"Signora Luciano, we are ready now. Would you like to see them?"
Graziella moved from one son to the next, checking their appearances. She stood looking at the two angelic faces of her grandsons, then turned, calling one of the men to her side. "He has too much color. Nunzio is always very pale. A little more powder, perhaps?"
She nodded her approval when the child's face was finished, then stood again beside her husband. She seemed completely in control of her emotions, but the embalmers felt moved to tears as she bent and kissed her husband's lips. Then she thanked each man for his care and attention and gave them envelopes containing more money than they earned in a year.
"Thank you for allowing me to be with my family. I came for a reason. My firstborn son died tragically. When he was brought home, it was as if I were burying a stranger. My grief was indescribable. My daughters must see their loved ones as they were; they have suffered enough. Thank you again, gentlemen."
By six o'clock, the first mass, the crowds had begun to gather. Men, women, and children came from the villages, came from the mountains.
They came by train, by boat, by bus, in horse-drawn carts, to bid farewell to il Papa, to show their last respects to their beloved don. Hundreds gathered in the square in front of the cathedral.
The carabinieri had withdrawn their guards from the villa, but as a show of respect sixteen motorbike riders moved ahead of the procession. Many off-duty police came of their own accord and joined the silent crowds that lined the road all the way from the Villa Rivera to the cathedral square.
The cathedral choir was joined by a string quartet, a harpist, and four leading singers from La Scala Opera Company. There were white lilies in such profusion that the cathedral was heady with their perfume, and hundreds of candles lit during the mass shimmered.
The first pew awaited the widows. The purple velvet hassocks had been embroidered with a gold L by nuns from the Lucianos' local church.
By ten-fifteen the motorcycles were in position outside the villa. The gates were opened wide, and they were given the signal to move on.
A black stallion, draped in purple and with a black-plumed headdress, was led out by a young farm boy to walk at the front of the procession. The stallion tossed his head nervously, and the boy held on to the wide black ribbons while he took a harmonica from his pocket. The horse calmed as the boy began to play, and they moved forward.
A murmur went through the crowd as the first hearse, pulled by six men in mourning dress, turned into the street. The hearse was more than a hundred years old and was carved in the ornate Sicilian fashion. White roses spelled out "II Papa" in letters eighteen inches high. The coffin was laden with white flowers and a single red rose. Black, billowing silk draperies were caught at the corners with white roses.
Following Don Roberto Luciano came the hearse of his elder son, Constantino. In third position came Filippo's hearse, followed by Emilio's, each smothered in white with one red bloom.
Twenty village children between the ages of six and eight, wearing white confirmation clothes, walked ahead of the two small white-flowered coffins. They carried roses, and the veils of the girls were crowned with white flowers. One small girl at the head of the little procession began to cry, her high-pitched sobbing making the sight of the small coffins even more poignant.
Moving very slowly to the mournful sound of the boy's harmonica, the procession wound along the silent streets. The streets were full of people, but it was the silence that everyone would remember.
To everyone's amazement, the widows walked. Led by Graziella, with Sophia and Teresa together four steps behind, Rosa another four slow steps behind them, they walked slowly, heads held high in their black mourning clothes and flowing black veils. Each held her black-gloved hands clasped as if in prayer. They seemed bound together, yet separate, facing directly ahead, and even when Graziella led them into the cathedral, no one turned.
A boy soprano rose from the choir and sang "Ave Maria," his clear voice soaring, as the women took their seats and knelt in prayer.
During the service, when the congregation filed up to take communion, a wizened old woman swathed in black inched past the children's coffins to lay a small, worn crucifix on the don's coffin. She sobbed loudly, and no one attempted to stop her; it was as though she wept for everyone there at the loss of this, their beloved don, his sons, and two innocent grandsons.
The ground was thick with floral displays, covering the small area outside the family mausoleum, hanging from the iron railings surrounding the white-pillared entrance and carpeting the lane leading up to the gates. The crowds remained standing; dark-suited men held them back, their arms linked to allow the four black-clad women privacy for their last good-bye.
As they entered the mausoleum, a flash went off. Graziella, the last to enter, turned, her expression hidden beneath her veil, and pointed at the press photographer responsible. One of the guards, without any apparent coercion, was immediately handed the offending roll of film. The doors closed behind the women.
In the gloomy interior of the tomb the coffins were already in their final resting places on the shelves, though they had not yet been cemented in. The highly polished wood glinted in the flickering light of a single torch.
The women prayed together until Graziella said, quietly, that it was time to leave. Rosa clutched her grandmother's hand, and Teresa inched the door open; but Sophia's body was rigid. She could not move. Unable to look at the coffins of her husband and children, she focused on the picture of Michael Luciano. The photograph had been there for more than twenty years, protected by the glass and the airtight tomb; it could have been placed there the day before. Michael's angelic face and soft, sweet smile made Sophia's dulled senses scream awake. Hands clenched, the scream surged through her, the single word "No!"
Graziella released her granddaughter's hand, and her voice was hoarse as she ordered the women out. She caught Sophia as she fell to her knees.
"Get up, Sophia. Up on your feet."
Her grip cut through Sophia's skin, pressing against the nerve in her elbow and making her whole body jerk, but Graziella held on. The others stood waiting at the half-open door. Graziella took Teresa's handkerchief, lifted Sophia's veil, and wiped her face.
"Let me go first." Satisfied that Sophia was all right, Graziella almost pushed past her daughters-in-law and led them out to face the watchful crowd.
There were further agonies for the widows to endure; they now had to greet and thank the many mourners who were invited to pay their respects at the villa. Rolls-Royces, Mercedeses, Maseratis, and Ferraris lined the route.
A row of gilded red velvet chairs had been placed in the living room, replacing the coffins. For five hours the women sat, still veiled, to receive the condolences of the mourners. When it finally ended, the villa seemed to die: no voices, no sound.
The women, exhausted, numbed by the day's events, retired to their rooms.
At nine o'clock they were to dine with Graziella. They entered the room one by one to find her sitting in her husband's chair; they noticed that she also wore his ring. They hardly touched the food that was placed in front of them by Adina, who had been in service with the Lucianos since she was a young girl. Her eyes red-rimmed from weeping, she moved silently and unobtrusively, serving and clearing.
They spoke little. Teresa held her daughter's hand, murmuring softly that she should eat just a little. But Rosa seemed drugged, stupefied, and stared vacantly ahead. From her handbag Sophia took another of the little yellow pills Graziella had given them all and swallowed it with a sip of ice water.