The Incident at Montebello (30 page)

“Promise?” Vanderbilt had repeated. Mussolini nodded and smiled, baring his teeth. Vanderbilt shivered, remembering that same predatory look on his father's face, inspiring fear and respect.

Mussolini stepped closer, grasping the lapels of Vanderbilt's leather jacket. “Nothing happened back there. You hear me? Nothing. I never want you forget.”

Vanderbilt was certain that Mussolini's thugs could track him down—even here in the Nevada desert. Didn't he have too much to live for? That's right. Another divorce. Another alimony payment. He raked his fingers through his hair, appreciating the irony of it all. He told the reporters, “I refuse to comment,” and slammed down the phone.

As Sardolini stood yet again on the carpet in Prefetto Balbi's office, a pair of farm boys flanked him like twin blocks of wood. Instead of looking at the police chief, that bastard and anti-Semite, he scrutinized the carpet.

“The priest intervened. He was very convincing,” Prefetto Balbi said.

Sardolini's head jerked up in surprise. The priest's compassion came a little too late. Damn him for talking to the police in the first place. “I hope he put in a good word for Charlie. Surely, you can't blame the boy for doing me a kindness.”

“Your concern is touching, but it's besides the point.”

“What do you mean?”

“He works for you and your cause, doesn't he?”

“No, he doesn't,” he insisted even though his heart drummed in fear for the boy. “I have never told him to do anything motivated by politics.”

“Not even playing the record? We know it came from his mother's shop.”

Sardolini's neck prickled with sweat. “I played it. He didn't. Dozens of them were piled up on the stage. I picked the one that was the most appropriate—or so I thought.”

Prefetto Balbi frowned at him over his fingers, pressed together at the tips. “We shall see if you're telling the truth. Let Manfredo be a lesson to you.”

Sardolini's ear was ringing shrilly like a school bell. He had heard the news from the widow that a few overeager townspeople had cornered Manfredo and beat him to death before the Blackshirts caught up with him. If Rodi had heeded his warning and moved Manfredo out of town, the mechanic would still be alive.

“Play by the rules,” the police chief said as he released Sardolini, twitching with disgust and impatience.

Liberated, Sardolini rushed outdoors and gulped fresh air. He had to find Lucia and warn her, but her shop on the Via Franca was shuttered and dark. “
Oca,
” he swore.

Near the fountain, the
mafioso
Don Cosimo was tossing crumbs to the birds. As Sardolini approached, the
don
's relentless gaze pinned him down. “So Balbi won the first battle, eh?” the
don
said.

“Unfortunately. We'll see how he does on the next one.” Sardolini touched his cheek, no longer swollen, but far more distressing, two back teeth wobbled dangerously.

“I'm putting my bets on you.”

“I'd better win soon or I'll have no teeth left.”

“If you want to win, keep your eyes and ears open,” the
don
said, brushing his cheek from ear to mouth with the back of his thumb—a signal that Sardolini better be wise to what was going on.

“What do you know?”

“It's not what I know. It's what the Americans know,” he said before moving on, whistling.

Sardolini was still puzzling over Don Cosimo's words when he ducked into Mosca's
caffè
overflowing with a crescendo of talk, all about Manfredo. He slid onto the last empty stool and nodded to Mosca, who was shooting steam through a pot of milk with a loud hiss. The surly
caffè
owner slid a cappuccino towards Sardolini and mumbled, “It's on the house.”

“Since when do you give anything away for free?” Sardolini said.

Mosca growled, “You're going to the funeral, aren't you? Well, you're going to need this.”

Sardolini nodded and sighed.

On the other side of the room, Mayor Cipollina was inspired to make yet another speech, and as he rose, his napkin still tucked into his shirt collar, the town
cognoscenti
—the doctor, lawyer and schoolteacher—saluted him with their coffee cups. “We have rooted out their ringleader,” he declared. “We have made our little corner of Italy safe from the forces of evil, threatening us at every turn. Despite our triumph, we cannot sleep. We will continue to hunt down the godless anti-Fascists.”

Cheers interrupted him.

