Chapter 1.8

The family of Genco Abbandando, wife and three daughters dressed in black, clustered

like a flock of plump crows on the white tile floor of the hospital corridor. When they saw

Don Corleone come out of the elevator, they seemed to flutter up off the white tiles in an

instinctive surge toward him for protection. The mother was regally stout in black, the

daughters fat and plain. Mrs. Abbandando pecked at Don Corleone's cheek, sobbing,

wailing, "Oh, what a saint you are, to come here on your daughter's wedding day."

Don Corleone brushed these thanks aside. "Don't I owe respect to such a friend, a

friend who has been my right arm for twenty, years?" He had understood immediately

that the soon-to-be widow did not comprehend that her husband would die this night.

Genco Abbandando had been in this hospital for nearly a year dying of his cancer and

the wife had come to consider his fatal illness almost an ordinary part of life. Tonight

was just another crisis. She babbled on. "Go in and see my poor husband," she said,

"he asks for you. Poor man, he wanted to come to the wedding to show his respect but

the doctor would not permit it. Then he said you would come to see him on this great

day but I did not believe it possible. Ah, men understand friendship more than we

women. Go inside, you will make him happy."

A nurse and a doctor came out of Genco Abbandando's private room. The doctor was a

young man, serious-faced and with the air of one born to command, that is to say, the

air of one who has been immensely rich all his life. One of the daughters asked timidly,

"Dr. Kennedy, can we go to see him now?"

Dr. Kennedy looked over the large group with exasperation. Didn't these people realize

that the man inside was dying and dying in torturous pain? It would be much better if

everyone let him die in peace. "I think just the immediate family," he said in his

exquisitely polite voice. He was surprised when the wife and daughters turned to the

short, heavy man dressed in an awkwardly fitted tuxedo, as if to hear his decision.

The heavy man spoke. There was just the slightest trace of an Italian accent in his

voice. "My dear doctor," said Don Corleone, "is it true he is dying?"

"Yes," said Dr. Kennedy.

"Then there is nothing more for you to do," said Don Corleone. "We will take up the

burden. We will comfort him. We will close his eyes. We will bury him and weep at his

funeral and afterwards we will watch over his wife and daughters." At hearing things put

so bluntly, forcing her to understand, Mrs. Abbandando began to weep.

Dr. Kennedy shrugged. It was impossible to explain to these peasants. At the same time

he recognized the crude justice in the man's remarks. His role was over. Still exquisitely

polite, he said, "Please wait for the nurse to let you in, she has a few necessary things to

do with the patient." He walked away from them down the corridor, his white coat

flapping.

The nurse went back into the room and they waited. Finally she came out again, holding

the door for them to enter. She whispered, "He's delirious with the pain and fever, try not

to excite him. And you can stay only a few minutes, except for the wife." She recognized

Johnny Fontane as he went by her and her eyes opened wide. He gave her a faint smile

of acknowledgment and she stared at him with frank invitation. He filed her away for

future reference, then followed the others into the sick man's room.

Genco Abbandando had run a long race with death, and now, vanquished, he lay

exhausted on the raised bed. He was wasted away to no more than a skeleton, and

what had once been vigorous black hair had turned into obscene stringy wisps. Don

Corleone said cheerily, "Genco, dear friend, I have brought my sons to pay their

respects, and look, even Johnny, all the way from Hollywood."

The dying man raised his fevered eyes gratefully to the Don. He let the young men clasp

his bony hand in their fleshy ones. His wife and daughters ranged themselves along his

bed, kissing his cheek, taking his other hand in turn.

The Don pressed his old friend's hand. He said comfortingly, "Hurry up and get better

and we'll take a trip back to Italy together to our old village. We'll play boccie in front of

the wineshop like our fathers before us."

The dying man shook his head. He motioned the young men and his family away from

his bedside; with the other bony claw he hung fast to the Don. He tried to speak. The

Don put his head down and then sat on the bedside chair. Genco Abbandando was

babbling about their childhood. Then his coal-black eyes became sly. He whispered.

The Don bent closer. The others in the room were astonished to see tears running down

Don Corleone's face as he shook his head. The quavering voice grew louder, filling the

room. With a tortured, superhuman effort, Abbandando lifted his head off his pillow,

eyes unseeing, and pointed a skeletal forefinger at the Don. "Godfather, Godfather," he

called out blindly, "save me from death, I beg of you. My flesh is burning off my bones

and I can feel the worms eating away my brain. Godfather, cure me, you have the

power, dry the tears of my poor wife. In Corleone we played together as children and

now will you let me die when I fear hell for my sins?"

The Don was silent. Abbandando said, "It is your daughter's wedding day, you cannot

refuse me."

The Don spoke quietly, gravely, to pierce through the blasphemous delirium. "Old

friend," he said, "I have no such powers. If I did I would be more merciful than God,

believe me. But don't fear death and don't fear hell. I will have a mass said for your soul

every night and every morning. Your wife and your children will pray for you. How can

God punish you with so many pleas for mercy?"

The skeleton face took on a cunning expression that was obscene. Abbandanda said slyly, "It's been arranged then?"

When the Don answered, his voice was cold, without comfort. "You blaspheme. Resign

yourself."

Abbandando fell back on the pillow. His eyes lost their wild gleam of hope. The nurse

came back into the room and started shooing them out in a very matter-of-fact way. The

Don got up but Abbandando put out his hand. "Godfather," he said, "stay here with me

and help me meet death. Perhaps if He sees you near me He will be frightened and

leave me in peace. Or perhaps you can say a word, pull a few strings, eh?" The dying

man winked as if he were mocking the Don, now not really serious. "You're brothers in

blood, after all." Then, as if fearing the Don would be offended, he clutched at his hand.

"Stay with me, let me hold your hand. We'll outwit that bastard as we've outwitted

others. Godfather, don't betray me."

The Don motioned the other people out of the room. They left. He took the withered

claw of Genco Abbandando in his own two broad hands. Softly, reassuringly, he

comforted his friend, as they waited for death together. As if the Don could truly snatch

the life of Gencp Abbandando back from that most foul and criminal traitor to man.