THE SICILIAN TRAITOR: "YOU THAT CHOOSE NOT BY THE VIEW"
The prisoner had never taken his eyes from the Parmesan's face. Their hope was so cruel that it might have been fear, instead. If, from the world of responsibility, the girl's name penetrated to him with any meaning he gave no sign. The same animal concentration abode in his close stare.
But the new anxiety at once affected the meeting. Only Mr. Gumama, resenting this intrusion, shrugged, snubbingly. "Clever youth, there is a plan for her, wholly good. When the Signora Alieni expected her American lover to travel with her she could not take with her his betrothed—it would not have been seemly! So Nicola sends her to-night with the gang of Roselli, which is soon, too, sailing for Brazil. There they must restore her to himself. He knows not he will not sail. Very well. She is slight but she is fair. She will do well for the Rosellis in Brazil."
"I do not—pardon!—I do not think of the Rosellis. What will she do for us?"
"In Brazil? If she were a danger even there would not the Signora Alieni have destroyed that danger?"
"The Signora Alieni has never done such work—she has no practice. Moreover, be sure she fears what Nicola feared in the beginning—the curse of his mother!"
A voice remarked, "His mother is ugly and old. If she should die she could not curse."
"True. But we are busy."
Beppo began to exclaim, "It is too bad! Time after time have I asked for her! I, too, love her and could be happy. And I need them like her every day! Why should she be sent to Brazil? I never have anything!" He stamped with rage and his nose began to bleed again.
Other young ricondeterros, complaining of the dearth of blondes, began to protest against Brazil. The Parmesan looked at Mr. Gumama with a smile. "Is she not a firebrand, eh? She who is so sought by the police, is it to the police she shall tell her story?"
Brushing the Parmesan aside the capo insisted, "She is not of our nation. It is against the custom. It is a greater danger than she is. Even if she should meet, so far away, with men of the Americans, what does she know?"
The Parmesan, now visibly measuring strength with Mr. Gumama, responded merely, "What is it, Beppo?"
Beppo, past the handkerchief he ostentatiously held to his nose, cried out, "She knows everything!" As this won him the center of the stage he proceeded in a series of sniffling shrieks, "I will tell you! I am the cousin of Nicola. I am the friend of their house. I play much with Maria but I watch and listen. Attention! She knows all, all, all! She seemed at first wrapped in the love of the basista. They slept side by side. She made a promise to ask, of her own accord, for sleep; but then she is ill and when she is well again she has some notion and she will not—why? Because she wills to tell all she knows! She, too, has watched and listened! She knows my name—and yours, Giuseppe Gumama! Under her red hair she carries death for you, Antonelli! And for you—and you—and you!"
The meeting was on its feet, swaying with passion and fear and gesticulating, with congenial resolution, "I demand the suppression—"
"I, too!"
"And I!"
"And I!"
"I demand the suppression of Mees Cornees!"
The capo's authority was shaken in a paranza which was a paranza no longer. Obedience was not what it had been in the Arm of Justice.
"Hands of the Arm," Beppo adjured, "is she not now at our meeting-place? Knows she not that? Did the basista conceal when Nicola was made a capo in the Honorable Society? Knows she not that? Oh, friends of my blood, can she not tell that name? By the body of Bacchus, I see her in my dreams! There is a shower of gold about her! If she is not for me, do not give her to the Rosellis—let her sleep!"
The meeting echoed, in one soft whisper of satisfaction, "Let her sleep!"
"S-s-ssh!" said Mr. Gumama.
He said it instinctively, glancing toward the scuttle. But he realized that the precedent of dealing solely with his own nation must now be set aside; he heard the people's voice. Alas, he had also to baulk it of its Duel by Wine.
"Let it be so. Firenzi, you will suppress the traitor and deliver him to the wharf. Choose two apprentices to help you with the barrel. Pachotto, you will take Beppo and the brother of Antonelli's wife and proceed to our old meeting-place. When you have suppressed the girl Cornees bring back her token."
"Sir," the Parmesan again coolingly corrected, "Nicola has still with him some of his men and the Rosellis. There is but one man who, without suspicion, can reach past these to the little Cornees.—Alieni o' n'infama," he pleasantly repeated, "would you do this to remain awake?"
The prisoner felt himself quiver as though he had been struck. He could not control the hope which was almost a sickness that rose in him at these words. He heard the popular cry surge up against him, hissing and protesting; Firenzi and Pachotto were the most horribly excited for he and they were the only persons in the room not having a good time. His quick glances, furtive and secret, ran questing among the lips that condemned him; when he lifted them to his questioner the sharp intake of his breath promised his soul away. But Mr. Gumama turned upon the Parmesan and told him that he forgot himself.
