The Incident at Montebello (36 page)

He wanted some time alone with Rachele, but she was busy with the children—scolding Romano and Anna Maria and berating Vittorio and Bruno for skinning their knees while hunting rabbits in the woods. After supper she told Vittorio to click on the radio and play his drums along with the music. And she had Bruno dance for him, showing off the latest steps.

In a quieter moment he told Romano to bring him the newspaper and he let the boy climb into his lap. Together, they studied the
americani
comic strip they read together whenever he was home. Vittorio and Bruno pretended to be disinterested, but they leaned forward when Romano poked the first cartoon box.

“There's Annie,” Romano said. “What's she saying?”

“She's talking to Signor Daddy Warbucks and she says,” he paused for a moment, translating it. “I hate to tell you this Daddy. We're busted. I had to spend our last bit of money today for what we're eating tonight.”

“And what does Sandy say?” Romano asked.

“Arf-ff.”

“Do it again, papà,” Romano said, laughing.

And so he did, hamming it up and ending in a long howl. The boys loved his flair for the dramatic, but Rachele, who was as joyous as a toothache, frowned at him from across the room.

“What's going to happen to her, papà? Is she going to be OK?” Romano asked.

“She's going to be fine, just you see. She's not going to let anybody or anything stop her. No, sir.”

He glanced at his wife and winked, but she said nothing.

Later that night when they were alone, he convinced her to climb into bed with him—something she rarely did. “You missed us, eh?” she said.

He shrugged and muttered, “I had to escape. I'm dealing with an endless parade of fools.”

“On the news they said you fired your cabinet.”

“All but Bocchini. The new ones are worse than the others. If I don't rule them with an iron fist, they flounder. They're children.”

“Something else is bothering you.”

He sighed. “The Americans are accusing me of murder.”

“Is it true?”

“It was an accident. It happened months ago in the mountains. Now the Americans want to hang me.”

For a while, she didn't answer and he feared she'd make him fend for himself. “You've been in tight places before,” she said at last.

“Not like this,” he said, relieved. “They were our strongest allies. Now they're turning on me.”

“Didn't I say they'd all double-cross you someday? Even your own people.”

He had dismissed her predictions before, but now he shuddered, hoping they weren't prophetic. “What should I do?”

“Do what you always do. Turn the tables on them.”

“How?”

“You'll figure out a way.”

He sat up on one elbow and leaned towards her. She had left the shutters open, so the moonlight streamed into the room, imbuing her face with a ghostly bluish glow. “Come back to Roma with me.”

“You know I hate the city.”

“People need to see us together from time to time.”

She yawned and tugged the blanket up to her chin. “It's you they want to see. Not me and the children. You want us to go because you're here with us. When you leave, you'll forget about us.”

“Is that so? Now you can read my mind?” he said, his voice rising.

“I've always been able to read you.” And with that, she rolled over and fell asleep leaving him in misery. Would he ever learn? Women were the worst of the lot and should never be trusted. Still, in the morning, he thought about what she said as he raced through the woods on his stallion, plunging down the steep cow path and stopping only when he reached the luminous water's edge. Like many boys from the mountains, he had never learned to swim and dreaded the water's depths and power. As he studied it, steam rose from the horse's nostrils and the surface of the lake. He stroked the stallion's withers and admired its latent power and taut muscularity, which to him were beautiful.

Afterwards, he strode into the dining room, his riding boots clacking on the stone floor. The children were shouting as always but Rachele ignored them as she devoured her breakfast. She insisted on eating the English way, which she had learned from the Churchills when they stayed at their summer house on Lago Maggiore. Endless plates of grilled meat and vegetables, sliced cheese, eggs, and toast were delivered to the table by a young maid with crooked teeth and a sallow complexion who endured Rachele's scorching insults and reprimands.

“Join us, Duce. You hardly ever eat with us,” Rachele said between mouthfuls.

“You know how I feel about breakfast,” he said.

“A poached egg would be easy on your stomach.”

She treated him like one of the children. “My stomach is my business,” he cried just as the phone rang. The maid carried it over to him. And then, Bocchini uttered one solitary sentence that made his stomach burn— “The
americani
have names.”

With that, he slammed down the phone.

In bed that night Donato tried to distract himself with happier thoughts, but he kept circling back to Lucia, who insisted on sleeping downstairs. Over dinner she had simply stared at him with her black eyes, which didn't ease his mind. His gaze lingered on her wrist, wrapped in a bandage, but he wouldn't apologize. Why should he? She was the one who was putting the family at risk.

Still, he couldn't help but think of those times—not so long ago—when she clung to him, her cheek pressing against his shoulder as she slept. Once she loved him, truly loved him. Nothing she said now would convince him otherwise. On the day when he had brushed a crumb of
sfogliatelle
pastry from her lip and told her he wanted to marry her, she had blinked back tears of happiness. Of course he had assumed she knew he loved her. Why else would he saddle his horse every Sunday at dawn and ride the forty crooked kilometers from Montebello to Ravello, arriving by lunchtime, wrapped in a cloud of dust? He knew she watched him through the kitchen window as he hauled a bucket from the well, unbuttoned his shirt, leaned forward, and poured water over his head. As it ran off his chin and splashed his chest and shoulders, his skin was as lustrous as Nonna Angelina's mahogany sideboard, which she polished every week with lemon oil. After rubbing himself dry, he ran a comb through his hair, re-tucked his shirt into his pants, and carried his saddlebags into her house. He brought presents for everyone—oranges for her mother, a bar of sandalwood shaving soap for her father, a cedar pencil box for her little sister Leta, and, most generous of all, a box of chocolates for Lucia, each one hand-wrapped in gold foil sent all the way from Boston by his cousin Iggy, who worked at the W.F. Schrafft Candy Company.

