THE SICILIAN TRAITOR: "YOU THAT CHOOSE NOT BY THE VIEW"
The prisoner had never taken his eyes from the Parmesan's face. Their
hope was so cruel that it might have been fear, instead. If, from the
world of responsibility, the girl's name penetrated to him with any
meaning he gave no sign. The same animal concentration abode in his
close stare.
But the new anxiety at once affected the meeting. Only Mr. Gumama,
resenting this intrusion, shrugged, snubbingly. "Clever youth, there is
a plan for her, wholly good. When the Signora Alieni expected her
American lover to travel with her she could not take with her his
betrothed--it would not have been seemly! So Nicola sends her to-night
with the gang of Roselli, which is soon, too, sailing for Brazil. There
they must restore her to himself. He knows not he will not sail. Very
well. She is slight but she is fair. She will do well for the Rosellis
in Brazil."
"I do not--pardon!--I do not think of the Rosellis. What will she do for
us?"
"In Brazil? If she were a danger even there would not the Signora Alieni
have destroyed that danger?"
"The Signora Alieni has never done such work--she has no practice.
Moreover, be sure she fears what Nicola feared in the beginning--the
curse of his mother!"
A voice remarked, "His mother is ugly and old. If she should die she
could not curse."
"True. But we are busy."
Beppo began to exclaim, "It is too bad! Time after time have I asked for
her! I, too, love her and could be happy. And I need them like her every
day! Why should she be sent to Brazil? I never have anything!" He
stamped with rage and his nose began to bleed again.
Other young ricondeterros, complaining of the dearth of blondes, began
to protest against Brazil. The Parmesan looked at Mr. Gumama with a
smile. "Is she not a firebrand, eh? She who is so sought by the police,
is it to the police she shall tell her story?"
Brushing the Parmesan aside the capo insisted, "She is not of our
nation. It is against the custom. It is a greater danger than she is.
Even if she should meet, so far away, with men of the Americans, what
does she know?"
The Parmesan, now visibly measuring strength with Mr. Gumama, responded
merely, "What is it, Beppo?"
Beppo, past the handkerchief he ostentatiously held to his nose, cried
out, "She knows everything!" As this won him the center of the stage he
proceeded in a series of sniffling shrieks, "I will tell you! I am the
cousin of Nicola. I am the friend of their house. I play much with Maria
but I watch and listen. Attention! She knows all, all, all! She seemed
at first wrapped in the love of the basista. They slept side by side.
She made a promise to ask, of her own accord, for sleep; but then she is
ill and when she is well again she has some notion and she will
not--why? Because she wills to tell all she knows! She, too, has watched
and listened! She knows my name--and yours, Giuseppe Gumama! Under her
red hair she carries death for you, Antonelli! And for you--and you--and
you!"
The meeting was on its feet, swaying with passion and fear and
gesticulating, with congenial resolution, "I demand the suppression--"
"I, too!"
"And I!"
"And I!"
"I demand the suppression of Mees Cornees!"
The capo's authority was shaken in a paranza which was a paranza no
longer. Obedience was not what it had been in the Arm of Justice.
"Hands of the Arm," Beppo adjured, "is she not now at our meeting-place?
Knows she not that? Did the basista conceal when Nicola was made a capo
in the Honorable Society? Knows she not that? Oh, friends of my blood,
can she not tell _that name_? By the body of Bacchus, I see her in my
dreams! There is a shower of gold about her! If she is not for me, do
not give her to the Rosellis--let her sleep!"
The meeting echoed, in one soft whisper of satisfaction, "Let her
sleep!"
"S-s-ssh!" said Mr. Gumama.
He said it instinctively, glancing toward the scuttle. But he realized
that the precedent of dealing solely with his own nation must now be set
aside; he heard the people's voice. Alas, he had also to baulk it of its
Duel by Wine.
"Let it be so. Firenzi, you will suppress the traitor and deliver him to
the wharf. Choose two apprentices to help you with the barrel. Pachotto,
you will take Beppo and the brother of Antonelli's wife and proceed to
our old meeting-place. When you have suppressed the girl Cornees bring
back her token."
"Sir," the Parmesan again coolingly corrected, "Nicola has still with
him some of his men and the Rosellis. There is but one man who, without
suspicion, can reach past these to the little Cornees.--Alieni o'
n'infama," he pleasantly repeated, "would you do this to remain awake?"
The prisoner felt himself quiver as though he had been struck. He could
not control the hope which was almost a sickness that rose in him at
these words. He heard the popular cry surge up against him, hissing and
protesting; Firenzi and Pachotto were the most horribly excited for he
and they were the only persons in the room not having a good time. His
quick glances, furtive and secret, ran questing among the lips that
condemned him; when he lifted them to his questioner the sharp intake of
his breath promised his soul away. But Mr. Gumama turned upon the
Parmesan and told him that he forgot himself.
