The Dead Don't Get Out Much (12 page)

“I will.”

“Make sure you do,” he said gruffly.

What a tough guy.

Okay, I didn't need to spend a year on a shrink's couch to tell me Paul was at the root of my reluctance to have Ray join me. I knew damn well if Mrs. Parnell had chosen to vanish into the south of France, I would have been panting for Ray to come to the rescue. It had been too many years since my husband Paul was wiped out by a drunk driver. I knew it was time to get on with my life. Paul would have wanted that. And I was ready. I even knew that Paul would have liked Ray's sense of humour, would have appreciated his unflappability, would have approved of his commitment to his family and the way you could count on him, no matter what.

None of that mattered here. How could I go with another man to Italy? The last time I'd been in the country, I'd been the passenger much of the time, a woman on her honeymoon, thinking about the next laughing dinner over a litre of red wine and the next room for two overlooking a garden courtyard in a small hotel where people smile at newlyweds, wink and nudge each other, and sidle over to their tables bearing glasses of flaming Sambuca, on the house. In case the lovebirds hadn't had enough booze.

Paul's face has been fading in my memory. I keep his photos, of course. On these roads, I didn't need photos. I saw him in the reflection in the osteria window. Wherever I went for a first trip with Ray, even if it was searching for a missing person, I owed it to him not to make it a threesome.

* * *

The fog lifted at dawn. I spotted that right off because I was sitting up in bed, awake and staring. I had been for hours. Thanks to my ill-advised sleep in the afternoon and the six-hour time difference, I'd tossed and turned all night on the narrow, hard bed, thinking about Mrs. Parnell, fretting about who might have broken into her apartment, and what was happening to her. I spent the hours from two until five rereading the letters. The men were dead: Walter Parnell, Perce Connaught and, most likely, Guy Prendergast. Harry Jones was close enough. So many choices of possible dead people to give Mrs. Parnell trouble, to say nothing of the thousands of others she would have come in contact with. Given the foggy circumstances, this was the best use of my time, although I didn't come up with any answers.

I didn't allow my thoughts to turn to Ray Deveau or Paul. Focus, that's what Mrs. Parnell would have advised me if she had been there, although if she'd been there, I wouldn't have had a problem.

I peered out the window and was delighted the Ka was visible. My room didn't have a shower, so I gave myself a quick swipe with a facecloth, brushed my teeth and hair and nixed the lipstick.

The owner intercepted me on the way out. She apparently required no sleep. She was smiling and efficient. Her hair was nicely arranged, and she was dressed to take on all comers. She told me Berli was still another hour's drive from there, apparently straight up. She insisted that I have a caffè latte and a
brioche
for the road.

That morning, the bar-restaurant was full of customers, mostly elderly men, enjoying breakfast and each others' company. The odd one had a glass of wine.

This far from the urban areas, I didn't expect anyone to speak English, although you never know when someone will have a cousin. I used my phrase book and smiled a lot. I learned to say
Basta!
for enough. I was on a mission. I didn't really intend to come back from Italy looking like one of those Genoa salamis I enjoy so much.

I didn't want to waste an opportunity though. I pulled out the picture of Mrs. Parnell and slapped it on the wooden table top.

“Mia nonna,”
I said, enthusiastically.

“Ah, la nonna. Che bella!”
I took this in the spirit it was intended. Although Mrs. Parnell is a stalwart companion and an irreplaceable friend, and she has splendid military bearing, she's less than conventionally beautiful.

I did my best to ask if the woman had seen her there on her way to Berli. I emphasized sick and lost.
Ammalata e perduta
. I also threw in the silver Opel for good measure.
Macchina d'argento! Opel! Opel!
I sounded quite deranged. Maybe that's what set off a blizzard of chatter.
“Si?”
I said.
“Si?”

“No.”

My shoulders fell. More chatter. Some shrugs. If anyone even slightly unusual, and Mrs. P. would certainly qualify, had come through a village in this part of Italy, word would spread ten miles before you could say
un espresso, per piacere
. Oh well, it had been a long shot anyway, and I got a decent
brioche
out of it.

