The Incident at Montebello (37 page)

“You're quiet,” Pasquale said as he swept the hair off Donato's shoulders with a small broom and untied the drape.

Donato stood. With his pounding head and queasy stomach, he was having a tough time of it. “Let's keep this conversation between us, eh?”

“Whatever you say. You can trust me.” Pasquale gave him a long admiring look, but Donato twitched with discomfort.

In the piazza he passed clusters of men gossiping about Tiberio's funeral, but he kept walking until the butcher's wife Petronella cornered him. That fat ass. He had no patience for her blather. That busybody had her finger in every pot. “Is it true what they're saying?” she said with a wink. “That the husband is the last to know?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The midwife wasn't the only one helping Tiberio in the barn. Your wife was there and so was Signor Sardolini.”

“Mind your own goddamn business,” he cried and rushed past her. That was the last straw. Without thinking twice he tramped down the Via Condotti and through the Widow Cantù's yard. Shoving open the door to Sardolini's cottage, he barged inside, but it was empty, so he crossed the yard and banged on the widow's door. “Where's Sardolini?” he demanded when she peered at him through the opening.

“Who taught you how to knock?” she shot back, her hands on her hips. “If you break my door, you're paying for it.”

“Just tell me where Sardolini is.”

She shrugged. “How would I know?”

“When is he coming back?”

She shrugged again.

“Thanks for all your help,” he cried and dashed across the yard. He was in luck. Just then, Sardolini rounded the corner with an armload of bundles. To his credit, the
politico
didn't run. He dropped his packages and stood his ground.

“What is it now?” Sardolini said, sauntering towards him, his hands swinging by his sides.

In reply Donato grabbed a fistful of Sardolini's coat. “I warned you to stay away from my wife and son. And now you've crossed me and you're going to pay for it.” But before he could draw back his fist, Sardolini's words stopped him.

“And what will you do after you beat me up and turn me into the police? Mark my words. Balbi won't be satisfied with just one more.”

Startled, Donato loosened his grip. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don't you know it's never going to end? You'll have more and more blood on your hands.”

Donato's head was pounding. The arrogance of that man. He was worse than a dozen Americans. “I had nothing to do with Tiberio,” he declared.

“You and I know that's not true,” Sardolini said. “But it's your conscience.”

“I've done nothing to be ashamed of,” Donato insisted.

“If that's true, tell your wife where you were the other night.”

“I heard she was with you,” Donato cried. He was hoping Sardolini would be a man, unlike Tiberio, and would put up a struggle. It would make his job all the more easier. Even with his sore knuckles, the skinny
politico
was no match for him. Two punches, maybe three. That's all it would take. Donato moved in closer, within striking range and curled his fingers into fists. He demanded, “Do you deny that Lucia was with you?”

Sardolini tipped his chin upwards, his eyes riveted on Donato's. “No,” he said.

That simple word was enough to knock the wind out of him. He staggered backwards, dropped onto a stone bench by the well, and lowered his head into his hands. His fists were useless. He had lost the will to fight. He had nothing to fight for. She was lost to him forever and he knew it. The finality of it left him gasping for breath.

During the night Isolina was dimly aware of Rodi stirring, trying to get comfortable. Before dawn the mattress quivered again, so she rolled over and peered at him. “Are you all right?”

In reply he seized her around the waist and drew her close, kissing her on the lips. Looping her arms around his neck, she pressed her hips against his, feeling once again that wondrous thrum rippling between them. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, she told him with every kiss, with every bit of her being, and with that, he climbed on top of her and pushed inside her. Shuddering, she clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Moaning, he plunged deeper inside her, but she didn't call out because she understood this fierceness, which rose up in her too, startling her with its savagery and primitiveness. With every thrust, they were pushing back death—Manfredo's, Tiberio's and their own—trying to erase its ghastly pallor and horrid chill. When at last Rodi jerked and shuddered, so did she. For a while he simply rested inside her, his breath slowing. Weary now, she sank into the mattress. When he rolled off her, he kissed her hands. “I stayed inside too long. I'm sorry,” he said, brushing his thumb against her cheek.

