The Incident at Montebello (34 page)

Amelia brought Giancarlo to her breast. Her hair was freshly braided and she was wearing a new nightgown. While he sucked, she fingered the mole on her chin as round and stubby as a pencil eraser. “Is Tiberio really dead?” she persisted.

“He could be in hell as far as I'm concerned,” Nonna Angelina said. “I'm exhausted and I'm going home to bed.”

“Can't you dig up an ounce of compassion, mamma?” Marie Elena cried. “You've known Tiberio longer than any of us. What would our savior Gesù and Santa Maria say?”

“As if you'd know,” Nonna Angelina shot back. “You haven't been to church in years.”

“That's because you're all hypocrites,” Marie Elena said. “You talk of God's love, but you do nothing while good people get killed. And the priest is worst of all.”

“I've heard enough. I won't let you attack the
padre
or me.”

“Go home, mamma. Say a prayer for Tiberio. And for all of us.”

Nonna Angelina grabbed her coat and hurried out of the house. When the door slammed behind her, Isolina sank into the rocking chair, stunned into silence.

“Go home and get some sleep,” Marie Elena told her, patting her on the shoulder, but as Isolina stumbled towards the cottage, her mind was whirling and she knew she couldn't rest. So, she climbed the stairs to the dress shop, where a light glimmered in the back room. Cecilia and Lucia were sitting on the sofa, sipping coffee and munching on toasted bread and cheese. She stood in the doorway, unable to speak.

Cecilia looked up and told Lucia, “She knows. I can tell by the look on her face.”

“I should have been there when he died,” Isolina said, her voice breaking as she sank onto the sofa between the two women.

“No, dear. You had to stay with your mother. She needed you,” Lucia said, rubbing Isolina's stiff fingers.

“May those
fascisti
cowards rot in hell for what they did,” Cecilia hissed. She told Isolina how Crispino and Elio Sardolini found Tiberio tied to a tree, carried him to the barn, and, with Lucia's help, tried their best to save him but it was too late.

Lucia added, “Well, at least, we helped him die in peace.” Reaching inside the collar of her blouse, she pulled out a chain. “Tiberio wanted you to have this. It was his wife's.”

Isolina cupped the necklace in her hand, the metal warmed by Lucia's skin. All at once, grief broke in her chest. Lucia looped her arm around her shoulders and Cecilia held her hand, anchoring her until her breath slowed and her tears ceased. With a sigh, Lucia poured some almond milk into a pot and heated it on the stove. As Isolina sipped its soothing warmth, Cecilia pulled out a briarwood pipe, jammed tobacco into its bowl, and lit it, sending aloft puffs of sweet smoke. “Tears are the best medicine,” she told Isolina. “Never be ashamed of them.” Her eyes shifted to Lucia. “Isn't that what Signor Sardolini said?”

Isolina's head jerked upwards. She tried to read the emotions sweeping across Lucia's face, but Lucia lowered her chin and fumbled in her pocket for her handkerchief. She spoke so softly that Isolina had to lean close to hear her say, “Please, Cecilia. You weren't supposed to be listening.”

“I wasn't trying to, but I couldn't help it. Have you made up your mind?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Why? He's a good man. He'll make you happy. You should go with him to America.”

Isolina stared at the women in astonishment. Her mother and the priest would say it was a sin for a married woman to run off with another man, but could she really blame Lucia for wanting a little happiness when she had so little?

“And what about the children?” Lucia said. “Donato is still their father.”

Cecilia yanked the pipe out of her mouth. “He beat Charlie. He beat you. What kind of father is that? And if you stay, you know what the future will be with him, his mother, and the
fascisti.
You know I'm right, don't you?”

Lucia nodded and covered her face with her hands.

When Donato shuffled through the
caffè
door, Mosca was chopping garlic behind the counter. Sliding onto a stool at the bar, he said, “Just give me some toast and coffee. That's all my stomach can take.”

Mosca smirked. “I'm surprised you can eat at all, given the way you were drinking last night.”

Donato shrugged. “What do you care? It's more money in your pocket.”

“True,” Mosca said as he toasted some bread, tossed it onto a plate, and ground the coffee beans. The espresso topped with a foamy
crema
revived him, but then Mosca brought up Tiberio. “He's in bad shape. The midwife's with him, but it doesn't look good.”

Donato's throat tightened and he had trouble swallowing his toast. “Poor bastard,” he muttered, besieged by conflicting feelings.

“Ask your wife. She'll tell you all about it.”

“How would she know?”

“She's helping the midwife.”

“Is that so?” he said, trying to act casual, but his heart was racing as he struggled to damn up the anger sweeping through him. “I'm not surprised. She's got a soft heart.”

Mosca smirked. “Just like you, eh?”

He had barely registered this alarming bit of news when the door swung open and Charlie rushed in with a stack of telegrams. To his surprise, the boy handed them out to half the men in the room. Donato grabbed Charlie by the coat. “What's going on?” he demanded. “Why aren't you in school?”

“I'm working for Bombolini.”

“Is Bombolini paying you?”

“Ten
lire
for every telegram I deliver.”

“And how many do you have?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Why so many?”

Charlie started to answer, but his voice was smothered by the men who were clamoring for answers. “What the hell?” one man shouted, waving his telegram in the air.

