The Incident at Montebello (28 page)

With a sigh, she staggered to her feet.

Rain swirled upwards in sudden bursts and showered down upon them as they straggled down the Via Franca. On the way, they stopped at the bakery where Marie Elena was rolling nubs of marzipan and painting them with food dye, creating miniature oranges and lemons. When Lucia told her about Manfredo, Marie Elena dropped her paintbrush, grabbed her coat and trudged with them through the gleaming streets. As they neared the Cantucci's crumbling house bordering a field, Isolina murmured prayers—for Rodi's protection and Manfredo's life.

The midwife, answering their knock with a pipe clenched between her teeth, puffed furiously as Isolina, Lucia, and Marie Elena stepped into the hallway, their coats and umbrellas dripping. The place was threadbare—with scuffed wooden floors and nearly empty rooms.

“How is he?” Marie Elena whispered.

Cecilia frowned and shook her head. Just then, wails broke the silence and Isolina shivered, guessing the truth. “Courage,” Cecilia whispered, kissing her cheek.

In the parlor, a handful of people and the
padre
gathered around Manfredo's body laid out on the table under a blanket and surrounded by candles. When Padre Colletti slipped his surplice over his head, Manfredo's mother sobbed. The broad and fleshy contours of her face tapered into a weak mouth and dimpled chin, trembling with sorrow. With a cry, she yanked so hard on her bun that hairpins shot out and her shock of gray hair tumbled to her waist. Tearing at her face and clothes, she scratched her cheeks and ripped out buttons and clumps of hair. “They killed him, the
fascisti
bastards,” she wailed, her cries as wild as an animal caught in a trap.

Signor Cantucci, nearly as tall as his son and twice as wide, enveloped his wife in his arms, his big farmer's hands splayed across her back. Manfredo was their tall and handsome aberration. “Go on,
padre
, goddamn it,” Signor Cantucci ordered the priest, who bent over the body and folded back the blanket. As he dipped his thumb in oil and pressed it against Manfredo's forehead, Isolina stared in horror at his beautiful face deformed beyond recognition—a smashed nose, blackened and swollen eyes, and bloody lips.

“Look what those animals did to him. The bastards,” Marie Elena muttered.

Tremors ran up Isolina's legs and through her chest. Lucia slipped her arm around Isolina's waist and led her to a row of chairs where the Widow Cantù, Signora Gambellara, and Petronella were already sitting. In the wavering light, grief was etched on every face—even Petronella's.

“When did he die?” Isolina whispered.

“Hours ago,” Petronella told her. “He was dead when Signor Cantucci found him blindfolded and beaten in Minucci's field.”

Even though Isolina hadn't taken off her coat, she was shivering. It was horrible, too horrible. The brutality of the
fascisti
left her speechless. No one deserved to die that way—especially a man as brave as Manfredo. Those
fascisti
cowards could rot in hell for what they did. And if her father was one of them? Well then, he could join them in Hades.

Padre Colletti stumbled through the blessings. “We praise you our Lord, whose ways are mysterious to us. With one hand you taketh away and with the other you bestow. Today, you have taken Manfredo Cantucci from us, but who are we to criticize you, oh Lord? For your ways are mysterious and unfathomable. Amen.”

The midwife had heard enough. “So he's dead because of God's will? How convenient. It lets everyone off the hook—including you.”

The priest, who was lifting the cruet, looked up, his face splotched with fury. “Shame on you for interrupting this sacred rite.”

Marie Elena joined in. “It's all well and good to bless him now, but who helped him when the
fascisti
were beating him to death?”

The Widow Cantù cried, “You know very well who tied him to a tree and left him to die.”

“It's unfair to single me out,” the priest insisted, his voice rising. “I couldn't do anything to stop them.”

Petronella jumped to her feet. Her chins quivered with indignation. “If you're going to blame anyone, blame Manfredo. How many people did his bombs kill?”

“Bombs? What bombs?” the Widow Cantù cried.

