The Incident at Montebello (38 page)

At the end of the garden, Sardolini paused and glanced over his shoulder. From his vantage point, he could see boys plastering signs on every lamppost and wall that proclaimed, “Il Duce Is Innocent!” Among them he recognized Charlie in his brown uniform, his cap tugged down over his ears. Once more Sardolini was stung by the reality of how much freedom he and other
italiani
had surrendered to Il Duce—that maestro of political cunning. In a brilliant move, Mussolini had demanded an apology from General Smedley Butler, thereby liberating himself.

“Blame the Americans, not Il Duce,” Professor Zuffi cried and a chorus of
fascisti
roared their approval.

A shiver ran through Sardolini as he darted into an alley. The tension was combustible, waiting for the littlest spark. He had to leave Montebello at once. But what if Lucia wouldn't come with him?

Dashing up the stairs to her shop, he burst through the door. Lucia's dog, dozing in the sunshine, lifted its head and thumped its tail in greeting, but the sewing machines were quiet. He found her in the back room with Cecilia who was wrapping a bandage around her wrist. He stared at her in surprise and dismay. Her black eyes stood out even more against her skin, pale with apprehension.

“Donato did it,” Cecilia muttered. “The bastard.”

“He knows we helped Tiberio,” Lucia said.

“I know,” Sardolini said. “We talked this morning.”

Cecilia peered at him. “You're lucky that's all he did,” she said, tying the ends of the bandage together and creating a makeshift sling with some cloth. “Just keep doing what I told you,” she reminded Lucia. “Put ice on it if you can. I should go. I promised to check on Amelia's baby.”

Lucia nodded, but her eyes were fixed on Sardolini. After following Cecilia to the door, locking it behind her, and yanking down the shades, she returned to Sardolini who paced, unable to hide his anxiety. What would he do if she didn't want to come with him to Boston?

Lucia told him. “If you stay, my husband will turn you over to Prefetto Balbi.”

“I know. I have to leave. Are you coming with me?” His heart was pounding while he waited for her reply.

As she spoke, she twisted her wedding band. “It's not easy for me to admit defeat. Not only in my marriage, but my entire life here in Italy.”

“Think of the future and your children.”

“I am.”

“Admitting defeat sometimes takes more courage than winning.”

“Yes. It's true,” she said, sighing.

“If you are coming, Faustino needs fifty thousand
lire
for you and fifty thousand for the children for the travel documents. He wants it as soon as possible. What should I tell him?”

She reached into her pocket and handed him an envelope. “Tell him yes. Here's one hundred thousand
lire
. Isolina and Rodi are paying their own way.”

He stared at her, happiness fluttering in his chest. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “My marriage ended the day Sofia died. I can't pretend any longer.”

“You're a brave woman.”

“No,
signore
, I'm just tired of pretending.”

“I meant what I said the other day. I love you.”

“But I've done nothing to deserve your love.”

He shook his head with conviction. “You've given me more than you can ever imagine. You've renewed my faith in others. You've given me hope.”

She took one step towards him and then another. Raising her good hand, she pressed it against his cheek. She was trembling as he seized her fingers and brought them to his lips. Slipping his arms around her waist, he pulled her close and pressed his mouth against hers. His mind was reeling. Could it be true she cared for him—a homely, skinny Jew with a prison record and a broken heart? It seemed impossible and yet the heat from her lips proved she did. With that realization, his heart seemed to fill with air and hoist him into the stratosphere. The feeling was indefinable as much as love itself, which was, as far as he could tell, the fusion of a hundred emotions—joy, sadness, longing, and relief—to name a few. Now that he had risked everything and dared to love again, he wondered how he had managed to live without her. She was as vital to him as air and sunshine.

She pulled away and wiped her eyes.

“Are you crying?” he said.

She nodded. “I never thought I'd be happy again.”

“Neither did I,” he said, kissing her and holding her tight, feeling her chest rise and fall against his. He stroked her hair and admitted, “I've always wondered if it's as soft as it looks.”

She laughed, but a moment later, she cocked her head towards the window, her smile fading. “What was that?”

“It doesn't matter,” he said, more interested in kissing her neck and lips, but she pulled back and pressed her hand against his chest in warning.

