis left his Palermo apartment and used the tram car to the Ucciardone Prison. The February sun was already hot though it was early morning, and he regretted wearing his black suit and tie. But he felt he must dress formally on such an occasion. He touched the important slip of paper in the breast pocket of his jacket, securely pressed to the bottom.
As he rode through the city the ghost of Guiliano rode with him. He remembered one morning watching a tram full of carabinieri blown up, one of Guiliano's retaliations for his parents being put in this same prison. And he wondered again how the gentle boy he had taught the classics could commit such a terrible act. Now, though the walls of the buildings he passed were blank, he could still see in his imagination the bold red paint that had inscribed 'long live Guiliano' so often painted on them. Well, his godson had not lived long. But what always troubled Hector Adonis was that Guiliano had been murdered by his lifelong and childhood friend. That was why he had been delighted to receive instructions to deliver the note in his jacket pocket. The note had been sent by Don Croce with specific instructions.
The tram stopped in front of the long brick building that was the Ucciardone Prison. It was separated from the street by a stone wall topped by barbed wire. Guards manned the gate, and the perimeter of the wall was patrolled by heavily armed police.