The Incident at Montebello (35 page)

“My mother's right. You're trying to bring this family down. She said it weeks ago.”

She sucked in her breath. “Is that what she thinks? I shouldn't be surprised. She's a greedy, revengeful woman who's had it in for me from the start.”

“Leave my mother out of this,” he warned, but she kept talking, her dark eyes fixed on him.

“It's about time you realized what she's really like, but you can't see how manipulative and cruel she is. And you never will.”

“Don't say another word.” His head and chest were aching, but she didn't listen.

“You've always loved her the most. I've always come second.”

His head was pounding. He seized her sweater and yanked her to her feet. She jerked away and glared at him. Her next words stopped him cold. “Does your mamma know what a bastard you are?”

His anger surged. He was powerless to resist it. In a flash, he seized her arm and twisted it so hard a delicate bone in her wrist snapped. He heard it clearly, a sickening crack as if it were a twig he had carelessly stepped on in the woods. It startled him so much that his fingers sprang open and she crumbled into a heap on the floor, her head bowed, her broken wrist cradled in her good hand. For a few moments, she simply wept. When at last she raised her head and spoke, he wished she hadn't.

“I shouldn't be surprised,” she said. “I've always known you had it in you. Now you're even killing for them.”

Somehow she managed to turn the tables on him and put him on the spot. He was so astonished, he could only stammer, “I did what I had to do.” He told himself he didn't care what she thought, that she meant nothing to him anymore. Nothing. But even in his weakened state, he knew that wasn't true.

“I don't understand,” she cried. “You've known Tiberio for most of your life. He was a good man.” A moment later, tears were rolling down her cheeks again.

“This is an ugly business,” he said. “I don't pretend to like it.”

“But you killed him.”

“I wasn't the only one there.” He shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, his hands quaking, his head pounding. He was still trying to fathom it—how they had ended up this way, so far apart, when all he wanted was for her to hold him in her arms and stroke his hair, the way she used to. He extended his hand towards her. “Come,” he said, in a kinder tone. “I'll take you to the doctor.”

She shook her head. “I don't want your help.”

He warned her, “If you tell anyone about this, I'm finished with you.” She said nothing, but her dark eyes gave him the shivers. “Give me your word,” he insisted, but again she said nothing. So that was her answer. His spirits sank.

When Rodi barged through the cottage door that morning, Sardolini was scrubbing his laundry in the sink. “What are you still doing here?” he cried, wiping his hands dripping with suds. “Tiberio's dead. Do you want to be next?”

Between gasps, Rodi told him the news that the accident was all over the American papers and radio. “With the Americans in the picture, the truth will come out,” Rodi insisted, his youthful face burnished with excitement and conviction. “Mussolini's on his way out,
signore
. I just know it.”

“Not so fast,” Sardolini said, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. “It's going to take a lot more than this. Did you find out who told the Americans about the accident?”

“Some people are saying a crazy
americano
general leaked it to the press.”

A general? It made no sense to Sardolini.

“I'm telling you,
signore
. The
italiani
are going to turn against him.”

Sardolini wasn't convinced. Time was running out. The
fascisti
wouldn't be satisfied until every insurrectionist was dead—including him. He shivered. Soon everyone in town would be buzzing about how he and Lucia helped Tiberio and their fate would be sealed. It was his worst fear—to die alone like Lià in a God-forsaken place far from family and friends. He wasn't about to let that happen. He had to be ready to bolt. But what would he do if Lucia wouldn't come with him? He told the boy, “Mussolini has more lives than a cat. You know that. You have to leave. We're all at risk. You should have seen what they did to Tiberio.”

Rodi sighed and nodded. “I'll go as soon as my documents are ready.”

Sardolini patted the boy on the back. “I'll tell Faustino.”

“Will you,
signore
? With all the telegrams, I can't get away. Do you know where he lives? You'll smell his place before you see it,” Rodi said, giving directions to the puzzled Sardolini.