“He was an explosives expert, didn't you know?” Petronella said. “One of his bombs killed a high-ranking
fascista
and a few bystanders in Torre del Greco. Two children were blown to bits.”

“I don't believe it,” the Widow Cantù declared and Isolina echoed her.

“Believe it,” Petronella cried just as Signor Cantucci pointed an accusing finger at her.

“That's enough,” he shouted. “You're talking about my son. My dead son.”

“But it's true,” Petronella said. “He was a bomb expert for the anti-Fascists. Ask the priest. He'll tell you.”

The priest sighed. “May the Good Lord have mercy on his soul.”

“It's not his soul I'd worry about,” Cecilia said, jutting her chin at the priest.

Padre Colletti struggled to defend himself. “I must respect the privacy of the confessional. I hold their sins in my heart and I absolve them, so their souls are clean before the Lord.”

Cecilia wasn't finished. “How fortunate for you that your God is compassionate. He'll have mercy on your soul.”

The priest stuffed his surplice into his bag. “Is that how you speak to a man of the cloth, a man of God?”

“You're a man first,” she said.

The priest grabbed his umbrella, cruets, and satchel and hustled himself out the door.

“Bravo,” Marie Elena told Cecilia. “If you hadn't said it, I would have.”

Cecilia was still fuming. “That corpse chaser, claiming souls for Jesus. The coward. I'm probably going to regret it, but the way I'm feeling right now, it's worth it.”

Petronella frowned and told Cecilia, “You're digging your own grave.”

“It's my right to say the truth as I see it,” Cecilia shot back.

“You're a fool,” Petronella said.

“I'm many things, but I'm not a fool,” Cecilia insisted.

Signora Cantucci wailed, “Have some respect for the dead.”

Chastised, Cecilia said nothing, but Petronella rushed out the door, her coat swirling. Signora Gambellara wasn't far behind.

“Now you've done it,” the Widow Cantù told Cecilia. “You've antagonized the priest and Petronella.”

Cecilia sighed. “You're right. Old age hasn't made me any wiser.”

No one noticed Isolina ducking out the door; dozens of questions pursued her down the street. What if Rodi had built bombs with Manfredo? And what if he had killed innocent bystanders too? She rubbed her forehead. She needed to find him. As she slogged through the rain, she peered down the alley behind the post office for his car, but she saw nothing on the glistening streets except a dog huddled under the town hall balcony. She couldn't stop shivering. Where was he? He had never come home so late before.

As the car climbed out of the valley, the wind rustled the hedges on the fringe of the old mule path. Beyond that, Donato glimpsed terraced plots of farmland bordered by rocks. Here and there oxen crisscrossed the land and men, withered by malaria and poverty, trailed behind them. He'd be damned if he ended up like them—old and poor and tied to a woman who didn't love him.

The car jerked and chugged to a stop. Rodi cursed and shook his head. “It's not good,” he muttered as he climbed out of the car and lifted the hood.

Joining Rodi, he peered at the machinery, but he had no idea what he was looking at. “What is it? The engine?”

“No. We ran out of gas.”

Donato stared at the boy. “How could you forget the gasoline?
Oca!
I have a fool for a nephew.”

“I'm a postman, not a mechanic.”

“No, you're an idiot.
Oca!
What are we going to do now?”

“Walk.”

“Fuck. All uphill,” Donato muttered. While Rodi grabbed the mail sack, Donato unzipped his pants, shooting a stream of urine into the hedge. He was zipping up when the clatter of hoofs caught his attention as three men on horseback galloped towards them. To his relief, they weren't thieves, but members of the Fascist militia.

Donato saluted them even though their uniforms were sloppy, their shoes were covered in dust, and they needed to shave. “Do you know where we can get some gas?” he shouted, but the men were in no mood to chat. Flourishing knives, they seized him and Rodi, pushed them up against a tree, and tied their hands and feet as if they were sheep going to slaughter. While one man rummaged through his pockets, another stripped off his watch, wedding ring, tie clasp, leather belt, and silk tie.