"Ah, sir, in private a word. Alieni, does he speak English?" He broke
his beautiful Italian into a strange sound. "Spik Inglese, Alieni?"
The prisoner, trembling to oblige, responded in the same dialect,
"Unstan' Inglese!"
It did not oblige--the Parmesan frowned. "Unstan' Inglese verra goood?"
He coaxed, winningly, hoping for a denial.
Now the prisoner, though he understood English perfectly, was no fool
and could see a possible weapon when it was put into his hand. "I
deplore!" said he, shrugging sadly. "Heartseek! Unstan' notta mooch!"
And he tried not to vibrate with greed of what they should say.
"Va bene! Spik Inglese, us! Spik low! Oh, Gumama, let heem put da girl
to slip--heem! Let heem tak' for token--Whatta she wear?" he asked
Beppo.
Beppo considered and then pointed to the gold bracelet under the old
Sicilian cuff. "But silvere!" He lapsed into Italian. The girl had had
three silver trinkets--a ring, a locket, a bracelet. Nicola had taken
the locket, the ring she had lost. "It ees time she loosa da t'ird!"
grinned the Parmesan. "Ssh! He ees leesten!" Their voices sank to a
whisper. Inordinately acute though his senses always were the prisoner
could no longer understand a syllable.
"I go weeth Beppo an' Chigi. Let heem settle da girl an' tak' her
token. Den _we_ settle heem an' tak' botta tokens! Tak' dem to capo in
testa for show extrra gooda faith in nama da Arma of Zhoostees. Den
Honorrahble Soceeata embrass us! We done gooda!" He inhaled with languid
elegance and returned to the world a ring of cigarette smoke.
Still the prisoner could not catch a word. The decision hung fire. The
protesting roar surged louder and louder and the cries of Pachotto and
Firenzi became tiger cries. Mr. Gumama suddenly called to order. He had
found a way to satisfy the Parmesan and yet to maintain his supremacy.
"This meeting promised Firenzi and Pachotto a chance of mercy and a
chance of service. This meeting keeps its word. The chance is to be now.
But for Alieni, also. Do not rebel. They were to enter on the Duel by
Wine. But for the Duel by Wine the basista Alieni has sent us three
cups. Why should not the prisoner Alieni play at the game of his wife?"
He had turned the tide. Their craving for games of chance, always
temporarily stronger than fear, anger or duty, flared into high fire.
Again was Mr. Gumama the popular man. Even on the prisoner smiles were
lavished. And still for some crevice of safety, as if in every muscle of
their faces, his eyes sought.
The meeting got happily to work, like a good child. It brought forth a
dice-box and dice, a bottle of wine and, wrapped in a colored
handkerchief, two triangular knives. In that musical neighborhood
another hand-organ had long since followed the first; "The Wearing of
the Green," which had made melodious the Parmesan's battle, now gave way
to the Tales of Hoffman and the Barcarolle, a rhythm that swayed in
every busy motion and humming tongue as the prisoner watched the table
cleared and the painted jugs set forth. Mrs. Pascoe was called up to
fetch a lantern; as she withdrew all three prisoners were faced toward
the wall; Mr. Gumama took a twist of paper from his pocket, shielded it
from view, and dropped a tablet from it into each of two jugs. Then he
filled them all with wine. The prisoners were turned round again.
"Alieni o' n'infama," called the Parmesan, blithely, "you are very much
afraid!"
He knew it and sank his head on his breast.
"Cowards play well. They grow brave from fear. You will be desperate."
The young fellow shuddered. But he tried to keep his head clear.
"Cheer up, traditore! It is true our haste but sentenced you to the
knife and the knife is quick. But do you not choose to risk a few drops
and die wriggling--when, if you are lucky, you may live? When you have
but to strike, afterwards, a little soft blow to make your peace!" The
Parmesan, snatching up a triangular knife and, despite the remonstrances
of Mr. Gumama, one of the jugs, thrust them jocularly under the
prisoner's nose.
The tormented fellow, with an uncontrollable gasp that spilled the wine,
bent and kissed the jug. A burst of childish applause approved his
enthusiasm. A dank moisture of relief broke out upon him. At least they
saw that he was resolved and would not fear to let him try. What was
coming?
The meeting had formed into a circle as for a cock fight. He, Firenzi
and Pachotto and the table with the dice and wine were in the center.
