The Incident at Montebello (16 page)

Vanderbilt flipped his keys as he walked towards the house. The Chinese butler, who greeted him silently at the door, escorted him to Hearst's office, his slippered feet making no sound on the marble floors. Stepping inside the Chief's office, Vanderbilt felt an unsettling flutter of déjà-vu until he realized the room was a duplicate of Hearst's editorial suite at
The New York Mirror
, cluttered with telephones, telegraph machines, books, and a desk massive enough for a head of state. The publisher was at work, of course, his pen slashing a typed page. In him, Vanderbilt glimpsed the shadow of the college footballer with his square-jawed good looks and massive shoulders, but as he tossed down his pen and came around the desk, he hobbled on bad knees and had a hitch in his gait from hip injury. Still, all signs of weakness were erased the minute the Chief gripped his hand and gestured towards the chair near his desk. Almost at once, he fired questions at Vanderbilt, and when he heard enough, he leaned back in his chair and pressed his big hands together.

“Will you run the story?” Vanderbilt asked.

“No.”

Vanderbilt groped in his pocket for a cigarette.

“I've got a credibility problem,” Hearst said. “I find it hard to believe he's capable of murder.”

“He's charming, no doubt,” Vanderbilt countered, striking a match. “But it masks his warlike intentions. What's the true nature of a man who declares he wants peace and then runs over a child as if she were a stone in the road?”

“He's a complex man and difficult to categorize.”

“Yes, it's true. He can be belligerent, insightful, pigheaded, progressive, damnably ignorant, and brilliant, but I still contend a criminal is a criminal.”

Hearst was silent. His attention wandered out the open window, past the garden and the fountain, to where men and women lounged by the Neptune pool, decorated with Roman statuary. Under the loggia, Vanderbilt recognized Joan Crawford and Charlie Chaplin in bathing suits.

“You should go for a swim. The pool's heated,” Hearst told him.

“Should I assume that's your answer?”

“Assume whatever you like.”

Vanderbilt took one last puff on his cigarette before pressing it into a cut glass ashtray. “Even if you don't print it, the truth will eventually win out.”

“With no real witnesses, it's your word against his. But if you do go ahead with it, you damn well better be ready for a political maelstrom.”

“I've been there before.”

“Those spats with your socialite cronies will be nothing compared to this.”

“I'll find another paper that's interested.”

“It's your choice.”

Vanderbilt was grasping the doorknob when the Chief said, “A word of advice. One newspaperman to another. If you pride yourself in being a political analyst, you can't be naïve.”

“I hardly think…” Vanderbilt started to say but Hearst cut him off, just as his father Cornelius used to, back when they spoke to each other.

“Dinner's at eight,” Hearst told him. “Don't keep us waiting.”

On the balcony of the town hall, Prefetto Balbi's Victrola was spinning out Il Duce's national anthem. Even from a distance, Sardolini could read the nervous message stitched on a black banner fluttering from the railing. Addressed to the new mayor, it declared:
Mayor Cipollina. You are one of us
! His arrival was scheduled in a few weeks, but already the
fascisti
were vying with each other to prove who was the most patriotic.

He ran up the steps to Lucia's shop. Since their conversation in the barn, he couldn't chase her out of his thoughts even though his feelings were still in turmoil. Somehow she had reopened a Pandora's box of memories and emotions. Up until Lià died, he had no regrets about joining the movement. True, it had meant making sacrifices he couldn't have anticipated, but he had contended they were necessary losses. Now, he wasn't sure. And Lucia had called him on it.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door, thankful that Lucia was alone. She was working on a wedding gown, the beads shimmering in her lap. A dizzying mix of emotions surged through him—hope, anger, sorrow—leaving him breathless.

When she looked up, her face turned a soft pink. She told him, “I was wrong,
signore
.”

He shook his head. “No, I am. You can't put your children at risk. I'll do whatever I can to protect Charlie. He reminds me of myself at that age. Curious, questioning. Restless to see the world.”

She sighed in relief. “I'm happy to hear it,
signore
. So you understand him? Not many people do.”

