The Incident at Montebello (20 page)

To Sardolini's surprise, it wasn't the plodding rhythm of the “Giovinezza,” the Fascist anthem, but the unmistakable strains of Cole Porter's song—“
You're the top! You're Mussolini
!” He was still laughing on his way to Mosca's.

At the end of Mayor Cipollina's speech, Isolina squeezed Rodi's hands, gripping her shoulders. “Keep smiling for God's sake,” he whispered. Her face ached from the effort.

“And now,” Mayor Cipollina said, “we will sing our national anthem.”

As everyone turned toward the flag, a lone chicken darted across the stage amidst laughter. From behind the curtain, music floated towards them—not the anthem, but Cole Porter's hit song—“
You're the top! You're the Great Houdini! You're the top! You're Mussolini
.”

“What the hell?” Pasquale Fioramonti said.

“Where's Sardolini?” Donato cried. “He's behind this.”

Prefetto Balbi elbowed through the crowd, shouting, “I'll teach him a lesson, that goddamn
politico
.” Blackshirts charged onto the stage, pushing Rodi aside and pawing the curtain for the opening while the townspeople laughed.

Rodi jumped off the stage, lifted his arms to her, and set her down amidst the crowd. Donato told Lelo, “Sardolini better run fast.”

Lelo chuckled. “Where the hell is he?” he asked, turning around.

Prefetto Balbi's struggle for order ended once his Blackshirts fired their guns into the air. Even the music screeched to a stop. Mayor Cipollina pressed his hand against his chest and his lusty baritone pummeled their ears as he sang Il Duce's anthem—
“Youth, youth, spring of beauty. Your song rings and goes through the sorrows of life! For Benito Mussolini, eja eja alalà!”

As the crowd clapped and whistled, Tiberio edged closer, his breath thick with alcohol. “The wolf has arrived,” he whispered. “Soon, he'll eat the sheep one by one and the partisans too.”

Isolina shivered, fearing he was right.

Lelo scowled at Tiberio and jerked his head towards the door, signaling him to leave.

“We're talking, papà,” Isolina said.

“Why waste your time with that traitor?” Lelo demanded.

“Please, papà,” she said. “No politics. It's our day.”

Tiberio told Lelo, “I'll leave, not because you're right, but because you're Isolina's father.” And with that, her tattered friend strode away.

She tried to ignore Lelo's scowl, but he shook his finger at her. “You're lucky I'm in a good mood. I'm going to forget this business with Tiberio. We have more important matters to think about right now.”

She decided it was wiser to say nothing, but Rodi cried, “With all due respect, Signor Ferrucci, you shouldn't speak that way to my wife.”

Lelo, flushing with anger, startled her once again. Leaning close to Rodi, he whispered, “If I were you, I'd keep my mouth shut. You and your friend Manfredo are in enough trouble as it is.”

“But they're innocent,” she said and Rodi echoed her.

“If you believe that, you're fools,” Lelo said, shaking his head and walking away.

She gripped Rodi's sleeve. “You shouldn't have said anything.”

“I don't need you to remind me.”

Biting her lip, she sighed. Her chest ached with worry and sadness.

In the
caffè
, the gas lamps flickered, casting shadows over the room and Mosca's face as he whistled and counted his money. Sardolini asked, “Are you interested in making more money or just counting what you have?” In reply, Mosca poured him a Campari and soda and Sardolini slid onto a barstool. He was quite sure he had never seen Mosca so happy. “You're in a good mood. Don't tell me you're a romantic at heart.”

“Of course not. I couldn't give a damn if two more fools decided to get married.”

“What is it then?”

“The new mayor. The more trouble and headaches he makes, the better business will be for me.”

A few minutes later, the
mafioso
Don Cosimo poked his head around the door and told Sardolini, “That was a good joke you played on the new mayor. I haven't laughed so hard in years.”

“You think I did it?”

Don Cosimo smirked. “Playing dumb, eh?”

