The Incident at Montebello (33 page)

Her calmness and courage helped quell Sardolini's riotous thoughts. Kneeling by Tiberio, he grasped the fruit seller's wrist, the beats fluttering under his fingertips. As light broke in the east, he pulled out the flask of brandy and passed it to Crispino and Lucia, who took turns swallowing its fiery warmth. Rain was falling and a mist hung over the valley. The sky was muzzied, a metallic gray.

“I thought we'd have more help by now,” Crispino said, glancing at his watch. The brandy had revitalized him; he paced in agitated circles.

“They're afraid,” Sardolini said.

“Shouldn't we be too?”

“Yes, of course, but we're fools,” Sardolini said, smiling in spite of himself.

Crispino kissed Lucia and told her, “I'm no use to you now. And I'm late for baking the bread.” He gripped Sardolini's hand and murmured his thanks before stepping into the thin scrim of fog, which clung to the bushes and trees.

Tiberio's eyes fluttered open. Kneeling by his side, Sardolini and Lucia bent over the fruit seller, who dragged his tongue over his lips and whispered, “She's with me now.”

“Who?” Sardolini asked.

“My wife. It won't be long.”

“From now on, she'll always be with you,” Lucia said, slipping her fingers into his. “You'll never be separated again.”

Tiberio nodded. He spoke in slow, painful bursts. “She's all I want now. Nothing else matters. Nothing. Do you hear?”

Sardolini shifted his gaze to Lucia whose eyes were heavy with sadness. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Write my children. Tell them I never gave in. They can be proud. Hold their heads high.”

Sardolini nodded. “You're a brave man. You have more courage than ten
fascisti.
”

Tiberio paused, taking slight, painful breaths. His fingers fluttered towards the chain around his neck. “My wife's,” he whispered. Lucia unhooked it and held up the gleaming locket. Tiberio's eyes lingered on the icons—the
manu fico,
the
triskele
—ancient symbols of protection and power. “For Isolina…” he started to say, but then he shuddered, struck mute by pain.

Fastening the chain around her neck, Lucia tucked it into the neck of her sweater. “I'll keep it safe for her,” she promised as Tiberio's eyes fluttered shut. A vein in his neck pulsed. His chest rose and fell. A few moments later, it rose again. Sardolini found an empty potato sack, folded it, and slipped it under the head of the dying man.

Lucia knelt in the straw, her head bowed, her hands clasped in her lap. All at once, Sardolini's mind was filled with an ancient prayer, which had comforted dying and grieving Jews for centuries. They were the last words Jews recited before they died and they were the same words the living recited for consolation, linking them all through life and death.

“
Yit'gadal v'yit'kadash sh'mei raba.
” For nearly a year, he had recited those words every morning for his mother and Lià and he couldn't think of a reason why he shouldn't include a brave Catholic in his prayers.
“Y'hei sh'lama raba min sh'maya.
” May there be abundant peace from heaven.

He looked up. The light cut across Lucia's lovely face. He prayed for her and her children. And he prayed that she'd find room in her heart to love him.

The barn door creaked open. Lucia and Sardolini froze, but the midwife was standing there, framed by the gray sky and the simmering remains of the fire. After slipping her cloth sack off her shoulder, she knelt by Tiberio, feeling his forehead and neck. She shook her head and said, “He's got one foot on the other side. It won't be long.”

Biting back a cry, Lucia staggered to her feet and brushed past him. He caught up with her by the horse stall. She had pulled out Tiberio's chain and was squeezing it in her fist. Hearing his footsteps, she blinked and wiped away her tears. “I don't want you to see…” she said and then stopped.

“See what? Your tears?” He grasped her elbow and leaned towards her, his voice no more than a whisper. “Don't be embarrassed,
signora
. Your tears honor him. You've given him back his dignity. That's nothing to be ashamed of. He'll die at peace now.”

She raised her head, meeting his gaze. “You're right,
signore.
Thank you.”

