The Incident at Montebello (8 page)

“We're under investigation, thanks to Isolina.”

“How could that be, Lelo?” Amelia demanded. “She's done nothing wrong.”

“Is that right, Isolina? Tell me Prefetto Balbi made it up. Tell me that you and Rodi are innocent.”

Isolina's first reaction wasn't her wisest. She had barely gotten out, “We didn't do anything wrong,” when her father's hand shot out again, stinging her cheek.

He told Amelia, “Prefetto Balbi said that on the day of the accident our daughter was lying in the grass with Rodi like a whore.”

Amelia dropped onto the bed. “Dearest Mother of God help us.”

Isolina blinked back tears. “I love him.”

“Love?” Lelo repeated. “How could you love him? It took ten years of marriage for your mother and me to love each other. Now, because of you, Sofia is dead.”

“Don't I know that, papà? Every morning when I wake up, I remember and it hurts just like she died all over again.”

Lelo lowered himself onto the bed next to Amelia and held his head in his hands. “A man works hard his whole life. He takes care of his family. He tries to rise above the others. And now this. From my only daughter. I told Prefetto Balbi that she's young and foolish. That's the truth. And I told him I'd deal with her.”

“Then will they leave us alone?” Amelia asked.

Lelo shook his head with uncharacteristic gloominess. “You should have seen how he treated us. Like criminals. I was outraged, but what could I say? We're already in enough hot water. And that pompous donkey, that son of a jackass kept rattling on that we're still under investigation. If you ask me, he's using the accident as an excuse to weed out all the anti-Fascists in town. But he's looking under the wrong rock. I have nothing to hide. I joined the party before he did. And I brought in more new members than anyone else in town. Twenty all together, including your brother Donato. And I'd do it again if I had to.”

Isolina's mind worked furiously, trying to reconcile what she had just learned about the
fascisti
with the fact that her father was far more involved with the party than she had thought. She was seven when Il Duce rose to power and had paid little attention to the political rants in the piazza,
caffè
, and her kitchen. Even at school, she learned to memorize her lessons about Il Duce with as little thought as her catechism exercises. “Who is Il Duce?” “He's the supreme leader of the Italian people.” “Who are we?” “We are the seeds of the revolution.”

Amelia lifted her face, blotched and shining with tears. “Isolina needs to confess. She needs to tell Padre Colletti everything.”

“I don't trust him,” Lelo said.

“You don't trust a man of God?” Amelia cried.

“He puts on his pants just like any other man. And he likes to talk.”

“If you went to Mass with me, you'd see how close he is to the Lord himself.”

“I pray to God in my heart. That's enough.” Lelo stood up and shoved his hat on his head. His eyes were red as if he hadn't slept. “Don't wait up for me.”

“Lelo,” Amelia cried, but he kept walking, slamming the door behind him. She wiped her eyes. “All my prayers, all my novenas. For what? Didn't I know deep in my heart this would happen one day? Dearest Mother of God, look with favor upon your daughter, who has sinned.”

“But I just kissed him, mamma.”

Amelia grabbed the hairbrush off the dresser. “How am I supposed to believe that? Hold out your hands.” With a shudder and a sob, Isolina flipped her hands over and exposed her palms, roughened by scrubbing clothes, kneading bread, and mopping floors. As Amelia raised the hairbrush, a lone tear ran down Isolina's cheek and Amelia lost courage. With a sigh, she abandoned all pretenses of stern parenting. “Don't lie to me, Isolina. I remember what it's like. Such a handsome boy that Rodi. And you're a pretty young girl. I know how it feels. You're on fire. You'll find any excuse to be together.” She sighed. “I tried to teach you right from wrong.”

“You did, mamma.”

“I've tried to be a good mother.”

“You are, mamma.”

But Amelia shook her head. “The sins of the parents are visited on the children. It was my shame. Now it's yours. I've tried to hide it from you all these years, but I should have known my sins would be inherited by my daughter.” She broke off and blew her nose.

Her mind whirling, Isolina stared at her mother and rubbed her forehead, trying to summon one clear thought, but it was hopeless. In one day, everything she thought she knew about her parents had been turned upside down.

She sank onto the bed next to her mother. Shadows filled the room as they sat there, the midday meal forgotten, until one of the boys peered around the door and whispered, “Mamma, I'm hungry.”

Fog, rising from the valley, hung over the trees like parachute silk. Sardolini hefted a rock as wide as his chest, staggered a few steps, and released it. Whistling, he brushed dirt from his hands.

His latest project was repairing the widow's crumbling stone wall. The work was brutal, but simple. So many sections were sagging or had gaping holes that he had to dismantle it and sort the rocks into piles by size and shape. Later, he'd reassemble the wall with a mix of large and small stones, each layer providing a strong base for the next.

While he worked, he glanced at Monte Vesuvio, shooting orange flames into the sky. Its uneasy rumbles stirred him awake at night, but he reassured himself that he was overreacting. No one else in town seemed to be rattled. That morning in the piazza, the little dramas played out again—men chatting in groups, women buying vegetables. If they weren't worrying, why should he?

He glanced at his neighbor's yard, hoping for another glimpse of Charlie's mother—the slim woman with lustrous hair who lingered in his thoughts. For the hundredth time, he wondered how and why Sofia was killed and who did it. He had tried to find out more, but no one was talking about it in the piazza or
caffè.

