Don Clericuzio seemed to ponder this. “You are loyal,” he said. He turned to Giorgio and then Vincent and Petie. “If you three agree, I will agree.” They did not answer.
The Don sighed as if in regret. “You will sign over half your interest but you must move out of our world. Vazzi must return to Sicily with his family, or not, as he pleases. That is as far as I can go. You and Vazzi must never speak together again. And I order my sons, in your presence, never to avenge their nephew’s death. You will have a week to arrange your affairs, to sign the necessary papers for Giorgio.” Then the Don spoke in a less harsh voice. “Let me assure you that I had no knowledge of Dante’s plans. Now, go in peace and remember I always loved your father like a son.”
When Cross left the house, Don Clericuzio got out of his chair and said to Vincent, “To bed.” Vincent helped him up the stairs, for the Don now had a certain weakness in his legs. His age was finally beginning to ravage his body.
EPILOGUE
Nice, France
Quogue
ON HIS LAST day in Vegas, Cross De Lena sat on his penthouse balcony and looked down on the sun-drenched Strip. The great hotels—Caesars Palace, the Fla-mingo, the Desert Inn, the Mirage, and the Sands—blazed their neon marquees to challenge the sun.
Don Clericuzio had been specific in his banishment: Cross was never to return to Las Vegas. How happy his father, Pippi, had been here, and Gronevelt had built the city into his own Valhalla, but Cross had never really enjoyed their ease. True, he had enjoyed the pleasures of Vegas, but those pleasures always held the cold flavor of steel.
The green flags of the seven Villas dropped in the desert stillness, but one hung from the burned building, a black skeleton, the ghost of Dante. But he would never see all of this again.
He had loved the Xanadu, he had loved his father, Grone-velt, and Claudia. And yet he had in some sense betrayed them. Gronevelt, by failing to be faithful to the Xanadu; his father, by not being true to the Clericuzio; and Claudia, because she believed in his innocence. Now he was free of them. He would begin a new life.
What could he make of his love for Athena? He had been warned of the dangers of romantic love by Gronevelt, by his father, and even by the old Don. That was the fatal flaw of great men who would control their worlds. Then why was he now ignoring their advice? Why was he placing his fate at the mercy of a woman?
Quite simply, the sight of her, the sound of her voice, the way she moved, her happiness and her sorrow, all made him happy. The world became dazzlingly pleasurable when he was with her. Food became delicious, the sun’s heat warmed his bones, and he felt that sweet hunger for her flesh that made life holy. And when he slept with her he never feared those nightmares that preceded the dawn.
It was now three weeks since he had last seen Athena, but he had heard her voice just this morning. He had called her in France to tell her he was coming, and he had caught the happiness in her voice because now she knew he was still alive. It was possible she loved him. And now, in less than twenty hours he would see her.
Cross had faith that someday she would truly love him, that she would reward him for his love, that she would never judge him, and that like some angel she would save him from Hell.
Athena Aquitane was perhaps the only woman in France who put on her makeup and clothes to try to destroy her beauty. Not that she tried to look ugly, she was not a masochist, but she had come to regard her physical beauty as too dangerous for her inner world. She hated the power it gave her over other people. She hated the vanity that still spoiled her spirit. It interfered with what she knew would be her life’s work.
On the first day of work at the Institute for Autistic Children in Nice, she wanted to look like the children, to walk like them. She was overcome with the sense of identification. That day, she relaxed her facial muscles to their soulless serenity and limped in the weird, lopsided way of some of the children who had motor damage.
Dr. Gerard observed this and said sardonically, “Oh, very good but you’re going in the wrong direction.” Then he took her hands in his and said gently, “You must not identify with their misfortune. You must fight against it.”
Athena felt rebuked and ashamed. Again her actress vanity had misled her. But she felt herself at peace caring for these children. It did not matter to them that her French was imperfect, they did not grasp the meaning of her words anyway.
Even the distressing realities did not discourage her. The children were sometimes destructive, did not recognize the rules of society. They fought each other and their nurses, they smeared their feces on the walls, they urinated where they pleased. Sometimes they were truly frightening in their ferocity, their repulsion of the outside world.
The only time Athena felt helpless was at night in the small apartment she had rented in Nice, when she studied the literature of the Institute. They were reports on the progress of the children and they were frightening. Then she would crawl into bed and weep. Unlike the movies she had lived in, these reports had mostly unhappy endings.
When she received the call from Cross that he was coming to see her, she felt a surge of happiness and hope. He was still alive and he would help her. Then she had some trepidation. She consulted Dr. Gerard.
“What do you think would be best?” she asked.
“He could be of great assistance to Bethany,” Dr. Gerard said. “I would very much like to see how she relates to him over a period of time. And it might be very good for you. Mothers must not be martyrs for their children.” She thought about his words on her way to pick up Cross at the Nice airport.
At the airport, Cross had to walk from the plane to the low-slung terminal. The air was balmy and sweet, not the scorching sulfurous heat of Vegas. Along the borders of the concrete reception plaza grew masses of luxurious red and purple flowers.
He saw Athena waiting for him on that plaza, and he marveled at her genius in transforming her appearance. She could not completely hide her beauty, but she could disguise it. Gold-framed tinted glasses turned her eyes from brilliant green to gray. The clothes she was wearing made her look thicker and heavier. Her blond hair was tucked under a country-brimmed hat of blue denim that overlapped the side of her face. He felt a thrill of possession that he was the only one who knew how beautiful she really was.
As Cross approached, Athena took off her glasses and put them in the pocket of her blouse. He smiled at her irrepressible vanity.
