The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
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her hair of jet black curls, nothing on her plain severe black dress, obviously her Sunday 
best. She gave him a quick glance and a tiny smile before she cast her eyes down 
demurely and sat down next to her mother. 
Again Michael felt that shortness of breath, that flooding through his body of something 
that was not so much desire as an insane possessiveness. He understood for the first 
time the classical jealousy of the Italian male. He was at that moment ready to kill 
anyone who touched this girl, who tried to claim her, take her away from him. He wanted 
to own her as wildly as a miser wants to own gold coins, as hungrily as a sharecropper 
wants to own his own land. Nothing was going to stop him from owning this girl, 
possessing her, locking her in a house and keeping her prisoner only for himself. He 
didn’t want anyone even to see her. When she turned to smile at one of her brothers 
Michael gave that young man a murderous look without even realizing it. The family 
could see it was a classical case of the “thunderbolt” and they were reassured. This 
young man would be putty in their daughter’s hands until they were married. After that of 
course things would change but it wouldn’t matter. 
Michael had bought himself some new clothes in Palermo and was no longer the 
roughly dressed peasant, and it was obvious to the family that he was a Don of some 
kind. His smashed face did not make him as evil-looking as he believed; because his 
other profile was so handsome it made the disfigurement interesting even. And in any 
case this was a land where to be called disfigured you had to compete with a host of 
men who had suffered extreme physical misfortune. 
Michael looked directly at the girl, the lovely ovals of her face. Her lips now he could see 
were almost blue so dark was the blood pulsating in them. He said, not daring to speak 
her name, “I saw you by the orange groves the other day. When you ran away. I hope I 
didn’t frighten you?” 
The girl raised her eyes to him for just a fraction. She shook her head. But the loveliness 
of those eyes had made Michael look away. The mother said tartly, “Apollonia, speak to 
the poor fellow, he’s come miles to see you,” but the girl’s long jet lashes remained 
closed like wings over her eyes. Michael handed her the present wrapped in gold paper 
and the girl put it in her lap. The father said, “Open it, girl,” but her hands did not move. 
Her hands were small and brown, an urchin’s hands. The mother reached over and 
opened the package impatiently, yet careful not to tear the precious paper. The red 
velvet jeweler’s box gave her pause, she had never held such a thing in her hands and 
didn’t know how to spring its catch. But she got it open on pure instinct and then took 

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