“That's a shame.”

She nodded and sighed. “I'll get your clothes.” She brushed past him, her heels clicking. When she returned, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and tallied up the bill. “If they don't fit or you're unhappy with them, let me know. Alterations are free.”

When she handed him the paper, her hand brushed his and he grasped her deliciously warm fingers. Startled, she stared at him, but didn't try to free her hand even as a flush rose up her neck and spread across her cheeks. His eyes lingered on her lips and the tender nub of her earlobe poking out beneath her hair. He was quite sure what he was going to say, but once he started to speak, he surprised even himself. He told her, “I had convinced myself that principles mattered more than people until the
fascisti
killed my wife. She thought I was wrong, just like you. I wish I could have set things right between us before she died.”

“You blame yourself?”

“Of course. I should be dead. Not her.”

She nodded, “I've said the same thing about myself.” Her eyes lingered on Sofia's picture, which had been added to the pantheon above the cash register. The girl looked just like Lucia. Beautiful.

“The guilt of the living,” he murmured, releasing her hand.

Her eyes darted to the door. “The other day you told me the driver of the car might be a high-ranking Fascist. What else you know?”

He blinked in surprise. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“I asked, didn't I?”

“A blacksmith in Torre del Greco confirms it. He repaired the car that killed Sofia. It's a Fiat 514 Mille Miglia, but we're waiting for other sources to step forward.”

With a cry, she pressed her fingers against her mouth.

Just then, the doorbell jangled and a man with a mustache burst into the shop. He was dressed like the mobsters in American movies with a tailored suit, black shirt, and gray tie. Every detail was meticulous, down to his wavy hair, smooth jaw, and thick mustache. After giving Sardolini the once over, he said, “What's going on here? I handle everything for the men.”

“Is that so?” Sardolini said, taken aback. “This is the first I've heard of it.”

Lucia told the man, “All the work is finished. He's just paying.” Then, she turned to Sardolini, and in her eyes, he read a new emotion—fear. She explained, “My husband Donato just returned from Boston.”

Surprised and dismayed, he studied Donato, getting a measure of him. He was handsome, all right, but vain, judging from the number of times he patted his hair and ran his thumb and forefinger down his mustache.

“Signor Sardolini is our most famous resident,” she told Donato.

“Famous? For what?” Donato replied.

“He's an architect from Siena,” Lucia said, keeping her eyes lowered.

Sardolini murmured hello and extended his hand, which Donato ignored.

“Oh, you're the prisoner,” Donato said with a shrug. “Down from the North, eh? So now you know what it's like for us in the South, poor cousins to you folks in the big cities where all the jobs are and all the luxuries.”

Sardolini slipped his hand into his pocket. “It's not fair that the South is denied its share of the wealth. But my family works hard for their money just like yours.”

Apparently, Donato wasn't convinced. “Nothing comes easy for the little fellow. In America I worked sixty, seventy, eighty hours a week just trying to catch up. Believe me, it's good to be back. Things are finally changing. The old mayor was too lax, if you ask me. Maybe this new fellow will get it right.”

“How?” Sardolini joked. “By starting every meeting with the Fascist salute and the national anthem?”

“That's the least of it,” Donato said in all seriousness. “I'm hoping he puts in telephone and sewer lines. That's what we need around here. More progressive thinking.”

Sardolini had seen it before. Public works projects were often a ruse—mere tidbits Il Duce and his political appointees tossed to the public to garner support. He shrugged and told Donato, “If he pulls it off, it would be something. Maybe even a miracle. Imagine—a politician who makes good on a promise.”

Donato wasn't amused. “I guess you haven't been paying attention for the past ten years. Who built the new
autostrada
? Who's electrifying the rails? Who's draining the marshes and turning them into farmland? Il Duce knows how to cut through red tape and get the job done.”

