L'Oro Verde (15 page)

“What does that box say?” Sister Angela
asked.

“These documents look bound. The books
themselves are dated. Each binder contains the death certificates for ten years.
Is this what we want?”

“Let me think. If someone were to have a
baby and then give that baby away, fooling the state of course because it’s an
illegal adoption, how would one explain the event to the others? They could
have remained in isolation for six or seven months and have the baby delivered
by a close friend. No one would know there had been a pregnancy, right?”

“Especially if the woman was young and
single,” Sister Daniela said. “I don’t think that would be registered anywhere
in the church.”

“No, but that scenario isn’t likely
either. You trust people to be involved in the birth but offer very little to
persuade them to stay silent for a long period of time. Another possibility is
that the baby is declared dead at birth. That clears the way for the child to
be given away,” Sister Angela continued. “Of course, it may not have happened
in this case. It might not even have been a local birth, but that’s the chance
we have to take.”

“Are all of these people buried in the
cemetery down the hill?”

“No, the burial spot is mentioned on the
certificate,” Sister Angela said. “It’s more a record for the diocese. Up until
fifty years ago, San Benedetto was the main parish in the diocese. That means
there are records for several parishes here.”

“But we’re looking for the book
containing items for 1985, right?” Sister Daniela pushed the other binders off
as she read them out. Finally she pulled one to the top of the pile. “Here it
is. It’s pretty thick. There must have been a lot of deaths in ten years.”

The nun and the novice sat on the bottom
step of the basement stairs and leafed through the envelopes. Some of the names
were hard to read. Many of the forms were handwritten, and the copies were
sometimes of poor quality. Each one had to be opened and the contents
thoroughly searched. Sister Angela handed the novice the first envelope and
started to open the second.

“We are looking for dates. Any death occurring
after 1985, discard by placing the envelope in the pile over here. Put any
birth date greater than a year before the date of death in the same pile. Any
certificate for a female, discard. We’ll gather them up and return them to the
book afterward. We are looking for a male baby who died in 1985.”

The two women read each document
carefully before stuffing them back into the envelopes. The pile on the floor at
their feet grew. One or two were placed between them. About an hour later, they
took a break.

Mrs. Torrisi brought them some tea. “Oh
my, it’s dusty down here, isn’t it? I didn’t notice how bad it was. I only come
here once in a while to help wash the albs and such. I’ll have to come down
some time and tidy up, I think,” she said. “You two look filthy. I should have
brought some towels.”

“That’s okay, Mrs. Torrisi. We don’t
have time for a long break anyway,” Sister Angela said, standing up and stretching
her back. “We really appreciate your letting us look at the records with Father
Domenic gone.”

“It’s rather quiet around here with
Father Domenic away on retreat. Father Giulliano comes from Ambruzzo each
Sunday to say the masses. I offer him tea, but he always tells me he doesn’t
have time,” she said, sitting down on the step above the activities. “I sure
hope everything goes all right for Father Domenic. Such a shame—that lawsuit.”

Neither Sister Angela nor Sister Daniela
had time to question the housekeeper further, but the older nun’s ears perked
up when Mrs. Torrisi mentioned the lawsuit. Why had they not bothered to ask
the housekeeper about Father Domenic’s habits? Had Mrs. Torrisi ever noticed
how often the priest met with the young people in the parish?

The hot sun poured through the two
basement windows, and the dust danced in the rays of light. Sister Angela sat down
beside the housekeeper.

“What do you think?” the nun asked. “You
sound like you believe he’s innocent.”

“Oh my yes,” Mrs. Torrisi said. “I mean,
if he were really involved with young boys, wouldn’t he continue to show the
same attention to them here at San Benedetto? At least I think that would be
the case. Actually, I have never seen him take an interest in the altar boys. If
anything, he acts like they pester him. I always have to remind him of their
names and what they do. He doesn’t seem to take any notice of them at all.”

“Doesn’t someone in the parish have to
organize them—have to tell the boys which Sunday they serve and what jobs they
are to perform?”

“I do. I have always helped the young
boys. We meet in the nave every third Sunday after mass. They like my cookies.
I always bring them cookies. I also wash and mend their albs.”

The nun and the novice looked at each
other.

“Did you tell this to the bishop, Mrs. Torrisi?”
asked Sister Daniela.

“Yes, he came round right after that
morning Father Domenic went with the inspectors to the station,” she said. “I
think he likes my cookies too. We sat and chatted quite a bit.”

Sister Angela thought about her meeting
with Father Sergio and the secretary general. They most likely believed Father
Domenic was innocent of the charges in Umbria.

“Well thank you, Mrs. Torrisi. I suppose
Sister Daniela and I still have a few more hours of work to do here. We promise
to file this bunch back into the binder and put these boxes away before we
leave.”

“That would certainly be a help to me.”

The two bent over their work, continuing
to empty each envelope.

