We picked up a good road and passed by more fields and orchards. Lemons hung heavy on branches, and the ground between rows was freshly turned. The air was cooler here, tinged with a hint of green richness emanating from the dark, fertile soil. There were no houses, no roadblocks or hidden entrenchments. It was peaceful, and part of me wished I could sit in the shade beneath an orange tree, drink wine, and sleep.
I did sleep, but when I opened my eyes I was still in the backseat with Sciafani, and the fertile fields were far behind us.
"What the hell is that smell?" I asked, realizing what had awoken me.
"The Vulcanelli di Macalube," Sciafani said, gesturing out to the grayish brown mud flats surrounding us. No more greenery, no smell of fresh-turned soil. Instead, the stink of sulphur and parched, cracked layers of mud, divided by streams of oozing gray liquid, assaulted my senses. I even wondered for a second if I was dreaming, but the smell convinced me I was wide awake.
"What is it, and do we have to go through it?"
"It is an area of natural gases, forcing the mud to the surface. See?" He pointed to a mound about a yard high, where bubbles of gray mud exploded out of the ground and ran down in rivulets, looking like pictures I'd seen of lava from flowing volcanoes. "It goes on for a few kilometers more. It is a safe passage; no one would put a roadblock here."
"You got that right," I said, trying not to breathe the rotten egg odor in too deeply.
"There is a legend that once a great city stood here," Sciafani said, staring out the window with that faraway look again. "The people of the city thought so highly of themselves that they forgot to thank the gods properly for their good fortune. This angered the gods, and they sunk the city beneath the earth, condemning the people to live forever underground. The only thing that comes to the surface is their tears." We drove through the macabre landscape, past bubbling pools and streams of ooze, until finally we left the weeping city behind. I thought about the bomb damage I'd seen in London and the destruction across North Africa, the rumble-strewn streets of Agrigento. Nature-or the gods-had matched that devastation here.
We stopped in Aragona, where more cigarettes changed hands and soldati filled our gas tank from five-gallon jerry cans, taken from one of their own trucks. Our driver seemed to know everyone on this route, and I figured he was part of Don Calo's communication network. Nothing in writing or over the phone, nothing but reports and whispers between the caporegimes and their couriers.
We crossed the Salito River and saw Italian engineers, a guastatori unit, wiring demolition charges beneath the bridge. On the north side, two antitank guns covered the approach to the river, their barrels barely visible jutting out from the camouflaged bunkers. Again, cigarettes were handed all around, and our driver joked with the men, who were glad to take a break from their work. An officer stood apart from them, glaring at our car, but saying nothing.
"Many of the officers are not Sicilian," Sciafani said. "Mussolini does not trust us to lead our own men, so he puts Fascists in charge, men from the north." He uttered the phrase like a curse.
The sun was low in the western sky, beginning to touch the tips of the mountains we were traveling through. The road curved back and forth on switchbacks, slowly gaining altitude as we approached the crest and the mountaintop village of Mussomeli. The Fiat seemed to accelerate in thanks as the ground leveled out, and we passed a tall, rocky outcropping, a couple of hundred yards in height, with a small castle built into the top of the rock. Italian Army trucks were parked at its base, along with tents sprouting aerials, all covered by the usual netting. They definitely had artillery spotters up there, with a view for miles in every direction. As long as they had this observation post, anything that moved south of Mussomeli would get plastered by their artillery.
We headed down the north side of the mountain to the town. Mussomeli was at a crossroads, five roads intersecting near it. The town itself cascaded down the side of the mountain, a crowded assembly of gray stone buildings spread around a church with a tall steeple. A column of Italian soldiers was marching out of town, past a concrete bunker covering the main road. Our driver waved, and some of the men nodded back. Evidently he didn't have enough cigarettes for a whole company. He spoke to Sciafani, pointed back at the column of men with his thumb, and laughed.
"His sister-in-law's uncle is the sergente of that company, all Sicilians. He says there is a platoon of MVSN Fascists at the castle, and the commander of the town is a Fascist, and that the Sicilians will cut their throats as soon as the word is given."
"Whose word?" I asked.
"Don Calo's," Sciafani answered. "Who else?"
"It sounds like he's in a position to save a lot of lives."
"A man who can save lives can also take them, have you thought of that?" He spoke with a fierceness that surprised me. Ever since Agrigento he'd been subdued. Stunned by the realization of what he'd done. Now, as we drew closer to Villalba, I sensed a shift in him, an anger that overcame whatever guilt he felt, becoming stronger as the distance from his murderous act increased. Were we getting closer to another? I wanted to ask him directly, but I couldn't assume the driver didn't understand English. A man like Don Calogero Vizzini hadn't survived without playing every angle, and I figured he'd want to know anything that passed between us.
"Tell me about the village you were born in, Enrico." I had a suspicion that whatever secret he was keeping about his family was the reason for his actions. All of them, including killing Tommy the C and staying with me.
"It is not important," he said.
"What did your father do?"
"My father is a physician."
"Not your adoptive father. Your real father," I said. "What was his name?"
There was silence in the car. Sciafani put his hand to his mouth, as if to keep the name from slipping out. Leaning against the window, his eyes darted to the driver, who stared straight ahead. He switched on his lights, illuminating the winding road and the looming pine branches that crowded over it.
"Nunzio. Nunzio Infantino," Sciafani said, balling the hand pressed against his mouth into a fist so that the name was barely understandable. He closed his eyes and doubled up, as if in great pain, still holding his hand to his mouth. I waited. Finally he opened his hand and gasped for breath, exhausted from the ordeal of uttering his father's name.
The driver spoke, I think to ask Sciafani if he was going to be sick. He glanced back and Sciafani shook his head and gestured for him to keep driving. I nodded and was rewarded with another Sicilian shrug.
"Was your village like the villages we drove through today? All the buildings crowded together, maybe located at a crossroads?"
"No, there is no crossroads. But it does sit upon a hilltop, surrounding the Chiesa di San Filippo, where I was baptized. As Enrico Infantino."
I was watching the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror. I could only see half his face, but I saw him react to the name: a blink, a quick look in the mirror at Sciafani, then back to the road. Whether he understood English or not, he'd recognized that name. I tapped Sciafani on the arm, where the driver couldn't see, and signaled with my hand to keep it down. He nodded.
"Well, whatever General Eisenhower thinks about the Mafia, he'll be very glad if Don Calo cooperates. It will not only save American lives but Sicilian lives too, in all those small villages like yours. Many lives, Enrico."
He shook his head. Now that he'd spoken his father's name, I wondered if the whole history of his life that he'd kept buttoned up was aching to be released. But he'd gotten my warning about the driver, that maybe he'd said too much already. So he sighed and handed me the burlap bag with the big Bodeo revolver still in it.