The Incident at Montebello (24 page)

Blood was trickling from her lip. It hurt him too—he was bleeding on the inside. She grabbed a dishtowel hanging by the sink, pressed it against her mouth, and winced. He told her, “Prefetto Balbi wants us to prove our loyalty. He expects absolute obedience. We're his soldiers.”

“I'm not a soldier. I'm a woman, wife, and mother.”

He poked his finger at her. “That's the problem right there. Now you're going to figure out how to get us out of it.”

Without another word, he brushed past her. In his rush to the door, he skirted the midwife who was staring at the photographs, her lips puckered around a cigarette. He hadn't heard her come in, but her presence wasn't surprising. That busybody stuck her nose into everyone's business.

“Good morning,” she called out to him.

“The hell it is,” he muttered as he threw open the door, the glass rattling.

Deep in thought, he strode past the soap factory and the crook in the road. He was halfway down the hill before he paused and blinked. Startled, he made a quick about-face and trudged back, stopping at the place where Sofia was killed. Pulling out his handkerchief, he blew his nose. How foolish to think he could slough off all his troubles by leaving America. They had only multiplied.

He peered over the bridge. Far below, the stream flashed in the sun. Swollen by winter rains, it crashed over rocks and swirled in eddies. “
Oca!
” he muttered. It was simpler when he was a boy, before the war, before Lucia. He was happiest playing here with his cousin Iggy. Once, they cornered an alley cat, tied a rope around its neck, and carried it spitting and clawing to the bridge. While he held one end of the rope, Iggy hurled the cat over the side. As it plunged downward, it yowled, but the rope jerked halfway down and stopped its fall. The cat bounced upwards and clawed the air as Iggy swung it in wider and wider arcs. Laughing, he threatened to let go. “You don't have the guts,” Donato said, and with that, Iggy opened his fist. All at once, the cat plummeted towards the water with a shrill howl. Striking its head on a rock, it mewed and then was still. Iggy clambered down the embankment, poked it with a stick, and smeared its blood over the rocks. When Donato gagged, Iggy laughed. His shame stayed with him even into battle. His commanding officer soon realized he had no stomach for warfare and never promoted him. He could have been shooting blindfolded—unlike the fellow in his battalion who lobbed mortars into trenches and tallied up the corpses. Sometimes in his sleep, he was still counting. He gave Donato the shivers.

How odd. He hadn't thought of that in years. But that was war and soldiers played by different rules. Then again, this was war too—the Fascists and the anti-Fascists fighting it out. His side would continue to win—but only if they were vigilant and willing to do what had to be done.

He threw himself down on the grass in the Cantù's field and pillowed his head in his arms, the sun blanketing him. Rolling over, he pressed his cheek against the earth. It felt good—like his mother's touch when he was sick; her hands were always cool and dry even on the hottest days. Shutting his eyes, he slept until the sun was low on the horizon and a biting wind swept over the grasses, swaying and twitching around him. Back on his feet, he brushed off his coat and climbed downhill. Squatting by the stream, he scooped up handfuls of water, cooling his thirst. He had just straightened when a flash of metal caught his eye and he peered through the trees, glimpsing Charlie and his friends riding their bicycles over the bridge and laughing. A bolt of anger shot through him. It was bad enough the goddamn
politico
had insinuated himself into Lucia's heart. Apparently, he had seized Charlie's too. Damn him and damn Charlie for letting himself be swindled.

When he reached the road, he sighted the boys in the distance and took off after them, pursuing Charlie all the way home and into the barn where bands of light poked through the slats, illuminating the dirt floor and the horse stall; the rest was cast in shadow. As the boy spread fresh hay in the stall, the horse whinnied, nudged his shoulder, and stamped its hooves. Grabbing a bucket of oats, he poured them into the feedbag. The horse lowered its head and chomped noisily, but when it sensed Donato's presence, it lifted its head and flicked its tail. The boy turned and brushed his hair out of his eyes—as dark and luminous as Lucia's. Donato could find nothing of himself in his son, even his ideas, and this made him feel like a stranger in his own house. He frowned.

“What's wrong, papà? What did I do now?” Charlie said.