After about an hour, Sister Daniela
suddenly glanced up from a sheet of paper. “Look at this, Sister Angela. Here’s
the death certificate for Mariella Vitali. Isn’t she the wife of Mr. Vitali?”

“Yes. When does it say she died?” the
nun asked, filling the envelope in her lap and tossing it onto the larger pile.

“In December 2000. A clipping says here
she died in the hospital after a short illness. It reads:
Her husband,
Vittorio,
a son, Carlo, and a daughter, Nicola, survive her. She will
be buried at
San Felipe Cemetery in Bologna beside a son who was
stillborn.”
Sister
Daniela looked at the front of the envelope. “2000? Boy was this misfiled.”

“Is there anything else in the envelope?
Maybe a notice of the baby that died is in there too,” Sister Angela said, beginning
to feel a twinge of excitement.

“No, no. I can’t find anything more. If
there was something else in the envelope before, it’s not there now.”

“Well, put it on this pile here anyway.
The inspector can check with the cemetery. There might be more on the headstone.”

“That’s it, then, Sister. Do you want to
check any of the other boxes while we’re here?”

“No. I’ll just write down the
information from these three certificates. Then we can stroll over and see if
the inspector can make anything out of them. Oh yes, I forgot. It’s Saturday. Maybe
he’ll want us to meet him at the office. I’ll call him on my red phone to see.”

*

The two nuns sat outside DiMarco’s office
and fanned themselves. He was tied up on the phone, and Lazaro offered to get
them whatever they wanted to drink.

“You look awfully warm,” he said.

“And dirty, officer,” Sister Daniela
added. “We have spent half the day in the basement of San Benedetto.”

“I didn’t want to mention that.
Dusty
might be a better word for your condition.”

“Is there any lemon fizzy water in the
machine?”

“Yes, I believe there is. And Sister
Angela?”

“I think I’ll have the orange soda,
Lazaro. It’s a little sticky, but I’m sure it’ll hit the spot.”

The station was quieter than usual.
Tortini was the only officer on duty. Few phones rang.

After twenty minutes, DiMarco finally
emerged. “I can’t believe there was so much confusion about a fender bender in
the lot below the piazza. I think it’s settled now if you ladies would like to
take a seat in my office,” he said, sitting down in a chair across from them.
“Did you find anything interesting?”

“I’m not sure, Alessandro. Perhaps you
could make a quick phone call to find out who’s buried in a cemetery in Bologna.”

The inspector looked surprised. Sister
Angela explained about the woman’s family and who was buried there.

“I remember her funeral, Sister. Father
Augustus performed the service, didn’t he?”

“I recall the mass too, but as much as I
try, I can’t recollect a stillborn son.”

“Neither can I, but that was before I
married Mrs. DiMarco. I’m not sure I would have been that interested,” he said.

The phone call was indeed short. The
inspector talked directly to the caretaker of the San Felipe Cemetery just to
the east of San Felipe Church. Built in the thirteenth century, the church was
no longer a parish in the diocese of Bologna. A Franciscan order had taken it
over, and members were living in the fifteenth century cloisters behind it.

“Yes, Inspector, she was buried in the
Gervasini family plot,” the caretaker said just as DiMarco turned on the phone speakers.
“Mariella Gervasini Vitali was the daughter of Mansuieto Gervasini, a wealthy
grower in the valley.”

“And she had a son, also buried there,”
said the nun, leaning forward so he could hear her better. “Is that correct?”

“Yes. He died at birth. The headstone
says his name was also Mansuieto. I suppose he was named after the grandfather.”

“And what is the year on the headstone, sir?”
DiMarco asked.

“It says 1985 to 1985. I remember it
because when you see the years close together like that it’s very sad.”

The caretaker did not mention the fact
that over the years he had memorized all the names of those buried in the cemetery.
On occasion, he even talked to these residents.

Fortunately, they did not respond.

“Thank you, Sir. That’s all I wanted to
know,” the inspector said, rolling his eyes as he placed the receiver on the
hook. “This is all we need. The chief will have my hide if we mess this up.”

“I think I ought to approach the
family,” Sister Angela said. “I have an open invitation to tour the Vitali
orchards. I could go just to find out more about them. I don’t think we should
move too quickly either.”

The inspector leaned back in his chair
to ponder it. “I guess you’re right. If I approach any one of them, they might
take it as police business. At least you can go as a friend. Do you plan to
call them tonight?”

“Yes. After dinner would be a good time.”
Sister Angela said, sipping the rest of her drink. “You were going to call
Santa Maria today, weren’t you? How did that go?”

“The pastor, Father Rossi, is ill. The
curate said he knows nothing about the pending wedding and that I would have to
wait for Father Rossi’s recovery. I got the impression there was a strict code
of silence on the subject.”

“Don’t you think Father Rossi is really
ill?” asked Sister Daniela.

