The Incident at Montebello (41 page)

With a feeble sliver of moonlight to guide him, he staggered towards Faustino's house and knocked on his door. When the gravedigger swung it open, Sardolini said in a rush, “Rodi's dead. I'm next.”

“
Merda.
We've got to get you out of here fast.” Faustino ushered him inside. Sardolini nodded to Filippina who was washing dishes and followed the gravedigger to the alcove. Sweeping aside the curtain, Faustino gestured for Sardolini to sit on the narrow bed while he lowered himself onto a chair set before a desk with a wireless radio. After jotting a name on a piece of paper, Faustino handed it to him. “He's our contact in Calabria. Memorize his name and then rip it up. When you meet him, say I sent you. He'll take care of the ship and the ferry, but you still need papers.
Oca!
My man in Castellammare hasn't finished them yet.”

Sardolini handed Faustino a wad of bills. “Here's the rest of the money. Lucia Buonomano and her children are meeting me in Sicily in a week or so. She'll pick up the documents before she leaves.”

Faustino's eyes widened. “Her husband is letting her go?”

“He doesn't know.”

“He will,” Faustino said. “That bastard knows everything. But right now, we've got to get you out of town before Balbi comes sniffing around. Wait here while I find you a ride.”

After Faustino grabbed his coat and ran out of the house, Sardolini peered anxiously at the clock while Filippina dried dishes and darned socks. Fearful that the
fascisti
would find him, he paced the length of the cottage and twitched with apprehension when the church bells rang out the hour. When at last someone whistled in the yard, Filippina peered out the window and said, “Get ready.”

Faustino met him at the door. He jerked his thumb towards a farmer sitting in a wagon in the yard. “He'll take you as far as Salerno. From there, you'll meet up with Domenico. He'll take you further south.”

“Where can I find him?”

“In the
caffè
. Da Luigi. It's near the harbor.”

“I don't know how to thank you,” Sardolini said, gripping the gravedigger by the shoulders.

“I think you just did,” Faustino said. “Now get the hell out of here.”

Sardolini shivered as he stepped outside. After nodding to the farmer, he hoisted himself into the wagon bed and slid under a tarpaulin lashed to all four corners. Instantly, the foul smell of unwashed animals assaulted him. With so little headroom he had to stretch out flat against the floorboards. As the cart rumbled down the road, he tried to sleep, but between the jolts, bumps, and fetid air, it was hopeless. For comfort, he summoned Lucia—with her stunning face and onyx eyes—and pictured her in Boston walking down a cobblestone street, her summer dress fluttering like a sail around her legs, browned by the sun. He'd have to duck under the brim of her straw hat to kiss her face, speckled with light. And when he seized her hand and strode along beside her, his heart would ache with happiness. As the cart rattled over the pitted roads, he clung to her image.

When light finally seeped through the wooden slats, he rolled over and peered at the old mule path lined with wild cyclamen. The wind rushed under the tarpaulin making it flutter, and he took deep breaths as his eyes swept across the horizon. Vesuvio loomed in the distance, black and menacing, but just beyond it, daylight streaked across the sky in bands of yellow and orange. As the hours inched by, they rumbled past stone houses shimmering in the sunshine and rows of poplars twitching in a slim breeze that didn't reach the road. Young shoots of maize and wheat baked in the sun, and when a breeze stirred them, they turned the landscape into quivering spangles of light and shadow.

When the road passed over a rocky shelf of land and swept downwards, the first tendrils of pain brushed his left eye. He rubbed his forehead, praying they wouldn't last, but more followed, each one sharper than the next, until his head was gripped in a vise of blinding pain. As waves of nausea swept over him, he rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut. Somehow, he slept, but when the cart stopped, he jerked awake.

The farmer tapped the canvas. “Quiet,” he warned.