The silent circle devoured him with applauding, encouraging glances. He
was horribly aware of the two other men, larger, heavier, perhaps
therefore luckier--the bigger the build, he had thought before, the
greater the luck!--They were all too still! What were they going to make
him do now?
Mr. Gumama himself took down a strap from the wall and tested its
strength.
"Firenzi, then you, Pachotto, then you, Alieni, you will appeal to the
dice. He who throws highest will have first choice of the jugs. Of the
three who drink, one will live. It will take some time to settle this.
The meeting will disperse, but a committee will return. The man whom
they find alive will go with Beppo and Chigi and you, Pepe, to our
meeting-place and put to sleep that girl. Those not surviving will be
signed with our sign--but only one thrust for each paranza of this
district.--Filippi Alieni, what is the matter with you? You show no
feeling at what I say!"
For all his brilliant, questioning eyes, it was true he looked extremely
blank; his expression too often merely followed theirs with an opposite.
"Well, there must always be a first time. It is true, Alieni, is it not
so, that you have never suppressed a life?"
There are bitternesses which fear cannot quench. Having no free hand to
beat his breast he turned his head with restless passion from side to
side and in a high, shrill, wild desolation, a Latin sweetness of
hysteria roughened by his grinding laugh, he cried aloud, "Mea culpa,
mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!"
"There is no need for irreverence!" exclaimed Mr. Gumama, scandalized.
"That is all. Loose their bonds."
Firenzi and Pachotto ran to examine the jugs, voting simultaneously for
the immunity of the golden scales--what others? So that the first choice
would be all important. But the third prisoner had given his last flash.
He dropped his shivering face and hid it in his hands.
"Sit!"
They dropped beside the table.
"Swear obedience to the decree of Fate!"
All three laid a hand on the crossed triangular knives. Mr. Gumama
purposed the oath. "Filippi Alieni, your lips shake so that you do not
repeat distinctly. Say, I swear!"
"I swear!"
"Rise!"
"Firenzi, make your appeal."
Firenzi started forward on a rush. But after a step or two he halted,
glared about him as if just waking up, and then went forward, sagging
like a drunkard. Arrived at the table he crossed himself, shook the
dice, and, whimpering, fell on his knees. His shaking hand crawled along
the table, groping for the dice-box and lifted it. The crowd, straining
in upon him, buzzed. For the number was moderate. He had thrown a three
and a two. And kneeled there, blubbering. The courage of the Honorable
Society does not remain fast in all washes.
"Pachotto, make the appeal."
He, too, started with bravado; he was perhaps half way across when they
had to catch and drag him forward. He threw wild and they had to support
his wrist. Even so one die fell underneath the edge of the saucer in
which the box had stood. That in view was another two-spot. If, however,
that under the saucer were even a four he was ahead in the throw. They
moved the saucer--the die was a five. Pachotto leaped in the air with
triumph--Firenzi, yellow and cursing, tried to fold his arms. Frightful
sounds issued from his throat, upon which the cords stood out.
"Alieni, you will make the appeal."
He who had been a gentleman drew himself together and came slowly
forward. He was now the darling of the crowd. But he did not guess that;
he came of a superstitious tribe and to him, too, it seemed important to
win from the start. His soul trembled, but steadily and softly he stole
to the table. Now he was arrived, looking down, one concentrated
apprehension, on his fate. Lifting the dice-box he once more threw out
his bright suspicious glance into the crowding faces. "Whatever gods
there be!"--he threw the dice. Over these he bent with a sort of sweep
and then, uttering a sharp hiss, sprang up like a jack-knife. The crowd
swayed, yelped and shivered with amusement into a triumphing crow. He
had thrown two sixes. Pachotto uttered a piercing yell and fell on his
stomach in a dead faint.
"Filippi Alieni, of the jugs you have the first choice."
He stood as if nothing had happened. He had suddenly realized that his
situation was really more terrible than ever. Watching, watching, he
could descry no help. None of those alert, elated faces had a hint in
it, not a congratulating hand pointed toward the fateful jug. He
moistened his lips and looked mechanically at the dice which had thrown
him this choice. But the dice, too, were dumb. Then, at last, he looked
at the jugs.
There was the red design, the white and the green. His hand crept up and
touched the chord at his throat. Scarlet was her favorite! But did she
know? White--there was no luck in white. Green, the color of hope! Of
resurrection! Yes, but to be resurrected one must first die! Red, again,
was blood-color--but there was blood at every turn! Whose blood did this
stand for--whose? Ah, yes, the scales--the scales were different! Gold,
silver, and gray! The scales were very little, so it was they that held
the secret! Silver, gray and gold! Why gray? Silver--hadn't he heard
them whispering about silver? Why, there were some words--He dropped to
the ground with the jug, leaning on the table and pressing the scrolled
legend to the lantern.--Silver pays! Pays whom? Pays what? Oh, God, to
understand! What was the other--gold? He was panting--his breath smeared
the glass of the lantern. It was dry and cut his lips like grass-blades!
