The Incident at Montebello (17 page)

Pasquale was grinning. “Alone?”

“In both your cases, yes, of course,” Donato said, his eyes crinkling at the corners with good humor. “But in mine, certainly not. The women are still fighting for the privilege.”

“Privilege?” Pasquale howled. Even Mosca grinned as he washed dishes.

After a few more whiskeys, their talk turned to Manfredo. Pasquale said, “I heard he's the leader of the partisans.”

Arturo nodded. “I heard he has twenty men under him.”

“Twenty women is more like it,” Mosca said. “The only time I saw him fight was to be first in line to screw Filippina.”

“He's screwed no matter which way you look at it,” Arturo said.

“Forget Manfredo,” Donato said. “I want to talk about the car accident that killed my daughter.”

“A tragedy,” Arturo said, taking another sip of whiskey.

“No man should bury his children,” Pasquale said, squeezing Donato's shoulder.

Donato pulled out his handkerchief and vigorously blew his nose. He wasn't surprised his friends gave him more comfort and understanding than his wife. “Now I'll never see her grow into a young woman. She was going to be a beauty.”

Pasquale nodded. “I tell you what, my friend. Buy us another whiskey and we'll tell you everything we know.”

Donato signaled to Mosca to pour another round and they hitched their chairs closer to the table. The men glanced at each other, deciding who should speak first. “It's all hush hush,” Arturo began. “The car was Italian, but we heard an
americano
was driving. The politicians in Roma don't want any trouble with the
americani
State Department.”

”I'm not surprised,” Donato said. “The
americani
are bad drivers. Worse than us. What else do you know?”

Pasquale told him about the police hearing in Castellammare the next morning and how Balbi had his men transferred to another post. “Who can blame him? He didn't want any trouble.”

”He's playing it smart,” Donato said.

“So should you. I'd keep this information in your pocket,” Pasquale advised.

“Say no more.” Donato rubbed his fingers along the brim of his hat. He had one more question. “Is there any truth to the rumor that Il Duce was the driver?”

“Of course, it wasn't Il Duce. That's ridiculous,” Pasquale said and Arturo echoed him.

“Just as I thought.” He patted his friends on the back as they headed out the door. He turned towards Mosca who hadn't said anything for a while. “What do you think? Was it Il Duce?”

“I learned long ago never to talk about religion or politics,” Mosca said.

As he settled his hat on his head, he studied Mosca who was picking up glasses, two in each hand. “If you don't talk about religion and politics, what's left?”

“Money and women, of course,” Mosca said with a grin. “You can forget the rest. It's all shit as far as I'm concerned.” With no further comment, he returned to his dirty dishes.

Donato laughed, pushed open the door, and walked right into Prefetto Balbi. Damn
.
Just his luck. What the hell did Balbi want?

The police chief's lips curved upwards, but his eyes conveyed a different message. “I heard you were home. Let's talk.”

“Now?”

In reply, Prefetto Balbi steered him back to the piazza and through the gate to the chapel garden, where they walked among the priest's fruit trees.

“What brings you home?” Balbi asked.

“America is no place for loyal Fascists.”

“You have your work cut out for you—even here.”

“What do you mean?”

Balbi leaned close. “It's common knowledge that not everyone in your family is a fan of Il Duce.”

“Believe me, my family has enough trouble. We don't want any more.”

“Your wife never had the good sense to hide her dislike of Il Duce.”

“My wife's politics aren't mine. Her ideas are based strictly on emotions, not reason. It's the same with most women. That's nothing new.”

“She's not the only one.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “We've worked with members of the OVRA to identify the anti-Fascists in our midst. Based on this evidence, we have come up with a list.”

At the mention of the dreaded OVRA, Donato shivered. He spoke quickly, anxious to shift the blame off Lucia's shoulders. “Who's on the list? Tiberio? And the two policemen who witnessed the accident?”

“They're the obvious ones. So is Manfredo Cantucci, the mechanic. But your niece's fiancé is also on it.”