“It's all right.” In the morning she'd ask Cecilia how to stop the babies from coming, but right then, all she wanted was curl up next to him and sleep, comforted by his warmth, by the rhythm of his chest rising and falling. She was drifting off when his voice floated towards her. It was so low that she wondered if she had imagined it. “What did you say?” she murmured, turning towards him.

“I'm going to make you proud of me again.”

“I am proud of you.”

“I was a mouse. But I'm going to be a man.”

“Of course you're a man. You just proved it, didn't you?”

Instead of answering, he kissed the top of her head.

She stirred again when he swung back the shutters and light burst into the room, splaying across his body, highlighting the contours of his broad chest and powerful thighs, and lingering in his gleaming curls. In silence he leaned over the washbasin and scrubbed his face and chest, his skin flaming from the cold. Grabbing her robe, she followed him down the ladder and fixed coffee while he stuffed his arms and legs into his shirt and trousers.

While he sipped his espresso, she filled a sack with food and clothes. All the while, she shot anxious glances at him. He was very pale and quiet. When he reached for his coat, she thrust the sack into his hands, along with some money. “Don't say a word to anyone. Just pick up the mail and keep driving. I'll meet you next week in Palermo.”

“And run like a coward? Is that what Manfredo and Tiberio did?”

They had been through this a thousand times. She told him again, “You can still fight the
fascisti
—after this trouble blows over. You'll be safe in Palermo.”

“How can I think about this right now? My best friend was buried this week.”

She heard the misery in his voice, which shot through her like a knife. Still she insisted, “You know Signor Sardolini is right.”

He didn't answer.

“Please Rodi. For me. For us.”

He hesitated, but finally nodded. “For you,” he said.

For a long moment, she clung to him, tears filling her eyes.

“Faustino knows a fellow in Palermo. I'll meet you there,” he said.

She nodded and brushed her tears away, willing herself to be strong for him, for each other. After one more kiss, he shouldered the sack and trudged out the door. As it clicked shut, a shudder passed through her and she sank into the rocker. For a long while, she did nothing but stare into the fire until she heard Lucia tell her once again, “You're going to keep a level head. You'll be no good to Rodi if you lose it.” When the clock rang out the hour, she grabbed the broom and swept the floor, finding comfort in the steady swishing rhythm. By the time she washed and wiped the dishes, hope was sputtering inside her. Why was she so worried? With Rodi safely out of Montebello, she could breathe a little easier.

Deciding it was wise not to arouse suspicion, she dressed and hurried down the Via Condotti to her parents' house. Once she stepped inside, she instantly regretted it. Her brother Peppino was crying for his breakfast and the baby, red-faced and irritable, was howling in Amelia's arms. Still weak and pale from the delivery, Amelia seized Isolina's arm and cried, “I'm out of my mind. The baby kept me up half the night. Would you believe it? He's sick already. He caught a cold from one of the boys and can hardly breathe. Cecilia was here already—she made a poultice and put it on his chest. I'm supposed to change it every few hours. She says it will help him, but he still won't nurse and he won't stop crying. I don't know what to do.”

“Where's Zia Marie Elena?” Isolina said. “I thought she was helping you.”

“She had to leave early to bake the bread, and Nonna Angelina hasn't shown up yet.”

“Why don't you try nursing him again?”

Amelia sank into the rocking chair and brought Giancarlo to her breast, streaked with veins and heavy with milk. Jealous, Peppino wailed louder, so Isolina plunked him down on the counter and wiped his nose with her handkerchief. “You're a big boy now,” she told him. “And big boys eat breakfast. Do you want some?” He nodded. She smeared some bread with butter, powdered cinnamon, and sugar, and toasted it. Peppino grabbed it and yammed it down. For a few moments she reveled in the quiet. But then Giancarlo pulled away from Amelia's breast and wailed.

“Do you see what I mean?” Amelia cried. “Nothing satisfies him. I don't know what to do.”

