The Incident at Montebello (19 page)

“She knows,” Nonna Angelina said. “But she's not thinking of us. She's thinking about him.”

“Who?”

“The prisoner. I saw them talking together at the cemetery and I'm sure she was with him the night you came home. She's guilty. The eyes don't lie.”

Dumbfounded, he stared at her. It was inconceivable that she'd fall for a prisoner and a Jew. “It can't be true, mamma.”

“How else can you explain the change in her?”

He raked his fingers through his hair.

She seized his wrist. “I want you to watch her. Make sure she doesn't stir up any more trouble. Can I count on you?”

For a moment, he didn't answer and it seemed as if Nonna Angelina was holding her breath until he replied. He nodded slowly. “Yes, mamma,” he said at last. His eyes shifted to her face, gauging her reaction.

“Good,” Nonna Angelina said. “I know you still love her, but I don't trust her—can you blame me?”

His head was pounding, sapping him of his vitality and power. “No, mamma,” he murmured.

“Pour me another drink,” she said and he staggered to his feet.

Triumphant, Isolina and Rodi paraded through the town hall, dodging sugared almonds tossed at them from all sides. Flushed with happiness, they sat onstage in front of the Fascist flag and faded curtain. Rodi couldn't keep his eyes or hands off her and Sardolini couldn't blame him. Her hair was swept up into a knot at the top of her head, which, in Sardolini's opinion, made her resemble Lucia even more.

Men, women and children were taking seats at a pasticcio of tables and chairs spanning the length of the room because Lelo and Amelia were feeding the entire population of Montebello in celebration of Isolina's wedding. Prefetto Balbi had assigned him a seat near the kitchen with the outcasts—the prostitute Filippina who was fending off the drunk, and the beggar Cipriano who was busy pocketing coins from nearly everyone in the room—even Mosca—for it was good luck to give alms on this joyful day. Tiberio took the seat to his left. Cecilia the midwife made him laugh when she claimed the seat to his right and said, “I'm sitting next to you. So handsome in that new suit.”

“Thanks to Lucia Buonomano. She made me look good and that's not easy,” he replied. Lucia was right. The blue highlighted the silvery threads running through his hair. As he dressed that afternoon, he brought the shirtsleeves to his nose and breathed in her honeysuckle scent embedded into the fabric. He glanced around the room hoping for a glimpse of her, but not finding her, his chest ached with worry.

Lelo Ferrucci climbed on stage, lifted his wine glass and shouted, “Long live the wedding couple!”—the signal to begin the feast. Sardolini's stomach rumbled in anticipation as women in aprons passed out baskets of bread and steaming bowls of wedding soup with bits of escarole and tiny meatballs floating in the broth. When the priest sipped his
zuppa maritata
and smacked his lips, Lelo nudged him and said, “For my daughter's wedding, I wasn't going to scrimp.”

Between courses, a familiar voice caught Sardolini's attention. Donato Buonomano, dressed in a smart gray suit and patterned tie, was preaching again—this time to his son. Poking Charlie in the chest, he said, “What's the matter with you? Can't you get anything right?” Lowering his head, Charlie dragged his feet towards the stage. He was growing fast, the way boys did at fourteen, his pants falling far short of his shoes.

The midwife pointed her spoon at Donato and said, “Like father, like son.”

“What do you mean?”

“He makes Charlie as miserable as his father made him.”

“Charlie doesn't deserve it.”

“What child does? A man who beats his children is a coward to my way of thinking.” The midwife lit a cigarette. “Donato inherited his father's temper and Lucia has no choice but to put up with it.”

He nodded. It was plain to him that Donato's temper was as fragile as eggs. “Why did she marry him?”

He expected a quick reply, but the wine had stimulated her tongue. “Donato's mother Angelina and Lucia's mother Antonietta were cousins and they were very close. But when Antonietta married, she moved to Ravello. So, the women cooked up a plan to marry Lucia off to Donato—as a way to reunite both sides of the family. But Angelina got more than she bargained for. Lucia stands up to her. It's not what Angelina expected.”

“I can imagine,” Sardolini said, smiling.

