The Incident at Montebello (45 page)

She sucked in her breath as if he had struck her. Tears rolled down her cheeks. At long last, he had managed to hurt her enough to make her cry. “Is this how you want me to remember you?” she said at last.

Slowly, he shook his head and sighed, his anger evaporating. “You have to understand. It's not all my fault.”

After a long pause, she wiped her eyes and murmured, “I know. I blame the
fascisti
most of all.”

With that, she pushed open the door and stumbled across the courtyard to the wagon, where Nietta and Isolina were waiting, blankets tucked around their legs. Lucia handed the last suitcase to Charlie who hoisted it into the back and slid onto the bench next to her. As he grabbed the reins, Nietta's high, girlish voice broke the silence.

“Papà.”

He tottered out of the house and shouted, “Let Nietta stay.”

If Lucia heard him, she gave no sign of it. Jerking the reins, Charlie startled the horse, which lunged forward.

“Papà,” Nietta cried again.

“Wait. Come back,” he shouted, staggering after them, but Charlie raised the whip and brought it down hard on the horse's flank. With a shake of its mane, the horse trotted down the street, the wagon rattling behind it, dust swirling.

He couldn't think about it. He forced himself to keep moving. For the next hour, he hustled back and forth between the
caffè
and the rectory, keeping an eye on the reporter, who was still drinking whiskey and complaining to Pasquale and Arturo about the lack of modern conveniences in Montebello. “No running water, no flush toilets. How do you manage?”

Pasquale answered with a straight face. “It's easy. We never bathe or take a shit.”

In the meantime the priest still hadn't shown up. It was almost suppertime and Donato's head was pounding. At last he spotted Padre Colletti trundling down the street in his cart. “It's good to be home,” the priest told him as he pulled into the barn and climbed down. As he unhooked the harness on his piebald mare, the pom on his
berretta
swayed. “After the funeral, I was called down to the valley to give the last rights to a dying woman, but my horse lost a shoe and we didn't make it in time.”

Donato shrugged as if to say—what can I do about it? He told the priest, “Things here aren't much better. A hot shot
americano
reporter is nosing around and looking for trouble.”

“So I heard.”

“He doesn't know Sofia was my daughter and I'd like to keep it that way.”

“So you expect me to lie for you?”

“Don't give me that holier than thou crap. I know you better than that.”

“Your insults won't help your case.”

“
Padre,
listen. You don't have to lie. Just fill him up some good food and wine and don't give him a scrap of information. Why should we hand over more ammunition to the
americani?
In the end, we'll end up harming ourselves. So, let's keep quiet. Nobody will get hurt that way.”

The priest's one good eye stared fixedly at him. “Twenty-five years ago I took a vow of confidentiality—never to reveal information told to me in confession. Recent events have reminded me of the sacredness of this vow. What happens between the sinner and our good Lord is no one's business—especially mine. I'm merely His intermediary. I'll honor my vow if you make a complete confession.”

“For what? What have I done wrong?”

“Is anyone without sin?”

“Where do you want me to make this confession—not here in the barn?”

“Why not?” the priest replied. “If it was good enough for the Three Wise Men and the infant Gesù, it's good enough for you.”

When Donato knelt down cautiously in the hay, the priest stepped closer, made a sign of the cross, and planted his hand on Donato's head. “What do you wish to confess before me and the Lord?”

Donato cleared his throat and started to speak, the words dropping uneasily from his tongue. Each one was a stone in his throat, punishment for his unswerving faith and naiveté. “My daughter would be alive today if Lucia and Isolina weren't so careless. Because of their mistakes, she's rotting under the ground. No doubt the driver tried to stop the car or swerve around the kids, but at that point, the road narrows and passes over the bridge, so who can blame him for saving himself first? The reporter's wrong and so is Lucia. It couldn't be Il Duce, but if by some miracle it was him, he's still number one—the greatest premier Italy has ever had. I probably would have done the same thing in his situation.”

For a moment, the priest was silent. Then he asked, “Is that it?”

“That's all I've got to say.”

The priest sighed. “I pray for the day when the scales will drop from your eyes and you'll see the truth and God in His glory. Until then, I pray for your soul.”

“I tell you what,
padre,
” Donato said, as he brushed hay off his trousers. “You worry about your soul and I'll worry about mine.”

That night a wild carnival of images and people swooped through his mind. In his dreams Nietta rushed towards him, throwing her arms around his waist. Then Sardolini materialized at the foot of his bed and laughed. “Who's the fool now?” he demanded. “Those who live by the Fascist's rules die by them too.” Startled awake, Donato sucked in mouthfuls of air and looked around in relief at the familiar furniture. Still, the dream lingered like a toothache.

It was no better the next morning when he stumbled out of bed. Lucia's ghost was everywhere. He found traces of her all over the house—he smelled her in the quilt, glimpsed her in the kitchen raking the coals in the stove, and felt the whisper of her touch when her lace curtains brushed against his arm. No matter how often he reminded himself that he had done what any man in his situation had to do to rescue his pride and keep his family safe, he was plagued with a malaise he couldn't name.

