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a knocking on Filomena's door. She was by no means frightened, it was the quiet hour

babes prudently chose to enter safely into this sinful world, and so she dressed and

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opened the door. Outside it was Luca Brasi whose reputation even then was fearsome.

It was known also that he was a bachelor. And so Filomena was immediately frightened.

She thought he had come to do her husband harm, that perhaps her husband had

foolishly refused Brasi some small favor.

But Brasi had come on the usual errand. He told Filomena that there was a woman

about to give birth, that the house was out of the neighborhood some distance away

and that she was to come with him. Filomena immediately sensed something amiss.

Brasi's brutal face looked almost like that of a madman that night, he was obviously in

the grip of some demon. She tried to protest that she attended only women whose

history she knew but he shoved a bandful of green dollars in her hand and ordered her

roughly to come along with him. She was too frightened to refuse.

In the street was a Ford, its driver of the same feather as Luca Brasi. The drive was

no more than thirty minutes to a small frame house in Long Island City right over the

bridge. A two-family house but obviously now tenanted only by Brasi and his gang. For

there were some other ruffians in the kitchen playing cards and drinking. Brasi took

Filomena up the stairs to a bedroom. In the bed was a young pretty girl who looked Irish,

her face painted, her hair red; and with a belly swollen like a sow. The poor girl was so

frightened. When she saw Brasi she turned her head away in terror, yes terror, and

indeed the look of hatred on Brasi's evil face was the most frightening thing she had

ever seen in her life. (Here Filomena crossed herself again.)

To make a long story short, Brasi left the room. Two of his men assisted the midwife

and the baby was born, the mother was exhausted and went into a deep sleep. Brasi

was summoned and Filomena, who had wrapped the newborn child in an extra blanket,

extended the bundle to him and said, "If you're the father, take her. My work is finished."

Brasi glared at her, malevolent, insanity stamped on his face. "Yes, I'm the father," he

said. "But I don't want any of that race to live. Take it down to the basement and throw it

into the furnace."

For a moment Filomena thought she had not understood him properly. She was

puzzled by bis use of the word "race." Did he mean because the girl was not Italian? Or

did he mean because the girl was obviously of the lowest type; a whore in short? Or did

he mean that anything springing from his loins he forbade to live. And then she was

sure he was making a brutal joke. She said shortly, "It's your child, do what you want."

And she tried to hand him the bundle.

At this time the exhausted mother awoke and turned on her side to face them. She

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was just in time to see Brasi thrust violently at the bundle, crushing the newborn infant

against Filomena's chest. She called out weakly, "Luc, Luc, I'm sorry," and Brasi turned

to face her.

It was terrible, Filomena said now. So terrible. They were like two mad animals. They

were not human. The hatred they bore each other blazed through the room. Nothing

else, not even the newborn infant, existed for them at that moment. And yet there was a

strange passion. A bloody, demonical lust so unnatural you knew they were damned

forever. Then Luca Brasi turned back to Filomena and said harshly, "Do what I tell you,

I'll make you rich."

Filomena could not speak in her terror. She shook her head. Finally she managed to

whisper, "You do it, you're the father, do it if you like." But Brasi didn't answer. Instead

he drew a knife from inside his shirt. "I'll cut your throat," he said.

She must have gone into shock then because the next thing she remembered they

were all standing in the basement of the house in front of a square iron furnace.

Filomena was still holding the blanketed baby, which had not made a sound. (Maybe if it

had cried, maybe if I had been shrewd enough to pinch it, Filomena said, that monster

would have shown mercy.)

One of the men must have opened the furnace door, the fire now was visible. And

then she was alone with Brasi in that basement with its sweating pipes, its mousy odor.

Brasi had his knife out again. And there could be no doubting that he would kill her.

There were the flames, there were Brasi's eyes. His face was the gargoyle (горгулья –

выступающая водосточная труба в виде фантастической фигуры /в готической

архитектуре/ ['gα:goıl]) of the devil, it was not human, it was not sane. He pushed her

toward the open furnace door.

At this point Filomena fell silent. She folded her bony hands in her lap and looked

directly at Michael. He knew what she wanted, how she wanted to tell him, without using

her voice. He asked gently, "Did you do it?" She nodded.

It was only after another glass of wine and crossing herself and muttering a prayer

that she continued her story. She was given a bundle of money and driven home. She