“That mamma's boy? He's afraid of his own shadow.” The Butasis were well known for their lack of nerve when it came to business. Why should it be any different for politics? For the last two generations, they had ruined the family's watch-making business, so now Rodi had to take a postman's job.

“Appearances can be deceiving. We suspect he's linked to a group in Castellammare and he's in contact with Manfredo. We're watching him closely.”

He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, his hands trembling as he lit it. “If she were my daughter, I would have never agreed to that match.”

“Be happy she's not your daughter,” Balbi said, grabbing the burning cigarette from Donato, thrusting it between his lips and inhaling deeply. “A word to the wise. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

“I intend to,” Donato said. “You can be sure of it.”

PREDAPPIO, ITALIA

 

On Mussolini's tour of the North, an aerial escort circled overhead and crowds cheered. In Brescia, he dedicated a machine tool plant. In Milano, he toured an ammunitions factory, an orphanage, and a school named for his dead brother Arnaldo. He kissed babies, shook hands, and autographed pictures—all in honor of his historic rise to power ten years before. But nowhere were the crowds as large or enthusiastic as those in his hometown. For the benefit of the cameras, he dressed in a farmer's cotton shirt and pants, and for a theatrical touch, a plaid fore and aft cap. Photographers captured him vigorously milking cows, tilling a field, and greeting people by name. “How is your mamma, Lauro?”

“Not well, Il Duce. But she sends her greetings to you and your family.”

“And how is the herd this year, Peppino?”

“Better than the one before.”

“Isn't that what you said about your new wife?”

It was all recorded down to every robust laugh, back slap, and handshake.

In his honor, the villagers slaughtered a small herd of cattle and roasted them in outdoor ovens. Long tables were set up in the town hall and musicians played Fascist marches. He sat at the head table next to the mayor, but didn't touch the
osso bucco
—only the vegetables and risotto, which were easier on his stomach.

After the meal, mothers paraded past with their infants. Following them, the town's prettiest unmarried girls blushed under his thoughtful scrutiny. “No where else are the women as beautiful,” Il Duce confided to the mayor, “and I've been all over the world, as you know, in my mission to bring the Fascist credo to the four corners of the globe.” After awarding ribbons to the winner of the beauty contest, he made an impromptu speech. “Remember this,” he shouted, wagging his finger at the audience. “Someday these girls will be mothers. They are the past, present, and future of our great country. They are the soul of the
italiani
people. We must honor them. They are as selfless and caring as Santa Maria, Mother of God.”

His words deeply moved a mother with five daughters who seized his hand and kissed it. A veteran with one leg vowed, “If you need me to fight for my country, Il Duce, I'll gladly give up my other leg.” The winner of the beauty contest shook his hand and wiped tears of admiration from her eyes. Pulling her aside, he whispered, “How I wish you could visit me tonight.”

The girl flushed. “But, Il Duce, my parents wouldn't allow it.”

He turned over her hand, drew his thumb across her palm and watched her fingers curl. “Of course, they will. I'll go to them myself. They'll see how I'm honoring you and your family.”

“But you have a wife, Il Duce.”

Annoyed, he released her hand. “The priests have got to you, I see. And you're foolish enough to believe them. Enough of this. I've changed my mind.” He turned away. If he played his cards right, she'd run after him in tears. He'd hesitate and she'd make promises. And then they'd meet at his house in the village in an hour. But as he walked away, he was tapped instead by the local prefect
.

“Sorry to bother you, Il Duce. But I have a telegram for you.”

“What are you waiting for? Give it to me.” He grabbed the envelope. A solitary sentence from Bocchini, his head of security, made his stomach burn.
TROUBLE IN MONTEBELLO.
He read it again.
Oca
! If Bocchini couldn't solve the problem, he'd fire him for incompetence, just like he had Grandi, Mosconi, and three other ministers earlier that week. He told the prefect, “Get me a car and driver. I need to return immediately to Roma.”

On the morning of her wedding, Isolina woke up early. Across the hall, her father snored. Next to her, her brother Peppino muttered, sighed, and chewed in his sleep. She burrowed deeper under the covers, overcome by a rush of sadness, which inexplicably shadowed her.

