The Incident at Montebello (39 page)

Cecilia and Lucia brought her back to the cottage and guided her upstairs. With great tenderness, they undressed her, slipped a nightgown over her head, and helped her into bed. Lucia piled another quilt over her and Cecilia thrust a cup of tea into her hands, but she hadn't finished half of it when her eyelids fluttered shut. When she woke again, it was dark. Hearing footsteps, she turned just as Lucia's head popped through the opening at the top of the stairs. Crouching beneath the eaves, she edged towards Isolina with a lantern in her hand. Setting it on the dresser, she lowered herself onto the mattress and grasped Isolina's hands.

“I'm so cold,
zia
,” Isolina said. “I can't feel anything.”

“You've had a shock. You need to rest.”

“Why did they have to kill him?”

“I don't know.”

“He could only see the good in people,” Isolina said. “That was his downfall. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen.”

“I know. He had a good heart. That was one of the reasons I loved him.”

Isolina nodded.

Lucia's eyes were fierce. “It's come to this. Blood against blood. Family against family. I've heard rumors that Donato turned Rodi into the police.”

“It's true,” Isolina said. “I overheard Prefetto Balbi tell the priest. But by the time I found Rodi, it was already too late.”

Tears rolled down Lucia's cheeks and Isolina's. They held each other until a great wave of grief swept through them and quieted. “I'm sorry,
cara
,” Lucia said. “I didn't mean to burden you with my tears.”

“It's all right,
zia
. We've both earned them today.”

Lucia patted her cheek. “Cecilia is staying with Rodi tonight. You rest.” When she bent down to kiss her, Isolina clung to her for a moment before letting go.

Hours later she woke with a start and staggered over to the window. A thin trickle of moonlight illuminated the Butasi's yard and house, where lamps still flickered. Rodi needed her. She pulled on her clothes, but every movement was an effort as if she was underwater. Her stockings twisted and her hands shook. As she stumbled towards their house, she murmured the chant that the old women recited after someone died—“Star, let him not die. Let him come back. Come back and stay with me.”

In the Butasi's kitchen, clocks chimed out the hour. The house was full of them—large and small—all that remained of the family business. Candles flickered on the mantel and the stove. A lantern burned near Rodi's head. Cecilia and Signor Butasi were keeping vigil, but she was snoring in the rocking chair and he was dozing at the kitchen table, his head pillowed on his arms.

As she walked towards Rodi, the flames flickered and leapt. Once he found his way to heaven, what would happen to her? Without him she was lost. Her eyes were riveted on his bruised and battered face. As she brushed her fingers over his curls and the sleeves of his suit, her mind leapt to the last time she had seen him wearing it—as he stood in jittery silence at the church door on their wedding day. They were naïve to think that the
fascisti
wouldn't steal their happiness. In fact, they had taken everything she loved—even his innocence and unwavering belief in the inherent goodness of the people he had known his entire life. Anger burned in her chest as she kissed his fingers. She loved him. She'd always love him. In the stillness, the lantern fluttered. She shivered and stared into the flame.

Cecilia stirred and blinked. “He's going to need your help to find his way. He doesn't want to leave you.”

“But how can I help him? I don't want him to go.”

“Is that what you want? For him to be miserable for eternity?”

Sighing, she stared out the window. The wind was stirring the spare, lean branches, and, a moment later, the first gray streak split open the night sky, letting in a crack of light and the spirits of the dead. As in life, they had different moods and temperaments. Sometimes they were playful, riding the early morning mists that swirled up from the valley. Sometimes in a fit of anger, they flew out the chimney like a puff of smoke, scaring the birds. In a melancholy mood, they clung to the scrubby hillsides. Other times they were hungry, picking up their forks at the kitchen table. But they were always drawn back to the people they loved on earth, whose deep affection and caring were bright lights helping to guide them.

“Talk to him,” Cecilia said. “He'll hear you now. If you feel something cold brush against your cheek, it's him trying to whisper a few words in your ear.”

Isolina shivered, but she shut her eyes and murmured, “I don't want you to go, Rodi, but I know you must. I'll be all right. And I'll always love you.” She held her breath waiting for his reply, but he was silent.

“He heard you,” Cecilia murmured. “I felt a breeze. Look at the lantern—it's still flickering.”

The flame dipped and sputtered. When it burned steadily again, Cecilia rose and filled the coffee pot with water and ground the beans. Signor Butasi stirred, sat up, and blinked. As his face crumbled with sadness, Isolina slid into a seat next to him and grasped his hand. When he could speak, his voice was as brittle as an old man's. “We'll get through this, Isolina,” he said. “Some day, we'll be happy again.” She nodded, keeping her doubts to herself.

All afternoon Donato lingered at the
caffè
, tossing back shots of whiskey and struggling to box up his feelings, which threatened to overwhelm him. His sorrow over Lucia was profound and was deepened by the certainty that Sardolini had won her somehow through conniving and wits. Well, the hell with them. He should turn Sardolini in today. Why should he delay? And in doing so, he'd prove he was a courageous man who deserved respect. The hell with Lucia. He'd live with the consequences of her anger because it would be worth it just to hurt her.

