The Incident at Montebello (26 page)

His mind was playing tricks on him. He was doing the right thing. If he wanted to protect Lucia and Charlie, he had to follow Prefetto Balbi's orders. It was unfortunate that Rodi was a relative, but he doubted the boy had the balls to work for the anti-Fascists. If by some miracle he was involved, well then, his treason should be revealed and punished. Still, he was convinced that Rodi was more of a lover than a fighter.

He reminded himself of the lessons he had learned from the war when he witnessed hundreds of men taking their last breath. Instead of feeling depressed about the senseless cruelty of warfare and death, he decided that sentimentality was a wasted emotion, better left to women and fools. It was no different now. He had a job to do. He just had to get on with it.

When he woke again, he licked his lips, his mouth dry from sleep and the whiskey. He shuffled downstairs just as Lucia and the children were finishing breakfast. In silence, Lucia washed dishes, her back turned towards him, and Nietta and Charlie kept their heads lowered over their plates. Apparently, Charlie's appetite had returned, given how he dug into the polenta porridge laced with butter and cheese and devoured two slices of bread. “You're feeling better, I see,” Donato said to the boy.

Charlie raised his head. “So now you care?”

Donato pointed a warning finger at him. “Haven't you learned anything yet?”

Swallowing quickly, Charlie shoved back his chair and carried his dishes to the sink before running out the door. Nietta followed him.

He crushed out one cigarette and lit another. Stupid little fool. If the boy had listened to him instead of Sardolini, he wouldn't be hurting. He had brought it on himself. So had Lucia. Once again he was reminded that his mother was right about Lucia, who was more of a threat to the family than he had ever realized. But when she finally glanced at him, his stomach lurched. Her bruised lips and cheek had turned an ugly brown. What's worse, her eyes were so cold, so full of anger that he could find no trace of love in them.

She turned on him in a fury, “I heard what happened between you and Charlie. I'm only going to say this once, Donato. Don't you ever touch me or my son again.”

“I don't take orders from you.”

“Oh, that's right. You only take orders from your mother and Il Duce.”

“
Basta,
” he warned, pointing his finger at her. “I've heard enough from you.” Still, he staggered under the weight of her gaze, her hurtfulness. So, it was true then. His wife and son couldn't stand him.

She wiped her hands on her apron and pulled a telegram from her pocket. “Rodi brought it this morning.”

More bad news? His stomach tightened. “What are you waiting for? Give it to me.” He grabbed it, slit it open with the knife, and started to read.

“Who's it from?” she asked.

He ignored her until she repeated the question. “Iggy,” he muttered. Shit
.
Just when he thought his luck couldn't get any worse, it just did. Almost seven thousand kilometers away and he still wasn't free of that bastard.

“What does he want?” she demanded. She had never liked Iggy, the black sheep of the family. Before he left for Boston, he got a girl pregnant, but he never sent one
lira
to help with the baby. And when Donato joined him in Boston, they shared an apartment, but Donato ended up buying most of the furniture and food.

“What does he want?” she repeated.

Instead of answering, he stabbed out one cigarette and fished in his pockets for another. As he lit the stick of tobacco, pains shot through his stomach. He needed to think. He needed to come up with a counter attack, but Lucia wouldn't stop talking.

“You're not answering me, Donato.”

Uffa.
What a bitch she turned out to be. He smashed his cigarette on the plate. “This is a man's business and men are going to take care of it. Understand
?
”

“All right, all right.” She turned back to the dishes.

He grabbed his coat and half-slid, half-ran across the paving stones to the outhouse. With a moan, he lowered his pants and dropped onto the toilet. Hunching forward, he re-read Iggy's telegram. That lazy fuck knew all the angles. He had turned the tables by claiming that Donato's boss Vittadini had stopped by the apartment looking for the stolen money. According to Iggy, he had told Vittadini a pack of lies, but the next time, he threatened to tell the truth if Donato didn't pay him fifty dollars—more money than Iggy earned in months.

His stomach cramped again. He huddled over the toilet, shivering. As he wiped his bum with newspaper and zipped his pants, he cursed Iggy for maneuvering him into a corner, just to watch him squirm. That miserable pig. He could go to hell. “Bah,” he muttered as he ripped the telegram into pieces and tossed it into the toilet hole.

A cold wind chased him to the well, where he scrubbed his hands and face. After making sure Lucia had left for work, he grabbed the lantern, climbed down to the basement and squatted by the shelves. Fumbling in the dirt for the cookie tin, he lifted it out of the hole and pried it open. He counted his money, his heart drubbing. Replacing the box and concealing it with dirt, he brushed off his hands and groped up the stairs to the kitchen where he smoked a cigarette, trying to calm his nerves.

The ice had melted on the pavement, but lingered on the trees, glistening like sugar-brushed candy. On his way to Mosca's, he nearly ran into Prefetto Balbi, who was emerging from the church. Donato tipped his hat and murmured hello, hoping for a quick escape, but the police chief smiled and said, “I'm waiting.”

His blue eyes made Donato queasy with fear. He managed to stammer, “You'll have something soon. Very soon.” The police chief nodded and kept walking across the piazza. Donato did a quick about face, his mind whirling.

Rodi was inching the car down the alley behind the post office when Donato shouted and waved at him. The automobile resembled no machine he had ever seen because Manfredo had fabricated it from a variety of parts—some Italian, some American. Its ornate front grille was welded on a lumbering sedan body, reminding Donato of a bulldog adorned with a diamond necklace.

Rodi stuck his head out the window. “Good morning
, zio
. Do you have a letter for me?”

“No. I need a ride to Castellammare. Can you take me?”

In reply, the postman kicked open the stubborn passenger door. “Only Manfredo knows how to fix it,” he explained with a shrug.

