The Incident at Montebello (42 page)

“And leave Rodi?”

“I'm leaving Sofia too. But I'll always carry her in my heart. That's all that matters. It's not safe here for you, me, or the children—especially now that Donato is working for the police. There's no reason to believe he stopped with Rodi. I think he turned in evidence against Signor Sardolini too.”

Isolina accepted this news in silence. She was remembering Rodi's last promise—to make her proud of him again. And so, he had fallen right into the Fascist's trap and Donato's.

Lucia said, “Donato said he did it to protect the family. But he got caught over his head. Despite everything, he still believes the Fascists' goals are noble. And he'll stop at nothing to achieve them. Do you understand what we're up against?”

She pressed her hands against her head. “I can't think.”

“You must, dear. Our happiness isn't here. It's in America. Montebello isn't our home anymore.”

Isolina sighed. Her head ached and so did her heart. She wanted to shut her eyes and sleep for days. And when she woke up, she wanted the nightmare to be over.

On his way to Mosca's, Donato was so deep in thought he narrowly missed a flood of dishwater tossed from an upper floor apartment. When it fell with a splat on the pavement in front of him, he glared at the woman on the balcony, but she covered her smile with her hand. “You witch. You heathen. Watch what you're doing,” he shouted and moved on, wiping his face with his handkerchief.

Then Don Cosimo cornered him. He would have preferred to rush past the wiry, sharp-eyed
don
with a wave and a nod, but Don Cosimo seized his sleeve. With his tanned skin and diminutive stature, the
mafioso
possessed the agility and cunning of a primitive hunter, which made him and Prefetto Balbi the only men in town Donato feared.

“We need to talk,” Don Cosimo said, gesturing a bench in the piazza. As they sat down, the
don
reached into a bag of crumbs and tossed them to a waiting flock of pigeons. “What a tragedy. Death is never just,” the
don
said.

For a confused moment, Donato wondered whose death the
don
was referring to. “That's true, Don Cosimo,” he stammered.

“Justice will come in time. One must be patient and wait until the time is right,” Don Cosimo said, his eyes narrowed. “That's what I was saying to a friend of mine in America. He wrote to me about a little problem with a bad debt—so to speak. One of his employees stole some money from him and he asked me to collect it. Apparently, the employee came back here to Italy. Do you know what I told him? You can't shit over there and expect it won't stick to you over here.”

Not sure whether to smile or nod in solemn agreement, Donato simply said, “That's right, Don Cosimo.”

As soon as he could, he broke away. On the way to Mosca's, he tried to convince himself that the
don
was just telling a story and there was nothing personal about it, but he couldn't shake the uneasiness that crept into his bones. It lingered as he stepped into the
caffè
, which smelled of aftershave and coffee. He didn't even have a chance to hang up his coat before Pasquale and Arturo pinned him down.

“Did you hear?” Arturo cried. “The
americani
are dragging their feet. Their hot-shot general still hasn't apologized.”

His heart thumping, he took a seat at their table, grabbed the paper, and prayed that his name and Sofia's weren't emblazoned on the page. To his dismay the story had shifted to the front page. The headlines thundered—
U.S. Senator Heflin Says No Apology to Mussolini.
In the article Senator Tom Heflin demanded to know why General Butler had to “bow down and crawl in the dust” to apologize to Mussolini, whom Heflin called “a red-handed murderer.” Heflin's tone of moral outrage irritated the hell out of Donato, who tossed down the newspaper and cried, “Didn't I tell you? The Americans don't like to admit they make mistakes.”

“Facts are facts,” Arturo said, gesturing with his ruined hand. “Sooner or later, they'll bend.”

Donato nodded, but had trouble looking his friends in the eye. Their good humor and easy laughter masked a viciousness Donato had never suspected. He cringed thinking how eager they were to kill Manfredo, Tiberio, and Rodi.

Pasquale leaned towards him. “Did you hear the latest? There's one less insurrectionist in town today.”

Suppressing a shudder, he said, “That bastard Rodi deserved to die.” He hoped that was the end of it.

“I was talking about Sardolini,” Pasquale said.

Donato's eyes widened.

Arturo explained, “He ran, but Prefetto Balbi is on the lookout for him. Balbi took Rodi's car, so it won't be long before he catches the bastard.”

Donato slapped his thigh. “Good riddance, that's all I can say. That's one less anti-Fascist bastard to deal with.”

Pasquale's voice was a hoarse whisper. “How's your wife handling it?”

Donato froze. Still, he forced himself to say, “Why should she care?”

“Don't tell me you don't know?
Merda.”

Donato cursed that witch Petronella whose mouth was always flapping. After a pause, he said, “Of course, I know. When I found out, I had a little fling of my own.”

“Who?” Arturo said, eager for details.

“You probably don't know her. She's my mother's new housekeeper.”

Pasquale cupped his hands around two imaginary breasts. “The one with the big
ciocce
?”

Donato nodded. “She's the one.”

Pasquale sighed. “There is justice in the world. But what are you going to do about Lucia? You should kick her out. Let her know who's boss.”

Donato clenched his fists. “I will. Don't you worry. She's not wearing the pants in my family.”

“Make her suffer,” Arturo advised. “Send her back home to Ravello and act like you couldn't care less if she stayed there forever. If you make her wait long enough, she'll jump at the chance to come back.”

“Well, that's assuming I want her back,” Donato said. “There's plenty of fish in the sea.” He stretched and stood. “I've got to go.”

“Police business?” Pasquale said.

“No, family,” Donato said, frowning.

His friends nodded in sympathy.