Next, the ousted Mayor De Feo walked in, seeking consolation. Clinging to his title and injured pride, De Feo tossed back several shots of whiskey with a jerk of his chin. Still, he managed to congratulate Sardolini on his successful prank. “If you hadn't done it, I would have,” De Feo told him. “That pompous son of a bitch deserved it. What's he going to do for this town that I couldn't? Everywhere you turn your hands are tied by this bureaucrat and that regulation. He'll find out what it's like.”

When De Feo tapped his glass for more whiskey, Mosca offered him some advice instead. “Screw on a good face for the new mayor or go back to Grappone. Your daughter won't mind your blubbering as much as I do.”

“I should go,” De Feo muttered. “Nobody in this stinking town needs me anymore. You have that expensive suit from Napoli. The windbag. He can talk a good show, but I'm telling you, he's an empty suit.”

Pasquale the barber walked through the door in time to hear De Feo's speech. “It's sour grapes if you ask me,” he cried. “What did you do for us for all these years? Make promises. What did you deliver? Nothing.”

They would have fought over it if Mosca hadn't hustled De Feo into the street, where his son escorted him home. To celebrate his victory, Pasquale sang a folk song, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut. The melody was sentimental and the lover's lament struck Sardolini as comical. Still, the song infiltrated his thoughts.

Pasquale sang, “
Carmelina, if your mother and father promise we can marry, why don't you sin with me
?”

If Lià were sitting next to him, she'd laugh about this backwater town where men were still trying to convince girls to surrender their virginity. Her breath was warm against his cheek as she whispered, “They'll still be trying a hundred year from now.” But then, she vanished and he was left with an aching heart. He was a fool to let her go a year ago, and he was no wiser now. What was he thinking? Falling for a married woman was difficult enough, but one who was married to a braggart who loved Mussolini more than her? He had to be out of his mind.

The song ended. Pasquale bowed without one hair of his gleaming pompadour stirring.

Thoughts of Lucia and Lià were still whirling through his head when he stepped into the street. He didn't see Prefetto Balbi or his farm boys in the alley until they grabbed him and pinned him against a wall. “Hey, what the hell?” he cried.

Balbi's brass buttons gleamed in the dim light as he poked Sardolini's chest. “I suppose you thought I wouldn't mind a little joke on the new mayor? Well, thanks to you, my ass is in the fire.”

Sardolini's first thought was to protect Charlie. “I meant no harm. A wedding is a happy occasion. A time to laugh.”

Balbi was in no mood to listen. “If you think I'll let you off easy, well, think again. I'm writing you up in my weekly report to the district commander. And you're confined to the widow's yard until further notice. Do you hear?”

He lowered his eyes. “Yes, Prefetto Balbi.”

They shoved him down the street, scattering townspeople straggling home from the wedding. When he stumbled into a trashcan and nearly fell, his heart raced and his skin prickled with cold sweat.

A man shouted, “Go easy on him. It was just a prank.”

“He's a
politico
. What do you expect?” another cried.

Balbi called back over his shoulder, “What do you care? He's nothing but a troublemaking Jew.”

His stomach lurched as Balbi's men pushed him into the Widow Cantù's yard. Too late, he saw the flash of fists. One blow landed squarely against the side of his head. Another clipped his jaw. Staggering, he dropped to the ground, his ear crackling with pain. Balbi stood over him. “Remember who you're dealing with,” he warned. And then, his farm boys beat him with their clubs.

Sunlight washed over the cobblestones as Isolina pedaled down the Via Condotti on Rodi's bike. Even as patrols of armed fascisti exercised their clubs and Mayor Cipollina delivered his daily political rant from the balcony of the town hall, she could prolong her happiness as long as she kept her mind fixed on Rodi. Still, Mayor Cipollina's booming voice filled every corner of the square, plastered with posters advertising Il Duce's latest slogan
—“The More Enemies—The Greater The Honor.”
It was ridiculous of course, but she couldn't deny that the
fascisti
had created enemies within towns and even families. Her family was proof of it. Since the wedding, her parents treated her with such coldness she might as well be the enemy. So many tears and so much heartache. But at least, she had Rodi.

As Mayor Cipollina bellowed, “We will defeat the enemy from within and make our homeland safe once again,” his coat tails fluttered in the breeze along with the strands of hair snaking across his scalp. Everyone clapped vigorously—even the
paesani
—who were prodded by the police to show some enthusiasm.

