The Incident at Montebello (23 page)

Sardolini agreed. At the door, he whispered in Charlie's ear, “Warn your mother.” Charlie nodded, his eyes black with fear. He patted the boy's shoulders. “
Coraggio
,” he whispered since the boy needed some courage too.

When the door clicked shut, he trudged back to the priest who had poured himself more grappa. While he drank, Sardolini tried to convince himself that the priest wouldn't report Charlie because his relationship with the community was built on trust. How could he jeopardize that by confiding in the police? But another more disturbing thought chilled him. Perhaps Padre Colletti had struck a deal with Prefetto Balbi and gained some advantage by informing him of his parishioner's secrets.

“I'm surprised at you,
signore
,” the priest said. “Compromising an innocent boy.”

“Believe me,
padre
, I had no intention of doing that. The boy was simply doing what his mother asked. I'd hate to see him punished.”

The priest said nothing, but simply finished his drink and reached for his coat.

“I'm giving you my word,” Sardolini insisted. “Isn't that worth something?”

The priest shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said before trundling out the door.

With a sigh, Sardolini lowered himself onto his bed. “Well, Charlie,” he muttered. “What are we going to do now that your luck just ran out?”

NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE

 

Light bulbs flashed in the auditorium of Vanderbilt University—an irony not lost on Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr., the great, great grandson of the man who founded the college. What would the Commodore think of him, the first Vanderbilt in three generations who was cut out the inheritance and obliged to work for a living?

For the past few weeks, he had given up pitching the story to the press and had taken his story of the hit-and-run on the road, lecturing in colleges across the country. For one thing, the students were more receptive and courteous—the men in tweed jackets and a handful of coeds in somber sweaters and pearls.

As Vanderbilt wound down his speech, he glanced at his watch and cautioned the audience, “Just a few more questions.”

“How would you describe Premier Mussolini?” asked a girl who tapped her pencil against her cheek.

“A riddle. He's belligerent, insightful, pigheaded, progressive, damnably ignorant, brilliant—shall I go on?” he said amidst laughter. Catching sight of Smedley Butler in the rear of the auditorium, he thanked his audience and gathered his notes.

After pocketing his lecture fee, he strolled across the campus with Butler at his side. Sinking into a lounge chair at the University Club, he bought a gin-and-tonic for Major General Smedley Butler, the highest-ranking officer in the Marine Corps. “I'm honored,” he told Butler who was visiting the area and stopped by to hear him speak.

“The honor is all mine,” Smedley Butler insisted, raising his glass in a toast. This alone should have tipped Vanderbilt off, but he liked Butler and brushed aside his misgivings. Even in a civilian suit, the short and compact Butler had a military air with his cropped hair and his back as rigid as a rifle.

As they sipped their drinks, Vanderbilt said, “Has my little talk changed your mind about Mussolini? Do you think he's going to drag the Italians into war?”

Butler's blue eyes bore into his. It was no coincidence that the press had dubbed him “The Fighting Quaker” and “The Little Spitfire.” Butler was an unusual man—a career military officer and a pacifist. Butler told him, “No doubt about it. Mussolini isn't the peace-loving fellow he claims to be, and Hitler's intentions are clear.”

“Very clear.”

“Mark my words. One of them will give us the excuse we need to go to war, which will solve our economic problems. You know what I say. War is a racket. It benefits the bankers and Wall Street.”

“I know,” Vanderbilt said. “My family is living off the profits.”

After three more gin and tonics, Butler said, “Why isn't the press jumping all over this?”

Vanderbilt laughed. “Good question. It's an election year and the story is a political hot potato, but the truth will win out. It always does.”

“Right,” Butler said. “If it doesn't blow up in your face.”

A few days later, when Butler's bombshell hit the press, Vanderbilt would shudder when he remembered those words. But that night, he laughed and ordered another drink. After two more, Butler unfastened the top buttons of his shirt to show Vanderbilt the Marine Corps emblem tattooed on his chest. “
Semper fi
,” Butler said, raising his glass.

“
Semper fi
,” Vanderbilt echoed.

Prefetto Balbi's secretary Rosa frowned at Donato and said, “You'll have to wait like everybody else.” Sighing, he settled into a seat opposite two villagers and jingled his knee with impatience. From time to time, he admired the cleft between Rosa's breasts, just visible below the winged collar of her blouse.

As the minutes inched by, his gaze wandered to Balbi's door, which never opened, and his neighbors, a farmer and a widow, who were eager to discuss their predicaments. The farmer claimed his neighbor stole eggs from his henhouse and the widow alleged that the butcher charged her for spoiled meat. Donato nodded. This just proved to him what he knew all along. “You're right to complain,” he told them. “Everyone has to watch out for himself.
”

When loud thuds and shouts erupted from Prefetto Balbi's office, the farmer and the widow exchanged glances. “I can't wait all day,” the farmer said, picking up his hat. Soon the widow was following him downstairs. When the door to Balbi's office finally swung open, Sardolini staggered out on rubbery legs. Donato stared at the foul-smelling and unrepentant insurrectionist with a stained shirt and pants and smiled. “
Che puzza
,” he said, pinching his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “You stink! I should have figured it was you in there. What the hell did you do now?”

The prisoner's eyes traveled up to Donato's face and stayed there. Instead of defending himself, he said, “What makes you think you're off the hook?” And then, a pair of guards shoved him out the door and down the stairs.

Donato's courage faltered, but he reminded himself that the bastard Sardolini was a troublemaker by profession and deserved whatever punishment Balbi delivered. Unlike him, Donato's record was impeccable. Still, doubts trailed him as Rosa waved him into Balbi's office. His eyes lingered on the bottle of castor oil on the police chief's desk.

