The Incident at Montebello (13 page)

Lucia told him, “Thank you for the handkerchief,
signore
. You're very kind. I'll wash it and have it ready for you when you pick up your clothes. But now, I must be going.”

“Stay a minute,” he insisted, touching her sleeve. “The dead won't care if we linger.”

“I have work waiting for me.”

“Please,
signora
. I need to tell you something.”

Curious, she stared at him while he fumbled for the right words. “I know how it feels to lose someone you love more than anyone else in this world.” At a loss, he stopped, his throat tight.

“Who died?”

He told her and her eyes filled with tears all over again. Oddly enough, relief flooded through him and happiness too. Once again, he could make no sense of it—but he kept talking. “The
fascisti
don't care who they kill. One life or another. It makes no difference to them.”

“What do you mean? Are the
fascisti
to blame for Sofia's death too?”

“I've heard the rumors about the driver who killed your daughter. Some say it was Il Duce or a high-ranking Fascist.”

“They can say whatever they want. It's dangerous to speculate, but it's more dangerous to know the truth.”

“But you know what they say—the truth heals all wounds and makes us free.”

“I have no heart for it. But perhaps you can't understand.”

“I can't.”

“Tell me,
signore
. Did the truth help you when your wife died?”

Speechless, he stared helplessly into her eyes. He saw stubbornness there, much like his own. He blinked, unable to hold her gaze. With this woman, there was no equivocation. This realization filled him with simultaneous joy and dread.

She told him, “I must go,
signore
.” And with that, she turned towards the path, but she had taken just a few steps when she muttered, “Santa Maria, have mercy on me.” He followed her gaze to a woman in black striding towards them, a cross glinting around her throat, offering a ray of cheerfulness in an otherwise gloomy landscape.

“
Nonna
,” Lucia murmured, kissing the woman on the cheek before gesturing towards him. “Have you met Signor Sardolini?”

Nonna Angelina said nothing, but her eyes brushed over him so quickly, he was left with the chilling impression that she had already made up her mind about him and had decided not to be bothered. In fact, she spoke only to Lucia. “I know who he is,” she said. “But unlike you, I don't come here to socialize.” And with that, she strode past Lucia, who lowered her head, saying nothing. The perplexed Sardolini stared at Nonna Angelina, who paused by Sofia's grave, pulled out her rosary, lifted her eyes heavenward, and murmured her prayers with a great show of piety.

“What do you think, Isolina? A lemon
torta
or an almond?” Amelia asked as she nursed Peppino in the rocking chair.

Isolina tried to ignore Amelia's chatter as she fed her brothers breakfast and hurried them out the door to school. One minute, Amelia was debating what to bake for the Butasis and, in the next, she was complaining that Isolina hadn't mopped the floor. Isolina shrugged. “Lemon or almond. It doesn't matter, mamma. Maybe the Butasis don't want me to marry Rodi.”

“Nonsense. Of course, they do. A pretty girl like you. So hard working. So talented. They're the lucky ones. I don't know how I'll manage without you.”

Amelia was trying to make peace, but Isolina couldn't forgive her for revealing her secret to the priest
.
“You'll manage somehow, mamma.”

“Is that all you can say?”

“It's true, mamma. You'll manage. You'll have to. I'll be busy taking care of my own house.”

“What a way for a daughter to talk to her mamma. And here we are sacrificing to make a big wedding for you. Is this how you treat me?”

“You shouldn't have told the
padre
, mamma.”

“How could you get married with sin on your soul? Now you can hold your head high.”

Tired of her mother's simplistic answers, she sighed. “I'm going to be late to work,” she said, untying her apron and grabbing her coat.

She had hoped to catch Rodi before he left for Castellammare, but it was already too late, thanks to her mother and brothers. And so she could look forward to another day of worrying and another night of restless dreams until she managed to tell him what happened with the priest and her parents. Amelia had left her with no option but to trust the priest. She hoped with all her heart that he'd keep his word. But what if he was a sheep? What then? The police had already arrested Manfredo. Rodi would be next, she was sure of it.

As she climbed the hill to the piazza, she searched for Rodi, but he wasn't in the square or the post office, already crowded with women holding letters and packages. At one end of the piazza, Don Cosimo was conducting business and, at the other end, Petronella, the butcher's wife, was gossiping about Manfredo with a cluster of women.

“His mother's family is from Calabria,” Petronella said, her chin quivering like a bowl of
panna cotta
pudding.

“Oh, that's where he gets it from,” the barber's wife said.

Petronella nodded. “Down there, they'd shoot their mothers if someone paid them.”

Isolina didn't know what shocked her more—the fact that Manfredo was arrested or that women were nodding in agreement with Petronella.

The Widow Cantù declared, “It's a tragedy no matter who's holding the gun. I feel sorry for him and his parents.”

“Why should I feel sorry for another godless anti-Fascist?” Petronella demanded. “They're heartless. Did you hear about the bomb they planted in a package in Roma? It killed a man.”

She couldn't listen any more. Instead, she ran across the square to the church and squinted into the holy umbra tinged with incense. Dozens of candles flickered in the gloom. A handful of widows were on their knees praying to God and their dead husbands, no doubt, but the priest wasn't there. At the end of the transept, she pushed open the side door to the chapel garden and peered through the grove of pear and cherry trees, looking for the
padre'
s massive form. Because the income from his jams and jellies funded his larder, he lavished more attention on his fruit than his congregation.

Spotting a ladder, she ran towards it and called up through the branches. The tree stirred and the priest shouted, “You see how the good Lord makes us suffer now for our summer pleasures?”

Impatient, she said, “Yes,
padre
. But can you come down? I need to talk to you.”

