17

My traveling companion, Mr. Pope, seemed to have thought of everything. He had booked us first-class passage, which, in those days, included sleeping compartments. If we wanted to we could stretch out like pashas.

Before leaving New York, many of my friends, knowing how much I appreciated a fine smoke, had given me cigars as bon voyage gifts. I received so many cigars—perhaps a thousand, of all lengths and thicknesses—that they entirely filled a valise, which I carried aboard. To Mr. Pope I expressed my fears about getting the cigars past customs in Italy. An arch smile spread across his face. Without explaining why, he said I shouldn’t fret.

At Rome’s Fiumicino Airport, while taxiing to a stop, I noticed a cluster of official-looking people standing near the deplaning spot. A red carpet was being rolled to the airplane ramp.

I thought the reception committee was for some dignitary aboard, and I wanted to wait until the rest of the passengers got off before stepping out. The red carpet was for us. Wouldn’t my friends in the FBI have been astonished at this princely welcome?

Among those who greeted us was an Italian government minister. I recognized him immediately. He was Bernardo Mattarella, who had grown up with me in Castellammare and had pursued a career in politics, having been named to several cabinet posts with the ruling Christian Democrats. In 1957 I believe he was minister of foreign trade.

Pleased as I was at the reception, the matter of the cigars still vexed me. I held the valise firmly in my hand. Once the introductions were complete, a spiffy, obliging man with a little mustache came up to me and said,

—May I have the pleasure of carrying your valise?

I relaxed my grip. In a jiffy, before I could respond, he grabbed the valise and walked smartly away. Nonplussed, I turned to Mr. Pope.

—Is he one of your boys?

—No, Mr. Pope said, trying to keep a straight face, he’s a customs inspector.

Needless to say, with such a porter, the valise of cigars got past customs without my having to pay a lira. How gracious life can be when one has friends in the right places!

*   *   *

From the moment I landed in Rome, I felt myself unwinding—like a watch with no more time to keep. The Volcano, that furious stronghold, seemed very remote. By crossing the ocean not only had I traversed thousands of miles, but I also had seemingly gone through a time warp. I had come back to a different culture with remnants of a bygone era.

From my suite in the Hotel Excelsior I could see, at an angle, the woodline of the Villa Borghese. Below me was Via Veneto. In the evenings, thousands of people milled and sauntered on this boulevard flanked by sidewalk cafés. In New York people seemed to glumly bump or ram into you. In Rome, as crowded as it was, everyone seemed more sociable. People waved, they hugged, they kissed, they strolled hand in hand, women and men alike.

I don’t mean to degrade the United States. I’m an American citizen and it’s a great country. But when I revisited Italy I felt as if I had returned to high civilization. As a modern industrial nation, Italy has its disabilities. Its government machinery, everyone agrees, is appalling. And yet, in the Italians themselves, in their every gesture and in the very bel canto of their language, one finds redemption. Italians have a refined sense of what Luigi Barzini calls “the art of living”—a sociability, a geniality, an exuberance of warmth that surpasses all their other works of art.

Something else that I immediately liked about being in Italy was that no one thought my name sounded odd. Bonanno is a lovely-sounding name; in Italian, it literally means “good year.” English-speakers, however, seem to have difficulty with it. Rather than mispronounce my name, many of my American friends refer to me as J. B. or Mr. B. Rather terse, but still better than that abomination Joe Bananas. I don’t know who invented this moniker for me; I’d like to throttle him.

In Italy, not only did they know how to pronounce my name, but they also sprinkled honorary titles before it. You really have to be a nobody to escape being addressed by one title or other in Italy. Even if the title is meaningless, it makes you feel important.

When the floor captain at the Hotel Excelsior wanted a word with me, he knocked on the door and said:

—Your excellency, with your permission, your excellency.

—Yes?

He said he hoped my suite met with my approval and that he was glad I had chosen to stay at the hotel again.

—Again?

I told him this was my initial stay at the hotel.

He remonstrated with me. He was sure a Mr. Bonanno had occupied the very same suite the previous year. Although he couldn’t remember my face, he did remember the name.

—Your excellency, how could I forget such a lovely name?

The mystery was solved when the floor captain checked the hotel register. He rushed back to tell me that in 1956 my rooms were occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Salvatore Bonanno, who were on their honeymoon.

My spacious suite had elegant appointments; it was an apartment fit for a prince. That son of mine, I thought, he likes to travel in style. I wonder where he gets it from?

I thanked the floor captain and tipped him.

—You’re welcome, your excellency. And thank you kindly, your excellency.

He was walking out the door when he added,

—Good evening, your excellency.

*   *   *

From the capital of Italy, we next went to the capital of Sicily. I was met in Palermo by my former deputy, Frank Garofalo, and by my former dairy manager, Uncle John Bonventre, who also had returned to the island.