Donato slid into the front seat.

They inched out of town, slowing down for every
paesano
trudging to the fields. The women, trailing behind the men, prodded sheep and oxen with sticks. Just their leathery faces and dark eyes were visible beneath their shawls, which they clasped tightly at the throat.

One of them called out, “God bless you and the tires.
Buona fortuna
.”

“Bring me some good news today from my son,” another cried.

Rodi waved and smiled, but Donato sank lower into his seat. His stomach was aching, thanks to Lucia, Iggy, and Prefetto Balbi, but if he played his cards right, he might uncover something to appease the police chief. He shouted over the hum of the engine and the whoosh of air blowing in from the driver's window frozen in the open position. “Where's your lazy boss Tombolo?”

“Sick in bed.”

“I feel sorry for his wife.”

Rodi laughed. “He says she's the pain in the head. Well, not every man is lucky enough to have a wife like Isolina.”

“It's still early in the game for you two. It takes the women a while to show their true colors. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Rodi raised an eyebrow. “Not Isolina. She's different,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.

“No. They're all bitches. The sooner you realize it, the happier you'll be.”

Rodi said nothing. They passed an orchard, its trees etched against the sky. Once, on his way back to America, he had lingered at a place near here with the children and Lucia, who had spread a blanket under a tree and unpacked a picnic lunch. After staring up at the fruit in branches overhead, he had lifted Charlie, Nietta, and Sofia in turn and let them harvest their own oranges. After making a few cuts with his knife, he handed out the sections. His daughters sucked on the sweet pulp, but Charlie, the clown, had covered his teeth with the rind and grinned, which made everyone laugh, even Lucia. When the kids ran off to play, their voices rising and falling in the distance, he grasped Lucia's hand.

“It's for the best, dear one
,
” he reminded her. She said nothing, but still, he sensed her resentment. Of course, he had every intention of bringing her and the children to Boston as quickly as possible, but it was taking him longer than he expected. After wiring a portion of his salary to his mother and covering his food and rent, he had very little left over for tickets. And when he scraped together the money for a visit home, Lucia became pregnant with Sofia and he had to save even more. Still, Donato could forgive her almost anything if she showed him a little kindness. He lifted her hand to his chest. “Remember, dear
.
No matter how far I go, you'll always be right here.”

She yanked her hand away and laughed. “What a joke. There's no room left in there for anyone but your mother.”

Why had it taken him so long to see what Nonna Angelina had known for years? A few months after his wedding, he had sensed Nonna Angelina's uneasiness around his new wife and had pressed for her opinion. “Well,” Nonna Angelina had said, “she's a nice enough girl. Talented too, but I can't help thinking you could have done better.”

The signs of Lucia's disaffection were obvious, but he had been blinded by love. Now of course, he could see it—as plain as the mustache on his face. He should have married Rosaria. Back then, the village girls competed for his attention and stopped by with presents—a jar of homemade sauce, a bunch of tender spinach. Only Rosaria brought sweets—his weakness. He had fond memories of her bowls of trembling
panna cotta
pudding and tins of crisp biscotti made by her plump hands.

Rodi blasted the horn at the cows blocking the road. Roused from his thoughts, Donato shivered and turned up his collar. The boy, however, seemed immune to the cold. He poked his head out the window and chatted with a milkmaid who smiled and winked at him as she crossed the road, swatting the rumps of her cows. Donato couldn't understand what women saw in him—the boy looked soft, his hair curling down his neck and over his ears and his lips were as pink as a girl's. But he was redeemed by a strong aquiline nose made famous by the Caesars and the Jews. Well, the two Jews that Donato knew—Sardolini and the hunchback peddler who lumbered into Montebello every spring with his wagon of rattling pots and pans.

Donato squinted up at the sky, getting a measure of the weather, which remained unpredictable for the first hour of their trip. Then, quite suddenly, the dense layer of clouds parted and the sun shot to earth, warming him. A few kilometers outside Castellammare, Rodi pulled off the road and grabbed his haversack on the back seat. Blowing on his fingers, he rubbed them briskly together in anticipation of a meal. “I've got enough cheese, salami and bread for both of us,” he told Donato who sat with him on a hummock of dry grass. Donato nibbled on the food, hoping it would settle his stomach. After brushing crumbs off his coat, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, sending aloft puffs of smoke, which swirled lazily around them.

“All that for one person?” Donato said, pointing to the remaining food.

Rodi hesitated and said, “Isolina doesn't know what it's like to feed only one. She's used to nine.”

“True,” Donato said, but he still wondered if the leftovers were intended for Manfredo, who was hiding nearby. His friends were sure of it.

“What's in Castellammare?” Rodi asked.

“Business.” The less said about it the better.

Rodi was smiling. “Why work if you don't have to? I heard you're retired now.”

Suspicious, Donato stared at him. “Where did you hear that?”

“Everyone's saying you came back with your pockets full of American gold.”

Donato sucked on his cigarette and shrugged. “Well, it's true, but I'm always on the lookout for business opportunities.”

“That's smart,
zio.
I'd do it too if I had the money. There's a lot to be made if you're not afraid to take a chance. Why if it were me, I'd invest in telecommunications.”

Donato frowned. “Do you know what that would cost? You'd have to bring the wires all the way from Castellammare.”

“I'd use the existing telegraph lines.”

“Even so, it would cost a small fortune.”

“I'd get a partner. Someone who had money.”

Donato shrugged. It wasn't a bad idea, but the boy had no business sense like his father. He squinted at Rodi through his cigarette smoke. “You think it's that simple, eh? Why don't you ask Don Cosimo? He'll give you the money. Or better yet, Signor Sardolini. That's the way it is with the
mafiosi
and Jews.”