The Incident at Montebello (3 page)

Dottore di Matteo pressed his lips together in a faint smile as he pulled off the leeches and re-packed his bag. “If she makes it through the night, it will be a miracle,” he said. “It's in God's hands now. Just keep her warm and comfortable. Pray to God to have mercy on her soul.”

“There's no need to worry about her soul,” Lucia shot back. “She's closer to God and the angels than you or I will ever be.”

Once again, Nonna Angelina apologized, but Lucia turned away, her eyes fixed on Sofia, who was still shivering. As Lucia wrapped her in a blanket, she whispered, “Take me, dear Mother of God. Not her. My sweet flower.”

Isolina shivered too. “Put on a sweater, child,” Nonna Angelina said. “The temperature's starting to drop.”

At midnight, the priest dipped his thumb in oil and pressed it against Sofia's forehead, making the sign of the cross. As he murmured the Latin prayer for the dying, his voice rose on the final “…
quidquid deliquisti, Amen."

With that, nearly everyone went home, exclaiming about the abrupt end of summer. Just the midwife and Isolina lingered, helpless witnesses to Sofia and Lucia's pain. In desperation, Isolina seized a broom and started sweeping, but the midwife shook her head and pointed to Lucia, still cradling Sofia and humming lullabies to her little girl who drew in ragged breaths, her chest heaving with the effort.

In the cheerless stretch before dawn, Lucia's eyes fluttered shut and the midwife dozed in a chair near the stove, but Isolina's mind kept spinning in guilty circles. Even a whisper of a thought—Rodi's lips pressing against hers—brought tears to her eyes because from this day forward her love for him and sadness were irreparably intertwined.

Her limbs were heavy, craving sleep. As she sank onto the rug in front of the fire, Lucia's brown and white dog crawled out from under the table and settled down next to her with a sigh. Looping her arm around its neck, she rested her head against its fur, comforted by its warmth and the rhythmic rising and falling of its chest. She struggled against sleep and lost, sinking into a well of forgetfulness until the fire flared and a piece of wood broke off with a shower of sparks, startling her and Lucia.

As Lucia blinked and glanced around the room, she noticed Isolina curled up on the rug. “Why are you still here?” she demanded.

Isolina lurched to her feet. “I can't leave you,
zia
.”

“Go,” Lucia insisted. “You don't belong here. I need to be alone with my daughter.”

Stricken, Isolina could simply stand there until the midwife grasped her arm and led her deeper into the shadows lapping around the room. “You can't help her now, no one can,” she whispered. As Isolina seized the doorknob and twisted it, Sofia took one great, shuddering breath. The dog sniffed the air and howled.

Elio Sardolini was escorted through Montebello in handcuffs. The prisoner calculated distances: the town was two hundred kilometers from Roma and fifty years behind the times. No electricity, telephones, or cars. Half-naked children splashed in a puddle by the village well and stone houses tippled and sagged against each other like drunken men. In the distance, Vesuvio smoked and threatened. No wonder the ancients called this spot the Valle dell' Inferno, the entrance to Hades.

He wanted to linger in the sun-lit piazza where men gathered around a funeral poster of a little girl, but his guards tugged him towards a fountain on the far side of the square. Sardolini licked his lips. When the guards unlocked his handcuffs, he plunged his hands into the pool of water and splashed his face. In the middle of his long drink, a farmer stopped to water his flea-bitten donkey. The guards howled when Sardolini and the animal lifted their heads, water running off their chins.

The younger guard, nicknamed Pigro, told his partner Guzzo, “They could be brothers.”

Guzzo jerked his thumb in Sardolini's direction. “He's the smarter one. But not by much. And he's more stubborn and thick-headed.”

“Just like all those goddamn anti-Fascists,” Pigro said.

Sardolini managed a wry smile. No doubt half his family would be divided on the same subject. Years before, his father had warned him that fighting the Fascists would bring him no victory, no glory, and possibly even death. Being young and foolish, he hadn't listened. He told the guards, “Time will tell who's the smarter one. I suspect it's our friend here.” He rested his hand on the donkey's flank.

Instead of reporting immediately to the police, his hungry guards got directions to a
caffè
off the piazza, which was empty except for the owner Mosca who was washing dishes behind the bar, a long ash dangling from his cigarette. “If you want something to eat, you're out of luck,” he said.

Pigro reached for the doorknob, but Guzzo, with a stomach as round as a tire, peered over the bar and gestured to the stove in the corner. “What's in the pot over there?”

“Just a little soup.”

“Do you have some bread to go with it?”

Mosca hesitated and jutted his chin toward Sardolini. “What about him? I don't want any trouble.”

“He's a
politico
.” Pigro shrugged as if that explained everything.

“Poor bastard,” Mosca muttered. “Does he get to eat?”

“Sure,” Guzzo said. “The
politici
can't live on ideas and talk, no matter what they say.”

Mosca laughed.

After they sat down, Mosca brought them some
scamorza
cheese, a basket of
pane rustica
bread, smoked prosciutto, bowls of soup, and wine. Sardolini reached for the warm bread and took greedy bites.

The guards wolfed down their soup and never stopped talking. “The last train's at seven,” Guzzo said. “We'd better be on it.”

Pigro jerked his thumb at Sardolini. “He gets to stay in this hell hole for three years. Poor bastard.”