“You have some nerve to ask me that. I spoke to Prefetto Balbi today. He told me about your little friendship with Signor Sardolini—and how he told you to play the record at the wedding. And you were foolish enough to do it.”

Charlie stared at him, his face wiped of color. “It was just a joke, papà.”

“If he told you to jump off the bridge, you'd do it.”

“It was my idea, not his.”

Donato smirked. “And I suppose it was your idea to hide under his bed? I'm glad someone reported you. It serves you right.” The boy stared at his shoes. “Look at me when I talk to you. I forbid you to go near that devil, that Sardolini. If Prefetto Balbi were smart, he'd send him back to prison where he belongs. That rabble-rouser. That Jew. I don't know why you like him so much.”

Charlie's head jerked upwards. “He's a good man, papà. He talks to me. Not like you. You only yell.”

“I'm warning you,” Donato said, stepping closer. “You better not cross me.”

“Why should I listen to you? You lied to us about America. You said you were sending money for tickets but you never did.”

Donato sliced his hand through the air. The boy's stubbornness brought out the worst in him. His head was pounding as he seized Charlie's forearms and shook him so hard his teeth clattered together. “You better listen to me if you know what's good for you.”

Charlie struggled against his powerful grip, yanked himself free, and raced towards the door. He was fumbling with the latch when Donato nabbed him by the jacket and shoved him against the wall. His head was pounding as he drew back his arm and smashed his fist into the boy's stomach. He reeled off another jab, hitting Charlie in the shoulder. With a cry, Charlie slid down the wall and collapsed in the dirt, retching and gagging. A whitish stream of half-digested food shot out of his mouth, spattered his shirt and pants and dripped down his chin. Its sour smell clung to him.

Donato jumped back in disgust. “Remember that the next time you want to disobey me. My son. You can't even take a punch. What's the matter with you?” Charlie stared at him, his face wet with tears and vomit. Donato tossed him a handkerchief. “Clean up. It's almost suppertime. And not a word of this to your mother. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, papà.”

“And I want you to stay away from that devil Sardolini. Do you understand?”

“Yes, papà.”

Grabbing Charlie's arm, he yanked him upright and handed him a shovel. “Clean this mess up and hurry. Your mother's waiting.”

When the shop door slammed behind Donato, Isolina and the midwife darted into the back room where Lucia was huddled on the sofa, her face hidden behind her hands.

“What happened,
zia
?” Isolina cried. When Lucia lifted her head, Isolina stared in horror at her swollen cheek and lips.

Cecilia didn't mince words. “The bastard did it, didn't he?”

A cry broke in Lucia's throat. Isolina rushed to her side and slid her arm around Lucia's shoulders. “Why did he do it,
zia
?”

For a long while, Lucia couldn't speak. Isolina waited, her mouth pressed into an angry line. How could Donato inflict more pain on her? It was inhuman. Lucia's voice shook as she explained, “He found out I sent Charlie to Signor Sardolini's house with a present. He accused me of being unfaithful.”

“How did he find out?” Cecilia said.

When Lucia told them how the priest had caught Charlie hiding under Sardolini's bed and how he must have told Prefetto Balbi, who in turn told Donato, the blood rushed from Isolina's face.

Lucia said, “I'm frightened of the police. I'm frightened of the
padre
, but most of all, I'm frightened of my husband. And I don't know what to do.”

The midwife crushed out her cigarette in the sink and helped Lucia to her feet. “You're coming with me. Isolina too. And I won't take no for an answer.”

Cecilia hurried them all the way down the Via Condotti to her cottage, dwarfed by a wild tangle of plants and herbs withered by the cold. Inside, it was worse. Even the rafters were crowded with bunches of dried
santoreggia
with shriveled pink blooms, a wheel of parmigiana cheese, copper pots and pans, and a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven.

“Something to bring the swelling down,” Cecilia muttered as she rummaged through the drawers of her apothecary cabinet in the corner. Grabbing a jar of ointment, she daubed some on Lucia's lips. “Let me take care of you for once. You need to eat. It will bring back your strength.”

“You don't need to go through all that trouble,” Lucia murmured, her voice flat, without feeling.