When Rodi shouldered his mailbag and dashed out the door, Sardolini wasted no time. In a few quick motions, he lifted up the loose board near his bed and pulled out a meager stack of bills. After slipping them into his pocket, he plunged down the dirt path behind the widow's house, his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets and his hat tugged down low. As he trotted towards the foundry, thoughts skittered through his head—some lovely, some terrifying. Once again he asked himself what he would do if Lucia wouldn't come with him. Could he take any more heartbreak?

Along the way, a toothless woman plodded towards him with a basket of laundry on her head. His heart pounding, he murmured hello. After peering at him, she shambled off, muttering. He drove himself faster down the crooked path, his shoulders twitching at the slightest quiver of a bush or tree. At the end of the lane, he paused at the sound of squealing pigs and barking dogs. The smell of unwashed animals drifted towards him. So that's what Rodi meant. Not sure what he'd find, his eyes darted over a sagging stone cottage and a litter of young pigs running in frantic circles around Faustino, his daughter, and two farmhands. Faustino's daughter Filippina, wearing a man's overcoat and boots, seemed immune to the chaos. As the farmhands cornered a pig, tied its feet, and pinned it to the ground, she sprang forward, knife in hand. With one stroke, she slit the scrotum, squeezed out the testacles, cut them free, and tossed the bloody treats to a trio of dogs waiting on the other side of the fence. Sardolini suppressed the urge to clutch his testacles for safekeeping. The sight and smell of blood turned his stomach, but these country folk were pragmatic: castrated pigs simply had better tasting meat.

As he neared the house, Faustino pushed open the paddock gate and dunked his bloody hands in a water bucket. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I wouldn't be here unless I had to.”

Faustino nodded, dried his hands on a towel hanging nearby, and invited Sardolini inside. Yanking off his muddy shoes, Sardolini stepped inside a large room segregated into a kitchen, parlor, and curtained sleeping alcove. It was tidy and clean—not at all what he had expected. Once again, Faustino had surprised him.

While the humpbacked gravedigger stirred the embers in the stove and started a pot of coffee, Sardolini unbuttoned his coat and settled himself at the farmhouse table. His eyes swept over the whitewashed walls decorated with a calendar, a cross, and a mezzotint of Santa Lucia crowned with rays of light—and once again his thoughts flashed to his Lucia, lingering over every gesture, every word, every expression, especially when they said goodbye in the barn. He could identify concern in her eyes, but he could find no love there. Perhaps it was too much to hope for.

When the smell of coffee permeated the room, Faustino poured two cups and set them on the table. Dropping into a seat opposite Sardolini, he took a sip. With his hunched back, pendulous ears and thick eyebrows, he reminded Sardolini of a gnome in a children's fairy tale.

Faustino sighed. “Crispino told me how you helped take care of Tiberio.”

“I did what I could.”

“The poor bastard. He was a fighter to the end.” He blew his nose. “Well, at least there's a bit of good news from overseas. The story of the accident is being broadcast worldwide. France and Britain are saying Il Duce should step down. He's trying to fight them off by issuing statements—he never took a trip with an American, never ran over a man, woman or child, and never rode in a car with Vanderbilt.”

“Is that the American's name?”

“Yes. Cornelius Vanderbilt. A hotel owner in Capri has also come forward. He confirms that on the night of the accident, Il Duce and an American guest by that name stayed at his hotel.”

Sardolini's lips quirked.

Faustino told him, “You look like the fox that's caught the chicken.”

“That's because the pieces are all falling into place.”

“Here's one more.”

Faustino pulled a round piece of metal from his pocket and handed it Sardolini, who studied the red and gold disk etched with an olive branch and the letter F. F? Of course, for Fiat. The car insignia was once screwed onto the hood. “Where the hell did you get this?”

“Rodi. He got it from Manfredo who found it at the side of the road near the scene of the accident. So what do you think? It's good, eh?”

“It's more than good,” Sardolini said. “It's terrific.” This was the first tangible bit of evidence linking Mussolini's Fiat 514 Mille Miglia to the accident.

