The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
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bereaved family came at night to receive their blood relatives and their friends beside 
the coffin of their loved one, they needed Amerigo Bonasera with them. 
For he was a strict chaperone to death. His face always grave, yet strong and 
comforting, his voice unwavering, yet muted to a low register, he commanded the 
mourning ritual. He could quiet grief that was too unseemly, he could rebuke unruly 
children whose parents had not the heart to chastise. Never cloying in the tender of his 
condolences, yet never was he offhand. Once a family used Amerigo Bonasera to 
speed a loved one on, they came back to him again and again. And he never, never, 
deserted one of his clients on that terrible last night above ground. 
Usually he allowed himself a little nap after supper. Then he washed and shaved afresh, 
talcum powder generously used to shroud the heavy black beard. A mouthwash always. 
He respectfully changed into fresh linen, white gleaming shirt, the black tie, a freshly 
pressed dark suit, dull black shoes and black socks. And yet the effect was comforting 
instead of somber. He also kept his hair dyed black, an unheard-of frivolity in an Italian 
male of his generation; but not out of vanity. Simply because his hair had turned a lively 
pepper and salt, a color which struck him as unseemly for his profession. 
After he finished his soup, his wife placed a small steak before him with a few forkfuls of 
green spinach oozing yellow oil. He was a light eater. When he finished this he drank a 
cup of coffee and smoked another Camel cigarette. Over his coffee he thought about his 
poor daughter. She would never be the same. Her outward beauty had been restored 
but there was the look of a frightened animal in her eyes that had made him unable to 
bear the sight of her. And so they had sent her to live in Boston for a time. Time would 
heal her wounds. Pain and terror was not so final as death, as he well knew. His work 
made him an optimist. 
He had just finished the coffee when his phone in the living room rang. His wife never 
answered it when he was home, so he got up and drained his cup and stubbed out his 
cigarette. As he walked to the phone he pulled off his tie and started to unbutton his 
shirt, getting ready for his little nap. Then he picked up the phone and said with quiet 
courtesy, “Hello.” 
The voice on the other end was harsh, strained. “This is Tom Hagen,” it said. “I’m calling 
for Don Corleone, at his request.” 
Amerigo Bonasera felt the coffee churning sourly in his stomach, felt himself going a 
little sick. It was more than a year since he had put himself in the debt of the Don to 

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