"Ah, sir, in private a word. Alieni, does he speak English?" He broke his beautiful Italian into a strange sound. "Spik Inglese, Alieni?"
The prisoner, trembling to oblige, responded in the same dialect, "Unstan' Inglese!"
It did not oblige—the Parmesan frowned. "Unstan' Inglese verra goood?" He coaxed, winningly, hoping for a denial.
Now the prisoner, though he understood English perfectly, was no fool and could see a possible weapon when it was put into his hand. "I deplore!" said he, shrugging sadly. "Heartseek! Unstan' notta mooch!" And he tried not to vibrate with greed of what they should say.
"Va bene! Spik Inglese, us! Spik low! Oh, Gumama, let heem put da girl to slip—heem! Let heem tak' for token—Whatta she wear?" he asked Beppo.
Beppo considered and then pointed to the gold bracelet under the old Sicilian cuff. "But silvere!" He lapsed into Italian. The girl had had three silver trinkets—a ring, a locket, a bracelet. Nicola had taken the locket, the ring she had lost. "It ees time she loosa da t'ird!" grinned the Parmesan. "Ssh! He ees leesten!" Their voices sank to a whisper. Inordinately acute though his senses always were the prisoner could no longer understand a syllable.
"I go weeth Beppo an' Chigi. Let heem settle da girl an' tak' her token. Den we settle heem an' tak' botta tokens! Tak' dem to capo in testa for show extrra gooda faith in nama da Arma of Zhoostees. Den Honorrahble Soceeata embrass us! We done gooda!" He inhaled with languid elegance and returned to the world a ring of cigarette smoke.
Still the prisoner could not catch a word. The decision hung fire. The protesting roar surged louder and louder and the cries of Pachotto and Firenzi became tiger cries. Mr. Gumama suddenly called to order. He had found a way to satisfy the Parmesan and yet to maintain his supremacy.
"This meeting promised Firenzi and Pachotto a chance of mercy and a chance of service. This meeting keeps its word. The chance is to be now. But for Alieni, also. Do not rebel. They were to enter on the Duel by Wine. But for the Duel by Wine the basista Alieni has sent us three cups. Why should not the prisoner Alieni play at the game of his wife?"
He had turned the tide. Their craving for games of chance, always temporarily stronger than fear, anger or duty, flared into high fire. Again was Mr. Gumama the popular man. Even on the prisoner smiles were lavished. And still for some crevice of safety, as if in every muscle of their faces, his eyes sought.
The meeting got happily to work, like a good child. It brought forth a dice-box and dice, a bottle of wine and, wrapped in a colored handkerchief, two triangular knives. In that musical neighborhood another hand-organ had long since followed the first; "The Wearing of the Green," which had made melodious the Parmesan's battle, now gave way to the Tales of Hoffman and the Barcarolle, a rhythm that swayed in every busy motion and humming tongue as the prisoner watched the table cleared and the painted jugs set forth. Mrs. Pascoe was called up to fetch a lantern; as she withdrew all three prisoners were faced toward the wall; Mr. Gumama took a twist of paper from his pocket, shielded it from view, and dropped a tablet from it into each of two jugs. Then he filled them all with wine. The prisoners were turned round again. "Alieni o' n'infama," called the Parmesan, blithely, "you are very much afraid!"
He knew it and sank his head on his breast.
"Cowards play well. They grow brave from fear. You will be desperate."
The young fellow shuddered. But he tried to keep his head clear.
"Cheer up, traditore! It is true our haste but sentenced you to the knife and the knife is quick. But do you not choose to risk a few drops and die wriggling—when, if you are lucky, you may live? When you have but to strike, afterwards, a little soft blow to make your peace!" The Parmesan, snatching up a triangular knife and, despite the remonstrances of Mr. Gumama, one of the jugs, thrust them jocularly under the prisoner's nose.
The tormented fellow, with an uncontrollable gasp that spilled the wine, bent and kissed the jug. A burst of childish applause approved his enthusiasm. A dank moisture of relief broke out upon him. At least they saw that he was resolved and would not fear to let him try. What was coming?
The meeting had formed into a circle as for a cock fight. He, Firenzi and Pachotto and the table with the dice and wine were in the center. The silent circle devoured him with applauding, encouraging glances. He was horribly aware of the two other men, larger, heavier, perhaps therefore luckier—the bigger the build, he had thought before, the greater the luck!—They were all too still! What were they going to make him do now?