“Manfredo did good work,” Faustino said, his nose reddening. After another quick swipe with his handkerchief, he continued, “One of our sources in Roma reports that Il Duce's car was sold around the time of the accident. Its front grille and right bumper were heavily dented and badly repaired. Tiberio told me that's where Sofia was hit.”

Sardolini nodded with grim satisfaction. “I have some news for you. Donato Buonomano and the priest are working with Prefetto Balbi. They're informers.”

Faustino blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Shit,” the gravedigger swore. “I'll tell the others…what's left of them.”

“Rodi should leave as soon as his documents are ready.”

“My man in Castellammare is still working on them. He's slow, but he's good.”

Sardolini sipped his coffee. “The writing is on the wall. I have to leave too.”

Faustino lit a cigarette, but his eyes never left Sardolini's face. “I knew you'd come to me sooner or later.”

“I might not be leaving alone.”

Faustino's bristling eyebrows shot upwards like exclamation points. “Are you out of your mind? You're asking for a miracle. It's hard enough getting papers for Isolina and Rodi. How many people are you talking about?”

“Four. A woman, her two children, and me.”

“You're asking the impossible.”

“But can you do it?”

“For the right price, I can do anything,” Faustino grumbled.

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand each for you and the woman and another fifty thousand for the kids—but that's just for the documents. Your boat tickets will cost two hundred thousand on top of that. But you're crazy for traveling with so many people.”

Sardolini told him, “I'll work it out. Here's something to get you started.” He handed Faustino the bills in his pocket. “I'll give you the rest when my cousins wire me the money.”

“Fine. It's your money and your neck. Now get the hell out of here and make sure no one sees you.”

Sardolini didn't need to be told twice. Back at home, he hunched over several sheets of paper, his pen scratching out the final details of his report on the accident. Afterwards, he hid it inside a handmade box he had fashioned out of spare pieces of wood from the widow's barn. The design was deceptive. Although it appeared to be an ordinary box, the Himitsu-Bako concealed another compartment behind a panel. His father had taught him and his brother well. Sam would know how to find the letter hidden inside. He'd give the package to Rodi in the morning because he didn't need any incriminating evidence in his possession if someone did talk.

PREDAPPIO, ITALIA

 

While waiting for the Americans to make their next move, Mussolini drove north to Rocca delle Caminate, his secluded house among the pines, where his wife Rachele and the children lived most of the year. As he sped along the dirt road winding up from the valley, just the stone tower pierced the veil of trees.

“What happened? Why are you here?” Rachele said, as soon as she kissed him hello. She was plump and had a plain round face, but that wasn't why he had eventually married her. He was attracted to her shrewd intelligence and animal ferocity that equaled his.

“Can't a man surprise his wife and children?” he demanded. “Why do you always think the worst?”

“I know you. I can read your face.”

Instead of answering, he sank into an armchair by the fireplace. After nodding to his two older boys who saluted him smartly, he extended his hand towards his younger children who kissed his fingertips. Then, he shut his eyes, a signal for them to run off and play—or whatever it was they did. On the drive north he had tried to put to rest the incident with the rich
americano
bastard and the dead little girl, but he hadn't succeeded. For days he and his staff had been trying to squelch the story. The Italian Foreign Office issued denials on his behalf, but his sources in the United States reported that the
americani
booed him when his agile face flashed on screen during the newsreels. To them, he was a murderer. They'd rather believe that big-mouthed fool, Cornelius Vanderbilt, who was certainly behind this, no matter what the foreign press said.

Excited whispers and a clatter made his eyes fly open. His littlest ones—Romano and Anna Maria—had followed him into the parlor and were razing castles constructed from wooden blocks. “Can't you be quiet?” he demanded, but his anger had little effect on them. They were untamed like the children he saw that day in the village trapped in the shadow of Vesuvio. Running around half-naked, they were as wild as the pigs and goats foraging through the garbage in the alleyways. Their parents weren't much better. Only imbeciles would let their children run into the street and try to out pace a sports car with an armored front bumper. It was regrettable, even tragic, but this was one life after all. And what was one life in the affairs of a state? He had millions of
italiani
to worry about.