The Incident at Montebello (21 page)

“I can't forget either,” Isolina cried. “Do you think I'm not suffering? Do you think I want her murderer to go free?”

“Murderer? What do you know about it?”

“I know,
zia
,” she said, desperate for Lucia to understand, desperate to make peace. “I know. Trust me.”

“How can I?” Lucia said, her voice cracking. “I can't trust anyone. Not even my own husband.” She lowered herself onto a chair, her shoulders hunched forward. Her eyes made Isolina shiver. They were dark, with no light in them.

Isolina glanced out the window, making sure that no one was approaching. Kneeling, she grasped Lucia's hands. “I know who was driving the car,
zia.
”

Lucia raised her head. “Nobody saw the driver—except the two policemen and they're gone.”

Now that she knew the truth, she couldn't hold back. “I saw him,
zia,
” she blurted out.

Lucia listened as Isolina explained what happened that afternoon—how she had taken the longer way through the woods and reached the rim of trees when the car was swerving, trying to miss Sofia. She shuddered, remembering it all—the flash of metal, the squeal of tires, and the horrible thud as the car struck Sofia across the back. At night, Sofia's cries still echoed in her ears when she was trying to fall asleep. Isolina's throat tightened and she bowed her head, tears falling.

“Who was it? You must tell me,” Lucia whispered. “I've heard it was a high-ranking Fascist.”

She picked up the magazine on the counter and carried it over to Lucia. “It was him,” she said, tapping the picture of Il Duce behind the wheel.

Lucia's eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone else see him?”

“Tiberio. The police think Rodi did, but he didn't.” And then, she told Lucia the rest—convincing the priest to protect Rodi and intervene with the police, her disappointment in her parents, and her fear that the police would still arrest Rodi.

Lucia seized her hands. “Donato is meeting with Prefetto Balbi tomorrow morning. I'm afraid, Isolina. I don't trust him anymore. He and Charlie fight all the time. I'm afraid for my boy, my Charlie. I'm afraid for all of us.”

Isolina nearly held her breath as a rush of words tumbled from Lucia's mouth.

“Charlie did it. He played the record. If Donato finds out, I don't know what I'm going to do…” She broke off covering her face with her hands.

At a loss for words, Isolina slipped her arm around Lucia's shoulders. “He's safe as long as the police think it was Signor Sardolini.”

“And is it right that he take the blame? I feel terrible.”

“He could have said something, but he never did.”

“I know,” she said with a mixture of surprise and admiration. “He protected my boy and for that I'm indebted to him. I'm going to find a way to thank him—and you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Since Sofia died, I felt so alone. And now that Donato's back, it's worse. But you changed all that, Isolina. You've given me hope—the greatest gift of all. Imagine it, Isolina. I've had almost no one on my side until now.”

Isolina's heart ached with happiness. When she spoke again, her voice was unsteady. “I'm always on your side,
zia
.”

“I know that now and I'll never forget it.” She smiled and kissed Isolina's cheek. “Now you can do something for me. Give me the scissors. We need more pictures.”

Isolina smiled as Lucia glued Marlene Dietrich on the wall and paused, her head tilted to one side. “What's wrong?” she asked.

After glancing over her shoulder, Lucia loosened the edge of Il Duce's picture and yanked it off the wall.

In an attempt to make peace with her parents, she circled around to their house every night even though she wanted nothing more than to go home to Rodi. Impatient, she charged through supper and struggled to get the boys in bed. By the time she headed home, Vesuvio's flames were lashing the night sky, but she hardly noticed because her thoughts were fixed on Rodi.

Before the wedding, she imagined what it would be like to live with him—but she hadn't come close to the reality of how safe and content she felt in his arms. And when he pushed inside her, the pleasure almost took her breath away. In the morning when he threw back the covers and swung open the shutters, light rushed into the room and clung to his bare body—his wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and hips, counterbalanced by powerful buttocks and thighs. But no matter how often they touched, she was no closer to deciphering his thoughts or his essence, as impenetrable as hieroglyphs. She hungered to understand, but he came to her in fragments of smiles, words, and glances. It would take years to penetrate the mystery of him.

She crossed the Butasi's yard and hurried past their barn and stone house with the three chimneys. As a wedding present, the Butasis had given her and Rodi the cottage set in their grove of lemon and orange trees. True, Signora Butasi found dozens of reasons to knock on their door every day, but the tiny house with one room on each floor and a chimney shooting up the middle had enough space for their double bed under the eaves. It was her island of peace.

A light was shining in the cottage window, but when she jingled the door handle, it was locked. How odd. After a few minutes of knocking, Rodi finally inched open the door with a broom in his hands. She stared at him in surprise. Something had to be wrong. He was cleaning.

“What are you doing back here so soon?” he said.

“The boys fell asleep quickly for once.” Curious, she glanced around the kitchen, noting the scissors on the counter and newspapers on the floor.

He surprised her again by bolting the door and asking, “Are you alone? Did anyone follow you?”

“No, of course not.” She brushed a brown curl out of his eyes and kissed his cheek. “What's the matter?”

“You have to swear not to say a word to anyone.”

She was insulted. “Don't you trust me?”

In reply, he opened the pantry door under the stairs, revealing Manfredo, who was crouching among her canned tomatoes. When he staggered out, she stared in astonishment at the paler, thinner version of the mechanic who was now as bald as Padre Colletti. In two strides, he grasped her hands, pressed his lips against her cheek, and surveyed every bit of her, making her flush. He told Rodi, “It's good luck to kiss the bride.
Che bella
. What a beauty she is, as luscious as a fresh peach. I hope you know how lucky you are, you son of a bitch.”

