chapter 1.2

There were, now, hundreds of guests in the huge garden, some dancing on the wooden

platform bedecked with flowers, others sitting at long tables piled high with spicy food

and gallon jugs of black, homemade wine. The bride, Connie Corleone, sat in splendor

at a special raised table with her groom, the maid of honor, bridesmaids and ushers. It

was a rustic setting in the old Italian style. Not to the bride's taste, but Connie had

consented to a "guinea" wedding to please her father because she had so displeased

him in her choice of a husband.

The groom, Carlo Rizzi, was a half-breed, born of a Sicilian father and the North Italian

mother from whom he had inherited his blond hair and blue eyes. His parents lived in

Nevada and Carlo had left that state because of a little trouble with the law. In New York

he met Sonny Corleone and so met the sister. Don Corleone, of course, sent trusted

friends to Nevada and they reported that Carlo's police trouble was a youthful

indiscretion with a gun, not serious, that could easily be wiped off the books to leave the

youth with a clean record. They also came back with detailed information on legal

gambling in Nevada which greatly interested the Don and which he had been pondering

over since. It was part of the Don's greatness that he profited from everything.

Connie Corleone was a not quite pretty girl, thin and nervous and certain to become

shrewish later in life. But today, transformed by her white bridal gown and eager

virginity, she was so radiant as to be almost beautiful. Beneath the wooden table her

hand rested on the muscular thigh of her groom. Her Cupid-bow mouth pouted to give

him an airy kiss.

She thought him incredibly handsome. Carlo Rizzi had worked in the open desert air

while very young– heavy laborer's work. Now he had tremendous forearms and his

shoulders bulged the jacket of his tux. He basked in the adoring eyes of his bride and

filled her glass with wine. He was elaborately courteous to her as if they were both

actors in a play. But his eyes kept flickering toward the huge silk purse the bride wore on

her right shoulder and which was now stuffed full of money envelopes. How much did it

hold? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Carlo Rizzi smiled. It was only the beginning.

He had, after all, married into a royal family. They would have to take care of him.

In the crowd of guests a dapper young man with the sleek head of a ferret was also

studying the silk purse. From sheer habit Paulie Gatto wondered just how he could go

about hijacking that fat pocketbook. The idea amused him. But he knew it was idle,

innocent dreaming as small children dream of knocking out tanks with popguns. He

watched his boss, fat, middle-aged Peter Clemenza whirling young girls around the

wooden dance floor in a rustic and lusty Tarantella. Clemenza, immensely tall,

immensely huge, danced with such skill and abandon, his hard belly lecherously

bumping the breasts of younger, tinier women, that all the guests were applauding him.

Older women grabbed his arm to become his next partner. The younger men

respectfully cleared off the floor and clapped their hands in time to the mandolin's wild

strumming. When Clemenza finally collapsed in a chair, Paulie Gatto brought him a

glass of icy black wine and wiped the perspiring Jovelike brow with his silk handkerchief.

Clemenza was blowing like a whale as he gulped down the wine. But instead of

thanking Paulie he said curtly, "Never mind being a dance judge, do your job. Take a

walk around the neighborhood and see everything is OK." Paulie slid away into the

crowd.

The band took a refreshment break. A young man named Nino Valenti picked up a

discarded mandolin, put his left foot up on a chair and began to sing a coarse Sicilian

love song. Nino Valenti's face was handsome though bloated by continual drinking and

he was already a little drunk. He rolled his eyes as his tongue caressed the obscene

lyrics. The women shrieked with glee and the men shouted the last word of each stanza

with the singer.

Don Corleone, notoriously straitlaced in such matters, though his stout wife was

screaming joyfully with the others, disappeared tactfully into the house. Seeing this,

Sonny Corleone made his way to the bride's table and sat down beside young Lucy

Mancini, the maid of honor. They were safe. His wife was in the kitchen putting the last

touches on the serving of the wedding cake. Sonny whispered a few words in the young

girl's ear and she rose. Sonny waited a few minutes and then casually followed her,

stopping to talk with a guest here and there as he worked his way through the crowd.