Guzzo licked butter off his fingers. “Well, at least he won't starve.”

“Watch out for the women,” Pigro warned Sardolini. “They're on the lookout for a fellow like you—someone who's single, not so bad looking, and knows how to count to ten.”

“The younger ones aren't so bad,” Guzzo said. “At least they've got teeth. But the older ones are all witches. One of them will get a piece of your hair and cast a spell on you and you'll never leave.”

Sardolini shrugged as the men chuckled. In truth, he was so ensnared in guilt, he hadn't even thought of another woman for months, but he had to protect his pride. “You may be right,” he told the guards. “But I'd rather share my pillow with a witch than go back to jail with you ugly fellows.”

The men smirked and poured the last bit of wine.

After turning Sardolini over to the chief of police, his guards made their exit. Sardolini glanced around Prefetto Balbi's office on the second floor of the town hall, which was fit for a baron with its wood cabinets, leather chairs, massive desk, and bird's-eye view of the piazza. To Sardolini's surprise, an electric lamp blazed on Prefetto Balbi's desk, tinting his face and papers a sallow yellow. Beyond the fringe of light, four guards scrutinized him. Judging by their looks, these tough louts were sons of poor, local farmers. Instead of Fascist uniforms, they wore mismatched pants and shirts, all black. One of them had slipped a hunting knife into his belt and another had knotted a scarf around his throat, partially concealing a vivid scar. On a signal from Balbi, two farm boys grabbed Sardolini, shoved him across the room, and stood guard on either side of him.

Balbi walked around the desk. His uniform jacket with double rows of brass buttons fit well over his shoulders, but strained at the waist and hips. The police chief squinted at Sardolini, whose time in prison had sharpened his powers of perception and taught him to be a quick judge of character. He had classified the Fascists into three types: The sadists—who used their power to intimidate and humiliate the underdogs and puff themselves up. He dreaded them the most. The opportunists—who joined the Fascist Party to advance their careers. Balbi's office surely gave credence to that possibility. And the chameleons—the least threatening of the three, who played it safe by touting the party line while trying to save their own skin.

When the police chief loomed close, Sardolini started to sweat. “Well, see here, Signor Sardolini,” he said, poking the skinny
politico
in the chest. “I'm up to my neck with paperwork from the higher ups in Roma, so I don't want any trouble from you. Here are the rules.” He enumerated each directive with a jab against Sardolini's breastbone. “One. You must stay within the boundaries of the town. The graveyard to the north and the bridge to the south. Two. You must register with me every morning and evening. Failure to do so won't be treated lightly. Three. You may write letters, but you must bring them to me unsealed so I can read them. And four. You are forbidden to practice your profession or engage in any political activity. Do you understand
?
”

Sardolini had heard nothing about jail, which was certainly good news. The town was probably too poor to build one. He gave Balbi a firm nod. Still, he had to ask, “But if I can't work, how will I eat?”

“You're educated. You'll figure it out.”

“And where will I live?”

“Ask around. Someone is sure to have a room to rent.”

“Can you give me some names?”

“If you have money, they'll find you.” And with that, he took refuge behind his desk.

On a signal from Balbi, the guards released him with a shove. He stumbled downstairs, sickened by his forced obedience. Without a doubt, Balbi and his militia would keep him on a short leash, effectively guaranteeing his submission. Perhaps, he was more closely related to the donkey in the piazza than he had thought.

Stepping outside, he plunged into a wall of people, filling the piazza with somberness and gloom. At first he supposed they had gathered to honor one of the saints in endless supply in the South, but then he glimpsed a horse-drawn cart with a small coffin blanketed with lilies and blood-red carnations. Behind it, a tattered band straggled, the vibrant wails from their trumpets and clarinets swirling though the air. Immediately following, a throng of women, shrouded in black, shrieked and beat their chests with their fists. Some of them tore at their dresses, ripping off buttons and lace collars.

A slim woman caught his eye. She wasn't dressed like the others. Her stylish suit with wide lapels, tapered waist, and flared skirt belonged in the Piazza del Duomo in Firenze. Even her shoes with square toes and heels were mail ordered from some other fashionable place. His eyes lingered on the strong and angular lines of her face—he could capture it in a few brush strokes. But he'd never come close to expressing her beauty and that indefinable something in her eyes—part intelligence, part sorrow—which made him shiver.

As she passed him, she stumbled. He stretched out his arms towards her, but several women rushed forward and seized her by the elbows. Then she was swallowed up in a crowd of men and solemn-faced children carrying funeral posters of the girl with a bow in her hair. At the end of the procession, a priest shambled past with a cluster of boys and girls, his black-tasseled
berretta
swaying as he shepherded them down the street.

Sardolini turned to an old man leaning heavily on a cane. His neck and hands were speckled with moles, some as big as coins. “What happened? How'd she die?”

The villager eyed him warily. “Run over by a car.”

“A car? Here?”

The man shrugged. “You're a stranger here. What do you know?”

“Apparently, not enough.”

“Good. Keep it that way. Let the dead bury the dead.”

He had no idea what the man meant, but he knew it was a warning to leave well enough alone. After all he had been through in the past year, he should have learned the dangers of sticking his neck out. Still, he was curious. Questions on his lips, he turned to the man, but he had disappeared.