And then he remembered Rodi. No matter how much liquor he drank, the sour taste of bile lingered on his tongue. In his mind's eye, he kept seeing the Blackshirts jabbing him with their knives, not once but dozens of times while Rodi's anguished cries ripped through the piazza. Donato had covered his ears, but his stomach convulsed. Groaning, he rushed into the alley behind the town hall, leaned over a trashcan and spewed up his breakfast. The foul-smelling muck made him retch again. As he staggered away from the can, Rodi's screams echoed through his head.

Their violence shocked him, but he had seen it before when soldiers rammed the enemy with their sabers, long past the point of death and victory. But that was war. What excuse did he and his friends have? Then again, they had all taken an oath to defend, obey, and fight for Il Duce. They were his soldiers too.

After dark he circled back to his house. He was hoping to avoid Lucia, but to his dismay she was sitting at the kitchen table, her head bowed over a cup of coffee. His eyes lingered on her bandaged wrist and a flurry of emotions swept through him. She deserved it, he reminded himself, but then he remembered how she had stroked his face with that hand, her fingers cupped around the curve of his cheek and he was overcome with remorse for all the pain they had inflicted on each other. All that remained in the ashes of their marriage was hurt, regret and sorrow, nothing more—not joy, not relief, and certainly not tenderness. As she lifted her head and turned towards him, he was startled to see wiry gray hairs poking through the forest of black ones. Then again, Sofia's death had aged him too. Didn't he have the wrinkles to prove it?

As he glanced around the kitchen, he realized the house was quiet, too quiet. “Where are the children?”

“I sent them to Marie Elena's. I want a word with you. Alone.”

“Hasn't today been difficult enough? I just want some peace and quiet.”

“So do I, Donato, but it's impossible. Rodi's dead—thanks to you.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded, his heart racing.

“They're saying you're a great patriot. They're saying you sacrificed a member of your own family for the party. Is it true, Donato? You owe me the truth. That's the least of it.”

“Who told you that? Sardolini? He'll say anything to get you to love him.”

“Don't try to wiggle out of it. I know you found evidence against Rodi and turned him in.”

“Without proof, it's your word against mine.”

“All right. Here's your proof. Someone in the family overheard Prefetto Balbi bragging to the priest that he got you to do it.”

A shudder rattled through him. Well, it finally happened. She had him cornered. He struggled to find words to defend himself and muttered, “I did it to protect you.”

For a moment, she simply stared at him, her eyes filled with so much anger that he feared she'd damage his heart irreparably. “You expect me to believe that?” she cried.

“I'm telling you the truth. Balbi was targeting you and Charlie. If I didn't give him information on Rodi, I knew he'd go after you.”

“Betraying a stranger is bad enough, but you did it to family.”

“And is this the thanks I get? Does it mean nothing that I saved you?”

“Maybe you did save me, but what did you do to Isolina? Did you think of the pain it would cause her?”

“I didn't know the Blackshirts were going to kill him. I did what I had to do to protect the family.”

“Is that how you see it? I'm not surprised.”

His anger flared. His hand shot out, but she leapt to her feet, her eyes black with rage. “That's it, Donato. You've hurt me enough. I curse you and your mother. I curse the day I married you. I was a fool to fall in love with you.”

He stared at her through narrowed eyes. “You're the one who's cursed for loving that bastard.”

“He's a good man. That's more than I can say about you.”

He rubbed his hands over his face. They were trembling. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't stay in the same room with her. He turned and rushed out the door.

His first thought was to hurt her. His heart racing, he dashed up the stairs to the shop. Squatting by the safe, he twisted the dials and squinted at the numbers illuminated by his lantern. In a few quick motions, he pulled out the cash box and flipped open the lid, but to his dismay, it was empty. Shit. Lucia was wise to him. Who else would have taken the cash—unless Charlie had somehow gotten the combination and beat him to it? But how could he confront Lucia without getting himself into more hot water? Above all else, he didn't want her to find out about Iggy and the stolen money. He locked the safe and stamped out of the shop. Fuck. She had trounced him again.

He staggered down the Via Condotti to his mother's house. Only she could understand the depths of his sorrow. When he knocked on her door, she cried out in alarm, “What happened, my son? Are you all right?”

She led him to the parlor. Lowering himself onto the cushions, he said, “Rodi's dead.”

Nonna Angelina's eyebrows veered upward. “Did you have something to do with that?“

“More than I liked. But I had no choice. Prefetto Balbi backed me into a corner. He wanted me to find something on Rodi or he'd go after us.”

She sighed. “It's never easy to do the right thing.”

“But he's family.”

“More or less.”

“What do you mean?”

“An ordinary postman with no ambition?” Nonna Angelina's lips were puckered as if she were sucking on a bitter lemon. “Lelo and Amelia settled for mediocrity, and so did Isolina.”

He sagged forward, his head hanging low, almost to his knees. “But I feel sick about it, mamma.”

She frowned. “You did what had to be done, what Prefetto Balbi told you to do. It was your duty.”

He sighed. He knew she was right. Still, he slumped lower in his seat.

She poked him in the shoulder. “Look what she's done to you. She's beaten you down. Where's your confidence and pride? She sapped you dry.”

He sighed again. “I know, mamma.”