The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
150
sounded like. He had smashed the master record and refused to sing anymore. He was 
so ashamed that he had not sung a note except with Nino at Connie Corleone’s 
wedding. 
He had never forgotten the look on Ginny’s face when she found out about all his 
misfortunes. It had passed over her face only for a second but that was enough for him 
never to forget it. It was a look of savage and joyful satisfaction. It was a look that could 
only make him believe that she had contemptuously hated him all these years. She 
quickly recovered and offered him cool but polite sympathy. He had pretended to accept 
it. During the next few days he had gone to see three of the girls he had liked the most 
over the years, girls he had remained friends with and sometimes still slept with in a 
comradely way, girls that he had done everything in his power to help, girls to whom he 
had given the equivalent of hundreds of thousands of dollars in gifts or job opportunities. 
On their faces he had caught that same fleeting look of savage satisfaction. 
It was during that time that he knew he had to make a decision. He could become like a 
great many other men in Hollywood, successful producers, writers, directors, actors, 
who preyed on beautiful women with lustful hatred. He could use power and monetary 
favors grudgingly, always alert for treason, always believing that women would betray 
and desert him, adversaries to be bested. Or he could refuse to hate women and 
continue to believe in them. 
He knew he could not afford not to love them, that something of his spirit would die if he 
did not continue to love women no matter how treacherous and unfaithful they were. It 
didn’t matter that the women he loved most in the world were secretly glad to see him 
crushed, humiliated, by a wayward fortune; it did not matter that in the most awful way, 
not sexually, they had been unfaithful to him. He had no choice. He had to accept them. 
And so he made love to all of them, gave them presents, hid the hurt their enjoyment of 
his misfortunes gave him. He forgave them knowing he was being paid back for having 
lived in the utmost freedom from women and in the fullest flush of their favor. But now 
he never felt guilty about being untrue to them. He never felt guilty about how he treated 
Ginny, insisting on remaining the sole father of his children, yet never even considering 
remarrying her, and letting her know that too. That was one thing he had salvaged out of 
his fall from the top. He had grown a thick skin about the hurts he gave women. 
He was tired and ready for bed but one note of memory stuck with him: singing with 
Nino Valenti. And suddenly he knew what would please Don Corleone more than 
anything else. He picked up the phone and told the operator to get him New York. He 

---