Happy Ant-Heap (16 page)

The Corleone landscape is dramatic, even formidable, backed by harsh mountain shapes, perpetually misted and aloof; a proper setting for the atrocious deeds of the past. Forty years ago the traveller would have been careful to avoid the Ficuzza wood, for it was here that outlaws kept rustled cattle. In 1947 police investigated a deep crevice on the flat top of the Busambra mountain, discovering the remains of trade union leaders and peasant malcontents, dumped there by the feudal Mafia of those days. There are no isolated farmhouses hereabouts. Those who work on the land live in villages, often built in a circle for purposes of defence, their backs forming an unbroken wall.

This is bandit country, riddled with secret caves and hidden tunnels, and the bandits were here from the beginning of Sicilian history to the end of the Second World War. At that time thirty bands roamed these mountains, a pool of desperate men from which were recruited the private armies of the feudal landlords. In 1950, with the passing of the agrarian reform law, these things came to an end. The social conditions in which banditry had flourished ceased to exist, and the private armies had gone. Those bandits who remained at large were no more than an intolerable nuisance, and, with their usual efficiency, the ‘Men of Honour’ arranged for their extermination.

Many theorists see Sicily’s history of banditry interwoven with that of the Mafia as a kind of continuing resistance to foreign occupations—six in all—which never permitted the creation of a stable state. As a matter of routine each incoming regime abolished all freedoms granted by its predecessor, cancelled the title deeds to ownership of land, and changed all the laws to suit themselves. Thus, at intervals of roughly one and a half centuries, Sicilians found themselves reduced to pauperism by some new category of foreigners, governing inevitably through a corrupt and brutal police. Since the state offered no protection, it fell to the individual to do what he could to defend himself, and his best recourse was to join forces with other victims of oppression in the organisation of underground action. Thus, according to the theory, the Mafia was born.

When in 1860 Garibaldi arrived on the scene to bring about Sicily’s unification with Italy, it became clear that there was much to be done before the island could be governed from Rome. It was therefore decided as a temporary measure to make do with political remote control through ‘families of respect’—which may have been in effect governing from behind the scenes for centuries before his arrival.

The surrender of land in 1950 to the once land-hungry peasantry saw the end of the old-fashioned rural Mafia, now that their function as guardian of feudalism had ceased to exist. Calogero Vizzini of Villalba and Genco Russo of Mussomeli had shared enough power in 1943 virtually to hand over western Sicily to the invading American forces, with hardly the loss of a man. Their kind was now extinct, and with them had gone all the traditional godfathers, to be replaced by young men of quite exceptional ferocity, who began their conquest of the towns.

In 1950, at the stroke of a pen, a Sicilian lifestyle came to an end, and in the countryside the change was instant and profound. The old system here had been based upon a vast reserve of labour; now almost overnight the labour market collapsed. There was no one to sow, tend or reap the crops. Agricultural wages doubled, then increased five-fold, but there were still no takers. A few field workers busied themselves with the tiny patches allocated in the reform, but most of them either moved into the towns or went abroad—and they would, never be back.

We had been invited to lunch at the
casa padronale
of Caltavuturo, south of Cefalu, where the land reform had cost our host all but 1,250 acres of his original 5,000, leaving the estate from his point of view no longer a viable proposition. This reverse had been accepted with dignity and good grace. The small fortress provided at least an excellent backdrop for the entertainment of his friends at weekends.

Life in the
casa padronale,
set in the empty magnificence of what might have been a Highland glen, clung to what it could of the style of the past. Power had gone, but its persistent wraith lingered on. A high wall with massive gates enclosed a courtyard in which, when we arrived, a baker was busy at his oven, and servants, formally hatted in eighteenth-century style, cooked an assortment of meats over a great brazier. The servants, led by the major-domo, came forward to shake the hands they would once have kissed. The baroness awaited us at the head of a marble staircase leading to the
piano nobile
then presented us to the guests, all of them speaking perfect English, learned in all probability from Anglo-Saxon governesses. Courtesy titles had been firmly retained.

