Turi Guiliano lay on the bed without moving. He had heard the doctor pronounce his wound mortal, but he could not believe he was dying. His body seemed suspended in air, free of pain and fear. He could never die. He did not know that great loss of blood produces euphoria.
During the days, one of the monks tended him, fed him milk. Evenings, the Abbot came with the doctor. Pisciotta visited him in the night and held his hand and nursed him through the long evil hours of darkness. At the end of two weeks, the doctor proclaimed a miracle.
Turi Guiliano had willed his body to heal, to materialize the lost blood, to meld together the vital organs that had been torn by the steel-jacketed bullet. And in the euphoria inspired by the draining of the blood from his body he dreamed of future glory. He felt a new freedom, that he could no longer be held accountable for anything he did from this time on. That the laws of society, the stricter Sicilian laws of family, could no longer bind him. That he was free to commit any act; that his bloody wound made him innocent. And all this because a foolish carabiniere had shot him over a piece of cheese.
For the weeks of his convalescence, he played over and over in his mind the days he and his fellow villagers had congregated in the town square waiting for the gabellotti, the overseers of the large land estates, to pick them out for a day's work, offering starvation wages with the contemptuous take-it-or-leave-it sneer of men who had all the power. The unfair sharing of crops that left everyone impoverished after a year's hard work. The overbearing hand of the law which punished the poor and let the rich go free.
If he recovered from his wound, he swore he would see justice done. He would never again be a powerless boy at the mercy of fate. He would arm himself, physically and mentally. Of one thing he was sure: He would never again stand helpless before the world, as he had before Guido Quintana, and the policeman who had shot him down. The young man who had been Turi Guiliano no longer existed.
At the end of a month, the doctor advised another four weeks of rest with some exercise, and so Guiliano donned a monk's habit and strolled around the grounds of the monastery. The Abbot had become fond of the young man, and often accompanied him, telling stories about his youthful travels to far-off lands. The Abbot's affection was not lessened when Hector Adonis sent him a sum of money for his prayers for the poor and Don Croce himself advised the Abbot that he had an interest in the young man.
As for Guiliano, he was astonished at how these monks lived. In a countryside where people were almost starving, where laborers had to sell their sweat for fifty cents a day, the monks of Saint Francis lived like kings. The monastery was really a huge and rich estate.
They had a lemon orchard, a scattering of stout olive trees as old as Christ. They had a small bamboo plantation and a butcher shop into which they fed their flock of sheep, their pen of piglets. Chickens and turkeys roamed at will, crowds of them. The monks ate meat every day with their spaghetti, drank homemade wine from their own huge cellar, and traded on the black market for tobacco, which they smoked like fiends.
But they worked hard. During the day they labored barefoot in cassocks tucked up to their knees, sweat pouring down their brows. On their tonsured heads, to protect them from the sun, they wore oddly shaped American fedoras, black and brown, which the Abbot had acquired from some military government supply officer for a cask of wine. The monks wore the fedoras in many different styles, some with the brims snapped down, gangster style, others with the brims flapped upward all around to form gutters in which they kept their cigarettes. The Abbot had come to hate these hats and had forbidden their use except when actually working in the fields.
For the second four weeks, Guiliano was a fellow monk. To the Abbot's astonishment he worked hard in the fields and helped the older monks carry the heavy baskets of fruit and olives back to the storage shed. As he grew well, Guiliano enjoyed the work, enjoyed showing off his strength. They piled his baskets high and he never let his knees buckle. The Abbot was proud of him and told him he could stay as long as he liked, that he had the makings of a true man of God.
Turi Guiliano was happy that four weeks. He had after all returned from the dead in body and in his head he was weaving daydreams and miracles. And he enjoyed the old Abbot, who treated him with absolute trust and revealed the secrets of the monastery to him. The old man boasted that all the products of the monastery were sold directly on the black market, not turned over to the government warehouses. Except for the wine, which was swilled down by the monks themselves. At night there was a great deal of gambling and drunkenness, and even women were smuggled in, but to all this the Abbot closed his eyes. "These are hard times," he said to Guiliano. "The promised reward of heaven is too far away, men must have some pleasure now. God will forgive them."
One rainy afternoon, the Abbot showed Turi another wing of the monastery which was used as a warehouse. This was overflowing with holy relics manufactured by a skilled team of old monks. The Abbot, like any shopkeeper, bewailed hard times. "Before the war, we had a very good business," he sighed. "This warehouse was never more than half full. And just look what sacred treasures we have here. A bone from the fish multiplied by Christ. The staff carried by Moses on his way to the Promised Land." He paused to watch Guiliano's astonished face with amused satisfaction. Then his bony face contorted into a wicked grin. Kicking a huge pile of wooden sticks, he said almost gleefully, "This used to be our best item. Hundreds of pieces of the cross on which our Lord was crucified. And in this bin are fragments of any saint you can name. There isn't a household in Sicily that doesn't have the bone of a saint. And locked away in a special storeroom we have thirteen arms of Saint Andrew, three heads of John the Baptist and seven suits of armor worn by Joan of Arc. In the winter, our monks travel far and wide to sell these treasures."
Turi Guiliano was laughing now and the Abbot smiled at him. But Guiliano was thinking how the poor were always deceived, even by those who pointed the road to salvation. It was another important fact to remember.
The Abbot showed him a huge tub full of medallions blessed by the Cardinal of Palermo, thirty shrouds that Jesus wore when he died, and two black Virgin Marys. That stopped Turi Guiliano's laughter. He told the Abbot about the black Virgin statue owned by his mother and so treasured by her since she was a little girl; that it had been in her family for generations. Could it possibly be a forgery? The Abbot patted him kindly on the shoulder and told him the monastery had been making replicas for over a hundred years carved from good olive wood. But he assured Guiliano that even the replicas had value, since only a few were made.
The Abbot saw no harm confiding in a murderer such venial sins of holy men. Still Guiliano's disapproving silence disturbed the Abbot. Defensively, he said, "Remember that we men who devote our lives to God must also live in the material world of men who do not believe in waiting for their rewards in heaven. We too have families and must aid and protect them. Many of our monks are poor and come from the poor, who we know are the salt of the earth. We cannot permit our sisters and brothers, our nephews and cousins to starve in these hard times. The Holy Church itself needs our help, must defend itself against powerful enemies. The Communists and Socialists, those misguided liberals, must be fought against, and that takes money. What a comfort to Mother Church are the faithful! Their need for our holy relics supplies the money to crush the infidels and fills a need in their own souls. If we did not supply them they would waste their money on gambling and wine and shameful women. Don't you agree?"