“That's why I'm asking you, the fine citizens of Montebello, to applaud those who ferreted out Manfredo Cantucci and administered justice. Their actions and loyalty warm my heart. That's why, in a special ceremony, we will award the keys to our city to our brave citizens—our barber Pasquale Fioramonti, our brick maker Arturo Vutro, and our sanitation engineer Lelo Ferrucci.”

As the three men accepted the applause and cheers with modest bows, Sardolini tugged on his lip, concealing his surprise and dismay. He had no idea Isolina's father was so closely tied to the Fascists.

“Fine men. Great
italiani
,” Roberto the butcher cried.

Professor Zuffi leapt to his feet and studied his captive audience over the bridge of his glasses. “They're family men. They're patriots. They're loyal
fascisti
just like us.”

“They're as great as Il Duce himself,” Mosca muttered, but apparently no one heard him, except Sardolini who flashed a look at the
caffè
owner, his head lowered over a pot of milk.

Sickened by the ugly turn of events, Sardolini drained his cup, looped his scarf around his neck and pulled on his gloves. Outside, he battled the frigid wind, his chin tucked into his collar, so he didn't even see Donato Buonomano until the tailor grabbed a fistful of his coat and shoved him against a brick wall. “What the hell?” Sardolini cried as he struggled to free himself.

The tailor jabbed his finger into Sardolini's chest. “She's married to me, Sardolini. “

“That was her mistake,” Sardolini bluffed.

“She's mine. I'm not letting her go.”

“But is that what she wants? I doubt it,” he said, enjoying the look of surprise and outrage on Donato's face.

“I should wring your neck,” Donato cried, tightening his fists.

“So is that your answer to everything, eh? Do you think that will win her heart?”

“Damn you,” Donato swore as Sardolini squirmed out of his grasp.

As he dashed down the street, his satisfaction faded. Damn. He was a fool for antagonizing Donato, who was a formidable threat to him as well as Lucia and Charlie.

In the piazza, he caught up with the band struggling through a funeral dirge and a handful of mourners trudging behind Manfredo's coffin. Apparently, most villagers had decided to play it safe and stay home even though a good funeral was irresistible to these small town folk. Only the Blackshirts turned out in force. A phalanx of them stood guard at the foot of the mountain path, their arms crossed over their chests. His eyes swept over Belgrado and Malatesta, but their faces registered nothing, which gave him the shivers. Still, he kept moving. It was only right to honor the mechanic who had fooled nearly everyone in town and had fought bravely for the anti-Fascists. It was the least he could do.

On the way up, he nodded to the Widow Cantù and the midwife and glanced at Vesuvio, smoking and rumbling. He had lived here too long. He was more afraid of the
fascisti
than the volcano. Hearing footsteps behind him, he whirled around, thinking it was Donato, but the priest lumbered towards him, red-faced from exertion and the cold. He told Sardolini between gasps, “You see, I'm a man of principle. I spoke to Prefetto Balbi and he agreed to free you.”

Sardolini couldn't believe it. It was preposterous that the priest was still feigning innocence. “You're a little late,” he said.

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Surely I don't need to explain it to you, of all people.”

“I swear I don't know.”

“Well, how then did Prefetto Balbi find out that Charlie paid me a visit? And why did he accuse me of coercing Charlie to join the anti-Fascists? And why did he force me to drink castor oil?”

The priest paled. His good eye ticked as he glanced down the path, making sure no one was in earshot. Leaning close, he whispered, “We talked…in confidence of course. But I had no idea…” He faltered and stopped.

Disgusted, Sardolini muttered, “Because of you, some innocent people will be hurt. Not only me, but Charlie and his mother, too. You said it yourself. Hasn't she suffered enough?”

“You have no idea what I'm up against. Just the other day, the midwife stopped me in the middle of the last rites. Thanks to her, Manfredo will rot in hell. Do you know what she said? That I should forget about Manfredo's soul and concentrate on my own. And then she told me, ‘It's good that your God is compassionate. He'll have mercy on your soul.'”

Sardolini shrugged, but privately, he applauded the midwife.

The priest was still complaining, “They have no conscience. Every week I teach them about God's laws, but they rewrite them.” As he jerked his chin up the mountain to the pallbearers struggling up the steep incline, the tuft on his
berretta
swayed violently. “His body was nearly unrecognizable, thanks to those heathens and barbarians. They're no better than the animals. My task is impossible, of course, but my superiors refuse to acknowledge it.”