The talk was of English literature of the nineteenth century, of a croquet lawn it was hoped could be created, and the possibility of introducing fox-hunting in this moorland and scrub environment, so unfavourable, one would have supposed, to the sport. Although the people of the estate had received their 3,750 acres, they had all left, and the heather spread a coverlet over the once-cultivated fields.

Lunch had been based upon a recipe chosen from a selection of British glossies on display, the one medieval touch being that the bread was presented to each guest in turn to be respectfully touched. Strong Sicilian white wine was provided from the vineyard of Conte Tasca D’Almerita, present for the occasion, who announced himself as grandson of Lucio Tasca, deviser of the plan in the late Forties for the ‘tactical utilisation’ of the bandits into a Separatist army. This, it was hoped, would detach Sicily from Italian sovereignty and offer it to the United States. Ironically, the grandson, as he told me, had been captured and held to ransom for some months in a cave by Salvatore Giuliano, most famous bandit of them all. ‘He was extremely polite,’ the count said, ‘and never failed to address me by my title.’ A memory caused him to wince. ‘The food,’ he said, ‘was monotonous.’

Caltavuturo was a quiet place, perhaps a little dull, but in the past excitements had been frequent. A feature of the house was a tower with two storeys. Three embrasures were provided in each room, through which rifles could be pointed at attacking outlaws, who had never succeeded in scaling the wall. Our charming hostess pointed out the six thrushes’ nests, one per embrasure, each having five eggs. The thrushes had become house mascots, inordinately tame. Sometimes in the bad old days, when an attack was imminent, the nests had had to be removed, but this was done with great care, and as soon as the danger was at an end they were replaced. Usually the birds returned.

Sicily, apart from the coastal strip in which its principal towns are located, is fast emptying of its people. The
autostradas,
unrolling their ribbons of concrete across the island from north to south and east to west, are largely devoid of traffic. The monks drift away from the isolated monasteries, and the great feudal houses have lost all purpose. Fields that once produced Europe’s highest yield of wheat are now submerged in gigantic thistles. Only shepherds inhabit this landscape, and if one makes a roadside stop they come scurrying down the mountain slopes to the car, desperate for a moment of relief from their loneliness. Like magicians they draw the new-born lambs from their sleeves, and unburden themselves of pent-up words. ‘Don’t go away,’ they say. ‘Why the hurry? Let’s talk about something.’

Nostalgia still drags at those who have turned their backs on the scenes of their childhood and emigrated to the towns, and at holiday time they swarm out into the country to pay their respects at the shrines beckoning in the background of their lives. For the ex-villagers who have moved into Palermo, the most powerful of such magnets is the great temple of Segesta, and, making their pilgrimage by bus in spring, they deck themselves with red poppies in tribute, it is to be supposed, to the watchful spirits of the place.

The temple awaits them at the top of a steep slope, a ravine at its back. It is colossal and perfect although never finished; seemingly part of the present, since it is untouched by ruin. Here the mystery of antiquity is complete, for nothing remains but contoured fields concealing its foundations, and a theatre on a hilltop a mile away, from which it appears as a bright new child’s toy. It stands in a wide encirclement of mountains, facing an escarpment of white rock, a black cliff launching its falcons over the valley, and, to the south, the dingy pile of Monte Grande. At the end of the day when the crowds have gone, this supreme monument dominates one of the lonely places of the earth.

Back in the grim industrial suburbs after their brief escape to the country, the new townsmen and women, subjected to a turbulent and frequently violent environment, continue stoutly to defend village values. In Brancaccio, where the police barracks have been blown up on two occasions, and last year eight men were killed in a shotgun massacre, a principal concern is for female deportment. Thus lengths of cloth are stretched along balconies to impede the view of feminine legs, and some doors have been modified to resemble those of a stable. These enable housewives to conceal the lower part of their bodies while chatting with neighbours or buying from passing street traders.