I was just polishing off my second espresso when there was a ruckus at the door. A very elderly gentleman was escorted in by two slightly less elderly helpers. A young man handsome enough to be a model for upmarket jeans followed them. Everyone became very excited about the old man, not the gorgeous kid.

I approved. It spoke well of a society where the arrival of a tiny old man sparked a lot of interest. Who needs plasma TVs and Blackberries when people in a community find each other so fascinating? Not that I would want to be the subject of such close attention from my neighbours and family, mind you. Still, the old gentleman didn't seem to mind.

Before my wondering eyes, he was steered toward my table. By this time, he was surrounded by a cluster of people, all talking at once. I wasn't sure who was listening to all this talking. It wasn't me, since I only caught the odd word. There was a buzz in the air.

As far as I could tell, the old man's name was zio Domenico. Uncle Dominic. I shook his hand. I shook the hand of his two companions.

Everyone else seemed to want to shake my hand too. That was fine.

The companions picked up the photo of Mrs. Parnell and showed it to zio Domenico. He squinted. He paused. He leaned a bit forward. He squinted more. He paused again. I had to admire his innate sense of drama. I looked around. Everyone appeared to be holding their breath.

“La nonna?”
he said in a quavery voice.

“Si,”
I said.

“
Molta bella
.”

“
Grazie
.”

The young man stepped forward. I imagined the girls he went to school with had a hard time concentrating when they spotted the curly dark hair, electric blue eyes and golden skin. I won't even mention the cheekbones and chiselled jaw.

“My name is Dario,” he said, showing teeth that most people would kill for. “I study the English in school, so that I can visit my cousin in Hamilton. They say your grandmother is sick?”

“Yes,” I said, “she may have had a heart attack. And she's seeing things.”

“Ah,” he said.
“Pazza.”

I knew that
pazza
meant crazy. “No, no. Not crazy,
sick
. I believe she went to Berli. I hope so, otherwise I have to visit Pieve San Simone, Montechiaro and someplace called Alcielo.”

“Berli is a long drive from here. Not as far as these other places,” Dario said. “It is dangerous to drive today because it is…
nebuloso
. Sorry, I do not know the word.”

“Yes, very foggy.”

“You should stay here with us,
signora,”
he said flirtatiously.

Flirtation's not my thing. “Has this gentleman seen my grandmother?”

“Zio Domenico? No. Do not worry. She will be fine, I think. Yes.”

I could tell he wanted to help. “My grandmother might be driving up the mountain in the fog. As you said, it's very dangerous. She might be sick. She needs to see a doctor.”

“Your father will find her.”

“What?”

“Your father.”

“My father's not here.”

“Your uncle perhaps? He was searching for your nonna. He stopped here yesterday, and he asks about her.”

“You lost me, Dario. Who did?”

“Her son. I am trying to explain. Zio Domenico didn't see your grandmother. He saw her son.”

 

Brockbank Manor
Hampshire
United Kingdom
January 26, 1945

Darling Vi,

This is the hardest letter I will ever write. You cannot imagine how war changes a fellow. The Italian campaign was beyond imagination. I lost so many fine colleagues. Especially Perce. I feel I should have been able to save him. I still see his shattered face in front of me in my nightmares.

Now that I am back in England, everything seems different to me. For a while, it looked like my face and hands might heal, but the doctors were certain I would lose my right arm. I have outfoxed them, it seems. I have had a wonderful volunteer hospital visitor in the course of my recovery. Her two brothers were killed in France in the early days, and she has been doing her best to help out with the morale of those of us who made it back. You used to call me a handsome devil. Although my face is healing, you couldn't say that any more. It is more than my damaged appearance. All those months of crawling through the mud in the Italian countryside have changed me. Perhaps it was always being under German fire, sleeping in a slit trench and having your ears rattled by exploding shells, losing your friends, in the worst cases, feeling their blood wash over you. I am no longer the happy-go-lucky fellow you fell in love with. That is one of the reasons why it has been so hard for me to write to you before now.

