The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
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rigid white face, his anger that came off him like cold smoke off ice, sobered their 
laughter and snuffed out their familiar friendliness. 
When he saw he had their proper, respectful attention Michael said to them, “Get that 
man out here to me.” 
They didn’t hesitate. They shouldered their luparas and went into the dark coolness of 
the cafe. A few seconds later they reappeared with the cafe owner between them. The 
stubby man looked in no way frightened but his anger had a certain wariness about it. 
Michael leaned back in his chair and studied the man for a moment. Then he said very 
quietly, “I understand I’ve offended you by talking about your daughter. I offer you my 
apologies, I’m a stranger in this country, i don’t know the customs that well. Let me say 
this. I meant no disrespect to you or her.” 
The shepherd bodyguards were impressed. Michael’s voice had never sounded like this 
before when speaking to them. There was command and authority in it though he was 
making an apology. The cafe owner shrugged, more wary still, knowing he was not 
dealing with some farmboy. “Who are you and what do you want from my daughter?” 
Without even hesitating Michael said, “I am an American hiding in Sicily, from the police 
of my country. My name is Michael. You can inform the police and make your fortune 
but then your daughter would lose a father rather than gain a husband. In any case I 
want to meet your daughter. With your permission and under the supervision of your 
family. With all decorum. With all respect. I’m an honorable man and I don’t think of 
dishonoring your daughter. I want to meet her, talk to her and then if it hits us both right 
we’ll marry. If not, you’ll never see me again. She may find me unsympathetic after all, 
and no man can remedy that. But when the proper time comes I’ll tell you everything 
about me that a wife’s father should know.” 
All three men were looking at him with amazement. Fabrizzio whispered in awe, “It’s the 
real thunderbolt.” The cafe owner, for the first time, didn’t look so confident, or 
contemptuous; his anger was not so sure. Finally he asked, “Are you a friend of the 
friends?” 
Since the word Mafia could never be uttered aloud by the ordinary Sicilian, this was as 
close as the cafe owner could come to asking if Michael was a member of the Mafia. It 
was the usual way of asking if someone belonged but it was ordinarily not addressed to 
the person directly concerned. 
“No,” Michael said. “I’m a stranger in this country.” 

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