sake of his health. But he deceived no one.
The truth was, he loved tending his garden; he loved the sight of it early on a morning.
It brought back his childhood in Sicily sixty years ago, brought it back without the terror,
the sorrow of his own father's death. Now the beans in their rows grew little white
flowers on top; strong green stalks of scallion fenced everything in. At the foot of the
garden a spouted barrel stood guard. It was filled with liquidy cow manure, the linest
garden fertilizer. Also in that lower part of the garden were the square wooden frames
he had built with his own hands, the sticks cross-tied with thick white string. Over these
frames crawled the tomato vines.
The Don hastened to water his garden. It must be done before the sun waxed too hot
and turned the water into a prism of fire that could burn his lettuce leaves like paper.
Sun was more important than water, water also was important; but the two, imprudently
mixed, could cause great misfortune.
The Don moved through his garden hunting for ants. If ants were present, it meant
that lice were in his vegetables and the ants were going after the lice and he would have
to spray.
He had watered just in time. The sun was becoming hot and the Don thought,
"Prudence. Prudence." But there were just a few more plants to be supported by sticks
and he bent down again. He would go back into the house when he finished this last
row.
Quite suddenly it felt as if the sun had come down very close to his head. The air filled
with dancing golden specks. Michael's oldest boy came running through the garden
toward where the Don knelt and the boy was enveloped by a yellow shield of blinding
light. But the Don was not to be tricked, he was too old a hand. Death hid behind that
flaming yellow shield ready to pounce out on him and the Don with a wave of his hand
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warned the boy away from his presence. Just in time. The sledgehammer blow inside
his chest made him choke for air. The Don pitched forward into the earth.
The boy raced away to call his father. Michael Corleone and some men at the mall
gate ran to the garden and found the Don lying prone, clutching handfuls of earth. They
lifted the Don up and carried him to the shade of his stone-flagged patio. Michael knelt
beside his father, holding his hand, while the other men called for an ambulance and
doctor.
With a great effort the Don opened his eyes to see his son once more. The massive
heart attack had turned his ruddy face almost blue. He was in extremis. He smelled the
garden, the yellow shield of light smote his eyes, and he whispered, "Life is so
beautiful."
He was spared the sight of his women's tears, dying before they came back from
church, dying before the ambulance arrived, or the doctor. He died surrounded by men,
holding the hand of the son he had most loved.
The funeral was royal. The Five Families sent their Dons and caporegimes, as did the
Tessio and Clemenza Families. Johnny Fontane made the tabloid headlines by
attending the funeral despite the advice of Michael not to appear. Fontane gave a
statement to the newspapers that Vito Corleone was his Godfather and the finest man
he had ever known and that he was honored to be permitted to pay his last respects to
such a man and didn't give a damn who knew it.
The wake was held in the house of the mall, in the old-fashioned style. Amerigo
Bonasera had never done finer work, had discharged all obligations, by preparing his
old friend and Godfather as lovingly as a mother prepares a bride for her wedding.
Everyone commented on how not even death itself had been able to erase the nobility
and the dignity of the great Don's countenance and such remarks made Amerigo
Bonasera fill with knowing pride, a curious sense of power. Only he knew what a terrible
massacre death had perpetrated on the Don's appearance.
All the old friends and servitors came. Nazorine, his wife, his daughter and her
husband and their children, Lucy Mancini came with Freddie from Las Vegas. Tom
Hagen and his wife and children, the Dons from San Francisco and Los Angeles,
Boston and Cleveland. Rocco Lampone and Albert Neri were pallbearers with
Clemenza and Tessio and, of course, the sons of the Don. The mall and all its houses
were filled with floral wreaths.
Outside the gates of the mall were the newspapermen and photographers and a small
truck that was known to contain FBI men with their movie cameras recording this epic.
Some newspapersmen who tried to crash the funeral inside found that the gate and
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fence were manned with security guard who demanded identification and an invitation
card. And though they were treated with the utmost courtesy, refreshment sent out to
them, they were not permitted inside. They tried to speak with some of the people
coming out but were met with stony stares and not a syllable.
Michael Corleone spent most of the day in the corner library room with Kay, Tom
Hagen and Freddie. People were ushered in to see him, to offer their condolences.
Michael received them with all courtesy even when some of them addressed him as
Godfather or Don Michael, only Kay noticing his lips tighten with displeasure.
Clemenza and Tessio came to join this inner circle and Michael personally served
them with a drink. There was some gossip of business. Michael informed them that the
mall and all its houses were to be sold to a development and construction company. At
an enormous profit, still another proof of the great Don's genius.
They all understood that now the whole empire would be in the West. That the
Corleone Family would liquidate its power in New York. Such action had been awaiting
the retirement or death of the Don.
It was nearly ten years since there had been such a celebration of people in this
house, nearly ten years since the wedding of Constanzia Corleone and Carlo Rizzi, so
somebody said. Michael walked to the window that looked out on the garden. That long
time ago he had sat in the garden with Kay never dreaming that so curious a destiny
was to be his. And his father dying had said, "Life is so beautiful." Michael could never
remember his father ever having uttered a word about death, as if the Don respected
death too much to philosophize about it.
It was time for the cemetery. It was time to bury the great Don. Michael linked his arm
with Kay's and went out into the garden to join the host of mourners. Behind him came
the caporegimes followed by their soldiers and then all the humble people the Godfather
had blessed during his lifetime. The baker Nazorine, the widow Colombo and her sons
and all the countless others of his world he had ruled so firmly but justly. There were
even some who had been his enemies, come to do him honor.
Michael observed all this with a tight, polite smile. He was not impressed. Yet, he
thought, if I can die saying, "Life is so beautiful," then nothing else is important. If I can
believe in myself that much, nothing else matters. He would follow his father. He would
care for his children, his family, his world. But his children would grow in a different
world. They would be doctors, artists, scientists. Governors. Presidents. Anything at all.
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He would see to it that they joined the general family of humanity, but he, as a powerful
and prudent parent would most certainly keep a wary eye on that general family.
On the morning after the funeral, all the most important officials of the Corleone
Family assembled on the mall. Shortly before noon they were admitted into the empty