“Is this how you treat your brother, a loyal Fascist?” Donato cried.

“It's every man for himself, brother,” the leader of the militia said as he filled his pockets.

“Vermin. Maggots. Blood suckers,” Donato shouted as the men jumped on their horses and disappeared down the road towards Scafati. Their laughter drifted back to him, which only heightened his humiliation. He was still fuming as the boy worked his ropes loose. After a moment, he realized Rodi was smiling. “What the hell is so funny?” he demanded.

“Maybe you can tell the difference between them and bandits. I can't.”

“Shut the hell up. That's treason,” Donato grumbled as Rodi untied his own hands and feet and then freed him.

“I was making a joke, uncle
,
” Rodi said, but Donato glared at him and paced in agitated circles. It was incomprehensible to him that as an old soldier, he had been so thoroughly deceived.

Shouldering the mailbag, Rodi tramped uphill and Donato trailed behind him. “We were lucky. They could have killed us,” Rodi pointed out, but Donato wasn't in a thankful mood.

“From now on, I'm carrying a gun. You should too.”

Rodi shrugged. “What for? They'd shoot me and I'd shoot them and I'd be in worse shape in the end. Besides, I'm not killing a man because he wants my watch.”

Donato had enough of the boy's prattle. “Mark my words. You'll do worse if you don't shut up. When we get home, I'm telling Prefetto Balbi about this. He'll know what to do. I wouldn't be surprised if they were thieves posing as
fascisti.
”

The boy shot him a worried glance, but said nothing. Donato scanned the bushes, fields, and roads for more brigands, but he only sighted an old man in a wagon lumbering towards them. When their paths crossed, Donato asked him for a ride and the farmer told them to climb up. After they settled onto the bench and the farmer flicked the reins, Donato recounted their sorry tale. The man scrutinized him and muttered, “You're lucky they didn't kill you.”

“If I meet those bastards again, they'll be sorry,” Donato added.

The old one didn't answer. Instead, he turned to Rodi. “You're the postman, aren't you?”

Rodi nodded, but Donato cut in. “How do you know Rodi?”

“Everyone knows the postman.” The farmer lowered his voice to a whisper. “Did you hear what the
fascisti
did to the mechanic in Montebello? They found him hiding in a barn and they beat him. He might be dead for all I know.”

Rodi bit his lip, but said nothing. As they trundled up the mountain road, Donato scrutinized him in the fading light.

When it started to rain, they huddled under a tarpaulin in the back, but the wind and driving rain batted them around. Donato's hands and feet were numb. He was thankful for one thing—the boy had ceased his senseless chatter.

At the Cantù's soap factory, they climbed down and trudged towards home in a light rain. Donato shivered in his wet clothes, sticking to his skin. He told Rodi, “Well, I know Manfredo was a friend of yours, but you can't blame the
fascisti
. They had their orders. After all, he's a traitor. He deserved it.”

A strangled cry broke in Rodi's throat. “Don't say another word or you'll regret it.”

Astonished, Donato stared at him. Apparently, the pipsqueak had finally found his balls. He laughed. “So, I'll regret it, eh? What are you going to do? Tie me to a tree?”

“Don't, uncle,” Rodi cried, raising his fists, but Donato grabbed him by the wrists and shoved him hard, sending him sprawling in the mud.

“That was a mistake,” Donato warned. “Don't make another one.”

Rodi stared up at him, his face spattered with muck. He was quick to apologize. “You're right. It was a mistake and I'm sorry. But he was my friend until he got involved with the anti-Fascists.”

Donato stared at the boy in silence and wondered if Rodi was telling the truth. Deciding nothing, he reached down and offered his hand. Rodi grasped it and struggled to his feet. They walked through the streets in silence until they reached the deserted piazza where Rodi patted him on the back and said, “No hard feelings, uncle?” But Donato ignored him and tramped home, his mind leaping ahead to his warm kitchen where he'd devour a bowl of soup and soak in the tub. That was what he needed and Lucia had damn well better give it to him.