“No. I just don’t think he’s
that
ill,
but we’ll put that one aside for now. If we really need the information on the wedding,
I’ll force it. I don’t want the bishop complaining to the chief unless there’s
a good reason for it.”

“Well, Inspector, I’m sure you are
anxious to get home and spend the rest of the weekend with your family. I’ll
call you there when I find out more about my visit to L’Oro Verde.”

“Actually, Sister Angela, my wife’s
parents are visiting this week. You might want to try to call me here first.”

Sister Angela gave him a tired smile.
Then she and Sister Daniela made their way down the hill to the convent. They
could not wait to have a shower and a warm meal.

*

Right after dinner, Sister Angela made
the call. “May I speak to Vittorio Vitali? Please tell him that Sister Angela from
San Benedetto Church is calling.”

The grower was on the line almost
immediately. “Hello, Sister Angela. What a surprise. Is there anything I can do
for you?”

\“Hello, Mr. Vitali. You mentioned last
week that if I wanted to tour your splendid orchards I should just ask. I was
wondering if there was a good time to visit when maybe someone could explain to
me how everything works.”

“It’s good you called me just now,
Sister. We are having a few guests for a barbeque tomorrow afternoon at one. We
would be honored if you could join us. I’m sure Carlo or Nicola would be happy
to show you around.”

“That sounds wonderful. Of course I’ll
be there.”

When she hung up, she was still
surprised, not expecting the warm reception. Perhaps this would be easier than
she thought. At least she would get a good meal out of it.

*

It was a perfect day for a barbeque.
Sister Angela left mass and hurried down to the piazza to catch the bus. On her
shoulder, she carried a tote bag containing a bottle of wine for her hosts. The
air was already warm, but it was dry and so clear the sun was bright and
silvery. There were a few clouds—little puffballs that passed innocuously
overhead—but other than that, the deep blue sky stretched forever in all directions.

Hot and dry,
she said to herself.
Just like the
olives like it,
hot and dry
.

The bus tooted as it passed her. The
driver, recognizing the scurrying figure, waited for her at the stop. He always
waited for the slowpokes.

“Thank you, Stefano,” she said, huffing
and puffing as she slipped coins into the slot. “I’m getting off at L’Oro Verde
today. Don’t let me miss it.”

“No problem, Sister Angela. I’ll drop
you off right near the gate. You’ll have the shade of the trees all the way up
the drive.”

The nun sat down and tried to think
about what it would be like. How many people would there be? Would they be
relatives? Would any of his late wife’s family be in attendance? She slipped
off her shoes and donned her sneakers. They would not look too fashionable, but
she would need to wear them for the tour.

The bus came to a stop directly in front
of the long drive.

“Here it is, Sister. This is L’Oro
Verde. Have a good day,” Stefano said. “I’ll keep an eye out for you and pick
you up later.”

The gates, now wide open, were of
wrought iron, painted white. The elegant script of the name ran along the top
of the two panels. Beyond that, the long drive meandered on, flowering bushes
crowding the shoulders. Sister Angela traipsed up the road. As it curved, the
side of the ranch house came into view. It was more long than tall, the stucco
exterior the color of mocha and cream. The red tile roof rose and fell with the
terrain. On a small patio, a fountain trickled, and a couple of men stood
beside it manning two grills. About ten people sat at small tables, set up
under a striped awning.

“Hello,” she said.

The chatter in the group suddenly died,
and some of them looked up to see who had emerged from the bushes.

“Is Mr. Vitali here?”

“Hello there, Sister Angela,” said
Vittorio, quickly stepping outside onto the patio. “Welcome to our little gathering.
Let me introduce you while Nicola here fixes you a plate.”

He proceeded to point out the other
guests. Sister Angela knew a few of them, but not well. Some were business associates
from other parts of Italy.

“And finally, I think you already know
this one, Sister.”

Carrying a bottle of wine, a guest
emerged from the house, sliding the glass door closed behind him. The others at
his table nearby eagerly raised their empty glasses.

“Sister Angela, may I present Father
Sergio, secretary to the bishop. At least I think that’s your title, isn’t it
Sergio? I always forget how it goes.”

“That is quite all right, Vittorio. Yes,
Sister Angela and I have met. Would you like to sit at our table, Sister?” he asked.
“I think we could squeeze a little closer and make room. Let me get you a
chair.”

“I wasn’t aware you were close to the
family, Father,” she said.

“Oh yes. I went to school with Vittorio.
We got into trouble together at St. Michael’s in Petraggio.”

The nun wondered if the priest was often
present at these gatherings. He seemed to be quite comfortable with the family.
She tried to hear a slur in his speech. If he had one, it was difficult to
discern. Sister Angela was angry with herself for making him an adversary right
off, although she knew she must watch her step.

“Has Vittorio introduced my friends here
to you yet?” Father Sergio asked.

“Yes, Father, I believe he has,” she
said with a smile.