Free Godfather, The by Mario Puzo Page A

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,