Mr. Gumama himself took down a strap from the wall and tested its strength.
"Firenzi, then you, Pachotto, then you, Alieni, you will appeal to the dice. He who throws highest will have first choice of the jugs. Of the three who drink, one will live. It will take some time to settle this. The meeting will disperse, but a committee will return. The man whom they find alive will go with Beppo and Chigi and you, Pepe, to our meeting-place and put to sleep that girl. Those not surviving will be signed with our sign—but only one thrust for each paranza of this district.—Filippi Alieni, what is the matter with you? You show no feeling at what I say!"
For all his brilliant, questioning eyes, it was true he looked extremely blank; his expression too often merely followed theirs with an opposite. "Well, there must always be a first time. It is true, Alieni, is it not so, that you have never suppressed a life?"
There are bitternesses which fear cannot quench. Having no free hand to beat his breast he turned his head with restless passion from side to side and in a high, shrill, wild desolation, a Latin sweetness of hysteria roughened by his grinding laugh, he cried aloud, "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!"
"There is no need for irreverence!" exclaimed Mr. Gumama, scandalized. "That is all. Loose their bonds."
Firenzi and Pachotto ran to examine the jugs, voting simultaneously for the immunity of the golden scales—what others? So that the first choice would be all important. But the third prisoner had given his last flash. He dropped his shivering face and hid it in his hands.
"Sit!"
They dropped beside the table.
"Swear obedience to the decree of Fate!"
All three laid a hand on the crossed triangular knives. Mr. Gumama purposed the oath. "Filippi Alieni, your lips shake so that you do not repeat distinctly. Say, I swear!"
"I swear!"
"Rise!"
"Firenzi, make your appeal."
Firenzi started forward on a rush. But after a step or two he halted, glared about him as if just waking up, and then went forward, sagging like a drunkard. Arrived at the table he crossed himself, shook the dice, and, whimpering, fell on his knees. His shaking hand crawled along the table, groping for the dice-box and lifted it. The crowd, straining in upon him, buzzed. For the number was moderate. He had thrown a three and a two. And kneeled there, blubbering. The courage of the Honorable Society does not remain fast in all washes.
"Pachotto, make the appeal."
He, too, started with bravado; he was perhaps half way across when they had to catch and drag him forward. He threw wild and they had to support his wrist. Even so one die fell underneath the edge of the saucer in which the box had stood. That in view was another two-spot. If, however, that under the saucer were even a four he was ahead in the throw. They moved the saucer—the die was a five. Pachotto leaped in the air with triumph—Firenzi, yellow and cursing, tried to fold his arms. Frightful sounds issued from his throat, upon which the cords stood out.
"Alieni, you will make the appeal."
He who had been a gentleman drew himself together and came slowly forward. He was now the darling of the crowd. But he did not guess that; he came of a superstitious tribe and to him, too, it seemed important to win from the start. His soul trembled, but steadily and softly he stole to the table. Now he was arrived, looking down, one concentrated apprehension, on his fate. Lifting the dice-box he once more threw out his bright suspicious glance into the crowding faces. "Whatever gods there be!"—he threw the dice. Over these he bent with a sort of sweep and then, uttering a sharp hiss, sprang up like a jack-knife. The crowd swayed, yelped and shivered with amusement into a triumphing crow. He had thrown two sixes. Pachotto uttered a piercing yell and fell on his stomach in a dead faint.
"Filippi Alieni, of the jugs you have the first choice."
He stood as if nothing had happened. He had suddenly realized that his situation was really more terrible than ever. Watching, watching, he could descry no help. None of those alert, elated faces had a hint in it, not a congratulating hand pointed toward the fateful jug. He moistened his lips and looked mechanically at the dice which had thrown him this choice. But the dice, too, were dumb. Then, at last, he looked at the jugs.