Sardolini said nothing. He had enough of the priest's company. “I have a stone in my shoe,” he said, abruptly sitting down on a rock and waving the priest on. When a good distance separated them, he continued his uphill climb.

At the next switchback, he paused to catch his breath and glanced at the path below. His heart quickened. Lucia and Isolina were trudging up the hill, their skirts brushing the rocks and brambles. Isolina's face was partially concealed by the brim of a black hat; Lucia's was hidden behind a veil, but when she lifted her chin and gazed at him, a flurry of emotions surged through him. How he missed her. How he longed to talk to her. How he worried for her and Charlie. But she and Isolina simply nodded and kept walking, their heads lowered. They were right to be careful, Sardolini thought. And so, he tramped uphill.

At the summit, a bitter wind ruffled the pages of Padre Colletti's Bible as he intoned the prayers for the dead at the Cantucci's gravesite. Sardolini's gaze lingered on Signora Cantucci whose eyes and nose were raw from crying, a stark contrast to her blanched skin and dark widow's peak. As her moans escalated into wails, Sardolini averted his eyes and glanced instead at the midwife linking her arm through Isolina's, the Widow Cantù clutching her rosary beads, and Lucia intoning the prayers and swaying, trying to keep warm. The poetry of Lucia's motions was spellbinding—despite Donato's warning, which drummed through his head.

After a quick litany for Manfredo's soul, the mourners and the priest filed back down the path. No one was lingering in this cold. Thrusting his hands deeper into his coat pockets, he paced among the gravestones and pondered how best to relay a warning to Lucia. As he passed the rows of tombstones, he recognized the now familiar names—Ferrucci, Gambellara, Butasi, and di Matteo. By the row of niches dug into the hillside, he paused by Sofia's grave and brushed his fingers over her photograph mounted into the stone plaque. He wished he had gotten to know the girl with the bow in her hair, who was the mirror image of her mother.

With a sigh, he retraced his steps. As he neared the Saracen fort, he noticed two women silhouetted against the doorway and his heart drubbed when he recognized them. Lucia nodded and Isolina crooked his finger at him before ducking into the fort. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he plunged through the maze of interconnecting rooms, following them deep inside the fort, its high rough walls inching towards the sky. Overhead, clouds scuttled across a patch of clear blue. When the women finally stopped, his eyes swept over Lucia and lingered on her face obscured by her dark veil.

Isolina spoke first. “The police won't be happy until all the anti-Fascists are dead. And that includes Rodi.”

“I know,” he said, pleased at the girl's clearheaded assessment of the situation. “The
fascisti
are intent on destroying the opposition. I didn't know your father was one of their most ardent supporters.”

Isolina stared at him in surprise. “How did you find out?”

When Sardolini told them about the mayor's announcement of the award, Isolina flinched as if struck and said, “I shouldn't be surprised…” But she couldn't finish. Lowering her head, she struggled for composure while Lucia slipped her arm around her shoulders. When she was able to speak again, she said, “This only makes me more certain that Rodi and I have to leave the country. Do you agree,
signore
?”

He nodded. “The
fascisti
are a fuse waiting for a match.”

Isolina told him, “My father isn't the only one we need to worry about. Rodi's car got stuck last night at the bottom of the mountain. He and Zio Donato started walking back to town and a group of
fascisti
thugs robbed them. They came home late last night.”

“There's no love between Rodi and my husband,” Lucia added. “Donato had nothing good to say about Rodi afterwards.”

A shudder of apprehension rippled through him. He sighed and asked Lucia, “Do you trust your husband?”

In reply, Lucia raised her veil. He stared in dismay at her broken lip and bruised cheek. Her mouth trembled, but she wouldn't speak as if she were bound to honor and respect the bully who beat her.

Isolina answered for her. “No, we don't trust him.”

His eyes were riveted on Lucia. His heart ached for her. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted to protect her from her husband, the bastard. “I'm sorry,
signora
,” he murmured. “It's clear that none of us is safe.” Struggling to gather his thoughts, he finally told Isolina, “Rodi must leave town as soon as possible.”