“Do you want me to find the doctor?”

“No. I want Padre Colletti. I want him to baptize the baby.”

“It's just a cold, mamma.”

“I don't care. I want the priest. I won't be able to rest until the sins are wiped off his little soul.”

Isolina wondered how the baby could have sinned so quickly in life, but she sighed and said, “All right, mamma. I'll get him.”

Relieved, Amelia kissed her. “May Santa Maria smile down on you,” she cried as Isolina stepped outside.

Running up the church steps, she yanked open the door. The candles fluttered as she stepped inside the cavernous space as dark as a basement, its walls blackened by smoke. A few women were kneeling, their heads bent over their contrite hands folded in prayer, but the altar was empty. She followed the corridor around the nave where the walls were exposed shingles of rock, cold to the touch.

After passing a chapel used for confessions, she rounded the corner and slowed down by the baptismal font. Voices drifted out into the hall. Through the half-open door to the storage room, she glimpsed Padre Colletti's cassock among boxes of candles, jugs of sacramental wine, and piles of tattered catechisms, but he wasn't alone. Another man was talking. She'd recognize that voice anywhere.

“We have proof at last,” Prefetto Balbi said. “A local informant has provided the missing information.”

“Who?”

“Donato Buonomano.”

Isolina pressed her handkerchief against her mouth.

The police chief was still talking. “Good riddance I say. You won't see me shedding tears over him or those other insurrectionist bastards who don't know what it means to be a true Italian.”

The priest's voice wobbled. “But he's still a child of God. And he's been married for just a few months. She might be pregnant.”

“That's your concern, not mine.”

The priest sighed. “Where's your heart?”

“My duty comes first.”

“That's where we disagree.”

As the strength drained from her limbs, she gripped the baptismal font. Still, she willed herself to move, to get out of there fast. Fighting the urge to run, she backed away from the door. With every step, she prayed that the police chief and the priest wouldn't walk out of the storeroom. After a dozen steps, she reached the end of the hall; after a dozen more, the chapel. As she inched towards the nave, a door slammed. Hearing footsteps, she slid into a pew and folded her hands, trying to stifle the panic crowding into her throat. She lowered her head over her fingertips until she glimpsed the
padre
's shadow leaping down the aisle. Glancing at his round face, she willed her mind to slow and move beyond fear and panic. Taking a deep breath, she said, “My mother needs you,
padre.
The baby's sick. She wants him baptized as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” the priest said, grasping her elbow and helping her stand. As they walked towards the door, his rosary beads clacked together. “Tell her I'll stop by this afternoon, right after lunch. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course,
padre.”

When they neared the exit, he extracted a cloth trapped beneath the cord cinching his tunic. He presented the handkerchief to Isolina, who hesitated, her hand poised in mid-air. An odd smile—polite, yet suspicious—played at the edges of his mouth. “Is this yours? I found it by the baptismal font a few minutes ago.”

She patted her coat pocket. “No,” she lied.

His good eye never swerved from hers. “It has your initials on it.”

Trapped, she lowered her head.

“You heard, didn't you?” he whispered. “You must warn him,
signora
. He must leave town right away. I pray it isn't too late.”

“Your prayers mean nothing to me.”

“I'm sorry,
signora
. I tried, but Prefetto Balbi won't listen. He's a determined man.”

“And you're weak and foolish,” she cried. And with that, she shoved open the heavy doors and clattered down the steps, praying that Rodi had left already for Castellammare, praying that Prefetto Balbi's Blackshirts hadn't found him first. But as she crossed the piazza, a crowd was swirling around the town hall and shouts for Rodi's blood filled the air.

Sardolini had no time to feel sorry for Donato, who had lost the woman he once loved and might still love. Pragmatics took over. He skirted the crowd in the piazza applauding Professor Zuffi who was preaching from an overturned milk crate and ducked into the chapel garden where he could still hear Zuffi bellowing, “What gives the
americani
the right to stick their nose in our business? It's about time we stood up to them. Il Duce's right. Make the mighty Americans bow down and apologize.”