Chaos—the word is hardly ever out of Sicilian mouths—reigns in places such as this, subjected to a divided Mafia engaged continually in mutual slaughter over the division of the spoils. In nearby Bagheria the death toll among contending factions amounted to fifteen in just twelve months. More important to many onlookers is the demolition of this enchanting seaside town—once a showpiece of baroque architecture—by illicit Mafia property development. Bagheria, favoured resort of the eighteenth-century nobility—who threw money to the wind in construction of fanciful palaces—has been buried under concrete. Only the eccentric and exuberant Palazzo Palagonia, with sixty-two ceramic monsters ranged along its surrounding wall, remains intact—and this is certain to go.

In the opinion of many Sicilian experts, the Mafia, with its close and fatal involvement in politics and high finance, cannot be defeated in the foreseeable future. Current tactical problems in the struggle arise from an internecine war resulting in the destruction of strong bosses, and leaving power vacuums to be filled. A case in point is the tragic history in recent years of the town of Alcamo, about forty miles from Palermo, following the sudden death of eight out of nine members of the Riina family, an outstandingly successful firm supplying one-sixth of the US consumption of heroin, besides being a major clandestine exporter of arms to the Middle East. Their elimination following orders from a prison cell in Termini Imerese was a catastrophe for the citizenry, who lived comfortably, more or less as the people of Corleone do now, under nominal overlords who ran their profitable affairs and left them in peace. Anarchy followed the Riina collapse. Those who sought to replace them lacked the capital to take over their businesses and, in order to raise this, have devised a system of protection rackets from which there is no way of escape. An innovatory technique has compelled the banks to hand over their files, and on incomes thus revealed a percentage is levied. Resistants quickly change their minds when their cars or houses go up in flames. Farmers are brought to heel by the loss of valuable agricultural machinery. Since the police no longer count in a situation like this, the unfortunate people of Alcamo can only pray for a return of the old Riina-style stability. Organised crime has now spread to most towns on the island. Nevertheless, bright spots remain amidst the encircling gloom, and Mondello, a pretty seaside town fifteen miles to the west of Palermo, is one of these. It is saturated with calm, family pleasures. Villas with absurd turrets and fake-antique fountains spouting water from grotesque mouths line a promenade along which carriages dawdle under the palms’ spiky shade. Taped Neapolitan music wails in the cafes where customers sit through the day demolishing sculpted ice-cream; corpulent fathers, their trousers rolled up, net tiny fish in the shallows.

Soon after our arrival here on an evening in early autumn, a wedding party came on the scene. The theatrical setting of the Mondello waterfront is much favoured for the ritual photography following the church ceremony, staged in surroundings such as this, as my friend put it, ‘to commemorate the event in the public eye’. The quay was instantly transformed into a stage upon which the bride glided on her father’s arm. A corps of photographers were at work in the background, moving a Rolls-Royce here and a boat there, in preparation for an instant of extreme luminosity following sunset, when the division vanishes between sea and sky and a lively refulgence touches every cheek. The wedding group formed, and as if at the touch of a single switch, the lights came on all round the bay. There was a soft, crowd-produced gasp of appreciation, the cameras flashed and the audience put down their ice-cream spoons and clapped.

Almost certainly among this gathering would have been Sicilians now living in the States, who had flown over to take part in the feast of the ‘Sainted Physicians’, Cosima and Damiano, celebrated three miles down the coast at Sferracavallo. Their engagement is a strenuous one, for they join a group of about a hundred who carry the enormously heavy platform supporting the figures of the saints in a rapid, jogging promenade for hours on end up and down the streets of the village. In the course of this, as one devotee after another collapses from fatigue, another rushes to take his place. With every year that passes, the Sainted Physicians draw greater crowds, and the American contingent increases. What is extraordinary is that Cosima and Damiano have no history, and no one knows what this wild annual scamper through the streets is really all about.

If nothing else, it demonstrates the huge and often increasing strength of custom. A Bostonian participant, in Sferracavallo for two days, told a reporter: ‘I suffer from depression. Most years I come over and do this, and that does the trick for a while. If I can’t get away I phone in and listen to the music, which is better than nothing.’ It is this stubborn traditionalism, this inextinguishable respect for the comfortable values of the past, that may provide a last-ditch defence in Sicily against the encroaching ugliness of our age.