Less than an hour later they were in the suite of the Negresco Hotel where Napoleon had bedded Josephine. Or so the hotel brochure on the door still claimed. A waiter knocked and brought in a tray with a bottle of wine and a delicate plate of tiny sandwiches. He left it on the balcony table that overlooked the Mediterranean.
At first they were awkward with each other. She held his hand trustingly yet as if she were in command, and the touch of her warm flesh gave him a rush of desire. But he could see she was not quite ready.
The suite was beautifully furnished, more opulent than any of the Xanadu Villas. The bed had a canopy of dark red silk, the matching drapes were studded with golden fleur-de-lis. The tables and chairs had an elegance that could never have existed in the Vegas world.
Athena led Cross out to the balcony, and as she did so Cross blindly kissed her on the cheek. And then she couldn’t help herself, she picked up a wet cotton napkin that was wrapped around the wine bottle and scrubbed her face free of all the disfiguring cosmetics. Her face glistened with drops of water, the skin radiant and pink. She put one hand on his shoulder and kissed him gently on the lips.
From the balcony they could view the stone houses of Nice, tinted the faded greens and blues of paint from hundreds of years ago. Below, the citizens of Nice strolled on the Promenade des Anglais, on the stony beach young men and women, almost nude, splashed into the blue-green water while little children dug themselves into the pebbly sand. Farther out, hawkish white yachts, strung with lights, patrolled the horizon.
Cross and Athena had taken t
heir first sip of wine when they heard the faint roar. From the stone seawall, from what looked like the mouth of a cannon but was really the great eastern pipe of the sewers, a great wave of deep brown water gushed into the pristine blue of the sea.
Athena turned her head away. She said to Cross, “How long will you be here?”
“Five years if you let me,” he said.
“That’s silly,” Athena said frowning. “What will you do here?”
Cross said. “I’m rich, maybe I’ll buy a small hotel.”
“What happened to the Xanadu?” Athena asked.
“I had to sell my interest,” he said. He paused for a moment. “We won’t have to worry about money.”
“I have money,” Athena said. “You have to understand. I’m going to stay here for five years and then I’m going to bring her home. I don’t care what they say, I will never put her back in an institution, I’ll take care of her for the rest of her life. And if anything happens to her, my life will be with children like her. So you see we can never have a life together.”
Cross understood her perfectly. He took a long time to consider his answer.
His voice was strong and determined when he said, “Athena, the only thing I’m sure about now is that I love you and Bethany. You have to believe that. It’s not going to be easy, I know that, but we’ll try our best. You want to help Bethany, not be a martyr. For that we have to take a final jump. I’ll do everything I can to help you. Look, we’ll be like gamblers in my casino. The odds are stacked against us, but there’s always that chance to beat the odds.”
Cross saw her weakening so he pressed on. “Let’s get married,” he said. “Let’s have other children and live our lives like normal people. With our children let’s try to make right what seems wrong with our world. All families have some misfortune. I know we can overcome it. Will you believe me?”
Finally Athena looked at him directly. “Only if you believe I truly love you,” she said.
In the bedroom when they made love, they took each other on faith; Athena believed that Cross would truly help her save Bethany, and Cross, that Athena truly loved him. When finally she turned her body toward him, she murmured, “I love you. I really do.”
Cross bowed his head to kiss her. She said it again, “I truly love you,” and Cross thought, What man on earth could disbelieve her?
Alone in his bedroom, the Don pulled the cool sheets up to his neck. Death was approaching, and he was too wily not to detect its nearness. But everything had worked out according to his plans. Ah, how easy it is to outwit the young.
During the last five years he had seen Dante as the great danger to his master plan. Dante would resist the folding of the Clericuzio Family into society. And yet, what could he himself, the Don, do? Order the killing of his daughter’s son, his own grandson? Would Giorgio, Vincent, and Petie obey such an order? And if they did, would they think him some kind of monster? Would they then fear him more than they loved him? And Rose Marie, what would remain of her sanity then, for surely she would sense the truth.
But when Pippi De Lena was killed, the die was cast. The Don immediately knew the truth of the matter, investigated Dante’s relationship with Losey and made his judgment.
He had sent Vincent and Petie to guard Cross, armored car and all. And then, to forewarn Cross, told him the story of the Santadio War. How painful it was to set the world straight. And when he was gone, who would there be to make these terrible decisions? He decided now, once and for all, the Cleri-cuzio would make its final retreat.
Vinnie and Petie would deal strictly with their restaurants and construction businesses. Giorgio would buy companies on Wall Street. The withdrawal would be complete. Even the Bronx Enclave would not be replenished. The Clericuzio would finally be safe and fight against the new outlaws who were rising all over America. He would not blame himself for past mistakes, the loss of his daughter’s happiness and the death of his grandson. And after all, he had set Cross free.
Before he fell asleep, the Don had a vision. He would live forever, the Clericuzio blood would be part of mankind forever. And it was he, himself, alone who had created this lineage, his own virtue.
But, oh, what a wicked world it was that drove a man to sin.
By Mario Puzo
Fiction:
THE DARK ARENA
THE FORTUNATE PILGRIM
THE GODFATHER
FOOLS DIE
THE SICILIAN
THE FOURTH K
THE LAST DON*
Nonfiction:
THE GODFATHER PAPERS
INSIDE LAS VEGAS
Children’s Book:
THE RUNAWAY SUMMER OF DAVIE SHAW
*Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1996 by Mario Puzo
Excerpt from The Fortunate Pilgrim copyright © 1964, 1992 by Mario Puzo
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
http://www.randomhouse.com
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-97049
This edition published by arrangement with Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-345-48071-2
v3.0
Mario Puzo, Last Don
(Series: # )
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