The prefect didn't bother to say hello because he was too busy staring out the window, but two deputies greeted Donato by grabbing him by the arms, shoving him into a seat, and standing guard behind him. He was outraged. “Why do you think I left America? I'm a loyal Fascist just like you.”

Prefetto Balbi turned. “That may be so, but we traced the
americano
record to you. It had your name on the cover. At first, we believed the prisoner played it, but now we suspect it was someone in your family.”

Astounded, Donato gasped for air as if Prefetto Balbi had just punched him in the stomach. Finally he said, “I might have bought it years ago in Boston, but that doesn't mean one of us played it. Lucia was home and I was in the audience listening to Mayor Cipollina just like everyone else. Ask Lelo Ferrucci. Ask Pasquale Fioramonti.”

“I have,” Prefetto Balbi said, frowning. “What's your son's excuse?”

“My son?” Donato's neck prickled with sweat. What had Charlie done now? That boy gave him nothing but heartache. “He was sitting next to me the entire time the mayor was talking.”

“Several witnesses remember it differently. They say he left the room towards the end of the speech and Signor Sardolini followed him. We suspect the
politico
gave Charlie orders and your boy carried them out.”

Donato's heart was hammering against his ribs. He squirmed under Balbi's unblinking gaze. Those pale blue eyes could have belonged to a fish. “Impossible.”

“He was also found in the prisoner's cottage last night. He was hiding under the bed.”

“What the hell was he doing there?”

“He claimed to be delivering food. The jars were labeled. They came from your wife.”

The news shook him to the core. He opened and shut his mouth, grappling for words. When he could speak again, he said, “I know nothing of this. I'm a loyal Fascist just like you. Who can deny that Il Duce is the greatest premier Italy has ever had? Only a fool would believe otherwise.”

“All that may be true, but you still need to prove your loyalty to Il Duce and our new mayor.”

“Tell me how and I'll do it.”

“We need proof of Rodi Butasi's involvement with the anti-Fascists. And you're going to find it.”

Donato was astounded. “You want me to spy on my own family?”

Balbi dismissed Donato's objections with a shrug. “Being a good citizen of the Republic, you must do whatever's necessary to make our state strong—no matter how unpleasant. Do I make myself clear?”

Donato had barely nodded when the deputies grabbed him and escorted him out the door. His heart was racing as he staggered downstairs.

He stared at the shop wall. Well, maybe the police chief was right to think anti-Fascist lunatics were lurking among his family. Who in their right mind would nearly obliterate the photos of Nonno Carlo, President Hoover, and Sofia with a mosaic of movie stars spanning the entire wall? The actors and actresses—many of them Americans—were caught smoking, laughing, driving cars, stretching out on the beach, and kissing their co-stars. He didn't mind the women so much, but the brash arrogance of the men disgusted him. The Americans always pretended to be homespun and humble, but deep down, they believed they were better than anyone else at making money and fixing any problem life could throw at them.

Lucia was watching him and so was Isolina, her mirror image. “Isn't it wonderful?” Lucia said, gazing upward, her hands on her hips and a smile on her face.

They were proud of their cleverness, which only proved to him they were fools. He grabbed Lucia by the elbow. “Take it down.”

“Why? The customers like it.”

“They're just as foolish as you. And where's Il Duce?”

“I moved him,” she said, pointing to a small picture in the corner.

Speechless, he stared at her. After a moment, he managed to say, “I need to speak to you, alone. This minute.”

“If you insist,” she said, with a frown.

He followed her past the mannequin and cutting table to the back room with its tattered sofa, ironing board and sink. Slamming the door shut, he marched towards her, his finger jabbing the air between them. “Because of you and your son, we're all in hot water. I just got the once over from Balbi. He says the record came from our shop. He thinks Sardolini told Charlie to play it. Did he?”

Lucia paled, but she didn't waver. “Charlie had nothing to do with it.”

“He's friends with the bastard. And so are you.”

“I am not.”

“So what's this about you giving him presents?”

Lucia sank down on the sofa. “I feel sorry for him. Hasn't he suffered enough? The
fascisti
killed his wife.”

“So it's true, eh? You like the bastard.”

Color rushed into Lucia's face. “I feel sorry for him. That's all.”

He stared at her, his eyes narrowed. “Who the hell cares if the bastard suffered? He deserves every bit of it.”

“We've all suffered, thanks to Il Duce.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed hard. “Swear it. Swear that you had nothing to do with the record and Sardolini. Swear it. On Sofia's grave.”

“Let go. You're hurting me,” she cried.

“Swear it.”

Lucia struggled against his powerful grip. “Haven't I suffered enough? You come home and give me more heartache?”

“And what have you given me? I find out my wife and son are friends with an insurrectionist and a goddamn Jew.”

Furious, she twisted harder. “Is that what you think of him? I shouldn't be surprised. Won't your mother be proud of you?”

That did it. He slapped her hard across the mouth. In a flash, Lucia's eyes filled with tears. She swung wildly at him, her fists grazing his shoulder and chest, but he didn't defend himself against her blows, which fell weakly on him and finally stopped. Instead, he tried to conceal his hurt and shame behind a mask of indifference. He was wrong to hit her, but her contempt for him made a sour taste rise up in his throat. Still, his eyes lingered on her reddened cheek and lip, which were beginning to swell. He willed himself not to care. “So that's what you think of me?” he murmured, coldly.

“You're not the man I married.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard me.”