The Incident at Montebello (4 page)

ROMA, ITALIA

 

A bullet stopped Mussolini in mid-sentence. A moment before, he was delivering his Sunday speech on the balcony of the Palazzo Chigi, his people spread out beneath him in the piazza, their faces upturned like a field of sunflowers. From a distance, they were beautiful to him.

He paused, hands on hips while they chanted, “Fight, win, obey.” Pleased, he extended his hand towards them and swept the air in a grand arc the way a father might to his sons or a general might to his troops in a display of pride and triumph, acknowledging that this moment in time, in history belonged to them all—well, almost all, except for those slackers and laggers in his administration hovering behind him. Ignoring them, he raised his hand and jutted out his chin and chest, a signal for silence from the crowd.

He shook a warning finger. “We have to watch our backs. Do I need to tell you why? That's right. Our neighbors to the north and west are building up their armies. Britain is suspicious of our power and wants us to stay within our borders.”

The crowd booed. He nodded and stuck out his bottom lip. “So now I ask you, how can we trust them? They stabbed us in the back at Versailles. They stole our land, our pride. For years, we kept quiet. We licked our wounds. But, enough of that. We're ready. The great power of the Caesars is stirring inside us. When the time is right, we will act. For we are not cowards. We are men.”

The crowd roared, “Duce, Duce, Duce.”

He frowned and jerked his chin up and down. “That's right. We're men who aren't afraid to fight, we're men who aren't afraid…” Then, in a flash, pain gripped his arm and he staggered backwards amidst the chaos of shouts and screams. Below, men scuffled and shots rang out. The crowd surged, clustering around the gunman.

His guards rushed him through the balcony doors and lowered him onto the sofa. While one of them tied a handkerchief around the wound, Mussolini, in a burst of fortitude, shouted to his ministers huddled around his desk, “Cowards, get away from my phones. Find out who shot me. I want to see the bastard who tried to put me in the ground. A Frenchman, I bet. Bring him to me, so he can look me in the eye and see what kind of man he's dealing with. I'll fight him to the death. The bastard.”

His finance minister spoke up. “Should we call Bocchini?”

“Of course, Bocchini. He's got more brains than all of you.” Bocchini, who was the head of the OVRA, Mussolini's secret police, had worked for him from the beginning and had earned his trust. Just a few others merited it—his housekeeper, cook, and wife. Even his relatives—the Mussolini aunts, uncles, and cousins—were no better. That miserable, grubbing lot was always begging him for money and favors. Well, they'd have a long wait.

His doctor, Salvatore Ricci, made his grand entrance in a top hat and cape, which swirled around his knees. “
Avanti
!” he demanded, urging the crowd out the door. After the ministers filed out, Ricci rummaged through his satchel for his tools. Spying a long needle, Mussolini waved the doctor away.

“The wound is deep. You need an anesthetic,” Ricci insisted.

Mussolini made the mistake of glancing at his sleeve stiff with blood, and all at once, his fear ignited, making him queasy and weak in the knees. Suppressing a shudder, he said, “Why? I feel no pain.”

“I know, Duce. You're a bull.”

Mussolini frowned, certain that the doctor was placating him. He was telling Ricci, “For all your education, you're still a pompous son of a jackass,” when the needle pricked his skin, cutting short his insults. As relief flowed through him, his head sagged against the sofa cushions and he clamped his eyes shut.

While Ricci cut away the bloody shirt, he shamelessly promoted himself. “No need to worry, Duce. You're in good hands. You'll be riding your horse again in a few days. Just you see.”

“I'd get to the stables faster if you stopped talking and got on with it,” Mussolini said.

When he opened his eyes, the doctor was wrapping his arm in a bandage. “You're lucky, Duce. The bullet passed right through. The wound will heal in a few days. But you must rest.”

“Why? So another bullet can find me? Leave me alone to do my work. And where the hell is Bocchini? Get him here right away. And tell Signorelli to bring his camera. I want my picture in the morning papers with the caption—‘
No Rest For Il Duce After Foreign Assassination Attempt
.'”

