The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
35
of acknowledgment and she stared at him with frank invitation. He filed her away for 
future reference, then followed the others into the sick man’s room. 
Genco Abbandando had run a long race with death, and now, vanquished, he lay 
exhausted on the raised bed. He was wasted away to no more than a skeleton, and 
what had once been vigorous black hair had turned into obscene stringy wisps. Don 
Corleone said cheerily, “Genco, dear friend, I have brought my sons to pay their 
respects, and look, even Johnny, all the way from Hollywood.” 
The dying man raised his fevered eyes gratefully to the Don. He let the young men clasp 
his bony hand in their fleshy ones. His wife and daughters ranged themselves along his 
bed, kissing his cheek, taking his other hand in turn. 
The Don pressed his old friend’s hand. He said comfortingly, “Hurry up and get better 
and we’ll take a trip back to Italy together to our old village. We’ll play boccie in front of 
the wineshop like our fathers before us.” 
The dying man shook his head. He motioned the young men and his family away from 
his bedside; with the other bony claw he hung fast to the Don. He tried to speak. The 
Don put his head down and then sat on the bedside chair. Genco Abbandando was 
babbling about their childhood. Then his coal-black eyes became sly. He whispered. 
The Don bent closer. The others in the room were astonished to see tears running down 
Don Corleone’s face as he shook his head. The quavering voice grew louder, filling the 
room. With a tortured, superhuman effort, Abbandando lifted his head off his pillow, 
eyes unseeing, and pointed a skeletal forefinger at the Don. “Godfather, Godfather,” he 
called out blindly, “save me from death, I beg of you. My flesh is burning off my bones 
and I can feel the worms eating away my brain. Godfather, cure me, you have the 
power, dry the tears of my poor wife. In Corleone we played together as children and 
now will you let me die when I fear hell for my sins?” 
The Don was silent. Abbandando said, “It is your daughter’s wedding day, you cannot 
refuse me.” 
The Don spoke quietly, gravely, to pierce through the blasphemous delirium. “Old 
friend,” he said, “I have no such powers. If I did I would be more merciful than God, 
believe me. But don’t fear death and don’t fear hell. I will have a mass said for your soul 
every night and every morning. Your wife and your children will pray for you. How can 
God punish you with so many pleas for mercy?” 
The skeleton face took on a cunning expression that was obscene. Abbandanda said 

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