The Incident at Montebello (27 page)

Rodi's lips tightened. Still, he smiled. “You might be right,
zio.
You have a lot more business experience than I do—in fact, you have as much as my father.”

Donato didn't like to be reminded he was older than he looked—nearly fifty. “Your father was an old man even at your age.”

Rodi laughed. “That's a good one,
zio.
”

After eating, Rodi yawned and stretched out in the grass, his hat shading his eyes. When he was snoring, Donato rummaged through the haversack, uncovering an odd collection— a razor, towel, soap, and newspaper. He had better luck with the mailbag on the back seat. When he found a letter from Sardolini, he slipped it into his pocket. It wasn't exactly what he was looking for, but it might be enough. His stomach was tight with disgust, but he had to protect himself. “Eat or be eaten”—that's what his father always said. It was the rule of the forest and of men.

In Castellammare, Rodi parked the car and took off for the post office. Donato, who pretended to have an appointment, headed down the Corso Garibaldi. The street opened up to a beach with palm trees and shouting fishmongers lugging baskets of smoked anchovies and buckets of writhing eels. The stink made his stomach flutter. He kept walking along a stone wall splashed by white caps. Lighting a cigarette, he studied the view of the bay and Monte Vesuvio and thought about his life on the other side of the ocean. Perhaps he should have stayed there.

Pulling out Sardolini's letter, he skimmed it, hoping to find the evidence to nail him, but Sardolini wasn't writing about politics. He read the letter again:

 

“I must be getting old and sentimental, brother. For a good portion of my life I fought to be free of the institutions that cage men—marriage among them. But Lià opened my eyes to the joy of companionship, of waking in the morning and glimpsing her—unguarded, child-like as she slept—her hair spread out on the pillow. Without her, I'm lost. Once again, I find myself hungering for the stability of home and the comfort of a loving woman, her arms wrapped around me, taking the chill off my brutish existence. Without her, I'm a man without a soul for everyone knows that women bring light into our inner depths, illuminating our thoughts and feelings, otherwise hidden.”

 

So the bastard was lonely, Donato thought. Then, he wondered what pair of arms Sardolini was hungering for. Soon, he had an answer.

 

“
Perhaps I'm a fool, brother. A local woman has caught my eye. One glance at her long, shimmering hair and her dark eyes and I want to hold her in my arms. It's my folly, I suppose—to want to rescue her from her misery and make her happy again.”

 

As Donato paced the length of the wall, the waves curled around his feet and Sardolini's letter churned through his mind. Could it be that Sardolini was writing about Lucia? And if he did love her, did she love him in return? His stomach clenched. Still, a part of him resisted. Despite the mounting evidence, he still couldn't fathom how she could fall in love with a skinny intellectual with a prison record. And, if that weren't bad enough, he was a Jew. The very idea was preposterous.

When his stomach rumbled with hunger, he dashed across the street, dodging carts and horses. In a bakery he bought a slice of warm
farinata
bread sprinkled with cheese. Finding a seat in the park nearby, he chewed his snack. Sunk in an ocean of worries, he hardly noticed a man in a black suit and top hat who lowered himself onto the bench and pulled out a pipe. But when the sweet smell of tobacco caught Donato's attention, he glanced at the stranger whose beard was trimmed like Abraham Lincoln's.

He told the man, “I haven't smelled tobacco like that for years. Not since the war.”

“You have a good nose. I bought it in Berlin a few weeks ago,” the stranger said.

“What's the mood there?”

“They're celebrating Hitler's inauguration day and night. They're counting on him to restore Germany to its former glory. He talks openly of taking back all the land they surrendered in 1919.”

“It's only right we reclaim our land and Germany too,” Donato said. “If we have to fight to get it back, well then, I'll volunteer.”

The man nodded. “If Il Duce tells me to fight again, I'll do it.”

Pleased with his answer, Donato gripped the man's hand and introduced himself. As he chatted with Signor Stellino, he was distracted by a young man flirting with a girl with a yellow scarf tied around her throat. Donato jerked his thumb towards the would-be Casanova, who reminded him of Rodi. “Look who we have to defend us,” he told Stellino. “They don't know how to fight. They've become as soft as women.”

As Stellino relit his pipe, tendrils of smoke cut through the air. “Once a woman gets her hands on a man, the fight goes out of him. They make us weak. Marriage? Who needs it? It's quicksand. The more you struggle against her, the faster you drown.”

“It's true,” Donato said, and his despair surged. What if she was in love with that bastard? The humiliation would be profound and intolerable.

“A man needs to feel like a man,” Stellino said, puffing on his pipe. “He needs to be free. We don't need anything else. Not even God.”

Thoughtful, Donato rubbed his chin. “I suppose that's one way to look at it.”

Just then, Rodi pulled up, beeped the horn, and shouted through the open window, “I thought I'd find you here. Let's go,
zio
. I've got a job to do.”

Donato gripped Stellino's hand. “If you're ever in Montebello, come and see me. You're always welcome at my house.”

Stellino nodded. “I'll make my way up there as soon as I can.”

Donato slumped in the front seat. The sweet smell of Stellino's tobacco lingered on his coat. It was true what Stellino said—about a man needing to feel like a man and needing to be free. In Boston, he was shackled to a miserable job. In Montebello, it was worse because Lucia, Iggy, and Prefetto Balbi had chained him one way or another. How he wished he were free of them all.

From the chapel garden, Isolina had a clear view of Mayor Cipollina who was firing up a throng of men. “How long are we going to tolerate traitors in our midst?” he cried.

“No more,” the crowd roared. Among them, the barber, brick maker, butcher, and her father shouted for Manfredo's blood.

