The Godfather / Крестный отец. Марио Пьюзо

my fortune. I gave my daughter her freedom and yet taught her never to dishonor her family. She found a ‘boy friend’, not an Italian. She went to the movies with him. She stayed out late. But he never came to meet her parents. I accepted all this without a protest, the fault is mine. Two months ago he took her for a drive. He had a friend with him. They made her drink whiskey and then they tried to take advantage of her. She resisted. She kept her honor. They beat her. Like an animal. When I went to the hospital she had two black eyes. Her nose was broken. Her jaw was shattered. They had to wire it together. She wept through her pain. ‘Father, Father, why did they do it? Why did they do this to me?’ And I wept.” Bonasera could not speak further, he was weeping now though his voice had not shown his emotion.

      “I went to the police like a good American. The two boys were arrested. They were brought to trial. The evidence was overwhelming and they pleaded guilty.[34] The judge sentenced them to three years in prison and suspended the sentence. They went free that very day. I stood in the courtroom like a fool and those bastards smiled at me. And then I said to my wife: ‘We must go to Don Corleone for justice.’”

      The Don had bowed his head to show respect for the man’s grief. But when he spoke, the words were cold. “Why did you go to the police? Why didn’t you come to me at the beginning of this afaf ir?”

      Bonasera muttered, “What do you want of me? Tell me what you wish. But do what I beg you to do.”

      Don Corleone said gravely, “And what is that?”

      Bonasera hesitated, then bent down and put his lips so close to the Don’s ear that they touched. Don Corleone listened like a priest in the confessional. They stood so for a long moment until Bonasera finished whispering and straightened to his full height. The Don looked up gravely at Bonasera.

      Finally the Don spoke. “That I cannot do. You are being carried away.[35]”

      Bonasera said loudly, clearly, “I will pay you anything you ask.”

      Don Corleone rose from behind the desk. His face was still impassive. “We have known each other many years, you and I,” he said to the undertaker, “but until this day you never came to me for counsel or help. I can’t remember the last time you invited me to your house for coffee though my wife is godmother to your only child. Let us be frank. You rejected my friendship. You feared to be in my debt.”

      Bonasera murmured, “I didn’t want to get into trouble.”

      The Don held up his hand. “No. Don’t speak. You found America a paradise. You had a good trade, you made a good living, you thought the world a harmless place where you could take your pleasure as you willed. You never armed yourself with true friends. After all, the police guarded you. You did not need Don Corleone. Very well. But now you come to me and say, ‘Don Corleone give me justice.’ And you do not ask with respect. You do not offer me your friendship. You come into my home on the bridal day of my daughter and you ask me to do murder and you say ‘I will pay you anything.’ No, no, I am not offended, but what have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?”

      The irony with which all this was said, the controlled anger of the Don depressed the undertaker, but he spoke up bravely again. “I ask you for justice.”

      Don Corleone said shortly, “The court gave you justice.”

      Bonasera shook his head stubbornly. “No. They gave the youths justice. Now I want an eye for an eye. Let them suffer as she suffers.” The Don waited for him to speak further. Bonasera said, “How much shall I pay you?”

      Finally, a good-hearted man who cannot remain angry with an erring friend, Don Corleone turned to the undertaker. “If you had come to me for justice those scum who ruined your daughter would be weeping bitter tears this day.”

      Bonasera bowed his head and murmured, “Be my friend. I accept.”

      Don Corleone put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Good,” he said, “you shall have your justice. Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do me a service in return. Until that day, consider this justice a gift from my wife, your daughter’s godmother.”

      When the door closed behind the grateful undertaker, Don Corleone turned to Hagen and said, “Give this afaf ir to Clemenza and tell him to be sure to use reliable people, people who will not be carried away by the smell of blood. After all, we’re not murderers.”

      From the garden, there came a happy shout. Sonny Corleone pressed close to the window. “It’s Johnny, he came to the wedding, what did I tell you?” Hagen moved to the window. “It’s really your godson,” he said to Don Corleone. “Shall I bring him here?”

      “No,” the Don said. “Let the people enjoy him. Let him come to me when he is ready.” He smiled at Hagen. “You see? He is a good godson.”

      Hagen felt jealous. He said dryly, “It’s been two years. He’s probably in trouble again and wants you to help.”

      “And who should he come to if not his godfather?” asked Don Corleone.

      The first one to see Johnny Fontane enter the garden was Connie Corleone. He hugged and kissed her keeping his arm around her as others came up to greet him. They were all his old friends, people he had grown up with. Then Connie was dragging him to her new husband. Johnny saw that the blond young man looked a little sour at no longer being the star of the day.

      A familiar voice called from the bandstand, “How about giving us a song, Johnny?” He looked up and saw Nino Valenti smiling down at him. Johnny Fontane jumped up on the bandstand and threw his arms around Nino. They had been inseparable, singing together, going out with girls together, until Johnny had started to become famous and sing on the radio. When he had gone to Hollywood to make movies Johnny had phoned Nino a couple of times just to talk and had promised to get him a club singing date. But he had never done so. Seeing Nino now, his cheerful, drunken grin, all the affection returned.

      Nino began playing on the mandolin. Johnny Fontane put his hand on Nino’s shoulder. “This is for the bride,” he said and sang the words to an obscene Sicilian love song. At the end the guests would not stop applauding until Johnny cleared his throat to sing another song.

      They were all proud of him. He was of them and he had become a famous singer, a movie star who slept with the most desired women in the world. And yet he had shown proper respect for his Godfather by traveling three thousand miles to attend this wedding.

      Only Don Corleone, standing in the corner entrance of the house, sensed something amiss. Cheerily, he called out, “My godson has come three thousand miles to do us honor and no one thinks to wet his throat?” At once a dozen full wineglasses were thrust at Johnny Fontane. He took a sip from all and rushed to embrace his Godfather. As he did so he whispered something into the older man’s ear. Don Corleone led him into the house.

      Tom Hagen held out his hand when Johnny came into the room. Johnny shook it and said, “How are you, Tom?” But without his usual charm and Hagen was a little hurt by this coolness. Johnny Fontane said to the Don, “When I got the wedding invitation I said to myself, ‘My Godfather isn’t mad at me anymore.’ I called you five times after my divorce and Tom always told me you were out or busy so I knew you were sore.”

      Don Corleone was filling glasses from the yellow bottle of Strega. “That’s all forgotten. Now. Can I do something for you still? You’re not too famous, too rich, that I can’t help you?”

      Johnny drank the yellow liquid and held out his glass to be refilled. He tried to sound jaunty. “I’m not rich,

      Godfather. I’m going down. You were right. I should never have

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