Later that morning as he pushed open the
caffè
door, he sighted the reporter wearing a jazzy tie with a bold stripe. With a bow, Donato swept off his hat and personally offered to take him to the train station in Castellammare. “I going there this day,” he told the man. “You come with me, boss, and we talk. You gotta help me. What a boring it is on the road for many, many hour with no person to talk to.”

“Hours?” the reporter said. “I heard we'll make it under an hour and a half.”

“
Certo,
” Donato said with a nod. “I no understand the police chief is taking you in the car.”

“The police chief?” the reporter said. “It wasn't the police chief.”

“I tell you, it gotta be. He's the one person in this place with the car, saving Don Cosimo.”

“That's the one,” the reporter said.

Later, as the
mafioso
's car swept through town, Donato shuddered. Once again he was rendered powerless, stripped of his
virilità
, his strength. Sighing, he dragged his feet towards Nonna Angelina's house.

Marcella was in the back yard scolding the chickens. “Come and eat you miserable bastards,” she cried. When she turned and glimpsed Donato, she said, “What happened,
signore
? Are you all right? Come inside and I'll fix you some coffee.”

Unable to speak, he stumbled into the kitchen and sank into a chair. He had no idea what Don Cosimo would say to the reporter, but he knew the
mafioso
couldn't care less if he implicated a score of Buonomanos. Shit
.
He was screwed. Everything had ended in shit. He rubbed his aching head.

“What is it,
signore
?” Marcella persisted.

“Please. Don't talk.”

“But why?”

“Just don't.” He slumped forward, cradling his head on his arms. Behind his closed eyelids, he glimpsed Lucia and the children, who had crept back into his thoughts. A sharp pain, not unlike heartburn, pierced his chest. Lifting his head, his eyes lingered on the herb jar Marcella had set on the windowsill. He used to make fun of Lucia's chipped vases filled with one lonely wildflower or her intricate embroidered stitches on her collars and cuffs. But she defended herself by saying, “Beauty does the heart good.” He had disagreed. “It's a waste of time,” he told her. “Ugliness is a part of life. When you're not afraid of it, you'll learn something from it.” But now he was sunk in a mire of ugliness—death, betrayal, and calumny—and he hated it.

Marcella was humming as she polished a coffee urn by the sink. As she rubbed, her shoulders swayed and so did her skirt, the folds brushing against her muscular calves. He told her, “My wife left me. She took the children with her.”

Marcella whirled around, her eyes widening with surprise. Dropping the polishing cloth, she sank into a chair next to him. “I'm shocked,
signore
,” she declared. “Being a woman myself, I can't understand how she could leave a man so fine and handsome as yourself.”

Her words stirred him deeply. “I let her go,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I wasn't going to be humiliated.”

“Of course not. A man has his pride.”

“That's right. She can't trample on me and our marriage and expect me to take her back.”

“
Puh
,” she cried, pursing her lips and spitting out a mouthful of air. “You're better off without her. A woman with a cold heart will suck the life out of a man. She's a vampire,
signore
. You had to save yourself.”

He nodded. Her understanding and sympathy were a balm to his wounds.

She reached out and seized his hand. “Look at you. You're freezing. Let me fix you a hot bath. After a soak, you'll feel better. I guarantee it. And while you're in the tub, I'll press your pants.”

He sighed with gratitude as she closed the shutters and hauled the big zinc tub into the kitchen. After filling it with pots of steaming water, she left him to his soaking. Plunging into the bath, he drew his knees up to his chest and pondered what to do next.
Uffa
. Prefetto Balbi and Don Cosimo had boxed him into a corner. So had Lucia and Iggy. And what would he say to Nonna Angelina when she wanted to know where Lucia had taken the children?
Uffa
. He was nauseous just thinking about it.

Before long, Marcella returned. She was very matter-of-fact, offering to wash his hair and scrub his back. As her rough hands swept over his shoulders in tingling circles, she wasn't shy in assessing his attributes. “You could use a little more meat on you, but after what she put you through it's no wonder you lost the weight. But you're strong enough where it counts.” She winked. “The way a man should be.” Her fingers traced the creases in his neck and the tender spot where his earlobe met his cheek. When he stood up dripping, she wrapped a towel around his waist and squeezed his buttocks. “What do you say,
signore
?”

“We don't have much time,” he said. “My mother will be home soon.”

“Even a busy man such as yourself should take time for a little relaxation. I hear the mayor enjoys the mud cures at Ischia,” she said, grasping his hands and placing them on her breasts, rising like tidal swells above her trim waist. “And the doctor likes to sing the operettas of those two
inglesi.
What are their names?”

“Gilbert and Sullivan,” he said, reaching under her sweater and pinching her nipples. He rubbed them thoughtfully.

And so during another invigorating romp with Marcella, he lost track of time. Afterwards, he dozed on the small bed and woke with a start when Marcella shouted, “She's back,
signore
.” And so, he dressed in a hurry, slipping on his pants and shirt.