“How did the
americani
find out?” another cried.

After a few minutes of chaos, Mosca bellowed, “Shut up, all of you. Charlie will tell us what's going on. He knows more than all of you combined.”

Pleased, Charlie squared his shoulders. Two spots of color brightened his cheeks.

“Speak up,” Donato warned.

“The
americani
are saying Il Duce is a murderer,” Charlie announced. “They think he was the driver.”

“The driver of what?” one man shouted.

“Idiot,” another cried. “The car that killed Sofia.”

With mounting alarm, Donato grabbed the newspaper and scanned the columns of print. He found nothing, but his relief lasted only until he realized he had no idea what the American papers were printing. Thanks to that little shit Rodi, he wouldn't be anonymous for long. Damn! That son of a bitch had screwed him royally. Why then should he feel guilty? That snake deserved whatever the police dished out.

As Charlie headed for the door, Donato grabbed his arm and whispered, “Have you seen your mother?”

The boy hesitated. “No. She left before breakfast.”

He rubbed his hands over his face and wished he'd stayed in bed.

“I almost forgot. I have one for you,” Charlie said, thrusting an envelope into his hands before dashing out the door.

“Fuck,” he muttered as he stuffed it in his pocket. Iggy could wait.

Before he could slip away, Pasquale strolled into the
caffè
, looking none the worse for staying up half the night. His cheeks were freshly shaven and his hair was swept back in one gleaming wave. When Pasquale crooked his finger, Donato's heart sank, but he followed him to their table in the corner.

“What's the matter now?” Donato said. He had done his duty and would be happy to have nothing more to do with Pasquale and the others for one day.

Pasquale whispered, “A patriot's work is never finished.”

Donato stared at his friend with mounting dread. “What do you mean?”

“Prefetto Balbi wants to see you in his office. Right away.”

The smile on Prefetto Balbi's face should have given Donato great pleasure, but instead his head was pounding and he had to remind himself that Rodi was the traitor who had ruined everything.

“Your news comes at the perfect time,” Prefetto Balbi said, pouring two glasses of grappa stored in a decanter behind his desk. “My supervisors in Napoli wired me earlier today. They want me to take immediate action against the remaining insurrectionists.”

Donato nodded and sipped his grappa. He resented authority, but he understood and respected the chain of command. “So, you'll make a move on him right away? Where will you send him? To the jail in Castellammare?”

“I suspect that won't be necessary,” Prefetto Balbi said, draining his glass.

Puzzled, Donato staggered to his feet when the police chief opened the door—signaling the end of the meeting. Outside, he sucked in fresh air. As he massaged his aching head, he tried to think. Going back to Tiberio's was the last thing he wanted to do, but he had to rein in Lucia before it was too late. And so, he trudged down the road and joined a cluster of men staring at the smoking remains of Tiberio's house.

“Stubborn fool,” Roberto the butcher muttered. “He deserved to die.”

Donato's voice, weakened by the liquor and little sleep, came out more as a croak than a shout. “He's dead?”

“See for yourself,” Roberto said, jutting his chin towards the barn where several men were lifting a body into a wagon.

A hush fell over the bystanders as the horse-drawn cart rattled past. Despite his resolution not to look, Donato's eyes were riveted on the body on the bed of straw. When the cart lurched over a rut in the road, the blanket covering Tiberio shifted, and for one horrible moment, Donato stared into the sightless eyes and battered face of the fruit seller. The bitter stench of suffering and death clung to him. Lowering his head, Donato squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers pressing against the lids. His mind was buzzing. He reminded himself that crazy old fool had stubbornly refused to sign the oath of allegiance to Il Duce, but he could still hear Tiberio saying, “Unlike you, I'll die in peace.” It seemed to him now that it was more of a curse than a prediction and it gave him the chills.

Still, when Roberto said, “That traitor got what he deserved,” Donato echoed him and said, “That's right.”

“It's a pity your wife doesn't think the way you and I do,” Roberto said. “She was in the barn helping the midwife.”

“So I heard,” Donato said, scowling. “When I find her, I'll give her a piece of my mind.”

“She left a few minutes ago,” Roberto said. “If I were you, I'd teach her a lesson she'll never forget.”

“I will, you can be sure of it,” Donato muttered. Lighting a cigarette, he plodded back to town, sidestepping deep ruts swamped with rainwater.

“What the hell are you thinking?” he demanded as he burst into the dress shop, where Lucia was sewing in a patch of sunlight. In two steps, he was standing in front of her, poking his finger into her shoulder. “You're helping a traitor while the Americans are accusing Il Duce of Sofia's murder?”

Lucia's face filled with color. “I won't deny it. I helped Tiberio die in peace. And I'm happy the Americans are stepping in. Soon, we'll have some answers. They'll uncover the truth.”

“At what price—to us and the family?”

She lowered her head. “I don't know.”

“Well, you should have thought about that before you ran off and played the angel of mercy. Damn it, Lucia. Can't you see what you've done? The higher ups in Roma are going to be poking around and making sure Prefetto Balbi puts a lid on the anti-Fascists. And what's going to happen once he finds out you're helping them? All over town, people are talking about it.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“No,” he insisted. “You did what Sardolini told you to do.”

“You can't blame him for this. It was my idea.”