I got a letter from Hazel, and she mentioned that you had been courted by a dashing officer named Parnell. I believe I've run into him a few times. Hazel thought I would be jealous, but that makes what I am going to tell you a bit easier. What I am trying to say is that I have fallen in love with my hospital visitor, whose name is Dorothea. She is a very fine, serious girl who wants nothing from life except a husband and children and peace, of course. This is very hard to break to you this way: Dorothea and I have been married.

I hope some day you will forgive me, Violet, and that you will live a very happy life. You will always have a special place in my heart.

Harry

I
stared. “She doesn't have a son.”

“Si, si
. She does,
signora
,” Dario said.
“Certamente
. Hundred per cent. He had a picture of your
nonna
. He was going to Berli too.”

“My God,” I said.

Dario said, “No problem! If she is in Berli, he will have found her. That's good. He will look after her. It will be fine,
signora
.”

I didn't think so. My head swam. Hold on, I thought. Perhaps this was one of those bizarre disjointed dreams you have while travelling in foreign countries. Too much espresso and salami, not enough sleep. It messes with your head. I decided if it wasn't a dream, I'd better behave strategically because something was very, very wrong.

“Please ask your zio Domenico what this man looks like?”

Dario regarded me oddly. “You do not know what your uncle looks like,
signora?”

“Actually, I don't have an uncle.”

“Your father?”

“No.”

“He said…”

“Probably it's just some misunderstanding. But I am worried now.”

Dario said, “Zio Domenico is almost blind, that is why everyone helps him.”

“He's blind? But he said she was
bella.”

Dario grinned. “Zio Domenico loves women. It runs in the family. He sees them in his mind.”

“Then how does he know about this man who says he's her son?”

“He heard him speaking.”

“And he was speaking English? Asking for my nonna?”

Dario turned and fired off a volley of questions. He got a variety of answers. I heard
l'Americano, il Canadese, l'Inglese
and Parnell.

The Parnell part made my heart race. American, Canadian, English. I guess we all look and sound alike.
L'Americano
seemed to win the day.

“Your uncle, he spoke American.”

“You mean not like a Canadian?”

Another series of questions.

“Maybe,” Dario answered after a very long while. “Zio Dominico doesn't know any Canadians, just one cousin in Montreal, and that one speaks French. He thought your uncle was from United States. What does he know? He is a simple man.”

“Did anyone else see anything? Can anyone describe him? And what kind of car he was driving?”

“I will ask the others.”

Dario turned and held an intense conversation with the two men who had helped zio Domenico into the bar. After a lot of arm-waving and shouting, Dario turned back to me and shrugged. “He looked like an American. He had dark hair. Maybe fifty years old.”

At the end of a lively discussion, Dario translated enthusiastically, and warned me to keep an eye out for someone not too light, not too dark, eye colour indeterminate, medium build, although he may have been large or even small. He was middle-aged, although some thought he might have been a bit older. No distinguishing characteristics, except for his overcoat. Then again, that may have been a raincoat, or possibly even a jacket. One trembling fellow with cataracts suggested a sweater. He was quickly put in his place.

A small, wizened man with tobacco-stained fingers gave Dario a look and elbowed him out of the way. Dario elbowed back.

Dario said, “Mercedes-Benz.” He made the international finger gesture for expensive.

“Mercedes?” I said.
“Certo?”

He frowned as if I had questioned his intelligence. What were the chances that someone claiming to be Mrs. Parnell's son roared through this town in a Mercedes?

“Nera,”
he said.

The wizened man hopped up and down with rage. He shouted,
“Stupido, stupido, stupidone.”
Dario ignored him.

“Crazy old man,” he said to me in a whisper.

My mind was on the black Mercedes. There are lots of Mercedes all over Italy. Had I seen a black one recently?

“Did anyone notice the license plate number?” I said.

Dario translated, and the old man shook his fist. No one else had seen a license plate number.

“Grazie,”
I said and meant it. I dodged the wizened man. I shook zio Domenico's hand. I accepted a big hug from Dario.

Whoever my new uncle was, he had done all right for himself. I excused myself from the group and headed for the pay phone. I didn't know where the hell Alvin was. I hoped it was somewhere important. I left him a clear and forceful message that he should not flip out when he heard this. Now his urgent task would be to find out if Mrs. Parnell had a son she had never mentioned. I tried to do this without shouting, because everyone in the room was listening.