“Listen,” she said. And that's when he heard the screams.

He rushed to the window with Lucia just steps behind him and peered around the shade. Women were fleeing down the street, their string bags of groceries smashing against their legs. Beyond them in the piazza, a cadre of Blackshirts swept past, their clubs swinging.

“Santa Maria. Help us,” Lucia cried.

His throat tightened and in an instant his joy evaporated.

She seized his arm. “They can't find you here. You must leave Montebello at once. We'll meet in a week or so. I'll bring the papers.”

“Meet where?”

“My cousins live in Aquino. Near Palermo. You'll be safe there.” She wrote their name and address on a piece of paper and pressed it into his hand.

He knew she was right, but still his mind reeled at the thought of abandoning her. “But how can I leave you alone with Donato?”

“Go,” she begged. “I'll be all right. Crispino will help me if I need it. So will Marie Elena.”

“I can't leave you behind,” he insisted.

“You must,” she cried. “You must save yourself for my sake and the children. I can't lose another person I love to the
fascisti.
”

He stared at her in silence.

“I'll be all right,” she insisted. “I'll leave as soon as the documents are ready. We won't get far without them.”

She was right. Still, he couldn't move. “Be careful. Don't take any chances,” he said.

“I won't. I swear it on Sofia's grave.”

He struggled to breathe. His sorrow was a knot in his throat. “I love you,” he said, kissing her face, lips, hair.

She seized his hand, led him to the rear of the shop, and unlocked the door. “Squeeze through the loose board in the fence and follow the alley to the widow's house. From there, take the path out of town.”

He stared at her, his heart breaking all over again.

“Go,” she said, giving him one last kiss.

With immeasurable sadness, he crept along the fence and thrust himself through the gap in the boards. When he turned around for one last look, she was gone.

Wails and shouts reverberated through the piazza. Women hurried past, their groceries tumbling from their string sacks. Mothers ran, clutching children, their faces white with terror. Isolina's heart clamored. Hoping against hope, she plunged into the crowd until a Blackshirt seized her arm. “Stay back,” he warned. “This is no place for women.”

She jerked herself free and squeezed through the throng of arms and legs and swinging bats. A club grazed her shoulder and she cried out. Staggering forward, she shoved through the mob until she glimpsed an opening. In a fringe of space, a ring of men guarded a body sprawled out on the cobblestones, slick with blood. Her heart racing, she elbowed through the circle and stared at Rodi's stricken face, battered beyond recognition—his beautiful nose twisted and swollen and his eyes as blank as a statue's. With a cry, she stumbled towards him and dropped to her knees. Bending over him, she pressed her lips against his neck and chest. His body was warm, but it was still, so still. In the awful silence, she shrouded her face with her hands.

She didn't know how long she stayed there, moaning and rocking over him. Once, she raised her head and cried out because his lips had faded to a ghastly gray. She was shivering when someone touched her shoulder. Looking up, she blinked at Lucia and Cecilia.

“Come with us,” Lucia insisted gently but firmly. She gestured to the men who stood around the body. “They're taking him to his parents' house.”

As the four men—Crispino, Mosca, the pharmacist, and Manfredo's father—lifted Rodi's body with grunts and sighs, Isolina staggered to her feet, aided by Cecilia grasping her by one elbow and Lucia taking the other. Tears were running down Crispino's cheeks. Mosca's nose was crimson from vigorously wiping it. But Isolina could feel nothing except the chill that had settled in her bones. Once again she was a child, waiting for the adults to take care of her. She followed them blindly, stupidly, her gaze fixed on Rodi even though she hardly recognized him—his skin a horrible gray, and his eyes wide with fright.

By the Butasi's gate, Cecilia told the men, “Wait here,” while she, Isolina, and Lucia stumbled across the courtyard and knocked on the door. When it swung open, Signora Butasi peered at them, a dishcloth in her hand. “What is it? What's the matter?” she cried, her ringlets quivering in fright.

“Rodi,” Isolina said, choking on his name.

“He was stabbed to death by the
fascisti,
” Lucia said. “I'm very sorry,
signora
.”