Damn it. What now? He peered out between the crack in the boards at three men in black on horseback.
Oca!
They were probably with the OVRA, judging by their fine leather coats, gleaming boots, and gold-capped teeth. He twitched with anxiety and sweated under the tarp while trying to come up with an escape route. Groggy with pain and little sleep, he eyed the horses grazing at the side of the road and the knives in the Blackshirts' hands.

One Blackshirt with a mustache shouted to the farmer, “Where are you from?”

“Grappone,” the farmer lied.

“You got an early start.”

The farmer had an answer ready. “A fellow in the valley has a pig to sell.”

“That's a long way to go for a pig.”

While they talked, a second Blackshirt, with a head as smooth as a peeled onion, threw back the tarp, startling Sardolini. “Who the hell are you?” he cried.

As Elio Sardolini struggled to his feet and thrust one leg over the side of the wagon, the Blackshirt with the mustache shouted, “Grab him. He's the fellow we're looking for.”

With one quick leap, the bald Blackshirt seized him and hustled him out of the wagon. One shove sent him sprawling in the dirt. He hit the ground hard, scraping his face, blood dripping from his nose. The Blackshirts loomed over him, their knives pointed at his throat. The farmer fared no better. Sardolini cried, “Leave him out of this. He didn't know I was hiding in the back.”

“It's true,” the farmer declared. “I've never seen him before.” But the Blackshirts weren't in a generous mood.

Sardolini cradled his aching head, so stunned and miserable that he didn't notice a car careening towards him, chutes of dust rising in its wake. He suspected nothing until the car with a mismatched grill, fender, and headlights jerked to a stop, its brakes squealing and doors slamming. Turning, he stared, his heart sinking.

“Going somewhere?” Prefetto Balbi said.

“No. I was just out for a walk,” Sardolini replied.

The police chief laughed. “Admit it, Sardolini. We outsmarted you again. Get in the car. You're taking a trip.”

“Capri?” Sardolini said.

“Nothing that glamorous. How about the jail in Castellammare? Given your history, consider yourself lucky.”

Prefetto Balbi patted Sardolini's pockets, picking them clean of his wallet, pocket watch, and compass. Handcuffed to one of the guards, he was shoved into the back seat. He leaned back, his head pounding as the car rattled and jerked over every pothole. With each bump, he gritted his teeth and cursed his luck. How long would he have to wait until he was free from the devil Mussolini? Heartsick, he turned towards the window where far above him, a hawk was tracing silent, graceful arcs around a distant mountain.

When Marie Elena brought the news that the police had scheduled Rodi's funeral for that afternoon, Signor Butasi cursed them. “The bastards. Why so soon? They're robbing me of my son all over again.”

The Widow Cantù, who came to pay her respects, frowned and muttered, “They're in a rush to bury the evidence.”

“And their guilt,” Marie Elena added.

Manfredo's father showed up with a casket, which he had stayed up all night to finish. “Manfredo would have wanted it,” Signor Cantucci explained, setting the wooden box on the floor. In thanks, Isolina kissed him and Signor Butasi gripped his hand.

Lucia lined the coffin with a swatch of red satin, and Cecilia fitted it with a mattress and pillow, under which she sprinkled some salt. After they lowered Rodi's body into the casket, Marie Elena slipped a silver crucifix into his hands. Signor Butasi, who had picked out one of his finest pocket watches, set it to the time when Rodi died and tucked it into Rodi's pocket. “I was going to give it to him for his birthday. It was my father's,” he explained, his face etched with sadness. When Signora Butasi staggered into the kitchen, she took one look at Rodi lying in the pine box and fainted. Cecilia revived her with some garlic and Dottore di Matteo was summoned again.

Telegrams and flowers arrived—wreaths of blood red carnations, bunches of white lilies. People came and left, but Isolina stayed by Rodi's side. A handful of women dressed in black swept through the kitchen, shaking their heads. Their voices came to Isolina from a distance.

“To die so young,” one
strega
murmured, shaking her head.

Another widow added, “He's lucky. The dead feel no pain.” But the majority of the townspeople stayed away—even her parents and Nonna Angelina.