He shivered as he looked into her eyes, dark and luminous. His heart ached. He wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to comfort her and protect her from harm. Still, he said, “You should go home. Your husband will wonder where you are.”

“I need to be here.”

“I'll be blunt,
signora
. We both know your husband has a temper.”

“I'm staying here. I refuse to live in fear.”

“You're a brave woman.”

“On the contrary,
signore
. I'm more stubborn than brave. I need to right a wrong. Tiberio was killed by men he's known his whole life.”

“Crispino and I caught a glimpse of them.”

“And was my husband one of them? I smelled smoke on his clothes when he came home.”

He nodded. “Yes,
signora
. I'm sorry.”

“Why should you be sorry? It was my mistake. Years ago. When I was young and foolish.”

“But how long are you going to suffer?”

She lowered her head. “That's my business,
signore.
”

“I care about you,” he said. “I worry about you and the children living with a man you can't trust. I wish you were free.” Lifting his finger, he brushed it along her cheek.

“This isn't the time or the place,
signore
. A man is dying.”

“Yes, it's true. Life is short and brutal, but only love transcends it. Tiberio has just said as much.”

She sighed. “You're right. I can't deny it.”

Encouraged, he rushed on. “That's why I must tell you how I feel. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want nothing more than to make you happy.” Seizing her hand, he pressed his lips against her palm. Every kiss was a message—Trust me. I love you. I'll always respect and honor you.

“I don't know what to say,” she murmured, but she didn't pull her hand away.

He charged ahead. “Come with me to America. We can take the children with us. We can make a life together in Boston. Without him. Without the
fascisti
. Will you think about it?” He waited for her answer, his body tense with longing and hope. But just then, Cecilia cried out. Lucia jerked her hand away and hurried over to the midwife who was kneeling in the straw and shaking her head. Tears were rolling down her wizened cheeks.

“He's passed,” Cecilia said. “The good soul. He's lucky to get the hell out of here.” A wicked laugh shot out of her mouth. Lucia knelt beside her and wrapped her arms around her. With a sigh, Cecilia wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.

He told them, “I'm late for my morning sign in with Prefetto Balbi. Afterwards, I can get the priest.”

“Don't bother,” Cecilia muttered.

“Be careful,
signore
,” Lucia murmured.

As he wrapped his scarf around his neck, he took one last look at Lucia. Her loveliness was a dartle of hope despite the gloom of the day.

For hours that night, Amelia struggled to free the infant trapped inside her. Again and again, she fell back against the bed cushions, her face red with exertion. The tiny bedroom reeked of fear and sweat.

When the pain ebbed, Amelia whimpered, “He's stuck, isn't he? I just know it.”

“Nonsense,” Cecilia said. “He's taking his time, but he's coming.”

“Pray,” Nonna Angelina advised. That was her cure for just about anything.

Isolina flashed a look at Cecilia who pulled a jar out of her bag and opened it, releasing the clean scent of rosemary. The baby was turned around, bottom first. Cecilia had tried to move him hours before but he was already too deep inside the birth canal. Isolina knew as well as any woman in town that a breach birth was riskier for both the woman and baby. Even though her mother had disappointed and angered her in so many ways, she didn't want her to die.

Hurrying from the room, she plunged her hands into a bucket by the sink and splashed her face. As she dried her hands, she glanced out the window at the fading night sky. She should be curled up in bed with Rodi, hip-to-hip, his arms wrapped around her. How she wished he'd murmur she was right, it was time to leave. And even though her heart would ache when she kissed him goodbye, she'd be relieved he was safe.

After another hour of labor, Amelia's face was covered with a waxy sheen. Between contractions, she sobbed. Lelo, who was pacing in the hallway, rushed in, cap in hand, his face damp with tears. When he knelt by the bed and kissed her hands, Isolina and the others backed away. Weak from hunger and little sleep, they buttered slices of bread and devoured them in the kitchen.