But he was in luck. A door slammed and Charlie shot into the yard. Leaping down the back steps, he pulled an apple from his pocket. When he spotted Sardolini, he dashed through the opening in the wall and threw himself on the grass near Sardolini's piles of rocks. He bit into his apple, the juice trickling down his chin.

“Aren't you going to give me a bite?” Sardolini asked, pausing to wipe his brow with his handkerchief.

“Why should I? Professor Zuffi says you were lying about not killing anyone. He said you spied on Fascists and blew them to bits.”

“So I'm the devil himself, eh?”

The boy hesitated and gave the question some thought. He studied Elio Sardolini from several angles, tipping his head left and right. “Well, you don't look fierce or mean, I guess. But everyone says you're clever. Maybe it's an act.”

Sardolini laughed. “So now I'm a devilishly clever actor too?”

Charlie shrugged. “My mamma says it's a good thing the Widow Cantù is cooking for you. She says you're too skinny. She says you need a wife to take care of you.”

“Is that so?” he murmured before his throat tightened and a rush of loneliness and sorrow swept through him, leaving him staggering for breath. When he could speak again, he told Charlie, “Well, your mamma's right about that. I had a wife, but she died. And the police arrested me.”

The boy thought this over. “Why?”

“My ideas got me into trouble.”

“Just ideas? That's it?”

“I could have used you in court,” Sardolini told him. “Maybe the judge would have changed his mind.”

“It's not fair—being sent to jail.”

“Life is rarely fair. You'll learn that when you grow up.”

“But I already know that.”

“So soon?”

“I'm almost fourteen.”

“It's a hard lesson at any age. Especially when death is involved.”

“She deserved it.”

“Who?”

“My sister. Trying to run faster than a sports car. How stupid is that?”

“You saw her?”

The boy tossed his apple core into the bushes and shrugged. Jumping to his feet, he clambered over the unfinished wall, jerked open his kitchen door, and slammed it with a resounding thwack.

As Sardolini hefted another rock, he puzzled over what the boy said. Scratch the surface and all he found were enigmas.

When the sun was directly overhead, a tantalizing aroma from the widow's kitchen spilled into the yard, making his stomach rumble and his mouth water. To his relief, the door creaked open and the
signora
motioned for him to come inside. After washing his hands and face at the well and dropping his shoes at the door, he padded across her spotless kitchen floor towards her table, covered with a red oilcloth. He spied a pot of steaming soup on the stove and his mouth watered yet again.
Stracciatella.
It smelled as good now as when he was a boy. But as he was lowering himself onto a seat, the volcano rumbled and he rushed to the window.

“What's wrong?” the widow said, scowling at him, her face framed by wisps of white hair, heavy eyebrows, and the same black kerchief knotted around her head.

“Don't you hear?”

Her narrow shoulders twitched. “Not to worry. He'll leave us alone.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Most of the time, the lava goes west towards Napoli.”

Most of the time? Hardly reassuring since the ground underneath Sardolini's feet hadn't been steady since Lià died and he was arrested just a few kilometers from the border.

“There are signs,
signore
,” she explained. “We learn to read them.”

“What signs?”

“The animals won't eat, the chickens run in circles, the cows won't give milk. The animals know before we do when Vesuvio will explode. Besides, look at me. I've lived here my whole life. Do I look worried?”

He shook his head, but she still scowled at him, her fists jammed against her hips, as if her fierceness could keep the volcano at bay. She lifted the soup ladle. “So, I suppose you think we're crazy for living here?”

He told her the truth. “No,
signora
. I admire your courage.”

A smile flickered at the edges of her mouth as he slid into a seat and peered at the bowl of soup she set before him. Bits of noodle and cooked egg floated in a rich chicken broth. He took one sip, then another, and paused, blinking. Pulling out his handkerchief, he blew his nose, surprised at his thin skin.

“Don't you like my
stracciatella?
” she demanded.

“Of course, I do. It's delicious.”

“So what's the matter then?”

He sighed. “My mother used to make it for me.”

At the mention of his mother, the
signora
sensed a good story and settled into the chair opposite him, her arms folded across her chest. “And where is she now?”

“Dead.”

“How long?”

He licked his lips and swallowed. The news of his arrest and imprisonment had broken her heart. He was sure of it. “Six months.”

Her mouth relaxed. “The good ones die young. Just like my neighbor's child, Sofia Buonomano.”

He leaned towards her. “She was run over by a car?”

The widow nodded and sighed. “The dead are lucky. They can't feel pain. The living have to bear it. The mother most of all. Sofia was Lucia's youngest.”

He accepted this news with a nod. So that was the lovely woman's name.

“Lucia has to handle it all,” the widow was saying. “A tailor shop to run. Raising two kids alone. A husband in America. Not that he's much good when he's here.” She paused, her eyes fierce. “Some say the child was murdered in cold blood. Others say it was an accident.”

Intrigued, Sardolini tugged on his bottom lip. “Who was the driver?”

“I've heard it was Signor Martinelli's son. Others say it was an American. A few others think it was Il Duce.”

His eyes widened. “And what do you believe,
signora
?”

“What does it matter what I believe? I'm just an old woman.” The widow drew her lips together, sealing the subject off from further discussion. “Eat your soup before it gets cold. Didn't your mother teach you that?”

“As a matter of fact, she did.”

As he lowered his spoon into the soup, he congratulated himself on his good fortune to rent from a woman who liked to talk.