The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
292
About this time Don Tommasino seemed to be preoccupied and poor company. He was 
still having trouble with the new Mafia in the town of Palermo, Dr. Taza said. 
One night in the garden an old village woman who worked in the house as a servant 
brought a dish of fresh olives and then turned to Michael and said, “Is it true what 
everybody is saying that you are the son of Don Corleone in New York City, the 
Godfather?” 
Michael saw Don Tommasino shaking his head in disgust at the general knowledge of 
their secret. But the old crone was looking at him in so concerned a fashion, as if it was 
important for her to know the truth, that Michael nodded. “Do you know my father?” he 
asked. 
The woman’s name was Filomena and her face was as wrinkled and brown as a walnut, 
her brown-stained teeth showing through the shell of her flesh. For the first time since 
he had been in the villa she smiled at him. “The Godfather saved my life once,” she 
said, “and my brains too.” She made a gesture toward her head. 
She obviously wanted to say something else so Michael smiled to encourage her. She 
asked almost fearfully, “Is it true that Luca Brasi is dead?” 
Michael nodded again and was surprised at the look of release on the old woman’s face. 
Filomena crossed herself and said, “God forgive me, but may his soul roast in hell for 
eternity.” 
Michael remembered his old curiosity about Brasi, and had the sudden intuition that this 
woman knew the story Hagen and Sonny had refused to tell him. He poured the woman 
a glass of wine and made her sit down. “Tell me about my father and Luca Brasi,” he 
said gently. “I know some of it, but how did they become friends and why was Brasi so 
devoted to my father? Don’t be afraid, come tell me.” 
Filomena’s wrinkled face, her raisin-black eyes, turned to Don Tommasino, who in some 
way signaled his permission. And so Filomena passed the evening for them by telling 
her story. 
Thirty years before, Filomena had been a midwife in New York City, on Tenth Avenue, 
servicing the Italian colony. The women were always pregnant and she prospered. She 
taught doctors a few things when they tried to interfere in a difficult birth. Her husband 
was then a prosperous grocery store owner, dead now poor soul, she blessed him, 
though he had been a card player and wencher who never thought to put aside for hard 
times. In any event one cursed night thirty years ago when all honest people were long 

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