I pulled out my stash of Euros and bought a round of whatever anyone wanted.
Espresso, vino
, didn't matter. I got off kind of easy, because it was morning. I made sure to thank everyone for their help. I promised to return with my grandmother for a special meal. Zio Domenico seemed especially keen. Dario gave me another huge hug.

“Ciao, ciao, bella,”
he said as if he meant it.

Eventually, I tore myself away. It had started to rain softly as I hurried out the door to my Ka. I waved to everyone gathered in the door of the bar and drove off up the mountain, wondering why I hadn't packed anything for a goddam headache.

* * *

If you're heading to a mountain village in the Appenine mountains, be prepared to abandon the highways and drive in a zig-zagging pattern up steep, narrow passages that barely qualify as roads. Twice I pulled over to the side. I had my fingers crossed that nothing would come barrelling up the hill and ram the back of the Ka. Or down the hill and slam the front of it. There wasn't much metal between me and meeting my maker.

Problem two lurked on the edge of every road. In this part of Italy, the roads ended in steep falls, a long way down to the rock-strewn pastures below. Naturally, there were no guardrails. Best not to dwell on that.

I kept my eyes open for a silver Opel and a dark Mercedes. The Ka might have been small and slow, but it had a tiny turning radius, and I was prepared to rely on that.

No one passed me on the road, and eventually I made it to Berli. Peering through the fog, I concluded the town couldn't have more than fifty houses, perched on the glossy green hillside, some seeming to defy physics. Most were built out of rough gray stone, probably lugged by hand from the surrounding fields generations earlier. The stone houses had new roofs, doors and windows. A few attached stucco houses had a newish look to them. Every dwelling had a small car parked in front of it, the sign of the new Europe. No silver Opels, no Mercedes.

The fog was lifting a bit. I navigated along the main street, which had mostly houses, interspersed with small businesses: a hairdresser, a barber. On a two-storey stone building, at a sharp corner, I spotted a battered sign: Bar-Hotel Natalia. It would have to do. I parked and made my way on foot up and down the rutted side streets, avoiding potholes deep enough to swallow the Ka. These streets were just a few years away from the subsistence farming communities they'd once been. I knew from previous trips to Italy that the lower levels of some of the cute stone houses had once been the stables, with the families living above on the second floor. There were no animals now, except for one dog energetically announcing my presence. I saw no one. Most of the houses were unlit, shutters closed.

The back end of the building was crumbling, although the wheelbarrels and materials near it indicated a rebuilding of some sort was underway. There was new money in Berli, I was sure of that.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the bar. In Italy, bar is used to mean a café restaurant, the place you get your sandwich or grab a quick breakfast. Of course, you can always get wine there. Or whatever. You're quite likely to get homemade food. Usually you'll find a few kids running around. The Italians aren't too hung up on booze restrictions, like some places I could name. Later in the evening, they turn into pleasant drinking establishments.

The room was full of people, again mostly elderly. Everyone nodded at me when I came in. The noise level was high, boisterous, happy. Or maybe just trying to drown out the large-screen television mounted in the corner and going full-blast. I'm not sure what gives with Italian television, and I don't want to find out.

I began by greeting the burly woman, possibly Natalia, who was using her muscles to polish glasses that already gleamed in the low light.
“Buona sera, signora
.”

Her eyes narrowed, her mouth turned down. Maybe that was deep suspicion. Maybe she'd just had a very bad day. I could sympathize.

I smiled. This wasn't as easy as it sounds, since I had just crawled up miles of winding, foggy mountain roads on my way to a godforsaken place where no one would speak English. I had practiced my piece and managed to ask in my fractured Italian if she had seen my grandmother. I produced the photo of Mrs. Parnell and mentioned the silver Opel.

I smiled again for good measure. She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head emphatically. New wrinkles sprouted at the downturned corners. I pointed at the picture again. “La nonna,” I said, soothingly.

“No,” she said.

“È malata.”

She shook her head.

