The Dead Don't Get Out Much (13 page)

I pulled up my collar and made my way to the first house with a light on. I banged on the door and waited. When the door opened, I gave my best Italian greetings and started on my sick
nonna
story. I added my newest phrase:
Una situazione disperata
.

I can't say I really blame people for the way they looked at me. I probably wouldn't have opened the door myself. Door after door, the results were the same. Still, it beat twiddling my thumbs. I came up empty on Via Garibaldi, the main street.

What the hell. I had nothing to lose. The fog was getting thicker. While you couldn't see any distance, you could still avoid large obstacles, and you could tell by the lights if people were awake in a house. I made up my mind and headed down the Ruella Cavour. I thought I heard a scuttling behind me and off to a side. A dog? Too quiet for a dog. Dogs are not known for their subtlety. A rat? No point in giving in to the heebie-jeebies, I decided.

Fog can have that effect on you. This might have been a foggy alley with five hundred-year-old dwellings tilting on either side, but it was also in a tiny close-knit village that probably had zero crime, I reminded myself.

My self-pep talk didn't stop the hair on the back of my neck from standing up. Anyway, I had a job to do. There were two houses with lights still on. No one answered at the first door. I could hear a television or radio blaring irritating Italian pop songs from within. I banged a few more times, waited and then decided to cut my losses.

Was I imagining the scurrying noise? I clutched my backpack in a way that might be useful for smacking a rat. I walked quickly to the last remaining house with lights on.

After a lot of banging, a stooped woman with thin white hair in a bun answered. She stared at me. Listening in apparent astonishment to my bizarre Italian, she gaped at the photo of Mrs. Parnell and grabbed my hand.

“La poverina,”
she said.

I couldn't imagine anyone ever referring to my Mrs. P. as a poor little thing. It was the first bit of sympathy I'd received here in Berli. To my horror, my eyes filled with tears. This was so not like me. Maybe it was the time difference, lack of sleep, the red wine, the fog, the worry. I hauled out a tissue, blew my nose, said
“Scusate, signora,”
and pulled myself together. Despite the promising start, after a few moments of my pathetic Italian, I realized she had not seen Mrs. Parnell, or the Opel, or the black Mercedes, which I tossed in to the conversation for good measure. She was pleasant and sympathetic. She offered me something to eat and, when I declined, suggested a little glass of something. I had to turn that down too, because the fog had thickened yet again, and it was going to be tough enough stumbling back up the hill.

I thanked her profusely, and she squeezed my hand. I felt her good wishes and was damn glad to have them as I hit the fog.

I made tracks, trying not to trip into potholes in the road. A burst of sound through the swirling mist caused me to step back and gasp. Five people, arms linked, chatting and laughing, emerged a few feet in front of me. I recognized one of the family groups from the bar. They clammed up immediately when they spotted me. The women shrank back. That didn't make sense. Why would anyone be afraid of me?

I felt their eyes on my back as I negotiated the holes in the road and made my way back up the hill. As I got close to the bar, a silver-haired woman, who looked to be in her sixties, passed me, walking quickly and confidently. Her collar was pulled up around her neck. She stared hard at my face before turning her head and disappearing into the mist. I kept going toward the bar with its light, heat, red wine and much-needed public telephone.

* * *

“How may I direct your call?” Alvin said.

“Very funny. What news do you have?” I said.

“What is this craziness about Violet having a son? Lord thundering Jesus, I almost died of shock.”

“You and me both. Definitely unlikely and baffling. There's someone making the claim, and he has a picture of her, so there's a definite connection. We have to follow up.”

“Are you in Berli now?”

“It's pretty small, and no one seems to have seen our grandmother or the guy who says he's the son. They are extremely unfriendly too. Everyone else I've met, since I've been in Italy, has tried to be very helpful.”

I glanced around. I was on the public phone in the bar. Something about the body language of the remaining customers told me that they were paying attention to my call. That shouldn't have made a difference, since no one appeared to speak English. Even so, I was cautious. Everything about Berli seemed so strange and creepy. Maybe excessive fog just brings out the paranoiac in me.

Alvin said, “Our grandmother? Oops, I get it. Is someone listening?”