Basta.
Enough. What good was it to think about how he'd been deceived by her and Iggy? Still, he wished she'd climb the stairs and they could comfort each other, but it was impossible now. So, he squeezed his eyes shut and eventually drifted off. In his dream he was running like a rabbit through a field, dodging gunfire. As German bullets snapped around him, he dove into a trench and ducked low. To his horror he was surrounded by men staring at him with dead eyes. He woke up shivering in a sickly sweat.

Long after Lucia and the children clattered out the door, he staggered downstairs, washed, and dressed. At Mosca's voices surged around him and emphatic fingers beat the air. To his dismay the battle between Il Duce and the Americans was still raging. The front-page news headlined Mussolini demanding an apology from General Butler.

Arturo was broadcasting his opinion to anyone who would listen, and so was Roberto the butcher and Professor Zuffi, who shouted, “It's time we get the respect we deserve. If it weren't for us there'd be no Roman Empire, no aqueducts, no toilets, and no cement. We shaped the history of the entire western civilization. The world should bow to us in thanks.”

Donato slid onto a barstool and nodded to Mosca, who fixed him a coffee and jerked his thumb towards the men. “They have more opinions than brains,” he muttered.

Donato said nothing as he hunched over the newspaper and searched frantically for his name. He had scarcely breathed a sigh of relief when Roberto poked him in the shoulder. “What do you think? Will Il Duce get the Americans to apologize?”

“Not a chance,” Donato said. “The Americans don't bow down to anyone—except people with money. That's all they respect.”

They argued for a few minutes, but Donato's mind was spinning. He glanced at Roberto's hands with more cuts and bruises than his own, and his stomach squeezed in disgust. When the butcher left, he swallowed his espresso and wiped his lip smeared with foam. Once again he didn't like what he saw in the mirror behind the bar. Lines as deep as scars marred his forehead and the fringes of his mouth.

Someone poked him in the back. He whirled around and stared at the postmaster Tombolo, who peered at him through his thick glasses, creeping down his nose. He told Donato, “I have a telegram for you. Bombolini is so busy he asked me to deliver it. Do you believe at my age I'm working two jobs?”

Donato's heart sank as he slit the envelope open with his pocketknife and shook the telegram free. As he read, he nearly choked. Iggy, that lying cocksucker, was still hounding him.

COPS SEARCHED THE PLACE LOOKING FOR YOU AND THE MONEY. I SAID I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU IN MONTHS. PAY UP THE REST.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

He studied his friend Pasquale who was snoring in the barber chair, a newspaper blanketing his head. When Donato poked him, Pasquale jumped, sending a flurry of papers to the floor. After he staggered to his feet, Donato slipped into his seat and yawned, wishing he could take a nap too.

Pasquale snapped a white cloth and draped it around his shoulders. “The usual?”

Donato nodded, so Pasquale whisked some shaving cream in a bowl and daubed his brush into it. When Donato's face was obscured with lather, Pasquale drew the razor down his cheek, revealing a narrow swatch of skin.

“The
fascisti
moved Tiberio's burial to five o'clock,” Pasquale told him.

“You're not going, are you?” Donato asked.

“Why should I? I'm not sorry he's dead. Are you?”

Donato was quick to reply. “Of course not.”

Pasquale leaned close. His breath, which smelled powerfully of garlic, assaulted Donato's senses. He whispered, “You shouldn't be so modest.”

“What do you mean?”

“Prefetto Balbi told me you're doing a little police work.”

Donato jerked upright. So the news was out. He thought Balbi had more sense than to make an announcement.

“You bagged a big one, eh?” Pasquale said in admiration. “Not every man can sniff out a traitor in his own family.”

Donato shifted in his seat. He was starting to sweat. He dreaded the moment when Lucia would call him on it. Still, he managed to say, “Well, it was only right I do my part. We all have to put our country first no matter what the sacrifice.” He sounded sanctimonious even to his own ears.

Pasquale nodded so vigorously that his pompadour quivered. “So what if he's family? That little shit screwed you by handing your name over to the
americani
. Soon it will be all over their news.”

“
Oca!
” Donato muttered. “That son of a bitch didn't do me any favors.” He licked his lips. If he had a drink in his hands, he'd finish it in one gulp.

Pasquale was still talking. “You know Sardolini's behind it all. It didn't take him long to get to work on Rodi, pumping him full of ideas. You better watch out. He's already started in on Charlie. I've seen them together. Your boy treats that bastard like he's the next prophet. Keep an eye on him if you know what's good for you.”

Donato's stomach lurched. “I'm watching, don't you worry.”

Pasquale leaned closer and whispered, “If you put that bastard back in jail, you won't have to pay for another haircut and that's a promise. You and I were the only ones who were smart enough to see the writing on the wall. The
americani
are shifting their allegiance to the anti-Fascists. All this nonsense over the car accident proves it. They could get worked up enough to kill one of us or even Il Duce. You can't put anything past them. They have enough money and guns to do whatever they want.”

Donato's mind was reeling, but he managed to say, “For all we know they've been supporting the anti-Fascists for years.” Even in his rattled state, he knew it made sense. How else could the insurrectionists finance the purchase of guns and explosives and publish newspapers unless they were liberally funded by foreign money?

Pasquale wiped the last blob of shaving cream off his face, slapped on some aftershave, and grabbed his scissors soaking in blue liquid. As Pasquale snipped, Donato shot uneasy glances at his friend. In his mind's eye, he still saw Tiberio, struggling to breathe through swollen lips.