All eyes followed them. The maid of honor, thoroughly Americanized by three years of

college, was a ripe girl who already had a "reputation." All through the marriage

rehearsals she had flirted with Sonny Corleone in a teasing, joking way she thought was

permitted because he was the best man and her wedding partner. Now holding her pink

gown up off the ground, Lucy Mancini went into the house, smiling with false innocence;

ran lightly up the stairs to the bathroom. She stayed there for a few moments. When she

came out Sonny Corleone was on the landing above, beckoning her upward.

From behind the closed window of Don Corleone's "office," a slightly raised corner room,

Thomas Hagen watched the wedding party in the festooned garden. The walls behind

him were stacked with law books. Hagen was the Don's lawyer and acting Consigliere,

or counselor, and as such held the most vital subordinate position in the family

business. He and the Don had solved many a knotty problem in this room, and so when

he saw the Godfather leave the festivities and enter the house, he knew, wedding or no,

there would be a little work this day. The Don would be coming to see him. Then Hagen

saw Sonny Corleone whisper in Lucy Mancini's ear and their little comedy as he

followed her into the house. Hagen grimaced, debated whether to inform the Don, and

decided against it. He went to the desk and picked up a handwritten list of the people

who had been granted permission to see Don Corleone privately. When the Don

entered the room, Hagen handed him the list. Don Corleone nodded and said, "Leave

Bonasera to the end."

Hagen used the French doors and went directly out into the garden to where the

supplicants clustered around the barrel of wine. He pointed to the baker, the pudgy

Nazorine.

Don Corleone greeted the baker with an embrace. They had played together as children

in Italy and had grown up in friendship. Every Easter freshly baked clotted-cheese and

wheat-germ pies, their crusts yolk-gold, big around as truck wheels, arrived at Don

Corleone's home. On Christmas, on family birthdays, rich creamy pastries proclaimed

the Nazorines' respect. And all through the years, lean and fat, Nazorine cheerfully paid

his dues to the bakery union organized by the Don in his salad days. Never asking for a

favor in return except for the chance to buy black-market OPA sugar coupons during the

war. Now the time had come for the baker to claim his rights as a loyal friend, and Don

Corleone looked forward with great pleasure to granting his request. He gave the baker a Di Nobili cigar and a glass of yellow Strega and put his hand on the

man's shoulder to urge him on. That was the mark of the Don's humanity. He knew from

bitter experience what courage it took to ask a favor from a fellow man.

The baker told the story of his daughter and Enzo. A fine Italian lad from Sicily; captured

by the American Army; sent to the United States as a prisoner of war; given parole to

help our war effort! A pure and honorable love had sprung up between honest Enzo and

his sheltered Katherine but now that the war was ended the poor lad would be

repatriated to Italy and Nazorine's daughter would surely die of a broken heart. Only

Godfather Corleone could help this afflicted couple. He was their last hope.

The Don walked Nazorine up and down the room, his hand on the baker's shoulder, his

head nodding with understanding to keep up the man's courage. When the baker had

finished, Don Corleone smiled at him and said, "My dear friend, put all your worries

aside." He went on to explain very carefully what must be done. The Congressman of

the district must be petitioned. The Congressman would propose a special bill that

would allow Enzo to become a citizen. The bill would surely pass Congress. A privilege

all those rascals extended to each other. Don Corleone explained that this would cost

money, the going price was now two thousand dollars. He, Don Corleone, would

guarantee performance and accept payment. Did his friend agree?

The baker nodded his head vigorously. He did not expect such a great favor for nothing.

That was understood. A special Act of Congress does not come cheap. Nazorine was

almost tearful in his thanks. Don Corleone walked him to the door, assuring him that

competent people would be sent to the bakery to arrange all details, complete all

necessary documents. The baker embraced him before disappearing into the garden.