She blew smoke into the air. “Why aren't you married?” she demanded and he stammered a reply. With a sigh, she picked up the mesh bag of sugared almonds next to her plate and slipped it into his hand. The candies were supposed to bring each guest good luck, joy, and love. “Here. Take mine. I hope you make a family soon. A man as nice as you shouldn't be alone.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Trying to drum up more business, eh?”

Cecilia laughed and squeezed his hand. “If I were ten years younger, I'd do it myself.”

When she sauntered off in search of a cigarette, he pulled the ribbon off the bag of almonds and popped one into his mouth. Lià had wanted children right away, but foolishly, he had resisted. If they had a child, his mother would have cried from happiness. Once, she told him that babies brought hope and goodness into the world—far more than waging political battles. “You're like your father. Head in the clouds. Don't you know? War and political theories can't end all the injustice and misery in the world. It starts right here,” she said, resting her palm against his chest.

He smiled. “You're a romantic, mamma.”

She shook her head. “Men start wars. Women don't.” Too late, he realized how wise she was. But he was still a fool—for realizing too late that he had postponed a great happiness. And was he any wiser now? Why then was he attracted to a married woman who was as unavailable to him as his dead wife?

In the gap between the veal and dessert, Prefetto Balbi carried his Victrola on stage and a series of boys cranked out songs. Men pushed back tables, creating a dance floor. Married couples moved together with practiced, measured steps and children imitated them in their bare feet—their shoes left in a pile by the stage. Cecilia, who was feeling woozy from several glasses of wine, grabbed his arm and said, “If I were younger and my knees didn't hurt, I'd dance with you.”

Hearing someone laugh, he turned. Donato Buonomano's mouth was split into a wide grin. He told Sardolini, “If I were you, I'd take her up on it. She's the best you're going to get given what you have to offer.”

Sardolini twitched with indignation. “What the hell business is it of yours?”

“Oh, but it is. I'm watching you, Sardolini.”

“So is everyone else.”

“But I know what you're up to.” Still smiling, he leaned close, but his words were far from friendly. “I'm saying it once—Stay away from my wife. I'd like nothing better than to turn you into Prefetto Balbi.”

Thinking fast, Sardolini said, “For what? Talking to her?”

Donato clung to his bravado. “I'm warning you. Stay the hell away,” he demanded before stalking away.

Sardolini slumped in his seat, his mind whirling. He'd be damned if he took orders from that know-it-all jackass. Then again, how could he put Lucia in more danger?

After the cake and coffee, the Victrola was carted off behind the curtain and the speeches started. Sardolini pushed aside his glum thoughts as Prefetto Balbi climbed onstage and raised his hand. For once, he was smiling. He reminded Sardolini of a clever fox, who had decided to run with the
fascisti
instead of trying to outsmart them. His true motives, however, were a mystery.

Balbi read from a slip of paper. “Just this morning, I got word of a very important development. Our new mayor and his lovely wife have arrived from Napoli and are joining us here today—earlier than we expected. We are honored by their presence.”

As bursts of surprise erupted around the room, Sardolini tugged on his lip. The mayor's early arrival could mean only one thing—the
fascisti
in Napoli were rushing to put a loyal bureaucrat in office, so they could finish the job of suppressing all damaging evidence and any signs of resistance.

A cluster of town dignitaries was the first to stand and applaud the new mayor—the short and balding Rudolpho Cipollina and his fair-skinned wife Carolina—who paraded across the stage and stood next to Isolina and Rodi and the drooping flag. When Cipollina lifted his arm in the Fascist salute, to Sardolini's dismay, the audience replied en masse with a fluttering of hands. Pleased, the mayor nodded and pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket.

“For a minute, I thought this town was deserted,” the mayor said, amidst laughter. “My wife and I couldn't figure out where you were hiding until we heard the church bells. First, let me congratulate the newlyweds—Signor and Signora Rodi Butasi.”

As the applause crested and faded, the mayor continued. “All of you here are proof that our towns are the true glory of
Italia
. Why? Let's take Montebello as an example. You live in the shadow of Vesuvio, the king of all mountains. No ordinary people could thrive here as he breathes fire and smoke like a dragon. Not only that, you cultivate beauty here, as plentiful as your lemons, oranges and olive oil. It's true. I see it in your piazza, your church, and on the faces of your children. I see it in the eyes of your women. Nowhere are they so beautiful.”