Rodi punched him in the arm. “I'm the luckiest fellow in the world, but don't get any ideas.”

Isolina's heart was racing as she struggled to understand the enormity of it all. Her mind swirled with questions—what else had Rodi hidden from her and why hadn't he told her the truth? She gripped his arm. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

“We don't have time for that now,” Rodi said. “Prefetto Balbi can't find him here. Go upstairs and get him some warm clothes.”

“And a hat,” Manfredo added, running his hands over his bald head. “I shouldn't have let you talk me into shaving it all off. What's a man without his hair? Nothing. He might as well be a girl.”

“Do you want anyone to recognize you?”

“I don't even recognize myself,” Manfredo complained.

“Go,” Rodi told her.

Her thoughts and feelings were in chaos. Still, her legs obeyed her, driving her upstairs. Throwing open the trunk at the foot of the bed, she pulled out a sweater, a blanket, long underwear, and hunting pants that Rodi had borrowed from his father and had forgotten to return. Hearing whispers, she peered downstairs at Rodi and Manfredo talking by the stove. The light swept over their faces, highlighting them, but the rest dropped away into the shadows. She nearly held her breath, trying to decipher every word.

“You'll stay in the goat shed tonight,” Rodi said. “I'll bring you more food tomorrow.”

Manfredo pulled something shiny and round from his pocket. “Show this to Faustino. I found it on the side of the road just past the bridge. It came from a Fiat 514 Mille Miglia.”

Rodi slapped Manfredo on the back. “Good work,” he cried. “Now we just need to find out who owns the car.”

So he hadn't told her the truth about his involvement with the anti-Fascists. Even as the shock of this swept through her, she knew she had to tell them what she knew. The truth was their weapon and shield. As she clattered downstairs, they turned to her. “I recognized the driver,” she blurted out. “I saw his picture in a magazine. It's Il Duce.”

Rodi seized her arm. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course, I'm sure. It was him.”

For a long moment, they could only stare at her.

“It makes sense,” Manfredo said to Rodi. “Tell Faustino.”

With trembling hands, she thrust the clothes into a flour sack along with wedges of bread, cheese and salami wrapped in newspaper. When she handed it to Manfredo, he kissed her and said, “I won't forget this.” She nodded, her lips jammed together in a wavering line.

Rodi was pulling on his coat. “The farmer's waiting for us. We'll go the back way.”

She grabbed his sleeve. “What will happen if anyone sees you together?”

“She's right,” Manfredo said to Rodi. “Stay here.”

But Rodi slid open the bolt and stepped outside. “Don't go,” she pleaded with him. “Stop him,” she told Manfredo.

“If you can't get him to do what you want, how do you expect me to?” the mechanic said and followed Rodi into the darkness.

She sank into the rocking chair, a shawl blanketing her shoulders and shivered thinking about the danger Rodi was in. It was foolish to take unnecessary risks like that. When the church bells chimed out the hour, she jumped in fright. At last when the door creaked open and he staggered inside, she rushed towards him, her shawl sliding to the floor. “What happened? Is Manfredo alright?” When Rodi nodded, she seized his sleeve. “You should have told me.”

He frowned. “I didn't tell you for a reason, did you ever think of that?”

“Of course. You want to protect me, but we're in this together.”

“I can handle it.”

“That's what Manfredo thought.”

He glared at her with narrowed eyes and a twisted mouth, which all at once made him ugly. “What do you want me to do, Isolina? Nothing? You sound like all the others. More worried about yourself and not willing to stick your neck out. I expected more from you, but maybe I was wrong.”

“That's not what I meant at all,” she cried, but he clamped his mouth shut and clambered upstairs to their bedroom. Stripping off his clothes, he dropped them into a heap on the floor. Shivering, she undressed, slipped a nightgown over her head and followed him under the covers. She touched his shoulder, but he rolled onto his side, his back curved away from her. With a sigh, she flopped onto her back and jammed her heels into the mattress, waiting for him to relent, but the minutes passed. She had to make him understand that she wanted to help Manfredo, but he shouldn't take foolish risks. Above all else, she wanted to protect him and safeguard their little island of peace. But soon, he was snoring, which annoyed her even more. How could he sleep at a time like this?

The door burst open and two guards marched into Sardolini's cottage for the daily inspection. For weeks, they had shadowed him, giving him little breathing room. He knew them all. Today, it was Belgrado with the limp and Malatesta with the scar on his neck. Saying nothing, they yanked open cupboards and rummaged under his bed.

Sardolini's heart thumped with anxiety. They were standing on the loose board concealing a trough of packed dirt where he stored items for safekeeping, among them drawings for Faustino. “Watch what you're doing,” he told Belgrado as he kicked aside chairs and rocked the bookcase, sending books and papers tumbling off the shelves. “You'll have to deal with the widow if you ruin her furniture.”

Malatesta grabbed a sketchbook off the floor and leafed through the drawings of Don Cosimo and the Widow Cantù before tossing them on the floor. His work done, he and Belgrado tramped out the door.

Relieved, Sardolini staggered over to his bed, his legs as weak as an old man's. He rubbed his ear, more out of habit now. The pain had quieted to a dull throb and the bruises on his face had faded to an ugly yellow, but the ringing in his ear never stopped. It was louder than before, warning him to keep his mouth shut and his eyes wide open.

The widow walked in next, hobbling on her bowed legs. She was a squat bundle of fury. As they righted the table and chairs and slipped books into the shelves, she raged, “That Prefetto Balbi is as cold-hearted as a snake and just as mean. Does he think I have nothing better to do than clean up after his mess? I never liked him and I don't like the new mayor. They're pleased with each other like two thieves. One steals and the other slips the money into his pocket.”