“Your nephew will receive passing marks to become a doctor, not a surgeon. We will say he has too kind a heart to cut.”
Don Croce spread wide his arms, his lips parted in a cold smile. “You have defeated me with your good sense and your reasonableness,” he said to Adonis. “So be it. My nephew will be a doctor, not a surgeon. And my sister must be content.” He made haste to leave them, his real purpose achieved; he had not hoped for more. The President of the University escorted him down to the car. But everyone in that room noted the last glance Don Croce gave Doctor Nattore before he left. It was a glance of the closest scrutiny as if he were memorizing the features, to make sure that he did not forget the face of this man who had tried to thwart his will.
When they had left, Hector Adonis turned to Doctor Nattore and said, “You, my dear colleague, must resign from the University and go practice your trade in Rome.”
Doctor Nattore said angrily, “Are you mad?”
Hector Adonis said, “Not as mad as you. I insist you have dinner with me tonight and I will explain to you why our Sicily is no Garden of Eden.”
“But why should I leave?” Doctor Nattore protested.
“You have said the word ‘no’ to Don Croce Malo. Sicily is not big enough for both of you.”
“But he’s gotten his way,” Doctor Nattore cried out in despair. “The nephew will become a doctor. You and the President have approved it.”
“But you did not,” Hector Adonis said. “We approved it to save your life. But still, you are now a marked man.”
That evening Hector Adonis was host to six professors, including Doctor Nattore, at one of Palermo’s best restaurants. Each of these professors had received a visit from a “man of honor” that day and each had agreed to change the marks of a failing pupil. Doctor Nattore listened to their stories with horror and then finally said, “But that cannot be in a medical school, not a doctor,” until finally they lost their temper with him. A Professor of Philosophy demanded to know why the practice of medicine was more important to the human race than the intricate thought processes of the human mind and the immortal sanctity of one’s soul. When they were finished Doctor Nattore agreed to leave the University of Palermo and emigrate to Brazil, where, he was assured by his colleagues, a good surgeon could make his fortune in gall bladders.
That night Hector Adonis slept the sleep of the just. But the next morning he received an urgent phone call from Montelepre. His godson, Turi Guiliano, whose intelligence he had nurtured, whose gentleness he had prized, whose future he had planned, had murdered a policeman.
CHAPTER 3
M ONTELEPRE WAS A town of seven thousand people sunk as deeply in the valley of the Cammarata Mountains as it was in poverty.
On the day of September 2, 1943, the citizens were preparing for their Festa, to start the next day and continue for the following three days.
The Festa was the greatest event of the year in each town, greater than Easter or Christmas or New Year’s, greater than the days celebrating the end of the great war or the birthday of a great national hero. The Festa was dedicated to the town’s own particular favorite saint. It was one of the few customs the Fascist government of Mussolini had dared not meddle with or try to forbid.
To organize the Festa, a Committee of Three was formed each year, composed of the most respected men of the town. These three men then appointed deputies to collect money and offerings of goods. Every family contributed according to their means. In addition deputies were sent out into the streets to beg.
Then as the great day approached, the Committee of Three started to spend the special fund accumulated over the past year. They hired a band, and they hired a clown. They set up generous money prizes for horse races to be held over the three days. They hired specialists to decorate the church and the streets
Don Croce spread wide his arms, his lips parted in a cold smile. “You have defeated me with your good sense and your reasonableness,” he said to Adonis. “So be it. My nephew will be a doctor, not a surgeon. And my sister must be content.” He made haste to leave them, his real purpose achieved; he had not hoped for more. The President of the University escorted him down to the car. But everyone in that room noted the last glance Don Croce gave Doctor Nattore before he left. It was a glance of the closest scrutiny as if he were memorizing the features, to make sure that he did not forget the face of this man who had tried to thwart his will.
When they had left, Hector Adonis turned to Doctor Nattore and said, “You, my dear colleague, must resign from the University and go practice your trade in Rome.”
Doctor Nattore said angrily, “Are you mad?”
Hector Adonis said, “Not as mad as you. I insist you have dinner with me tonight and I will explain to you why our Sicily is no Garden of Eden.”
“But why should I leave?” Doctor Nattore protested.
“You have said the word ‘no’ to Don Croce Malo. Sicily is not big enough for both of you.”
“But he’s gotten his way,” Doctor Nattore cried out in despair. “The nephew will become a doctor. You and the President have approved it.”
“But you did not,” Hector Adonis said. “We approved it to save your life. But still, you are now a marked man.”
That evening Hector Adonis was host to six professors, including Doctor Nattore, at one of Palermo’s best restaurants. Each of these professors had received a visit from a “man of honor” that day and each had agreed to change the marks of a failing pupil. Doctor Nattore listened to their stories with horror and then finally said, “But that cannot be in a medical school, not a doctor,” until finally they lost their temper with him. A Professor of Philosophy demanded to know why the practice of medicine was more important to the human race than the intricate thought processes of the human mind and the immortal sanctity of one’s soul. When they were finished Doctor Nattore agreed to leave the University of Palermo and emigrate to Brazil, where, he was assured by his colleagues, a good surgeon could make his fortune in gall bladders.
That night Hector Adonis slept the sleep of the just. But the next morning he received an urgent phone call from Montelepre. His godson, Turi Guiliano, whose intelligence he had nurtured, whose gentleness he had prized, whose future he had planned, had murdered a policeman.
CHAPTER 3
M ONTELEPRE WAS A town of seven thousand people sunk as deeply in the valley of the Cammarata Mountains as it was in poverty.
On the day of September 2, 1943, the citizens were preparing for their Festa, to start the next day and continue for the following three days.
The Festa was the greatest event of the year in each town, greater than Easter or Christmas or New Year’s, greater than the days celebrating the end of the great war or the birthday of a great national hero. The Festa was dedicated to the town’s own particular favorite saint. It was one of the few customs the Fascist government of Mussolini had dared not meddle with or try to forbid.
To organize the Festa, a Committee of Three was formed each year, composed of the most respected men of the town. These three men then appointed deputies to collect money and offerings of goods. Every family contributed according to their means. In addition deputies were sent out into the streets to beg.
Then as the great day approached, the Committee of Three started to spend the special fund accumulated over the past year. They hired a band, and they hired a clown. They set up generous money prizes for horse races to be held over the three days. They hired specialists to decorate the church and the streets
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