“Who needs their fake tears,” Marie Elena muttered. “Isolina certainly doesn't. Isn't that right, dear?”

“It's easier if they don't come,” Isolina said. Exhaustion had seeped into her bones. It was an effort to brush her hair out of her eyes.

Back at the cottage, Lucia helped her into a black dress and braided her hair. When Isolina started shivering again, Lucia handed her a cup of hot milk, but she could manage just a few sips, her throat choked with sorrow.

“I know how you feel, dear,” Lucia said, stroking her hair. “You need a little kindness.”

Isolina wrapped her arms around her waist and clung to her, but a knock on the door drew Lucia away. Amelia and Nonna Angelina, as quiet as shadows, stood on the doorstep. Once inside, Amelia threw her arms around Isolina and drew her close in a long and suffocating embrace. “What a pity to have it end this way. You were blinded by love,” Amelia cried, tears falling.

“Love,” Nonna Angelina said, frowning. “It was nothing more than infatuation. Love needs a lifetime to grow. I should know. For fifty years I put up with Nonno Carlo. It wasn't easy, let me tell you, but I said my prayers and got through it. Even now, I'm reaping the rewards.”

“But he's dead, mamma,” Amelia said, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.

“His spirit lives on. I can still feel it, even here in this room,” Nonna Angelina said. “Doesn't the good Lord promise the faithful the keys to paradise?”

Isolina said nothing.

“I see you found something to wear to the funeral,” Nonna Angelina said, gesturing to the black dress Isolina was wearing.

Lucia said, “I gave her one of mine.”

“How convenient,” Nonna Angelina said. “Black is all you wear these days. But I understand that's changing. You're not in mourning any more.”

Lucia's face reddened. “That's none of your business,
nonna
. It's between me and Donato.”

“Everyone in town is talking about you and Signor Sardolini,” Nonna Angelina said. “But I suppose you don't care what they say. You're too wrapped up in your own happiness. But all that is irrelevant now that he's gone.”

Isolina had heard none of this. “What do you mean? Did the
fascisti
go after him too?”

Nonna Angelina explained, “Signor Sardolini took the coward's way out. He ran.”

Lucia was quick to defend him. “He had no choice. He knew the
fascisti
were coming for him.”

“That may be true,” Nonna Angelina said, “but it ruins your plans, doesn't it? Especially if Prefetto Balbi tracks him down. And if he does, I'm sure he'll get what he deserves. No more and no less than what Rodi got.”

“That's enough,
nonna
,” Lucia cried. “For fifteen years I've put up with your meddling, but it's going to stop.”

Amelia, who was staring at Nonna Angelina and Lucia, cried out, “I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't heard a thing. Why am I the last to know?”

Nonna Angelina explained, “Donato wasn't good enough for Lucia. So she found another man, but the only one who would have her is a prisoner and a Jew.”

Isolina shuddered. “Stop it,
nonna
,” she cried. “Rodi's dead. So are Sofia, Manfredo and Tiberio. Isn't there enough hate in this family?”

Nonna Angelina stared at her, her mouth twitching. With a jerk of her shoulders, she lifted her chin and summoned her dignity. “I'll attribute your outburst to grief.”

“Attribute it to whatever you want,” Isolina cried. “Rodi isn't even buried yet and already we're fighting?”

Nonna Angelina sucked in her breath. When she spoke again, her voice was muted, almost contrite. “Come to my house after the funeral. I'll have my housekeeper prepare supper for you and the rest of the family.”

When the door slammed behind them, Lucia told her, “Good for you for putting her in her place.”

“I had to.” Her anger had faded, replaced with a staggering fatigue. Her bones ached from her head to her toes.

Lucia knelt by her side. “Listen to me, Isolina. I need to tell you something important. The children and I are meeting Signor Sardolini in Sicily. From there, we'll sail to America. As soon as our documents are ready, we're leaving. Come with us.”