He struggled down the ladder and led her to a bench under a pear tree. “Are you praying, my child?”

“Yes,
padre.
Did you speak to Prefetto Balbi? What did he say?”

As the priest patted her hand, his lazy eye strayed away from her face and she wondered for the thousandth time whether she could trust him. He told her, “Not everyone understands Prefetto Balbi like I do. They see the uniform and hear the tough talk, but underneath, he's a decent man with a good heart. He was sympathetic to your situation and agreed to give Rodi the benefit of the doubt. He believes as I do that you should be married right away.”

Relief flooded through her. She grasped his hands. “Thank you,
padre
,” she cried. In spite of the good news, tears filled her eyes.

“Now go, my child, and be happy. This is no time for tears. You're going to make a beautiful bride. But remember to pray. The devil is inside you now, whispering in your ear, waiting for that moment of weakness.”

“You have my word,
padre
,” she said, eagerly. At this point, she'd agree to almost anything.

In reply, he raised his hand and blessed the air above her head.

She ran back to the Via Franca with a lighter heart. When she spotted Charlie on a bicycle, she waved and he pedaled over. “Why aren't you getting Professor Zuffi breakfast?” she asked.

“I'm in trouble.”

“That's nothing new.”

“Never this bad,” he mumbled. “Professor Zuffi is talking to my mother this morning.”

“What happened?”

“I don't want to talk about it. I better go.”

“Wait. Do you have something for me? From Rodi?”

Charlie pulled a paper out of his pocket, thrust it into her hands, and pedaled away. With trembling fingers, she opened Rodi's note.
Meet me tonight at the mill. Nine o'clock.
It was a good plan. Her parents would be so wrapped up in the movie Don Cosimo was showing that they wouldn't notice if she disappeared for a few minutes. She ripped up the paper and stuffed the scraps into her pocket.

That night, when everyone was watching Greta Garbo, Isolina yanked open the mill door and breathed in the scent of ground wheat lingering in the air. She swept the lantern over the floors and grinding stone, as big as her kitchen table. Beyond the cone of light, mice scrabbled across the floor. She glanced over her shoulder, hoping the door would creak open, but when it didn't, she set the lantern down and paced, her shadow leaping ahead and retreating. Hearing footsteps at last, she turned as Rodi stepped into the fringe of light. “Oh, Rodi, I've been so worried,” she whispered as his arms enveloped her and his mouth pressed against hers, making her forget her worries for a moment. When he pulled back and stroked her hair, she said, “Let me see what they did to you.” Lifting the lantern, she studied his face, bruised and swollen. Tears of sympathy filled her eyes. “They hurt you. I hate them for that.”

“I wouldn't talk, so his thugs beat me up and forced castor oil down my throat.”

She touched his cheek. “I'm so sorry, Rodi.”

“It's not your fault. It's the Fascists'.”

“And now they have Manfredo.”

He lowered his head.

“Is it true, Rodi? Is he an anti-Fascist?”

He hesitated. “No, of course not.”

“Are you?”

“No. Why?”

She told him about Padre Colletti's visit and her mother's betrayal. She told him what the priest said—that he was linked to Manfredo and the anti-Fascists.

His eyes widened. “That's ridiculous.”

“I know, but I couldn't let them take you away like Manfredo. So, I told the
padre
I wanted to marry you and he agreed to talk to Prefetto Balbi. He said he's going to let you off the hook.”

He needed to hear it twice. Then, a smile lit up his face. “Do you realize what you've done?” He seized her around the waist and kissed her.

“I had to do something, Rodi. I didn't want you to end up like Manfredo.” Her worries and fears, suppressed for so long, broke through and she trembled. He drew her towards the bags of flour stacked against one wall. Pulling her into his lap, he wrapped his arms around her. “Hold me tighter, Rodi,” she said, pressing her cheek against his coat. “We belong together. Even the priest and Prefetto Balbi can see it. I love you. I won't be happy unless I'm with you.”

“I feel the same way,
cara
,” he said. “I would have married you years ago if my parents had let me.” He cradled her face in his hands. His tongue flicked over her lips and he pressed his mouth against hers, his breath as sweet as fresh air. She drank deeply until she was warm and ached for him. After fumbling with her coat buttons, he ran his hands over her breasts and cupped them. Then, with a sigh, he said, “Go, Isolina. Go before I can't stop. Your parents might be looking for you.”

“They're always looking for me.”

“Go.”

“But what if your parents don't want us to get married?”

“Of course they do. They adore you. Besides if they say no, I'll make them miserable.”

“I love you.”

“Go,” he repeated.

“Be careful,” she said as she stood and brushed off her skirt. “I don't know what I'd do if they arrested you.”

“Don't worry. Prefetto Balbi gave his word, didn't he?”

After one last kiss, she pushed open the door and hurried towards the town hall where Greta Garbo was still entertaining everyone.

On movie night Sardolini was confined to the widow's yard, but he was trying to make the best of it by fixing the latch on the chicken coop and hauling more stone. As he worked, his breath formed clouds. There'd be frost tonight, dusting the grass and roof.

His eyes veered to Lucia's yard. Since their talk in the cemetery, he wondered whether he had gotten her into trouble with her mother-in-law, but then again, he suspected Nonna Angelina wouldn't waste more than a fleeting thought on him.

He was brushing dirt off his coat when Charlie ran through the gate, his cheeks whipped by the cold. Sardolini waved and shouted, “Why aren't you at the movies? You're supposed to tell me everything, remember?”

Charlie held up an oilcan and rag. “Don Cosimo had trouble with the projector and he asked me to help.”