One day, I left this group to join some other friends, natives of Palermo and some of them “men of honor.” There had been much construction in Palermo after World War II and my friends wanted to show me all the new boulevards and office buildings.

—But we have those in America, I protested.

I wanted to see the old places that I remembered from my youth. It was in Palermo, for instance, that I had seen L’Opera dei Puppi, the puppet theater. I remember being enthralled by the near-life-sized marionettes dressed as armored knights and engaged in furious battles for the honor of their king, Charlemagne.

One of the places we visited was the Teatro Massimo, one of the largest theaters in Europe. Two bronze lions guard the stairs outside the opera house. The inscription over the entrance of the Teatro Massimo is one I know by heart:

L’ARTE RINNOVA I POPOLI E NE RIVELA LA VITA. VANO DELLE SCENE IL DILETTO OVE NON MIRI A PREPARAR L’AVVENIRE.

(Art renews the people and reveals their lives. Vain the pleasure from these scenes if you don’t contemplate them to prepare for the future.)

We eventually made our way to a fine restaurant on the Piazza Politeama. It was a favorite restaurant of my escorts. Since they were men of my Tradition, they had taken me to a restaurant in which they knew they would be welcomed and treated with respect. Indeed, the restaurant owner greeted us as if we were lords. He kissed his patron’s hand and asked for his blessing.

—Vossia mi benerica.

After the ceremonial greeting, I momentarily found myself alone at the table. I asked for water from a waiter. He brought back a pitcher of icewater. I happen to have an aversion to icewater because it constricts my throat. Speaking in standard Italian, as opposed to a Sicilian dialect, I told the waiter to bring me some water without ice.

My request irritated him. Assuming that I wouldn’t be able to understand, the waiter muttered words in his native dialect.

—They go to America, the waiter mumbled, and when they come back they think they can show off. They put on all sorts of airs!

His remarks enraged me. I was only asking him to do his job. What difference should it make to him if I liked my water without ice? This waiter had picked the wrong time to act peevish, for I was very thirsty. And he had picked the wrong man to trifle with. I was more Sicilian than he was. My temper snapped. I reached for the pitcher of icewater and flung it at him.

The pitcher struck his skull. The glass cracked. Blood trickled down his head. Then I began reprimanding him in his own dialect.

—How could I know? the dazed waiter answered back. Forgive me, your excellency. I didn’t know.

The fellow cowered before me. In a way, I had taught him a lesson. The next time he would be more careful around whom to let his tongue run wild. As far as I was concerned, no more needed to be said or done.

However, when my friends saw our little tilt, they returned to the table looking very grim indeed. If the waiter had offended me, they were prepared to punish him.

At this point, the restaurant owner came to the rescue. Judging from the frowns and beetling brows of my important friends, the owner probably genuinely thought that the waiter’s life was in danger. He therefore sought to take upon himself the responsibility for punishing the waiter to spare him more dire consequences.

—If it was up to me, the owner scolded the waiter, I would give you a good kicking and a hard whipping. And then I’d fire you, you wretch.

The owner looked at us next. As if pleading for the waiter’s life, he said,

—I’m sure the gentlemen would be satisfied.

The incident had gone too far. It had become farcical. I declared that I didn’t want to see the waiter lose his limbs or his job on account of icewater. I forgave him. No sooner did I say this than everyone went back to his normal business, and none of us said another word about it. But that’s the Sicilian temper for you: easily angered, easily soothed, if you know how to handle it. At the end of the meal, the waiter received a generous tip and the restaurant owner invited us to come back soon.

*   *   *

The next day, for our drive to Ribera to dedicate the orphanage, a city official close to the mayor of Palermo insisted that Mr. Pope and I have a police escort. We were important men from America, and the official didn’t want to take any chances on any hill bandits kidnapping us. And so our party drove out of Palermo accompanied by an impressive but utterly superfluous police escort. In New York, they would never believe this.

The dedication ceremony was as it should be: short on speeches and full of flowers and children. Seeing the orphans reminded me of my youth and made me think of my parents. I had known them for but a short time. Perhaps for this reason I have always idealized them.

I wanted to be with them in spirit, as soon as possible. Already, Mr. Pope and I had decided to follow separate itineraries once the dedication ceremony was completed. Therefore, when it was over, I entreated Frank Garofalo to drive me to the cemetery in Castellammare.

My parents’ grave marker is one of the tallest and most prominent in the town cemetery. I bought fresh flowers to lay on the marble tombstone.

For the next couple of weeks I remained in Castellammare, visiting my childhood haunts and reliving memories. I rented an entire small motel to accommodate the many friends and relatives who came to see me, often bringing gifts of fresh food and delicacies.