I wanted to ask about the so-called son in the Mercedes. I gave it a shot with
figlio
and Mercedes. That merely caused her to turn her back on me. She half-turned her head when I ordered a glass of red wine and a plate of cannelloni. I was feeling ridiculously fatigued and hungry. Both of which I found irritating since I couldn't really enjoy a meal until I tracked down Mrs. Parnell. Then we could eat and drink happily together, and I could help her with whatever she was trying to do here in the remote mountains of Italy.

The wine came immediately. Just because I wasn't an instant hit didn't mean I wouldn't have a drink in my hand. A basket of warm, rustic bread was plunked on my wooden table, along with a bottle of olive oil. The cannelloni arrived shortly after and was plunked down without a word from the burly
signora.
.

I sat alone, aware of the glances of the crowd in the bar. Who cared? It wasn't like I was looking for a new social group. I just needed information about Mrs. P. I ate in solitude and tried to figure out what to do next.

A glance out the window told me that the fog had descended again. Every few minutes, another small car emerged from the fog just feet from the window. Not much chance I could drive down the mountain without killing myself or someone else.

As far as I could tell, this bar was the only game in town. The proprietor had quite obviously taken an instant dislike to me. Not that I would care, as a rule. However, I needed cooperation.

I asked about a room, and she hesitated. A short, round man I took to be her husband gave her a quick nudge in the ribs.

“Si,”
she said, citing a ridiculously large number of Euros.

Five minutes later, I tossed my little backpack on a double bed with a puffy duvet that looked very inviting on this damp miserable day. The pillow-cases on all four pillows had obviously been ironed. The room was bright and comfortable, with a fine view of the fog. Better yet, it even had a small new-looking portable heater in the corner and a shining white wastepaper basket. The heater had already been turned on. I found the bathroom next door in a dark green hallway. There seemed to be no other guests. The towels were large, bright white and fluffy. Maybe the little round husband took charge of guest hospitality. I figured the
signora
was in charge of clean.

I brushed my teeth, had an overdue shower, fixed my hair as well as I could, changed my T-shirt and put on the black pants and my sweater. I rinsed out my undies in the sink. I hung them to dry in the shower, picked up the photos again and headed back downstairs.

The proprietor was replacing a freshly polished glass. She stopped mid-task, gripping the glass, and stared me down.

I gave her a cheerful wave and started at the first table. A group of men paused in their card game.

To do them credit, I got a
“buona sera, signora,”
from each of them. I passed around Mrs. Parnell's picture. They all took the time to look at it.

No luck. Everyone shook their heads. No one looked sympathetic. No one said,
“Oh, la nonna!”

I thanked them, picked up the photo and moved on to the next table. I repeated this at every table in the bar. Something was wrong though. The atmosphere didn't feel normal.

I'm not sure why it took so long, but eventually it dawned on me. The bar had become too quiet. Where were the competing voices? The raucous stories, the shouts of laughter? This was more like a morgue than a gathering of Italians.

When I reached the last table and had received the last negative shake of the head, I glanced at the proprietor. She shot back a triumphant smirk.

Great. I was fogged in on a mountain, with no clue about what had happened to Mrs. Parnell, trapped until the morning, wasting precious time. I turned back to the room full of strangely quiet people. I knew she had been there, and what's more, I knew that they'd seen her.

I said in my fractured Italian: “That photo is my grandmother. She is more than eighty years old. She is sick, and the doctor says she may die if she doesn't get medicine. I know she came here. I think you should help save her life.” I searched my mind for the word for shame. It eluded me.

The room remained silent.

I gave up. Time to go back to my room and think of a new and improved plan. I turned. I stopped.
“Vergogna,”
I said. Shame on you.

People turned away from me and reverted to nervous whispered conversations. I headed back up the stairs and kicked the white wastepaper basket.

Five minutes later, I had a new plan. Probably a waste of time; still, better than staring at the ceiling until morning. I was warm and well fed, and although I was bone-tired, I didn't intend to repeat my mistake of falling asleep too early. I put on my grey wool socks and slipped my jean jacket over the sweater. I checked my phrase book for a few more useful tidbits. I wrapped the scarf around my neck, applied a bit of Graffiti Red in case and slipped down the stairs and out the side door, without bothering to make eye contact with the useless lumps in the bar.