The men applauded and whistled. Some women flushed and sat up straighter.

Mayor Cipollina kept talking. “But as I look around this town, I see trouble. Forces of resistance are chipping away at your freedom, at the way of life you love. I bring word that one of your own, Manfredo Cantucci, who was arrested for sedition and jailed in Castellammare, has escaped. Be on the lookout for him. If anyone is caught assisting him, the punishment will be severe.”

Cries of astonishment and concern burst around the room, but the mayor raised his hand, insisting on quiet. “I pledge to you, the honest, hard-working, and loyal citizens of Montebello, that I will do my best to uproot these forces of evil in our midst. I will not rest until every one of them—some in this very room—are put in jail where they belong, so you can live in peace.”

“That's more like it,” Donato Buonomano cried, joining the men who jumped to their feet and vigorously applauded the mayor.

Disgusted, Sardolini glanced instead at the bride and groom, their faces fixed in polite smiles. He had heard enough, but he got no farther than the door when Tiberio pulled him aside. Thanks to the wine, he was the happiest Sardolini had ever seen him. He whispered, “Two more partisans were arrested last night in Castellammare and one in Grappone.”

The
politico
whistled. “Soon there won't be any left.”

“That's the idea.”

“There are other witnesses—am I right? Ones who never stepped forward?”

Tiberio hesitated. “If I tell you, it's my neck. But what does it matter? I'm an old man.” He jutted his chin towards the stage.

“Both of them?” Sardolini asked.

“Just the girl. But he's fucked too. Guilt by association on two accounts—her and Manfredo.”

Sardolini whistled. Tiberio was right. Neither Isolina nor Rodi had the wits or stamina to play the delicate game of hide and seek against this mayor and police chief. Underneath Mayor Cipollina's rhetoric, he sensed a rigid dogmatist. To men like Cipollina, Fascism was a bright light shining along one clear path, all others obscured and condemned.

Tiberio told him, “It turns out the blacksmith from Torre del Greco couldn't recognize the driver of the car that killed Sofia.”

Sardolini laughed. “So all of a sudden he lost his memory, eh? It's the same old story.”

Tiberio shrugged and sighed. “It's easier to be a coward than live by your ideals. The sacrifices are too great.”

“But are they worth it? Sometimes I wonder.”

“Would you rather go through life half asleep like the rest of them? I wouldn't. A man your age still has a lot of fight and love inside him. Be thankful for that. And when you're old like me, you'll still have this…” He thumped his chest. “A strong heart and a clear conscience. No one can take that from me, not even the devil himself.”

A smile crossed Sardolini's face. He was deeply moved by Tiberio's wisdom and courage—no less than Carlo and Nello Rosselli's and Lucia's. He whispered, “I've heard the driver is a big shot Fascist from Roma. Is it true?”

“Yes, of course. He's the biggest
fascista
of all. The policemen told me the day of the accident, but I didn't believe them. They swore they recognized the car, and when it passed the curve in the road, I knew for sure they were right. I'd know that face anywhere.”

Sardolini's heart was thumping. “So, it was Il Duce?”

“It took you long enough to figure it out.”

Sardolini sucked in air and let it out in a whoosh. “Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

Tiberio shrugged. “Because you never asked.” Then, he walked away.

For a moment, Sardolini could do nothing but run his hand over his forehead. Then, he glimpsed Charlie clattering out the door, a package tucked under his jacket. A warning bell clanged in Sardolini's head. Uneasy, he followed Charlie into the cold, quickening his steps as the boy rounded the corner and ducked back into the town hall through another door. Sardolini pursued him up a series of steps and through another door until he was standing backstage. The mayor was still bellowing on the other side of the curtain. “And now,” Cipollina said. “We will sing our national anthem.”

“What are you doing?” Sardolini demanded, but the boy simply winked and pulled a record from under his jacket. Sliding it out of its paper wrapping, he set it on the spindle and cranked up the Victrola. After lowering the needle, he ran out the door.