The Incident at Montebello (9 page)

After lunch, he constructed a letter to his brother Sam in America. In the middle of the page, he squeezed in a few carefully worded questions, designed to slip past Balbi.
“Did papà get a new car last month? Is he driving safely? You know how I worry. I don't want him to get into an accident.”

Papà was their code word for the Fascists. Perhaps Sam had heard about the accident. If so, that would solve some of the mystery. After slipping the letter into his pocket and filling a bag with some clothing, he took off for the piazza on a mission to find Lucia's shop and get his clothes mended. He was curious to meet her—he couldn't deny it.

Over his head, women shook out rugs from their balconies or unpinned laundry strung across the alley, keeping one eye fixed on him in the street. Others shuffled past and stared, their faces as lined as the earth. Men strolling arm in arm to Mosca's for their afternoon espresso stopped in mid-sentence and nodded to him. They were all watching him. He was certain of it. In this town, even the flowerpots had eyes.

With only two commercial streets in town, finding the tailor shop on the Via Franca was easy. Shifting the bag to his hip, he pushed open the door and stared at Lucia Buonomano who was sewing by the window, the sun slanting across her shoulders and the floor. His heart thumped as he studied her lovely face and shimmering hair swept back into a bun at the nape. Her beauty left him breathless. Hat in hand, he bowed to her and her young assistant, working at the second sewing machine. When Lucia's eyes brushed over him, he was aware, all at once, of how miserable he must look in his tattered suit, sagging and worn at the knees and elbows.

“Can I help you,
signore
?” Lucia murmured. As she stepped closer, she slipped a few ringlets behind her ears. Her black shirt was tucked into a skirt, topped with a wide belt.

“My clothes have seen better days. Then again so have I.”

“You're not alone,” Lucia murmured, lowering her head, her eyes filling with tears. Blinking fast, she turned away, but he started to speak.

“It's impossible to hide from misfortune. No one is immune.”

“But some people have more than their share. More than they can bear.”

“In time…”

“That's what everyone says,” she said, her face filling with color. “Pray to God, they say. He will answer your prayers in time. And time heals all wounds. But it's a lie. Some wounds are too deep and I don't believe in miracles.”

He blinked in surprise. “You didn't let me finish. That's not what I was going to say at all. I don't believe in platitudes.”

She drew her hand across her forehead. “I'm sorry,
signore
. I open my mouth and bitterness spills out.”

“It's understandable,
signora
. I heard about your daughter. I'm sorry.” Once again, this woman had reversed his expectations for he had imagined a madonna, suffering in silence and quiet dignity like Michelangelo's
Pietà
, but Lucia was nothing like her. Grief hadn't numbed her feelings or diminished them. Quite the opposite. She could frighten the timid and faint of heart. Still, he understood her rage against death, which had robbed her of her happiness and her daughter because he had felt the same way about Lià, but out of necessity, he had shoved his emotions and vulnerabilities down deep so his jailers and fellow prisoners couldn't find them. Somehow this woman had made them rise up and crowd into his chest. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. In turn, she stared at him and murmured, “You have a kind heart,
signore
.”

He could think of nothing to say. As his eyes lingered on her face, limed with sadness and beauty, something new fluttered inside his chest. It was hope—but for what, he didn't know.

She was still talking. “My son has told me about you and your talks. I hope he's not bothering you.”

His thoughts were whirling as he scrambled for a reply. “I like the boy,” he said at last.

Gesturing to the girl at the sewing machine, Lucia introduced her niece Isolina, who was a younger, slighter version of Lucia and even copied her style of dress. Her shirt was embroidered with flowers on the collar and cuffs and a slim skirt hugged her hips, but her shoes gave her away—her scuffed Mary Janes with button straps were covered with dust.

The girl smiled, but her eyes, ringed with dark circles, told a different story. “My aunt will fix your clothes better than new. When she lived in Ravello, she sewed for the big shot movie stars.”

Lucia waved her hand as if to brush away Isolina's words. “That was a long time ago before I was married.”