Shocked, she could do little more than stare at the men she had known her entire life. As her father jammed his fist into the air in the Fascist salute, her love for him broke into bitter fragments. She didn't even notice Tiberio until he seized her sleeve and tugged her towards the grove of cherry trees. On his head, he balanced an enormous basket filled with dried figs and nuts—all that remained of his business.

“A word to the wise, Isolina,” he whispered. “Your Zio Donato left with Rodi this morning.”

She clutched her shopping bag, her heart pounding. Damn Donato. What was he up to? She didn't trust him one bit. Thoughts raced through her head, but her eyes lingered on Tiberio's face, a network of wrinkles.

“You're like a daughter to me. Be careful, Isolina.”

“You too, Tiberio. Watch your back.”

He winked. “Don't worry about me. I'm one step ahead of them.”

This flash of the old Tiberio saddened her though. How odd life was. Her own father was practically lost to her, but she had found Tiberio and loved him for his bravery, kindness, and wisdom. Leaning close, she kissed his stubbled cheek. With sigh, he steadied his wide-brimmed basket with one hand and gripped a scale with another before scuffling away through the cherry trees. As she ran in the opposite direction, the wind picked up the ends of her skirt and flew up her legs.
Uffa
. Damn that
tramontana
blowing down from the mountains. It was a curse, bringing nothing but trouble.

She was dashing up the stairs to the dress shop when one of Prefetto Balbi's farm boys met her at the door. “He wants to see you right away,” the Blackshirt said, seizing her arm.

“Let go,” she insisted, struggling to free herself, but he tightened his grip and yanked her towards the town hall and up the stairs.

Inside Prefetto Balbi's office, the police chief demanded, “Is your husband in contact with Manfredo Cantucci?”

Her heart was hammering. “Of course not.”

“Where is he hiding?”

“I have no idea.”

“Where did your husband move him?”

“My husband? He was busy working.”

“Perhaps you can explain why witnesses saw him leaving the soap factory early this morning? We know Manfredo Cantucci was hiding there last night.”

Her mind was whirling. Her first thought was to protect Rodi and Manfredo.

“Answer my question,
signora
. Did he say anything to you about hiding Manfredo?”

“No.”

The light in the room ebbed and surged like a flickering candle. She unbuttoned her coat. She was suffocating. With a sigh, Prefetto Balbi shoved back his chair and sauntered towards her, his brass buttons gleaming. Her skin prickled with a cold sweat, but she forced herself to focus on his rigid face.

“You can't lie to me,
signora
. I have eyes and ears everywhere. Ask your friend Tiberio. He'll tell you the price he's paying for his lack of cooperation.”

“Leave us alone,
signore
. We're innocent.”

“You can lie all you want,
signora
. But we know he's helping Manfredo. It's a matter of time before we catch him.”

Her legs wouldn't support her anymore. As darkness swooped down on her, she swayed and landed in a heap on the floor. Later, when the blackness receded, she lifted her head and blinked at Signora Gambellara, the pharmacist's wife, who was waving garlic under her nose and Rosa the secretary who thrust a glass of water into her hands. Startled, she glanced around, surprised that she was sitting in the waiting room outside Prefetto Balbi's office.

“Water won't help her as much as fresh air,” Signora Gambellara told Rosa. “Poor dear. She could be pregnant. Someone should call the doctor.”

“What good would he do? He's useless,” Rosa said.

Her mind was whirling, but two thoughts predominated—she had to warn Rodi and Manfredo. And damn Prefetto Balbi. Damn him.

On shaky legs, she plunged down the stairs and into the side streets, shadowed and dim. The dress shop was quiet, so she turned up the lights and stoked the fire. Sinking into a chair, she stared at the movie stars adorning the wall. They belonged to another time and place. Now she felt older. No, old. And weary.

The doorbell jangled and Lucia burst into the shop, bringing with her a nimbus of cold air. With makeup, she had managed to conceal her bruised lip and cheek, but not the sadness in her eyes. Glancing at Isolina, she cried, “What happened? You're as white as flour.”

“I fainted.” She told Lucia about Prefetto Balbi's interrogation and her fears about Rodi and Manfredo.

Lucia's face was pinched with worry. She grasped Isolina's hands. “Are you all right?”

Isolina's voice quivered. “No.”

Lucia led her to the back room and made her stretch out on the sofa. Sitting next to her on the cushions, she stroked Isolina's hair. “You're stronger than you think, dear. You love Rodi. And you'll do anything you can to protect him. So, you're going to keep a level head. You'll be no good to him if you lose it.”

Isolina bit her lip. “You're right,” she said, but her thoughts skittered from one nightmare to the next. One minute she was imagining Rodi being arrested. In the next, the mob was beating Manfredo to death.

Later that morning, she picked up her sewing, but her worries pursued her through lunch and the rest of the afternoon. Just as the sun was setting, Petronella rushed into the shop with Signora Gambellara, Cecilia, and the Widow Cantù right on her heels.

“Did you hear the latest about Manfredo?” Petronella cried, her face flushed with the excitement of scoring a prized bit of gossip. “The police cornered him in his parents' field. They tied him to a tree and beat him.”

The back of Isolina's neck tingled. This was the news she had been dreading all day. The Widow Cantù, however, was skeptical.

“If I had one hundred
lire
for every Manfredo story I've heard, I'd be a rich woman,” she declared.

“Believe it,” Petronella cried. “My husband heard it from the priest.”

The other women were nodding, their faces etched with worry.

“How badly is he hurt?” Cecilia asked.

“Nobody knows,” Petronella said.

“I'm going to see for myself,” Cecilia declared.

When the women left, Lucia turned to Isolina. “Come, Isolina. We're going to Manfredo's house.”

Isolina nodded, but she didn't move.

Lucia squeezed her shoulder. “Where's your courage, Isolina? You're going to need enough for both of us.”