“Who knows?” I said. “She was supposed to come here. Perhaps she changed her mind and went somewhere else.”

“Jeez, I hope not,” Alvin said. “What would you do then?”

“Our uncle was also looking for her. Maybe he found her.”

“Our uncle? Oh, you mean the guy who says he's Violet's son? That's weird and scary.”

“It is.”

“You're worried, right?”

“Puzzled for sure.”

I was petrified. I didn't want to tell Alvin that my biggest fear was that, in the morning, as I made my way down the mountain, I would catch a glimpse of a silver Opel, lying crumpled in a rock-strewn field, having slid off the foggy-bound mountain road, while a Mercedes sped off.

I couldn't even let myself think about it. I promised myself I would creep down in the Ka and stop to check every possible site on the way down.

“Now you got me all worked up,” Alvin said. “And I'm stuck over here. I can't do anything.”

“What about the project, Alvin?” I said.

“What project? Why are you changing the subject?”

“Our joint project, the
visitor
project. Did you get the images yet?”

“Not really.”

“Does that mean no?”

“Yes.”

“Well, keep at it. It's important.”

“I have plenty to do here, Camilla. Lester and Pierre are no piece of cake. And Gussie ate something that didn't agree with him, and the cat won't come out from under the bed, and your sisters keep phoning all the time because they can't get you on your cell.”

“The damn thing doesn't work here. Tell them I'll call them when I get settled. Let them know I'm all right.”

“They were upset you left without telling them, and they seem really steamed because they don't know if you took the right clothes.”

“That's so far from anything I'm concerned about. Tell them I did. Make up something. Anything.”

“I have to tell you I'm really getting frustrated trying to find someone who served with Mrs. Parnell. It's not easy when I'm stuck here being a pet sitter and receptionist.”

“You're equal to the task, Alvin. I'm counting on you. Conn should be able to find out if there was a son. Call him right away.”

“There couldn't have been a son. Violet would have told us. Wouldn't she?”

“I think so too. I suppose there could have been a falling-out.

“She would never lose contact with her son.” Alvin sounded on the verge of hysterics. “Her son. Family.
Never.”

“Take a deep breath, Alvin. I can't imagine it being true. We still have to pursue it. People have seen this guy. Remember, he has a picture of her.”

“Do I have to call Conn? He's always rude to me.”

I glanced around. Everyone in the room was watching. I made no effort to keep my voice low when I said, “And in the event you do not hear from me, I am currently at the Bar-Hotel Natalia in Berli for the night. I have found the locals to be uncooperative and unresponsive. As if they are hiding something. It may be worth it to ask him to contact the Italian authorities.”

“As if,” Alvin said.

Was it my imagination, or did some of the shoulders shift? Did eyes meet? Did the proprietor turn away to hide the expression on her stumpy face? A woman at a nearby table stood up and began pacing not far from where I sat. To make her point, she stared at her watch, then glanced up at the wall clock. The international gesture for get the hell off the phone.

“Promise you'll do it, Alvin. I'll keep you posted. I have another call to make, and someone is waiting for the phone.”

I turned my face away from the woman, hung up and dialled Canada Direct again. My next call was to Ray Deveau. Not that it made any difference.

I got a busy signal at his home, most likely the result of having a teenager tying up both lines at once. Not the first time that had happened to me. There was no answer on his cell, so I tried his work number.

His message was clear. “This is Sergeant Ray Deveau. I will be away from my desk for the next two weeks. If this is an emergency, contact the main number. Otherwise leave a message.”

Well, thanks a lot. I slammed down the phone. Why the hell bother?

 

21 Frank Street
Chesterton, Ontario
December 20, 1945

Dear Vi,

It's my birthday today. I am writing again in the hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me, especially since there's not much to celebrate here. Betty calls herself Elizabeth now, as it's more suitable for a teacher. She walks right by me with her nose in the air. Well, she has the right nose for it, and she wasn't the easiest person to get along with before. Even so, I feel bad.

I miss you and wish you would answer my letters. We have been friends since we started school. I know that I betrayed your trust and our friendship just for idle chatter. I meant no harm. I was enjoying the idea of this officer pursuing you. I thought it would be fun if Harry was jealous. I will regret my foolish words all my life. Every single day I wish I could undo what has been done.