When Signora Butasi sighted Rodi, she screamed. Hearing her cries, Signor Butasi rushed towards her and slipped his arm around her waist as the men lowered Rodi's battered corpse onto the kitchen table. When they backed away murmuring condolences, Signor Butasi pulled off his glasses and wiped his eyes, brimming with sorrow. In his face, Isolina had always glimpsed the shadow of Rodi in thirty years—deep-set eyes underscored with wrinkles, sagging cheeks, and curly hair rippling with silver. But now she'd never see him grow old.

Collapsing into a chair, she lowered her head as black patches swooped across her line of vision. She heard Signor Butasi say, “Isolina's going to faint.”

Lucia pressed a glass into her hands. With every sip of grappa, Isolina's head cleared, but tremors rattled through her chest and legs. When Cecilia offered a glass to Signora Butasi, she knocked it out of her hands, sending splatters of brandy onto the table and floor. Jabbing her finger at Isolina, Signora Butasi cried, “Thanks to you, my son is dead.”

This shocked Isolina, but she stood her ground. “Blame the
fascisti
, not me.”

“It was you,” Signora Butasi insisted, thrusting her chin at Isolina. “My son was never involved with politics until he met you.” She turned to her husband. “She can deny it all she wants, but I know she's behind this.”

“You're not making any sense,” he told her.

“I know my son,” she insisted. “He hasn't been the same since he married her.”

Lucia had heard enough. “Isolina is his wife,” she cried. “She's grieving just like you.”

“I was against the marriage from the start,” Signora Butasi declared, her ringlets trembling in outrage. “She's not good enough for my Rodi. Look at her family. They're like rabbits. I can't keep track of them all. And they don't have two
lire
to rub together.”

Isolina was stunned by her hurtfulness. She staggered to her feet, but just then, Signor Butasi silenced his wife with one quick slap. “That's enough, Carmelita. You're going to listen to me for once.”

Signora Butasi was so startled that she could do little more than blink at him. “You're frightening me, Arnaldo.”

“Good,” Signor Butasi said.

Isolina stared at them in amazement. She didn't know what shocked her more—her mild-mannered father-in-law's anger or her mother-in-law's deference to him.

Signor Butasi warned his wife, “You're not blaming Isolina for this. Rodi was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions. He chose to help the anti-Fascists and he paid the price. It's that simple.”

Signora Butasi snapped her mouth shut. But a moment later, she wailed, “But what's going to happen to us now? I'm going to go out of my mind. You don't understand how much I love him.”

“I understand,” Signor Butasi said, but his voice was snuffed out by her wails. He turned to Cecilia and Lucia. “I'm bringing her upstairs. Will one of you get the doctor? She needs a sedative.”

“That's the only thing he's good for,” Cecilia muttered. “Putting people to sleep.”

When Dottore di Matteo finally showed up, he performed his singular feat with a minimum of talk and an economy of motion. After jabbing the needle into Signora Butasi's arm, the doctor returned to the kitchen, slipped on his overcoat, and settled his hat on his head. With a curt nod to Cecilia, he said, “You'll be handling the rest, I suppose?”

“Of course.”

“If you run into trouble…”

“That's not likely,” Cecilia said, squinting at him as she pressed a cigarette between her lips. The doctor made a hasty exit.

The priest arrived next, flushed and sweating. His short and squat body reminded her of a cork. He bobbed his head towards the Butasis and Isolina, but after one good look at Rodi, he lurched into a seat. With a sob, he fumbled for his handkerchief, tears rolling down his cheeks. When he could speak again, he stammered to Isolina, “I'm sorry. I let you down.”

Isolina frowned. “Nothing you can say will make me forgive you.”

He sighed. “I was wrong about the
fascisti.
”

“It's about time you realized it,” Cecilia muttered.

“With them, there's no compromise,” the priest said. “Perhaps God will forgive them, but I can't.” He staggered to his feet, anointed Rodi's body with holy water and oil and murmured the prayers for the dead. She said nothing as the priest kissed her cheek and walked out the door, his cassock sweeping the ground. Her eyes were fixed on Rodi, his face registering his final shock and bewilderment. She had tried to warn him, she had tried to protect him, but nothing she had said or done could safeguard him. And now he was dead. She shielded her face behind her hands and cried.