Sighing, she parked the bicycle by the barbershop and ran up the stairs. Pasquale Fioramonti was shaving the priest—who was quick to herald the arrest of Signor Sardolini for playing the Cole Porter song. And to think, she had entrusted her fate and Rodi's to him? Her stomach clenched with worry, but she forced her mouth to curve upwards. The happy bride. That's who they were going to see.

They were so busy talking they didn't notice her. “I heard Signor Sardolini is finally up and around,” Pasquale said. “It took him long enough.”

“I should visit him,” the priest said. “After all, he's one of God's children.”

Since Elio Sardolini's arrest, her feelings towards him had shifted. He was as brave and clever as Robin Hood for striking when the
fascisti
least expected it and making them look foolish.

“Well, if he's smart, he'll play by the rules,” Pasquale said.

The priest frowned. “You know what they say about teaching an old dog new tricks. I'm afraid it's in his blood.”

“You're probably right,” Pasquale said, his razor poised in mid-air. “These anti-Fascist bastards live for the thrill of the fight. Manfredo's no different. Did you hear? He was spotted boarding the ferry in Calabria.”

“That's not what I heard,” the priest said. “My colleague, who has a parish west of Grappone, recognized him in church last Sunday. And I've heard rumors he's been spotted nearby hiding in the fields.”

Her heart was racing, but she managed to laugh. “Manfredo? At mass?”

The priest and the barber turned, catching sight of her. Pasquale winked. “Good morning,
signora.
What can I do for you? You want a little trim, eh?” When he smiled, his gold-capped teeth flashed at her.

“Do you have any old magazines for me?” she asked.

“
Certo,
signora
. For you, anything. But first, come here and give me a kiss.”

Isolina shook her finger at him. “Shame on you,
signore
. In front of the
padre
?”

“He's heard it before,” Pasquale said. “Isn't that so,
padre
?”

The priest sighed. “I know what sins the human heart is capable of. It would make even a man like Pasquale blush. That is—I mean to say—a man of experience. A man of the world. Isn't that right, Pasquale?”

“Why, yes of course. After living in America for five years, I've seen it all. Over there, they eat pasta out of cans.”

When their laughter faded, she said, “The magazines,
signore
?”

Pasquale pointed to a bedraggled stack on the window ledge and told her to take the oldest ones. After thanking him, she piled them in the basket suspended between the handlebars. As she pedaled away, she worried about Manfredo, but she could do nothing until Rodi returned from Castellammare.

At the dress shop, she dropped the magazines on the counter, threw some coal in the stove and clicked on the radio. As she ripped out pages from the magazines, she hummed the lyrics to the crazy American song on the air. Who else but the Americans could come up with a song about bananas? It made her laugh—“
Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas today.
”

A picture of Signora Rachele Mussolini caught her eye. Il Duce's wife was lounging under a beach umbrella in Rimini with her children and grandchildren. And below it, Il Duce posed with his car—a gleaming Fiat with a chrome hood and grille. He was captured in profile—highlighting his stubborn mouth, steep forehead, and resolute chin—similar to her grandfather's. In photographs their faces were just as white and unyielding. Something else about Il Duce—the angle of his jaw, the slant of his nose—made her pause, although she couldn't say why. After ripping out some pictures and trimming them with scissors, she glued them to the wall around Il Duce, Nonno Carlo and Sofia. She paused again, transfixed by the photo of Il Duce. Shuddering, she pressed her fingers against her eyelids, seeing once again the flash of metal and the roar of the engine as the car shot towards Sofia. When the doorbell jangled, she was still staring at the photo.

“What's this?” Lucia cried, jutting her chin at the wall.

For a moment, Isolina couldn't speak. “It's m-my present for you,” she stammered. “I thought it would cheer you up.”

“You fill up my wall with pictures of movie stars and people I don't know? I can hardly see Sofia anymore. Is that what you want? For me to forget her? I can't forget, Isolina. One hundred times a day I think of her and it's a knife in my heart.”