When Ricci swept out the door, Mussolini staggered over to his desk and picked up his pen, gathering strength as he wrote. His article for the American press was intended to keep the dollars flowing in, but he was appealing to a dwindling audience. He feared the fickle American press and public were ready to turn on him, among them, the dilettante Vanderbilt.

Deep in thought, he didn't hear the knock on the door or the footsteps tapping across the marble floor until Arturo Bocchini, the head of the OVRA, stood before him in a crumpled suit and shirt. “You're a lucky man, Duce.”

He shuddered. “The next time, the gunman might be luckier. Who's the bastard?”

“One of ours. A communist from Torino. The crowd killed him. Tore him limb from limb. For you, Duce, they'd throw themselves on the lions.”

He nodded, pleased at his people's loyalty. It comforted him, but it evaporated just as quickly. Wasn't it always this way? Ever since he could walk, he had scrounged for solace at the knees of women, who were just as likely to kick him as pat him on the head. He told Bocchini, “Everywhere I turn, they're on my heels.”

“The more powerful a man is the more enemies he has.”

“Remind them who's boss.”

“Of course, Duce. I'll send a squad out there.” But Bocchini didn't leave. He cleared his throat and murmured, “I have news about the incident in Montebello. The two police witnesses have been transferred. The local police chief reassures me he's searching for other witnesses, and if he finds any, he'll make sure they keep quiet. But we've also gotten word that a mechanic in the area is spreading rumors that you were the driver of the car. We believe he's part of a resistance group that's planning a series of actions designed to discredit your administration.”

Il Duce tossed down his pen. “Son of a bitch. Find the mechanic and his men. He needs to learn how to keep quiet. If he can't learn, I want him shot.”

“Yes, Duce.”

It was more than she could bear to lose Lucia too, so she returned to her kitchen, joining the women from the village bringing gifts—a late summer melon, a pot of minestrone. As she set out the food and washed dishes, bits of conversation floated around her. From time to time, the women's voices dropped, murmuring like the tide.

“When Sofia died, Lucia's heart died too. And to think she has to go through this alone,” one woman said.

“That good-for-nothing husband of hers keeps sending telegrams from Boston, but what are words at a time like this?” another added.

“Did you hear about the driver? He's a big shot from Roma.”

“I heard it was Il Duce himself.”

“Where'd you hear that? I heard it was a rich
americano
.”

“You're both wrong,” a third woman said. “I know for a fact it was the son of Signor Martinelli, the cabinet minister. The one who races cars at Monza.”

Isolina kept her thoughts to herself. She knew what she saw: the car—just a blur of metal, tires, and gleaming chrome; the driver—simply a round face with a high, pale forehead and a rigid chin; and her cousin—trapped under the grill and wheels, the life crushed out of her. She was more inclined to believe her father, who blamed a wealthy
americano
. Her mother, however, was convinced it was Sofia's destiny to be plucked early from this earth by the hand of God.

When Lucia shuffled downstairs, Isolina hardly recognized her for she no longer dressed in one of her silky blouses the color of sea and sky or a slim skirt that hugged her hips. Instead, she resembled a dark bird—no different from all the village widows dressed in black. Even her hair was pulled back into a knot instead of shimmering in waves down her back. Sinking into the rocking chair, she stared into the fire, until a woman thrust a plate into her hands and told her to eat. After swallowing a few bites, she shut her eyes, her lips moving in prayer as she rocked.

The sadness in the room was suffocating. If only her
zia
would talk again. If only she'd laugh. Isolina longed for her stories, especially the ones about growing up in Ravello where the cruise ships docked and movie stars and tourists climbed the winding streets, looking for a meal, souvenirs, or new clothes, tailored to perfection by Lucia's parents.

Together at the dress shop, Isolina and Lucia had studied the movie magazines borrowed from Pasquale the barber. When Isolina tapped the page with the pencil-thin Marlene Dietrich dressed in a man's tailored suit, complete with padded shoulders and broad lapels, but accessorized with a silky handkerchief flowering from the breast pocket and black lace gloves—they spent fifteen-minutes discussing how to make such a heavenly garment in their shop, which they'd open one day in Boston. But now, Lucia said nothing, her beautiful eyes shadowed with sorrow and fatigue.