Mother is not at all well. Her cough is very worrying. I am afraid she'll end up in the San like so many other people. I am sure you knew that Harry's father's house burnt right to the ground. Mr. Jones was never the same after his wife died and Harry went overseas. He fell asleep with his pipe still lit. There's nothing left except the foundation. A lot of people turned out for the funeral. I wonder if people realize that the parents and families of those at home are also suffering and in some cases dying, perhaps of broken hearts. Even friends.

Oh, don't mind me! I know it must be much harder for you, even though I imagine you living in a castle somewhere and sipping champagne with officers and aristocrats. At least I got to see “The Bells of St. Mary's” at the Vogue.

Even though the war is over, perhaps you are not in a position to write yet. Whether you are or not, remember it is the Christmas season, a time for love and forgiveness. I hope you will find it in your heart to answer my letters.

Love always,

Hazel

P.S. Some lovely velvet hats have arrived at Adams' Ladies' Wear. Just in time for Christmas services!

F
ine.

It takes more than that to get rid of a MacPhee. I pulled myself together and went back to Canada Direct. I ignored the waiting woman, who had been tapping her pointed leather shoes. I tried Ray's cellphone again. I decided that it must say something for our developing relationship that I knew all these numbers by heart.

The customer I was trying to reach was not available.

“Why aren't you available, Ray? I'd really like to be able to talk to you. For the record, I am stuck in the fog in the mountain village of Berli. I have learned some bizarre things, and I would like to talk to you, even if you have decided to take your vacation by yourself. If you get this tonight, I am staying at the Bar-Hotel Natalia in room
Uno
.” I read out the telephone number and added, “Don't forget the country code for Italy. It's about eight our time, if you get this within the next few hours, I'll still be up. Tell the proprietor you want to speak to me, and I'll call you right back. I wish you were here, and not just because it's so goddam creepy.”

I surrendered the phone to the foot-tapper and looked for a table. Every shoulder in the place seemed to shift as I walked by. I found a spot in the corner, where I could observe things, and settled in to watch the locals and hope for the phone to ring. My competition didn't stay on it long. I figured she'd just wanted to annoy me, although I couldn't imagine why. I chose espresso rather than wine. Even so, my eyelids soon began to droop. By nine, which was only mid-afternoon Canadian time, I decided to leave the party.

I did my best to explain to the proprietor that I might get a call, and I would like to be informed, even if she had to wake me up.

She shrugged.

I asked for a wake-up call in an hour.

Double shrug.

I could tell my business was really important to her. I headed up the stairs to my room. I opened the door and looked around. It was as I'd left it. I flung myself on the amazing feather bed and conked out. So much for personal grooming and hygiene issues.

* * *

I was jerked out of sleep by a soft knock on the door.

I leapt up and stared around. It took a minute to figure out where I was, even if I had fallen asleep with the light on. I staggered to the door and yanked it open. I was expecting the bitchy proprietor to be standing there with her arms crossed and an expression like an executioner, telling me that I had a phone call. Instead, I faced the woman with the silver hair who had passed me in the fog.

I gawked at her wordlessly.

Finally, she said in English, “May I enter,
signora?”

I stood back to let her pass. She glanced into the corridor as if to check it was clear and slipped into the room.

I pointed to the chair. She sat on the chair, and I plunked myself on the rumpled bed and waited. I had no idea what to expect.

“My name is Orianna Preto. I live here in Berli,” she said.

“You speak English,” I said stupidly.

“Yes,” she said.

“You speak very well. Do you have cousins in Lethbridge?”

Of course, she looked surprised. “I spent many years working in England. I remember quite a bit of the language. It comes back when I need it.”

“That's great,” I said. “I'm having a lot of trouble expressing myself, and I need help.”

“I know,” she said. “You are looking for your grandmother. You knocked on my mother's door in the Ruella Cavour.”

“Yes. She was very kind. She offered me…”

She laughed.
“Un bicchiere
. A little glass of something.”

“Never mind, it was the first civil thing anyone in this town said to me. Why didn't you come to the door?”