Donato's voice surged, a crescendo of words. By the end of his little speech, Sardolini was fuming. He didn't like to be lectured to, especially by a man who professed to know it all. He was relieved when Donato grabbed the mail on the counter and sauntered off to the back room. Fumbling for his wallet, Sardolini pulled out a few bills, which Lucia promptly tucked into her pocket. As she leaned towards him, she whispered, “My husband isn't afraid to let you know where he stands.”

“I can see that,” he replied, but his mind was fixed on her, not her husband. When he looked into her eyes, it was as if a shutter opened. In one glance, he could read the message there. She seemed to be saying—
“Now can you understand the situation I'm in?”
Her courage was staggering—how she managed to hold fast to her ideals even if it meant opposing her husband—that braggart, showboat, and ardent Fascist.

“I appreciate your business,
signore
,” she murmured, “And thank you.”

Her eyes lingered on his. Helpless, he nodded and stumbled out the door. In the piazza, he gulped the cold air and worried he had put her in more danger by telling her about the blacksmith and the possible link to Il Duce. With a husband like Donato, she had to be careful. He shuddered.

In the piazza, friends and neighbors exclaimed over Donato. The miller pinched his lapels and admired the cut of his suit, which highlighted his shoulders and trim waistline. The butcher complimented his black hair with hardly a trace of gray except around the sideburns and said, “Four years have passed and you don't look a day older.”

He smiled, shrugged. And then Tiberio shambled up to him, his jacket sagging at the shoulders and stubble covering his chin. Acting as if nothing were amiss, Donato slapped the fruit seller on the back and said, “Tiberio, you old devil. Is it really you?”

“Of course it's me. Don't look so surprised. But I won't be here for long. Once they find a reason to arrest me, you'll never see me again.”

“Arrest you? For what? Squeezing too many melons?” To Donato's surprise, Tiberio blew his nose, his eyes damp with tears.

The fruit seller explained, “They're stealing everything from me. My cart, my business, even my horse. It got a fever a week ago Sunday and died the next day because I couldn't afford a doctor. You see? I'm a dead man.”

Donato stared at him and shivered. Opening and shutting his mouth, he fumbled for something to say and ended up making a joke. “For a dead man, you sure have a lot to say.” Tiberio shook his head and walked away.

When he stepped inside the
caffè
, the afternoon sun was slanting through the blinds, cutting the room into ribbons of light and dark. Mosca was washing dishes behind the bar and the barber was dozing in a corner, his head covered with a newspaper. When Donato poked Pasquale in the shoulder, the barber stirred, his newspaper fluttering to the floor. Sitting up with a jerk, he patted his gleaming black hair, rising abruptly above his forehead and cresting in a single wave before smoothing out at the back. Gripping Donato's fingers, he vigorously pumped his arm.

“Drinks for all of us,” Donato told Mosca.

“If you're paying, why not?” Mosca said.

Donato pulled money from one pocket and cigars from another.

“Don't forget me if you're handing out presents,” Arturo, the brick maker, said as he stepped into the
caffè
and lit the cigar that Donato awarded to him.

Mosca poured the whiskey and asked, “What are we celebrating?”

“One less
italiano
in America,” Donato said, raising his glass.

“Now that's something I can celebrate,” Pasquale said, taking a sip. After the stock market collapse, Pasquale returned home with not much more than an Elgin wristwatch and several teeth capped with California gold.

“I've had it with Hoover and his promises,” Donato said.

Mosca smirked. “That's what they all say. So when are you going back?”

“Never,” Donato said.

“You'll be packing your bags next month,” Mosca predicted.

Donato denied it. “Let's just say I got tired of praying to Hoover for a miracle. He's no god. My true allegiance is with Il Duce.”

Pasquale slapped the table. “Another drink,” he told Mosca. The men clinked their glasses and sipped the whiskey.

“It's about time you came to your senses,” Arturo said. His tanned face was a maze of wrinkles and smiles. He had left behind three fingers in a factory accident in Lawrence, Massachusetts, and had few regrets about coming back. With a wink, he told Donato, “You won't regret it. You know what they say. A young man wanders from bed to bed but a wise old man sleeps in his own bed.”

“Old?” Mosca said.