“Not so long,” Isolina said. “Someday soon she's moving to Boston and if I'm lucky, she'll take me with her. Every day we practice our English. Isn't that right,
zia
?”

Lucia told Isolina, “I'm sure the
signore
has better things to do than listen to our hopes and dreams.”

“On the contrary,
signora
,” he said. “Without dreams, life isn't worth living.”

His words seemed to startle Lucia and she nodded. With a jerk of her chin, she opened a notebook and listed his khakis with the torn cuffs, suit jacket with missing buttons, and shirt with a hole in the elbow. She told him, “In a week, I'll have everything ready for you. Mended, cleaned and pressed. But you should think about a new suit. I just got in some beautiful fabric. Do you want to see it?”

He followed her beyond the cash register, curtained changing booth, and paneled mirror, and paused by the shelves where she stored material. Lifting several bolts of cloth, she dropped them with a thud on the cutting table and brushed her hand over the wool. Her skin had a coppery tint like cinnamon and her fingers—long and tapered—managed to convey strength and delicacy at the same time. When he stepped closer, he smelled honeysuckle.

Lucia was saying, “My husband used to handle all the clothes for the men, but now that he's in America, I do it. New zippers and buttons and hems. That's mostly what I do. In all the time he's been gone, I've made just a handful of suits. That's because all the young men buy their clothes in America.”

Sardolini pointed to a brown tweed. “I like that one.”

Lucia frowned. “Do you want the truth? That's a mistake,
signore
. With your fair coloring it'll make you look washed out.”

“I'm hopeless in these situations,” he admitted. “Maybe you can help me?”

“Of course. If I were you, I'd go with the blue pinstripe. It complements your salt and pepper hair and fair skin.”

“
D'accordo
,” he said, nodding in agreement.

“All right then. A blue pinstripe. Double-breasted. With a little extra padding in the shoulders so you won't look so thin. Anything else? How about a winter coat? I'll give you a good price.”

In the end, he ordered five shirts, a suit, and a coat. While Lucia rang up the sale, he glanced above the cash register at the pictorial tableaux of President Herbert Hoover, Premier Benito Mussolini, and a sepia print of an old man with a mustache as thick as Stalin's. “The only one's who's missing is the Pope,” he said.

“They're my husband's saints,” Lucia said, lowering her voice.

“And yours?”

She shook her head and pressed her finger to her lips.

His eyebrows whisked upward, but he simply nodded, saying nothing.

In the piazza, Isolina edged past carts filled with vegetables, metal gadgets, soap, and cheese and shivered with apprehension. The Blackshirts were nowhere in sight, but she couldn't find Rodi. She fingered the note in her pocket. During the night when she couldn't sleep, she had written—
Balbi knows about us
. She had to find Rodi and warn him.

As she picked up groceries for her mother, pigeons fluttered around the
mafioso,
Don Cosimo, who was feeding them breakfast. Dogs trotted past on their way to beg for food from the butcher, baker, and Mosca. And on the far side of the piazza, her friend Tiberio was swatting fruit flies as he sat on a crate next to his cart, waiting for customers. When he spoke, he sounded more sad than angry. “Stay away, Isolina. Can't you see they mean business? They could have killed Manfredo. He's lucky he got away with a few cracked ribs, a half dozen bruises, and a broken wrist. It's only going to get worse when the new mayor arrives. Did you hear? He's coming before Christmas. Wait and see. You think it's tough now? He's going to make us all follow the rules.”

She nodded, taking in the news. Now that her eyes were open, she saw the ugliness in the world, which existed side by side with beauty. Leaning close, she whispered, “Prefetto Balbi questioned me and my father. He knows Rodi and I were together that afternoon.”

“How? Who told him?”

“I don't know. But I'm sure he's going after Rodi next. I need to warn him.”

“You're too late,
signorina
. Early this morning two of Balbi's men hustled him off to the town hall.”

For a while she couldn't speak.

Tiberio talked fast. “Be careful,
signorina
. Be careful what you say and do. Stick to your story. You better pray that Rodi does too. And remember this—people who make themselves sheep will be eaten by the wolf.”