“I live two houses further up. She called me to tell me about your visit. She was glad to see someone.”

“Two houses up? I knocked on that door too. The lights were on. You didn't answer.”

She gave me the national shrug. “My husband is away in Cremona this week. I am a woman alone, and a stranger was knocking at my door. I'm sure you understand.”

“Your mother answered.”

“She has always lived in Berli. She doesn't worry about crime or bad people. She's always been lucky.”

“She's very kind too.”

“A saint. She said you seemed very sad, and that she believed you really were who you said.”

I blinked. “Why wouldn't I be who I said I was?”

“We were told not to believe anyone who came looking for the other
signora
. We were told people would lie about who they were.”

I leaned forward. “Who on earth would tell you something like that?”

“Well, the
signora
did, herself.”

I jumped off the bed. “She's here!”

“Shh. She was. I believe she is gone.”

“And she told you not to believe…I don't get it.”

“My mother thinks it was not you she was speaking about.”

“Do you know who she was speaking about?” I said.

“She did not mention anyone in particular.”

“Someone's been following her. A man. And I'm sure she wouldn't have expected me to arrive from Canada.”

“My mother believed you were worried about your
nonna
. She believed your tears were sincere.”

“Is that why no one will speak to me here in this village? All I feel is hostility.”

“Yes. They think you mean the
signora
some harm.”

“What harm could I mean her? Let me explain: a few days ago, she had a shock. She thought she saw a dead man. She collapsed not long after, and the doctor thought she might have had a heart attack. She could die if she's not careful. In spite of this, she left Canada and made this sudden, mysterious trip to Italy. She needs medical treatment and observation, so you understand that I must find her. Plus there is a man claiming to be her son who is also following her. But she has no son.”

Her hand shot to her mouth. “That is frightening. Nobody in Berli would help him.”

“That's good. Now, do you know anything about her? About why she came here?”

“I will start at the beginning. She wanted to talk about the plane crash.”

“I'm sorry, what plane crash?”

“It was 1944. The Allies were flying missions over Italy. I was a child growing up in this village. The Germans were still in the mountains, they rounded up people. They were beginning to retreat to Germany. They forced skilled workers to travel with them. They shot villagers. They took our food. Everyone was terrified of the SS. They were known for brutal reprisals. In our village, a lot of men had deserted the army, and there were partisans hiding out all over these hills. They would attack Germans, sabotage trucks, that kind of thing. The SS would have reprisals, and villagers would be killed. It was very dangerous. The people in Berli did not want to attract the attention of the Germans.”

I nodded to her to continue.

“A plane crashed on the mountain, in a meadow a bit higher.”

“There's something higher than Berli?” I said. “Unbelievable.”

“Just grazing land. For goats.”

“Go on,” I said.

“I was only seven years old. I was in the pasture gathering sticks for firewood, and I came across the plane wreckage.”

“Did you know what it was?”

“Oh yes, of course, people had been whispering about seeing it smoking and falling from the sky. Everyone kept that secret, because of the Germans. We did not want the Germans searching our homes looking for injured Englishmen or Americans. They might have found our fathers and uncles who had deserted. Perhaps they would have raped the women, or they might just have taken everything we had to eat. It was such a terrible time.”

“I can only imagine. So you saw the downed plane?”

“I crept close to it. It was completely burnt out. The ground around it was burned. The wings had broken off and scattered. You could see the burned skeletons of the men inside. I still have nightmares after all these years.”

“What happened then?”

“I ran back to the village and told my father. He and a few other men came up all night and buried the wreckage. It would have been hard work, because the soil is very rocky here, but they didn't want the Germans to find it. They buried the bodies—they were just burned bones. They marked the spot. There wasn't much to be salvaged from the plane. People took the bits of metal; they were very useful. When the Germans left the area, the mayor sent word to the Allies. The plane was dug up, the soldiers were identified, as all their tags had been buried with them. Their bones were taken away to be buried in the military graveyard. That was the end of it. I suppose the families were notified. We still get family members here visiting the site from time to time.”

“That is what you told Mrs. Parnell, I mean, my grandmother?”