As he hurried away, his chest burned with humiliation. Soon everyone in town would forget he was the great patriot who helped ferret out the anti-Fascists. When he passed them on the street, they'd shake their heads in pity and murmur “
cornuto
” because he was just another poor bastard whose wife cheated on him. They were already whispering behind his back. How could he show his face in town? The shame of it was nearly too much to bear.

When he reached into his pocket for a cigarette, his fingers closed around Iggy's telegram. Damn
.
Another headache. He dragged his feet towards the telegraph office, which was as cold inside as it was outside because the fire had gone out, and Bombolini was too cheap to throw on some more wood. Instead he wore a cap on his head and mitts on his fingers. Near him, Charlie hopped on one foot and then the other, trying to stay warm while waiting for Bombolini to hand over the telegrams for delivery.

Donato pulled the boy aside. “Where's your mother?” he demanded.

The boy ducked his head and mumbled, “She's helping Isolina get ready for the funeral.”

“Look at me when I talk to you,” he said, and Charlie lifted his chin. In his eyes Donato read several emotions—predominately hate and fear—and this made him cringe. Once he believed it was more important for a son to respect his father rather than love him, but now he wished some affection was mixed in. In a kinder tone he asked, “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Breakfast.”

“Shh,” Bombolini shouted. “You're making me miss letters.”

During a pause in the transmissions, Charlie seized the envelopes, stuffed them into his sack, and rushed out the door. Grabbing his bike by the handlebars, he swung his leg over the seat and whistled as he pedaled down the street. It had been so long since Donato had seen the boy happy that it startled him.

Bombolini squinted at him over his thick glasses and craggy nose. After brushing his palm over the bristles on his chin, he said, “Your boy works hard.”

Donato nodded. “It's time he earned a living. When I was his age, I had already worked for my father for two years. But he won't do it for nothing.”

Bombolini shrugged. “Of course not. I'll pay him half of what I paid Rodi—for the first six months.”

“Half?” He argued with Bombolini for a few minutes, came to a compromise, and they shook on it. “My boy learns fast,” Donato said, a swell of pride bubbling in his chest, but it was soon deflated by the thought that Charlie hated him.

“I hope so,” Bombolini said, stretching.

“I have some other business,” Donato said, stepping closer. “I need to wire some money to America.”

“Who's it going to?” Bombolini jotted down the name and address, took Donato's money, and sent off the wire.

Donato gestured to the notepad. “You don't keep that, do you?”

Bombolini smiled. “Don't worry. Your message is safe with me. I'm as quiet as the priest.” And then he laughed.

Donato nodded, still uncertain. Not wanting to look foolish, he reached for the doorknob.

“By the way,” Bombolini called after him. “Prefetto Balbi is looking for you.”

Donato's mood plummeted. Wouldn't Balbi ever leave him alone?

The police chief was in a good mood. A satisfied smile tweaked the edges of his mouth as he gestured for Donato to sit in one of the leather chairs. He said, “Sardolini is back behind bars.”

Donato grinned. “Well, that takes care of all of the bastards.”

“Almost all.”

Donato blinked. A tremor ran through him as Prefetto Balbi said, “We have determined beyond a doubt that Sardolini convinced several young men in town to become involved in the anti-Fascist movement. One of them is your son who is a courier for them. On Sardolini's orders, he also played the record that embarrassed our new mayor.”

Donato's throat tightened. Balbi was sucking the air out of him.

“Sardolini's influence was insidious. Before he arrived, your son was one of our most loyal supporters. Professor Zuffi used to send us glowing reports. In fact Charlie was the first person to identify Rodi as a witness to the accident.”

“How's that?”

“He came to us on his own and said he saw Rodi and Isolina together in the field. Thanks to his testimony, we started to develop a case against Rodi. But in the past few months, it's clear his loyalty has shifted.”

Donato said nothing. Pain was hammering his head.

“Do I need to remind you that no sacrifice is too great for the party or our leader? He expects absolute devotion. I'm sure you're aware of that.”

“Of course.”

“The demands of the state are high, but our leader asks for no sacrifice that he hasn't already made himself.”

“But Rodi hasn't even been buried yet.”

Balbi flicked his hand as if he were sweeping away some dust. “The Americans are breathing down our necks. Their public outcry is creating an embarrassing situation at home and abroad. I'm warning you. Keep an eye on your son. Now that he's taken over Rodi's job, we're keeping a close watch on him.”

Donato rubbed his aching head. “What do you want from me? Haven't I done enough? He's my son.”

Balbi frowned. “If you don't cooperate, the consequence will be severe—for you, your wife, and your son. We found this in Sardolini's wallet.”

Balbi pulled a paper from his desk drawer and handed it to him. It was a sketch of Lucia. The likeness was unmistakable. His head hanging low, Donato shuffled out of the office and down the stairs. In the piazza he ran into a parade of mourners crying and wailing. He should go to Rodi's funeral and pay his respects, but he'd be a hypocrite if he did. The very thought of kneeling by Rodi's grave made his stomach lurch and his head spin. Instead he staggered home. After hauling a bucket of water from the well, he took a long drink, his eyes fixed on Sardolini's cottage. What the hell. The widow was surely at the funeral.

Striding through the gap in the wall, his footsteps slowed as he neared the cottage and pushed open the door. The bed was made, but the floor was a blizzard of books and papers. Kneeling down, he rummaged through volumes on architecture and politics and sketches of people and places in Montebello. The bastard was talented, no doubt. And smart. He knew Prefetto Balbi better than Donato did. It happened just as he predicted—Balbi wasn't satisfied with just one more insurrectionist. He would hunt for others and there would always be others, so Donato would have more and more blood on his hands. But not Charlie's. That's where he drew the line.