“I have to eat too, don't I?” Cecilia insisted and sent Isolina to the larder for some cured sausages, which she slid into a skillet with some oil. As she poked the sizzling meat, she muttered, “And the
padre
calls himself a man of God.”

“He's weak,” Lucia said, frowning.

“Most men are.”

“He's more afraid of the police than the devil himself.”

Isolina rubbed her forehead. She couldn't think. What were she and Rodi going to do now?

Cecilia was saying, “Years ago, he told me I was a heretic and I'd go to hell, but here I am delivering babies and hope into the world. Priests like him say we're evil so they can fill up the church on Sundays and get our donations. But the fact is we're all good and evil from the day we're born and no amount of praying and holy water and chants to a God in heaven are going to change that.”

“But do you trust him?” Isolina asked.

Cecilia frowned. “I don't trust anyone who claims to be holy.”

Isolina shivered, recognizing the truth in Cecilia's words.

After browning the meat, Cecilia sliced it and sautéed it with some chopped onions. Then, she poured beaten eggs over them. When the
frittata
was bubbling in the pan, she told Isolina to grind some coffee beans and slice the bread. After the eggs set, she cut three generous slices, slid them onto plates, and carried them to the table. As she picked up her fork, she instructed Lucia, “Eat. I'll bring the color back to your cheeks. That's a start.”

Lucia managed a bite. So did Isolina, who picked at the food, but Cecilia devoured everything on her plate. Afterwards, she lit a cigarette. As she smoked, her eyebrows hunched together. “Scoundrels—the lot of them. And I'm not letting Donato off the hook. He'll do whatever the police tell him to do. I'm sure of it.”

“I know,” Lucia said.

“What are you going to do,
zia
?” Isolina asked. If Donato and the priest did everything the police asked, they were all in far more trouble than she had thought.

Cecilia answered the question for her. She pointed her cigarette at Lucia. “I'll tell you what you should do. Go to Boston—just like you planned. Take the children. You'll be safe there.”

Isolina's heart raced at the thought. Only in America could she and Rodi be truly free of the
fascisti
.

“And go without Donato?” Lucia asked.

The midwife frowned. “How long are you going to suffer with him and his mother?”

“I'll do what's best for the children.”

“Rodi and I will go with you,
zia
,” Isolina said, reaching across the table and squeezing her hand. She couldn't read the emotions crossing Lucia's face because Lucia lowered her chin and fumbled with the buttons on her sweater.

“I couldn't,” Lucia murmured.

Cecilia barged ahead. “We're women. We know our own hearts. We know they aren't governed by the priests' rules. You've done nothing to be ashamed of, Lucia. Your heart has its own wisdom. It makes its own happiness.”

Isolina's eyes flickered between the two women, knowing very well a message was hidden there, one she couldn't decipher.

After a long pause, Lucia spoke. “I'm not asking for your opinion, Cecilia.”

“When did that ever stop me?”

Lucia managed a tiny smile. “Never.”

“Stay here until he cools down. You and the children will be safe,” Cecilia told her.

“I can't do that,” Lucia said.

Cecilia frowned. “I'm not sending you home without some protection.” She reached underneath the neck of her striped sweater and pulled out a charm. Unlike the Christian cross, it had an intricate design—a tree with three branches decorated with silver objects—a fist with a thumb poking up between the second and third fingers, a fish, a crescent moon, a key, and a flower. It was the
cimaruta
—as old as Vesuvio itself.

Isolina pointed to the trinkets. “Tell me what they mean.”

Lucia and Cecilia stared at her in surprise. Cecilia said, “Your
nonna
and mamma never told you?”

“No. They said the cross is stronger than the
cimaruta
.”

Cecilia shook her head in disgust. “They've been listening to the priests for too long.” Slipping the charm over her head, she dropped it into Isolina's palm and pointed to the symbols. “The hand is the
mano fico
. It has very powerful magic, which protects the wearer from the evil eye. The fish is the power of creation. The crescent moon is the symbol of the power of our ancient mother Diana, and the key opens doors to secret knowledge.”

“And the flower?” Isolina asked.