Lelo's voice drifted through the half-open door. “
Cara mia
,” he cried. “A man thinks only of himself and his pleasure. It's not right. I'm giving it up. I swear.”

Cecilia muttered, “I've heard that before.”

Nonna Angelina frowned. “I know men. I'll give him a month.”

When Lelo stumbled into the kitchen, Cecilia said, “I can try to help the baby from the inside. It may be our only chance.”

“And if you don't do it?” Lelo said.

“She'll die. And so will the baby.”

“Do whatever you can,” Lelo begged. “I don't know what I'd do without her.”

Isolina had never seen her father so distraught. A spark of compassion flickered inside her, but she reminded herself that he had helped beat Manfredo to death.

Cecilia turned to her. “Bring me some whiskey.”

Lelo drained his glass in a few gulps and retreated to the parlor. Amelia, who hadn't eaten since the day before, quickly became silly and talkative until Isolina and Nonna Angelina grasped her thighs and Cecilia thrust her hand deep inside the birth canal. Amelia cried out as Cecilia tugged on the baby's hips, easing one and then the other. “Push,” she cried and Amelia bore down with a grunt, pearls of sweat dotting her lip. A cry, primitive and raw, burst from her throat. Dizzy with fear, Isolina gripped her mother's leg.

One fierce thrust and another. Nothing. A half dozen more. Nothing. Finally, when Isolina was about to despair, Amelia gave a mighty push and the infant slid out, slick and bloody. Cecilia lowered the child on the bed: his skin was blue, lifeless; his little fists were clenched and his knees tucked up. Cecilia pushed her fingers into the baby's mouth and peered inside. Pressing her lips against his, she blew hard. Nothing happened. Silence roared in Isolina's ears. Cecilia tried again and again. At last, the baby's chest filled with air and his howls burst the silence. Isolina smiled. Never had a baby's cry made her so happy.

With tears in her eyes, Amelia stroked the child's cheek and the little twin sacks between his legs, as dark as plums. Turning to Isolina, she said, “Go tell your father the good news.” But Lelo was already hovering in the doorway, tears streaming down his face. On his knees, he kissed Amelia and his son over and over.

When Amelia and the baby were sleeping, Cecilia pulled her aside and whispered, “Can you take over for me?”

“Why? Is something the matter?”

Cecilia sighed. “The
fascisti
found another target last night. They set fire to Tiberio's house and beat him. I had to choose between helping him and your mother, so I chose a new life.”

Isolina gripped her hands. “Go. Hurry,” she cried, praying he was still alive.

Cecilia nodded and patted her cheek. “If I had a daughter, I'd want her to be like you.”

Isolina's chest tightened as she wrapped her arms around Cecilia's scrawny shoulders. In this irascible and wise woman, she had found another mother, and for that she was surprised and grateful.

To celebrate the baby's birth, Crispino and Marie Elena showed up with a plucked chicken and a bottle of wine. Nonna Angelina, who complained bitterly of exhaustion, still soldiered on and fired orders at Isolina to fill glasses with sweet wine to toast the health of little Giancarlo Antonio, sleeping in the crook of Amelia's arm. As they raised their glasses, Marie Elena sighed. “We gain one life and lose another.”

“The Good Lord giveth and He taketh away,” Nonna Angelina said.

“And now Tiberio is gone,” Marie Elena added.

A cry caught in Isolina's throat. “He's dead?”

“Why? What happened?” Amelia demanded.

Lelo glared at Marie Elena. “Not another word,” he cried. “Can't you leave us in peace for one day at least?”

Isolina and the others stared at Lelo in surprise. “Come now,” Crispino said, patting him on the shoulder. “We've all had a rough night.”

“Some of us more than others,” Nonna Angelina said.

“The baby most of all,” Crispino joked, but Lelo wasn't amused. When little Giancarlo started whimpering, Lelo anchored his cap on his head and took off for the
caffè
. Crispino followed him, murmuring about baking a tray of
struffoli
in honor of the baby.