“Yes. That is what she came to find out. She talked to many people in our village. She drank sherry with them, and she smoked a lot of cigarettes. She talked about the war with the old men. Everyone liked her very much. She even spoke some Italian. Quite a bit more than you do.”

“That doesn't surprise me. So she wanted to talk about the plane. And she found out what she wanted to.”

“Well, this is what I need to tell you. I wasn't going to talk about it, because it was so long ago, and she seemed satisfied with what she heard. My mother is a good woman. She said I must go to her and tell her the truth.”

“And what truth was that?”

“The truth about the parachute.”

“There was a parachute?”

“Let me explain. I was just a child. I didn't even know what it was, this wonderful billowing white silky fabric. You must understand, we had nothing. The economy was devastated by the war. The Germans took the food from our kitchens. We barely had clothes on our backs at that point in the war. Some people didn't have shoes in the winter. I had never seen anything like that wonderful fabric. I wanted it. The men were dead, so it didn't matter to them. I gathered it up, and I hid it under some stones at the edge of the field. I wasn't foolish enough to hide it in the house because, if the Germans came, they would think we had something to do with the dead airmen. There was nothing we could do for them. I hid it, and I kept quiet, but I didn't forget it was there. When the war was over, I uncovered it, and my mother used it to make me a confirmation dress. That's how I learned to sew. My mother taught me. I made my living that way. The parachute never mattered until now. It was just one of those strange and tragic things that came out of that terrible time.”

“Of course, it did make a difference.”

“No one wanted to talk about these things at the time. I wasn't even supposed to know about the plane. After so many years, I never thought it would matter.”

“What did you tell my grandmother?”

“That I had found the parachute.”

“Which meant that someone must have parachuted before the crash. Did she ask you if there was a body found outside the plane?”

“Si
, she did ask. There wasn't.”

“So someone may have walked away from the downed flight.”

She shrugged. “Who can say? At the time, of course, no one spoke of such things to children. We couldn't be trusted not to blurt something out to the soldiers.”

“Point taken. What did she do after you told her about the parachute?”

“She was terribly shocked. She turned as white as your pillow case. She had to have a glass of sherry and rest. She closed her eyes. I admit I was worried. I thought I'd made a mistake by telling her.” Orianna bit her lip.

“Then did she leave Berli?” I had a horrible vision of Mrs. Parnell, brimming with sherry, pale with shock, plunging off the mountain road into the foggy night.

Orianna looked up again. “After she spoke to me, she returned to talk to all the old men of the village, and she asked them more questions.”

“And do you know what they said?”

“I do not. I was not there. I have told you everything I know,
signora
.”

* * *

Orianna left without revealing anything else, although she had given me plenty to chew on. It was nearly midnight; the bar was closed, so there was no way of dragging anything else out of anyone. The crabby
signora
had vanished into her personal accommodations, most likely to polish her own possessions. Fog swathed the street. I offered to drive Orianna home. She laughed at the idea.

“I think this short trip will be much more dangerous in a car. We might end up in someone's
salotto
. There's nothing much to worry about. I can't see anyone in this fog, and no one can see me.”

She had a point.

I accompanied her halfway home, then walked quickly back. Naturally, I was wide awake, no doubt because of a combination of the provocative information she had given me, the creepy quality of the fog, and the fact that, by my body clock, it was still late afternoon.

There had been no message from Ray. What kind of day was he having that he couldn't pick up the phone?

I navigated the tables in the empty bar to the public phone.

This time, I reached Ray's home answering machine on the first ring. I suppose that was an improvement. I left a message. He still didn't answer his cell.

I looked around the bar. In the pale light from the hallway, it was a ghostly place. The bistro-style chairs had been upturned on tables for ease of sweeping. In the gloom, they took on a menacing look. When had I turned into such a wuss? I jumped once, when I thought I saw someone sitting in the corner, but it was a merely a stack of chairs. A trick of the light.

I was well and truly stuck. There was no one to talk to. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go in the goddam fog. At the same time, I had plenty to worry about. Who was the man who was following Mrs. Parnell? Had he found her? What did he want? Where had she gone next? And most important, would she end up with a full-blown heart attack on her own in Italy, maybe even behind the wheel on a winding mountain road.