The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
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The proprietor of the cafe came to serve them. He was a short, burly man, almost 
dwarfish but he greeted them cheerfully and set a dish of chickpeas at their table. 
“You’re strangers here,” he said, “so let me advise you. Try my wine. The grapes come 
from my own farm and it’s made by my sons themselves. They mix it with oranges and 
lemons. It’s the best wine in Italy.” 
They let him bring the wine in a jug and it was even better than he claimed, dark purple 
and as powerful as a brandy. Fabrizzo said to the cafe proprietor, “You know all the girls 
here, I’ll bet. We saw some beauties coming down the road, one in particular got our 
friend here hit with the thunderbolt.” He motioned to Michael. 
The cafe owner looked at Michael with new interest. The cracked face had seemed 
quite ordinary to him before, not worth a second glance. But a man hit with the 
thunderbolt was another matter. “You had better bring a few bottles home with you, my 
friend,” he said. “You’ll need help in getting to sleep tonight.” 
Michael asked the man, “Do you know a girl with her hair all curly? Very creamy skin, 
very big eyes, very dark eyes. Do you know a girl like that in the village?” 
The cafe owner said curdy, “No. I don’t know any girl like that.” He vanished from the 
terrace into his cafe. 
The three men drank their wine slowly, finished off the jug and called for more. The 
owner did not reappear. Fabrizzio went into the cafe after him. When Fabrizzio came out 
he grimaced and said to Michael, “Just as I thought, it’s his daughter we were talking 
about and now he’s in the back boiling up his blood to do us a mischief. I think we’d 
better start walking toward Corleone.” 
Despite his months on the island Michael still could not get used to the Sicilian 
touchiness on matters of sex, and this was extreme even for a Sicilian. But the two 
shepherds seemed to take it as a matter of course. They were waiting for him to leave. 
Fabrizzio said, “The old bastard mentioned he has two sons, big tough lads that he has 
only to whistle up. Let’s get going.” 
Michael gave him a cold stare. Up to now he had been a quiet, gentle young man, a 
typical American, except that since he was hiding in Sicily he must have done 
something manly. This was the first time the shepherds had seen the Corleone stare. 
Don Tommasino, knowing Michael’s true identity and deed, had always been wary of 
him, treating him as a fellow “man of respect.” But these unsophisticated sheep herders 
had come to their own opinion of Michael, and not a wise one. The cold look, Michael’s 

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