Yet he reeked with cold sweat, it was running into his mouth! He wiped
the glass clear with one cuff. Steady! Take care! Can't you read, you
fool! Gold buys. Oh, heaven, what would it buy here? Life--freedom--what
else would anybody buy? What was the sense of it, if it meant anything
else? But it might be a lie! "She's a natcherul-born devil." It was a
lie she would delight in! One chance! One! Everything on it--everything!
Never to leave here--to die here--here, where no one would ever know!
Without doing what he had secretly meant to do, without ever having
lifted a hand--to die in torment, squirming on the floor like a rat with
torn bowels--There was one other jug. Gray--what a color!
Ghost-color--was that what she meant? Lead slays! But, once more, slays
whom? Lead slays--lead--lead--Lead!
A change passed over him. He became very still. Then, shaking with
suppressed eagerness, he got slowly to his feet. He put his dense hair
back from his eyes. And those eyes, hypnotized by the little jug with
its gray scales, never left it; drinking it up before he could raise it
to his lips. His mouth gaped for it with hanging jaw. He raised it in
hands that gradually steadied and then over its brim, he gave the faces
that fawned in upon him, breathless, one last look.--"He has chosen!"
They might be less than human, but he and they were still living
creatures; and, in ten minutes, what would he be? Beyond them were dusky
walls, built by human hands, chairs, a bureau, lithographs, all the warm
furnishings of life; windows into the world, into the swarming,
chattering streets where the lamps began to glow, while from round the
corner came the clang of trolley-cars; whistles, calls, footsteps, were
in his ears, laughter above the crash of wheels,
"Give my regards to Broadway--"
That was the hand-organ, tired of opera and getting down to business;
"Remember me to Herald Square--"
It filled the whole room! A lighted train swept by; he could see the
faces of people reading evening papers, people who complained at
hanging on to straps! The roar of it was familiar and dear as a beloved
voice at home but it passed and left him quite alone.
"Tell all the boys on Forty-second Street
That I will soon be there!"
--"Choose, Alieni, choose! Drink! Drink!"
Everything passed from his eyes. He was blind as before he was born.
Then his mouth was in the wine; he drank it to the last drop; the jug,
with a clatter that he heard perfectly but no longer understood, rolled
at his feet. "E fatto!" said he, in a low, clear voice. "E fatto--it is
done!" And his face dropped into his hands.
The meeting came about him but he did not know it. Around one wrist a
strap was buckled and the strap's other end nailed to the table so that
the death-agonies might not wander too far. A like precaution was taken
with the other men when they had drunk. He did not notice it. He looked
at the floor. Firenzi, upon whom chance had forced the silver scales,
gave a horrible sound of retching and slid from his stool, the strap
holding his arm. A quiver passed through the body of the first drinker,
but he would not look. The meeting picked up its lantern and
trooped--rather reluctantly but leaving the hatch open--chattering down
the steps. The hands of the Arm dismissed Mrs. Pascoe, fetched some more
wine, cut some tobacco and sat down to the business of making bets while
they waited. He did not miss them.
He, too, waited.
Twenty minutes later, in the darkness, the loft was quite still. Two
bodies, horribly contorted, lay straining on their straps. The rigor of
death was already settling upon those convulsive heaps. The faint
squares of the windows made a kind of glimmer by which it was possible
to discern a pale face, a slight figure; this leaned against the table,
which it clutched with hands of steel. He who had trusted to the leaden
scales had trusted well.
In that darkness, in that silence, through that horror of squalid death
which had not been silent, he had shed the rags of his hysteria and had
caught again the concentration, the keenness, the readiness of that
moment when Mrs. Pascoe had called on him to be a man. But what did he
see in those empty shadows, and for what did he nerve himself? The
figure there at the table was desperate, but it was very slight, and at
the end of no road--valor nor cowardice nor vengeance--could he see
escape. They were all blocked, those roads, the program too close built
and every knot too tightly tied. Whatever he might wish, there was but
one thing he could do. A knife was to be put into his hand and he had no
choice except to strike. After all that had passed it was perhaps even
with eagerness that silently, alone among those shadows, he embraced his
fate.
A stir began to rise from below; the men down in the garage were coming
to pack the barrel. He heard the mounting footstep of his guard, ready
to convey him to the secret meeting-place of the Arm of Justice; along
that road where it should deal with him, when he had dealt with Nancy
Cornish.