“Please
zia
,” Isolina whispered, her throat aching with sorrow and guilt, but Lucia shook her head.

“Not now, Isolina. Just let me be.”

In her rush out the door and down the Via Condotti, Isolina hardly felt the cold even though she had forgotten to button her coat. Her fists jammed into her pockets and her hair whipping her cheek, she paused to catch her breath snatched away by the wind. In the piazza, she threaded her way around pushcarts and wagons filled with gleaming lemons and apples, her eyes skimming over the familiar faces, none of them Rodi's. She hadn't seen him since the funeral, and even then they had managed just a few whispered words. She was prepared to cut him down and remind him that he had convinced her to leave the children by the stream, but the first words out of his mouth were, “It's all my fault,
cara mia
. Can you forgive me?” His eyes were rimmed with sadness. And despite everything, all she wanted was for him to hold her tight, so tight that her sorrow and worry couldn't squeeze through.

A voice cut through her thoughts. Tiberio, the fruit seller, was singing, “I have apples here, beautiful apples, as soft and sweet as the lips of a young girl.”

One woman called out, “You're an old man, forget the girls.”

“Why? The heart knows no time,” he said with a wink, which added more creases to his tanned, lined face. At Sofia's funeral, tears were running down his cheeks. She didn't know how he could joke and laugh again.

Spotting Isolina, he called out, “Look at that sad face. Come here. I have a present for you. It will make you smile, eh?” He handed her an apple. “Go ahead. Take a bite.
Delizioso
, no?”

She bit through the crisp outer skin. “Yes. Thanks.”

He leaned towards her. His bristle-brush mustache was far thicker than the hair on his head. “It's a good act, eh? They think I don't have a care in the world. But you and I know better. You haven't forgotten what I told you the other day, have you,
signorina
?”

Isolina stared into his eyes and suppressed a shiver. “No, I haven't.” And then, she hurried across the piazza to the tiny post office annexed to the
salumeria
, where the smell of salami and provolone cheese infiltrated the packages and letters. But Rodi wasn't standing behind the counter sorting the mail. Just his boss Tombolo was reading the newspaper at his desk, his thick glasses sliding down his nose. Tombolo, who preferred to read than deliver the mail, was better suited to be a librarian, but since the town was too poor to fund a library, he had settled for the postmaster job and clung to that position for fifty years, long past retirement age, mostly because he needed an excuse to avoid his wife. Rodi's official job was assistant to the postmaster, but he did most of the work—picking up and dropping off the mail in the central post office in Castellammare, sorting the letters, and delivering high-priority items.

Tombolo lowered the newspaper. “Looking for a letter from one of your boyfriends, eh?” He winked. “I hear the butcher in Grappone wants a new wife. You've seen him, haven't you? He's the one with the warts. He's not much to look at, but at least you'd never starve.”

“What do I need with an ugly butcher from Grappone?”

“So, you'll marry Rodi and live on love, eh?”

Isolina flushed. “My letters,
signore?
”

“All right, I'll get them since your Casanova is out delivering mail to the police chief. Every day there's a sack of letters from his big boss in Napoli and his bigger boss in Roma. More investigations and more reports. His ass is in the fire, all right. I hear he's going to question everyone in town about the accident.”

Tombolo was a better source of news than the local paper because he couldn't resist steaming open the mail, especially the ones with official seals and foreign stamps, but he was as bad as the priest about keeping secrets. “Everyone?” she asked.

“Yes, everyone.” He struggled to his feet and flipped through the letters sorted alphabetically in baskets on the counter. “Where did Rodi put it? Ferrogamo, Ferrucci. Here it is.”

Isolina took the envelope. It was sealed. She swallowed, her throat tight.

Tombolo was still talking. “Did you hear a big shot
politico
from Firenze is living here? With him in town, my work's going to double.”

“Why?”

“Let me tell you about these
politici
. They keep in touch with their comrades. They have networks of spies all over the world.”

“But why would they write to him and risk getting caught?”