Hagen smiled at the Don. "That's a good investment for Nazorine. A son-in-law and a

cheap lifetime helper in his bakery all for two thousand dollars." He paused. "Who do I

give this job to?"

Don Corleone frowned in thought. "Not to our paisan. Give it to the Jew in the next

district. Have the home addresses changed. I think there might be many such cases

now the war is over; we should have extra people in Washington that can handle the

overflow and not raise the price." Hagen made a note on his pad. "Not Congressman

Luteco. Try Fischer."

The next man Hagen brought in was a very simple case. His name was Anthony

Coppola and he was the son of a man Don Corleone had worked with in the railroad

yards in his youth. Coppola needed five hundred dollars to open a pizzeria; for a deposit

on fixtures and the special oven. For reasons not gone into, credit was not available.

The Don reached into his pocket and took out a roll of bills. It was not quite enough. He

grimaced and said to Tom Hagen, "Loan me a hundred dollars, I'll pay you back Monday

when I go to the bank." The supplicant protested that four hundred dollars would be

ample, but Don Corleone patted his shoulder, saying, apologetically, "This fancy

wedding left me a little short of cash." He took the money Hagen extended to him and

gave it to Anthony Coppola with his own roll of bills.

Hagen watched with quiet admiration. The Don always taught that when a man was

generous, he must show the generosity as personal. How flattering to Anthony Coppola

that a man like the Don would borrow to loan him money. Not that Coppola did not know

that the Don was a millionaire but how many millionaires let themselves be put to even a

small inconvenience by a poor friend?

The Don raised his head inquiringly. Hagen said, "He's not on the list but Luca Brasi

wants to see you. He understands it can't be public but he wants to congratulate you in

person."

For the first time the Don seemed displeased. The answer was devious. "Is it

necessary?" he asked.

Hagen shrugged. "You understand him better than I do. But he was very grateful that

you invited him to the wedding. He never expected that. I think he wants to show his

gratitude."

Don Corleone nodded and gestured that Luca Brasi should be brought to him.

In the garden Kay Adams was struck by the violet fury imprinted on the face of Luca

Brasi. She asked about him. Michael had brought Kay to the wedding so that she would

slowly and perhaps without too much of a shock, absorb the truth about his father. But

so far she seemed to regard the Don as a slightly unethical businessman. Michael

decided to tell her part of the truth indirectly. He explained that Luca Brasi was one of

the most feared men in the Eastern underworld. His great talent, it was said, was that he

could do a job of murder all by himself, without confederates, which automatically made

discovery and conviction by the law almost impossible. Michael grimaced and said, "I

don't know whether all that stuff is true. I do know he is sort of a friend to my father."

For the first time Kay began to understand. She asked a little incredulously, "You're not

hinting that a man like that works for your father?" The hell with it, he thought. He said, straight out, "Nearly fifteen years ago some people

wanted to take over my father's oil importing business. They tried to kill him and nearly

did. Luca Brasi went after them. The story is that he killed six men in two weeks and that

ended the famous olive oil war." He smiled as if it were a joke.

Kay shuddered. "You mean your father was shot by gangsters?"

"Fifteen years ago," Michael said. "Everything's been peaceful since then." He was

afraid he had gone too far.

"You're trying to scare me," Kay said. "You just don't want me to marry you." She smiled

at him and poked his ribs with her elbow. "Very clever."

Michael smiled back at her. "I want you to think about it," he said.

"Did he really kill six men?" Kay asked.

"That's what the newspapers claimed," Mike said. "Nobody ever proved it. But there's

another story about him that nobody ever tells. It's supposed to be so terrible that even

my father won't talk about it. Tom Hagen knows the story and he won't tell me. Once I

kidded him, I said, 'When will I be old enough to hear that story about Luca?' and Tom

said, 'When you're a hundred.' "Michael sipped his glass of wine. "That must be some

story. That must be some Luca."

