The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
21
sardonically as he turned from the window to watch the scene in the room for the first 
time. 
Don Corleone rose from behind the desk. His face was still impassive but his voice rang 
like cold death. “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 spurned 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, there were courts of law, you and yours could come to no 
harm. You did not need Don Corleone. Very well. My feelings were wounded but I am 
not that sort of person why thrusts his friendship on those who do not value it– on those 
who think me of little account.” The Don paused and gave the undertaker a polite, ironic 
smile. “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”–here the Don’s 
voice became a scornful mimicry–” ‘I will pay you anything.’ No, no, I am not offended, 
but what have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?” 
Bonasera cried out in his anguish and his fear, “America has been good to me. I wanted 
to be a good citizen. I wanted my child to be American.” 
The Don clapped his hands together with decisive approval. “Well spoken. Very fine. 
Then you have nothing to complain about. The judge has ruled. America has ruled. 
Bring your daughter flowers and a box of candy when you go visit her in the hospital. 
That will comfort her. Be content. After all, this is not a serious affair, the boys were 
young, high-spirited, and one of them is the son of a powerful politician. No, my dear 
Amerigo, you have always been honest. I must admit, though you spurned my 
friendship, that I would trust the given word of Amerigo Bonasera more than I would any 
other man’s. So give me your word that you will put aside this madness. It is not 
American. Forgive. Forget. Life is full of misfortunes.” 
The cruel and contemptuous irony with which all this was said, the controlled anger of 

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