Her eyes lingered on the picture of Claudette Colbert tacked up on her bedroom mirror. Years before, Lucia had ripped it out of a magazine and promised, “Her gown is perfect for you,
cara
. I'm making it for your wedding.” Isolina loved the tiny buttons on the sleeves and more down the back, and how it hugged the waist and burst into shimmery cascades of satin. It was nothing like Nonna Angelina's dress hanging from a hook on the door. With its high ruffled neckline, full bodice and yards of beaded satin, it was elaborate, fussy, and old-fashioned. As the light broke in the sky, it glowed a ghostly white.

When Lucia had finally altered the gown, she said nothing as she knelt behind Isolina and fiddled with the yards of lace. But Cecilia the midwife and her Zia Marie Elena poked their heads into the shop and exclaimed over her.

“It's hard to believe Nonna Angelina and Amelia were that thin once. But here we have proof, eh?” Marie Elena said with a twitch of her thick eyebrows.

“I was never that thin,” Cecilia said, frowning.

“Lucia still is,” Marie Elena said.

“Donato's lucky,” Cecilia said. “I just hope he knows it.”

“He doesn't,” Marie Elena said.

Isolina studied Lucia's face in the mirror, but it revealed nothing as she pinched the fabric between Isolina's shoulder blades, shook her head, and said, “The waist needs to come in and so does the back.”

Marie Elena sighed. “Marriage isn't what you think, Isolina. It's not like the movies.”

“I know. It isn't all romance,” Isolina said.

“What's romance?” Cecilia joked and the women laughed.

She couldn't understand why her aunts liked Cecilia so much. In a word, she was ugly: her jaw was too long and her cheeks too thin. And she was a witch. That's what Dottore di Matteo and the other big shots whispered behind her back, but didn't dare say to her face.

Cecilia was still talking. “I was married to Roberto for ten years, and in all that time, I was happy for about twenty minutes. Then, he died and I've been happy ever since.” She paused, her cigarette smoke drifting upward.

At a loss for something to say, Isolina simply nodded.

“Some men never stop loving their mothers,” Marie Elena said. “Their wives are a different story entirely.”

“That's what happened to Lucia and me,” Cecilia said.

Confused, Isolina's eyes darted from Lucia to the midwife. She could understand why Cecilia's husband couldn't love her, but how could Donato love Lucia less than Nonna Angelina? She was the most beautiful and glamorous woman in Montebello. She wore French perfume. And when she was younger, she traveled to Paris by train on business with her father. To her surprise, Lucia nodded and said, “Isolina doesn't need to hear this.”

Marie Elena was blunt, as always. “If she's old enough to get married, she's old enough to hear it.” She shook a warning finger at Isolina. “But don't say a word about this to anyone, especially your mother.”

“I won't,” Isolina promised, delighted to be included in this conspiracy of silence.

Later when the women left, Isolina told Lucia, “I wish you were coming to the wedding.”

“I can't, Isolina. I need to be sad right now.”

“If you came,
zia
, I'd dance, truly dance.” But again, Lucia said nothing.

After work that day, Isolina dragged her feet towards home and the chaos—dishes that needed washing, her brothers crying and fighting, and her mother at her wit's end. She lingered by the pharmacy window as Don Gambellara tried out his new brass scales, mail ordered from Philadelphia. For weeks he had been talking about them, but he squinted at the numbers, trying to decipher them. He would have been better off with new glasses.

When someone tapped her on the shoulder, she whirled around and stared at Cecilia. Smoke billowed around her head. “Come with me,” Cecilia said. “I need to talk to you.” Curious, Isolina followed her down the Via Franca, their shadows lengthening as lights sprang up inside kitchens and children ran into houses. Isolina glanced at Cecilia, whose eyes were as lively as her gold earrings fired up by the setting sun.

“Lucia's still blaming you for Sofia's death, isn't she?” Cecilia said, peering at her in the dwindling light.

The question brought tears to Isolina's eyes. She blinked and nodded. After all these months, Lucia was no closer to forgiving her. “She's right to blame me, but the driver was at fault too.”