There was the red design, the white and the green. His hand crept up and touched the chord at his throat. Scarlet was her favorite! But did she know? White—there was no luck in white. Green, the color of hope! Of resurrection! Yes, but to be resurrected one must first die! Red, again, was blood-color—but there was blood at every turn! Whose blood did this stand for—whose? Ah, yes, the scales—the scales were different! Gold, silver, and gray! The scales were very little, so it was they that held the secret! Silver, gray and gold! Why gray? Silver—hadn't he heard them whispering about silver? Why, there were some words—He dropped to the ground with the jug, leaning on the table and pressing the scrolled legend to the lantern.—Silver pays! Pays whom? Pays what? Oh, God, to understand! What was the other—gold? He was panting—his breath smeared the glass of the lantern. It was dry and cut his lips like grass-blades! Yet he reeked with cold sweat, it was running into his mouth! He wiped the glass clear with one cuff. Steady! Take care! Can't you read, you fool! Gold buys. Oh, heaven, what would it buy here? Life—freedom—what else would anybody buy? What was the sense of it, if it meant anything else? But it might be a lie! "She's a natcherul-born devil." It was a lie she would delight in! One chance! One! Everything on it—everything! Never to leave here—to die here—here, where no one would ever know! Without doing what he had secretly meant to do, without ever having lifted a hand—to die in torment, squirming on the floor like a rat with torn bowels—There was one other jug. Gray—what a color! Ghost-color—was that what she meant? Lead slays! But, once more, slays whom? Lead slays—lead—lead—Lead!
A change passed over him. He became very still. Then, shaking with suppressed eagerness, he got slowly to his feet. He put his dense hair back from his eyes. And those eyes, hypnotized by the little jug with its gray scales, never left it; drinking it up before he could raise it to his lips. His mouth gaped for it with hanging jaw. He raised it in hands that gradually steadied and then over its brim, he gave the faces that fawned in upon him, breathless, one last look.—"He has chosen!"
They might be less than human, but he and they were still living creatures; and, in ten minutes, what would he be? Beyond them were dusky walls, built by human hands, chairs, a bureau, lithographs, all the warm furnishings of life; windows into the world, into the swarming, chattering streets where the lamps began to glow, while from round the corner came the clang of trolley-cars; whistles, calls, footsteps, were in his ears, laughter above the crash of wheels,
"Give my regards to Broadway—"
That was the hand-organ, tired of opera and getting down to business;
"Remember me to Herald Square—"
It filled the whole room! A lighted train swept by; he could see the faces of people reading evening papers, people who complained at hanging on to straps! The roar of it was familiar and dear as a beloved voice at home but it passed and left him quite alone.
"Tell all the boys on Forty-second Street
That I will soon be there!"
—"Choose, Alieni, choose! Drink! Drink!"
Everything passed from his eyes. He was blind as before he was born. Then his mouth was in the wine; he drank it to the last drop; the jug, with a clatter that he heard perfectly but no longer understood, rolled at his feet. "É fatto!" said he, in a low, clear voice. "É fatto—it is done!" And his face dropped into his hands.
The meeting came about him but he did not know it. Around one wrist a strap was buckled and the strap's other end nailed to the table so that the death-agonies might not wander too far. A like precaution was taken with the other men when they had drunk. He did not notice it. He looked at the floor. Firenzi, upon whom chance had forced the silver scales, gave a horrible sound of retching and slid from his stool, the strap holding his arm. A quiver passed through the body of the first drinker, but he would not look. The meeting picked up its lantern and trooped—rather reluctantly but leaving the hatch open—chattering down the steps. The hands of the Arm dismissed Mrs. Pascoe, fetched some more wine, cut some tobacco and sat down to the business of making bets while they waited. He did not miss them.
He, too, waited.
Twenty minutes later, in the darkness, the loft was quite still. Two bodies, horribly contorted, lay straining on their straps. The rigor of death was already settling upon those convulsive heaps. The faint squares of the windows made a kind of glimmer by which it was possible to discern a pale face, a slight figure; this leaned against the table, which it clutched with hands of steel. He who had trusted to the leaden scales had trusted well.
In that darkness, in that silence, through that horror of squalid death which had not been silent, he had shed the rags of his hysteria and had caught again the concentration, the keenness, the readiness of that moment when Mrs. Pascoe had called on him to be a man. But what did he see in those empty shadows, and for what did he nerve himself? The figure there at the table was desperate, but it was very slight, and at the end of no road—valor nor cowardice nor vengeance—could he see escape. They were all blocked, those roads, the program too close built and every knot too tightly tied. Whatever he might wish, there was but one thing he could do. A knife was to be put into his hand and he had no choice except to strike. After all that had passed it was perhaps even with eagerness that silently, alone among those shadows, he embraced his fate.
A stir began to rise from below; the men down in the garage were coming to pack the barrel. He heard the mounting footstep of his guard, ready to convey him to the secret meeting-place of the Arm of Justice; along that road where it should deal with him, when he had dealt with Nancy Cornish.