The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
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Rather, he lives in his village and at sunrise begins his voyage out to work in distant 
fields, a commuter on foot. A worker who arrived at his pagliaio and found it looted was 
an injured man indeed. The bread was taken out of his mouth for that day. The Mafia, 
after the law proved helpless, took this interest of the peasant under its protection and 
solved the problem in typical fashion. It hunted down and slaughtered all pagliaio 
thieves. It was inevitable that some innocents suffered. It was possible that if Michael 
wandered past a pagliaio that had just been looted he might be adjudged the criminal 
unless he had somebody to vouch for him. 
So on one sunny morning he started hiking across the fields followed by his two faithful 
shepherds. One of them was a plain simple fellow, almost moronic, silent as the dead 
and with a face as impassive as an Indian. He had the wiry small build of the typical 
Sicilian before they ran to the fat of middle age. His name was Calo. 
The other shepherd was more outgoing, younger, and had seen something of the world. 
Mostly oceans, since he had been a sailor in the Italian navy during the war and had just 
had time enough to get himself tattooed before his ship was sunk and he was captured 
by the British. But the tattoo made him a famous man in his village. Sicilians do not often 
let themselves be tattooed, they do not have the opportunity nor the inclination. (The 
shepherd, Fabrizzio, had done so primarily to cover a splotchy red birthmark on his 
belly.) And yet the Mafia market carts had gaily painted scenes on their sides, beautifully 
primitive paintings done with loving care. In any case, Fabrizzio, back is his native 
village, was not too proud of that tattoo on his chest, though it showed a subject dear to 
the Sicilian “honor,” a husband stabbing a naked man and woman entwined together on 
the hairy floor of his belly. Fabrizzio would joke with Michael and ask questions about 
America, for of course it was impossible to keep them in the dark about his true 
nationality. Still, they did not know exactly who he was except that he was in hiding and 
there could be no babbling about him. Fabrizzio sometimes brought Michael a fresh 
cheese still sweating the milk that formed it. 
They walked along dusty country roads passing donkeys pulling gaily painted carts. The 
land was filled with pink flowers, orange orchards, groves of almond and olive trees, all 
blooming. That had been one of the surprises. Michael had expected a barren land 
because of the legendary poverty of Sicilians. And yet he had found it a land of gushing 
plenty, carpeted with flowers scented by lemon blossoms. It was so beautiful that he 
wondered how its people could bear to leave it. How terrible man had been to his fellow 
man could be measured by the great exodus from what seemed to be a Garden of 

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