A few weeks ago, she would have disagreed. Now, she nodded, recognizing that her father was a sheep and so was her mother. She hoped and prayed Rodi wasn't one.

“Courage, Isolina,” he said. And with that, he turned his back to her and called out to the barber's wife, “Good day
, signora
. I have some fresh cabbage here. Good for soup.” But the woman hurried past, not meeting his eyes.

She hardly noticed the eddies of conversation swirling around her. Setting her string bags of groceries by the fountain, she sat down on a nearby bench, her eyes fixed on the town hall, waiting for a glimpse of Rodi. Finally, he staggered out. All around her, she heard a sharp intake of breath as the women in the piazza turned to stare at him, his face bloody and bruised. She pressed her hand against her mouth as he stumbled over the cobblestones. Wasn't anyone going to help him? Forgetting she was already in trouble, she rushed towards him, but the tinsmith and a toothless
paesano
got to him first, grabbed him by the arms, and half carried him down the street. Rodi raised his head, his eyes meeting hers. A look passed between them—a mix of love, sorrow and defiance. She turned away, fighting back tears. Picking up her groceries, she turned towards home. She didn't realize her cousin Charlie was following her until he poked her in the back. Whirling around, she stared at him and wiped her eyes.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

Lucia's son had inherited her expressive eyes and vibrant personality. “You're not old enough to understand.”

He kicked a pebble in the road. “What do you think? I'm stupid? It's about Rodi, isn't it? Prefetto Balbi really whipped him.”

She nodded, miserable.

He kept chattering. “I'm getting Professor Zuffi his brioche.”

Every morning, the teacher sent a student to the bakery for his breakfast. “So why are you wasting time talking to me?”

“He's boring. You're not.”

The compliment pleased her. She touched his shoulder. “Please Charlie. I need your help.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a coin and the piece of paper. “Will you give this note to Rodi? And tell no one. Will you do it?”

Charlie's eyes lit up when he saw the money. “Sure.”

She borrowed the pencil tucked behind his ear and added a few hurried words to the note—
Courage, dear one. I love you.
Charlie grabbed the paper and coin. Uneasy, she watched him run off.

She was late for work. After dropping off the groceries, she darted down the Via Franca and up the stairs to the dress shop. Lucia's sewing machine whirred and then stopped. Before the accident, music and laughter had rippled through the place and Lucia's stories lingered in her mind for days. But now the store was quiet and filled with echoes as if Sofia's ghost were hovering nearby.

When Lucia threw down the cloth, ripped out the stitches with angry jerks of her scissor, and started the seam all over again, Isolina didn't dare interrupt her. Instead, she cranked up the Victrola and put on a record before getting to work. George Gershwin's music burst into the room and filled it with exuberant sound, but Lucia put an end to that too. Pressing her fingers against her temples, she cried, “Turn it off. I have a headache.”

In silence, Isolina sat at her machine at the opposite end of the bay window, repairing hems and sewing on buttons. By noon, she finished the mending, but she had no recollection of what her fingers were doing. Her throat ached as she studied her aunt, her face pale from sorrow and fatigue. More than anything, she wanted to tell Lucia she was sorry and she should have never left the children alone by the stream. With all the trouble swirling around her and Rodi, she needed to find a way back to Lucia's heart.

Pausing between seams, Lucia stared out the window, her fingers wrapped around her tiny watch hanging on a chain. “
Zia,
” Isolina whispered, but Lucia shook her head.

“Not now. Just let me be.”

“Please,
zia
. I need your help. I'm in trouble.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Lucia tossed down the dress she was working on. “How can you ask me for help after all the damage you've done?”

“I was wrong,
zia.
But so was the driver.”

“I blame him, but I blame you more.” Lucia's voice was harsh, but soon tears were running down her face. “You were supposed to be watching them. And where did you go? Why did you leave them?”

Isolina hung her head.

“Tell me,” Lucia insisted.

Isolina stammered, “O-one minute I was talking to Rodi, and in the next, I heard the car horn. I didn't realize the children had wandered away. You must believe me,
zia.
Every day I ask God why He didn't take me instead.”