Luca Brasi was indeed a man to frighten the devil in hell himself. Short, squat,

massive-skulled, his presence sent out alarm bells of danger. His face was stamped into

a mask of fury. The eyes were brown but with none of the warmth of that color, more a

deadly tan. The mouth was not so much cruel as lifeless; thin, rubbery and the color of

veal.

Brasi's reputation for violence was awesome and his devotion to Don Corleone

legendary. He was, in himself, one of the great blocks that supported the Don's power

structure. His kind was a rarity.

Luca Brasi did not fear the police, he did not fear society, he did not fear God, he did not

fear hell, he did not fear or love his fellow man. But he had elected, he had chosen, to

fear and love Don Corleone. Ushered into the presence of the Don, the terrible Brasi

held himself stiff with respect. He stuttered over the flowery congatulations he offered

and his formal hope that the first grandchild would be masculine. He then handed the

Don an envelope stuffed with cash as a gift for the bridal couple.

So that was what he wanted to do. Hagen noticed the change in Don Corleone. The

Don received Brasi as a king greets a subject who has done him an enormous service,

never familiar but with regal respect. With every gesture, with every word, Don Corleone

made it clear to Luca Brasi that he was valued. Not for one moment did he show

surprise at the wedding gift being presented to him personally. He understood.

The money in the envelope was sure to be more than anyone else had given. Brasi had

spent many hours deciding on the sum, comparing it to what the other guests might

offer. He wanted to be the most generous to show that he had the most respect, and

that was why he had given his envelope to the Don personally, a gaucherie the Don

overlooked in his own flowery sentence of thanks. Hagen saw Luca Brasi's face lose its

mask of fury, swell with pride and pleasure. Brasi kissed the Don's hand before he went

out the door that Hagen held open. Hagen prudently gave Brasi a friendly smile which

the squat man acknowledged with a polite stretching of rubbery, veal-colored lips.

When the door closed Don Corleone gave a small sigh of relief. Brasi was the only man

in the world who could make him nervous. The man was like a natural force, not truly

subject to control. He had to be handled as gingerly as dynamite. The Don shrugged.

Even dynamite could be exploded harmlessly if the need arose. He looked questioningly

at Hagen. "Is Bonasera the only one left?"

Hagen nodded. Don Corleone frowned in thought, then said, "Before you bring him in,

tell Santino to come here. He should learn some things."

Out in the garden, Hagen searched anxiously for Sonny Corleone. He told the waiting

Bonasera to be patient and went over to Michael Corleone and his girl friend. "Did you

see Sonny around?" he asked. Michael shook his head. Damn, Hagen thought, if Sonny

was screwing the maid of honor all this time there was going to be a mess of trouble.

His wife, the young girl's family; it could be a disaster. Anxiously he hurried to the

entrance through which he had seen Sonny disappear almost a half hour ago.

Seeing Hagen go into the house, Kay Adams asked Michael Corleone, "Who is he? You

introduced him as your brother but his name is different and he certainly doesn't look

Italian."

"Tom lived with us since he was twelve years old," Michael said. "His parents died and

he was roaming around the streets with this bad eye infection. Sonny brought him home

one night and he just stayed. He didn't have anyplace to go. He lived with us until he got

married."

Kay Adams was thrilled. "That's really romantic," she said. "Your father must be a

warmhearted person. To adopt somebody just like that when he had so many children of

his own."

Michael didn't bother to point out that immigrant Italians considered four children a small

family. He merely said, "Tom wasn't adopted. He just lived with us."

"Oh," Kay said, then asked curiously, "why didn't you adopt him?"

Michael laughed. "Because my father said it would be disrespectful for Tom to change

his name. Disrespectful to his own parents."

They saw Hagen shoo Sonny through the French door into the Don's office and then

crook a finger at Amerigo Bonasera. "Why do they bother your father with business on a

day like this?" Kay asked.

Michael laughed again. "Because they know that by tradition no Sicilian can refuse a

request on his daughter's wedding day. And no Sicilian ever lets a chance like that go

by."