The Sicilian by Mario Puzo Page B

quietly, “I have a thousand lire as a gift, if you can let us go.”
    “You can wipe your ass with lire,” the Sergeant said. “Now, your identity papers. If they’re not in order I’ll make you shit and wipe your ass with them too.”
    The insolence of the words, the insolence of those black-and-white piped uniforms, aroused an icy fury in Guiliano. At that moment he knew he would never allow himself to be arrested, never allow these men to rob him of his family’s food.
    Turi Guiliano took out his identity card and started to approach the Sergeant. He was hoping to get under the arc of the pointed rifle. He knew his physical coordination was faster than that of most men and he was willing to gamble on it. But the rifle motioned him back. The man said, “Throw it on the ground.” Guiliano did so.
    Pisciotta, five paces on Guiliano’s left, and knowing what was in his friend’s mind, knowing he carried the pistol under his shirt, tried to distract the Sergeant’s attention. He said with studied insolence, his body thrust forward, hand on hip touching the knife he carried in a sheath strapped to his back, “Sergeant, if we give you the farmer’s name, why do you need our identity cards? A bargain’s a bargain.” He paused for a moment and said sarcastically, “We know a
carabiniere
always keeps his word.” He spat out the word “
carabiniere
” with hatred.
    The rifleman sauntered a few steps toward Pisciotta. He stopped. He smiled and leveled his gun. He said, “And you, my little dandy, your card. Or do you have no papers, like your donkey, who has a better mustache than you?”
    The two younger policemen laughed. Pisciotta’s eyes glittered. He took a step toward the Sergeant. “No, I have no papers. And I know no farmer. We found these goods lying in the road.”
    The very foolhardiness of this defiance defeated its purpose. Pisciotta had wanted the rifleman to move closer within striking distance, but now the Sergeant took a few steps backward and smiled again. He said, “The
bastinado
will knock out some of your Sicilian insolence.” He paused for a moment and then said. “Both of you, lie on the ground.”
    The
bastinado
was a term loosely used for a physical beating with whips and clubs. Guiliano knew some citizens of Montelepre who had been punished in the Bellampo Barracks. They had returned to their homes with broken knees, heads swollen as big as melons, their insides injured so that they could never work again. The
carabinieri
would never do that to him. Guiliano went to one knee as if he were going to lie down, put one hand on the ground and the other on his belt so that he could draw the pistol from beneath his shirt. The clearing was now bathed with the soft hazy light of beginning twilight, the sun far over the trees had dipped below the last mountain. He saw Pisciotta standing proudly, refusing the command. Surely they would not shoot him down over a piece of smuggled cheese. He could see the pistols trembling in the hands of the young guards.
    At that moment there was the braying of mules and the clatter of hooves from behind and bursting into the clearing came the caravan of mules that Guiliano had spotted on the road behind him that afternoon. The man on horseback leading it carried a
lupara
slung over his shoulder and looked huge in a heavy leather jacket. He jumped down off his horse and took a great wad of lire notes from one of his pockets and said to the
carabiniere
with the rifle, “So, you’ve scooped up a few little sardines this time.” They obviously knew each other. For the first time the rifleman relaxed his vigilance to accept the money offered to him. The two men were grinning at each other. The prisoners seemed to have been forgotten by everyone.
    Turi Guiliano moved slowly toward the nearest guard. Pisciotta was edging toward the nearest bamboo thicket. The guards didn’t notice. Guiliano hit the nearest guard with his forearm, knocking him to the ground. He