Scarface by Paul Monette Read Free Book Online

confess, spilling out the misery and boredom of their lives to the dark-eyed Spanish priest with the dueling scar and the air of a pirate.
    Tony never tired of it, and more curiously still, he was not overcome with desire. Even without the protection of the cassock, he wouldn’t have made a move to seduce even the most beautiful of them. Perhaps his experience with the general’s woman had left him gun-shy. Yet he seemed to be after something deeper than pleasure. For this was the princess class that lived in the villas above the sea. He saw them in all their splendid isolation, accoutred in limpid silks and lying about in rooms cushioned like a jewel box.
    What was he after? Was he there to learn how their men kept them, so he would know when he came to occupy a castle of his own? Or did he really want to know what the boredom was like—the long afternoons on the telephone, the desultory shopping—so as to be sure it would never happen to any woman of his?
    He couldn’t say. All he knew was, he had to go back to the villas day after day. He’d ring a new doorbell and wait, a shiver of excitement creeping up his spine, till the door was opened by some new vision of sultriness, her lips wet with longing, a restless glint in her haunted eyes. Meanwhile, his room grew cluttered with treasures. Every surface was covered with clocks and china dogs and silver ashtrays and jade figurines. Tony could have opened a pawn shop himself. Every now and then he would give a trinket to one of the whores, but otherwise his store of riches seemed to have no plan, no scheme, no purpose.
    He developed such a perfect air of detachment, the hoods on the docks began to be drawn to him. When he drifted about the waterfront bars at night, no longer a priest but still somehow desireless, the small-time gangsters bought him drinks and hinted at certain deals. Tony kept his distance, not yet ready to commit himself till someone made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. He was no more interested in getting too involved with any particular criminal than he was with any particular woman. He still went to the brothel on Saturday night, and still he demanded a new girl every time. None of these could remotely be called a princess.
    Tony Montana was a happy man that rainy afternoon when he passed the sweetshop. He had just changed out of his priest’s attire, having spent the morning with the wife of an industrialist, wandering through her rose garden. He had a meeting that night with a dealer who was going to introduce him to the next link up in the chain of command. There was a chance to do some runner work over the border into Switzerland. Tony had everything in place. For once he was not the prey of forces, but had set things up so he was free of everybody else’s needs.
    In the sweetshop window was a tray of marzipan fruit—strawberries, figs, apricots. He smiled, remembering the widow’s passion for candy. On an impulse he headed inside, patting the pocket of his sailor’s pants and realizing he had no money. He chuckled softly, since for once he’d had no thought of stealing. But the old proprietor was busy, weighing chocolate for a bunch of kids, so it was the easiest thing in the world for Tony to lean into the window and scoop up a handful of marzipan. He stuffed his hand in his pocket, turned around and slipped out the door—right into the arms of a scowling cop.
    It seemed like a joke. All right, the cop had seen him red-handed through the window, but it was only half a franc’s worth of candy. Tony could hardly believe he was being led to the station. As they bore down the street, the gendarme tugging Tony along by his cuffed hands, Tony threw back his head and laughed at the craziness of it all. He wasn’t even worried when they fingerprinted him and stuck him in a detention cell with a lot of drunks and pimps. Tony Montana was a secret now. They couldn’t possibly stick him with a ten-cent crime.
    But they left him there for a