The Incident at Montebello (2 page)

Mussolini clamped his hand on the millionaire's knee. “What's one life in the affairs of a State?”

“But it's a child.”

Mussolini rammed the accelerator and Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr. gripped the dashboard. Underneath his fawn kid gloves, the knuckles of the shocked millionaire were most definitely white.

When they heard the wail of the brakes and the screams, the policemen ran, reaching the children ahead of the fruit seller. The barefoot boys weren't hurt, but the girl in the blue dress was sprawled in the road, her legs crushed, her blood seeping across the cobblestones.

Officer Pullucca wrapped Sofia in his jacket and carried her to Dottore di Matteo's, and Officer Pazzarini followed him with the boys cradled in each arm. The streets were hushed. Even the dogs were quiet, sniffing the air, their ears flat against their skulls.

“Santa Maria!” the doctor's maid cried, making the sign of the cross when she opened the door and saw the boys crying for their mother, and Sofia, so still—her skin smeared with grease and dirt, her curls matted with blood. “
Che disastro
. The doctor is visiting a patient in Grappone and won't be back until suppertime.”

Officer Pullucca's legs were weakening. He imagined the child's mother sewing in innocent silence in her dress shop, and how in one horrible moment her peace and contentment would shatter. “Tell the doctor to hurry,” he said, his voice rising. “Tell him Sofia was hit by a car and left in the road like a wounded animal. Tell him we know who's to blame.”

Officer Pazzarini cut him off. “These children need their mothers,” he said, his eyes flashing a warning. And so, after a long pause, the men trudged down the Via Condotti.

Through the trees Isolina saw it all—the car roaring towards the children, her cousin's foolish dash towards the road, the blast of the horn as the fender smacked against Sofia's legs, jerking her forward and trapping her under the grill. Long after the car sped away, Sofia's screams cut through the stillness. Swaying, Isolina fell to her knees, her head bowed. “Dear God,” she whispered. “Dear God.”

When she looked up, the policemen were carrying the children away and the fruit seller was left standing in the middle of the road, smeared with blood. Yanking his cap off his head, he rubbed the brim between his fingers. When a cry escaped from her mouth, he turned and squinted in her direction, but she could only stare at him, her eyes filling with tears, her knuckles pressed against her mouth. Tiberio slipped the cap on his head and strode towards her, shoving her deeper into the woods.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, but he said nothing until they reached the stream.

In a hoarse whisper, he told her, “You didn't see it.”

“But I did, Tiberio. I wish I hadn't. But I did.”

“No, you didn't,” he repeated. “It's too dangerous. Do you understand me?”

She nodded.

“Now go home. Take the back way through the trees, so no one sees you.”

She hesitated, but he pushed her towards the grassy slope where moments before she was stretched out with Rodi, where moments before her heart quickened with happiness.

Isolina staggered down the crooked streets, cut by shadows. Her house on the Via Condotti, usually a jumble of inefficiency filled with shouting boys, steaming pots, and her mother's prayers for divine mercy, was oddly hushed. Her heart pounding, she headed further down the street to Sofia's house, jammed with relatives, neighbors, policemen, and the priest. Looking grim, her father and uncles stood by the door, caps in hand. Isolina's mother Amelia was already wailing, but her grandmother silenced her with a few sharp words.

Amelia grabbed Isolina's sleeve. “Where were you? You were supposed to be watching the children. Your brothers are all right, thank God, but your cousin Sofia…” She broke off, tears falling.

Isolina remembered Tiberio's warning and lowered her eyes. “I'm sorry mamma, but I fell asleep by the stream. When I woke up, the children were gone.”

Her grandmother stood next to Amelia like a big shadow. She was dressed in black, as always, and a silver cross slid back and forth across her chest like a finger raised in warning not to do this or that as if she were still teaching school. “Sleep? How could you sleep? Those children are never quiet,” Nonna Angelina said.

Isolina lifted her chin, meeting Nonna Angelina's gaze. “The sun was so warm I couldn't keep my eyes open.” Nonna Angelina's lips were pressed together in a disbelieving line, but Isolina stuck to her story even though her lies made her queasy with guilt.

“God is punishing us,” Amelia said, shaking her head. Wiry hairs escaped from her topknot, which slid to the left and right. “I dreamt last night my teeth were falling out and everyone knows that's a bad sign. But I didn't say a word to anyone. Who would believe me? But look, it's come true.”

Years before, Amelia had sacrificed her prettiness and youth for her boys, all six of them, and Isolina, the oldest. Even though she was expecting another child in a few months, her squat, plump body looked no different to Isolina.

Edging past a throng of women murmuring about Sofia's misfortune and the evil eye, Isolina glimpsed her cousin, so pale and lifeless, stretched out on the kitchen table and her Aunt Lucia mechanically stroking Sofia's curls. Her steps slowed and then stopped as her eyes darted over Sofia, her spine crushed by the wheels, her leg bones snapped like kindling, her skin ripped raw and bloody by the gravel and rocks. Even her dress with the Peter Pan collar, which Lucia had lovingly embroidered with daisies, was in tatters. Tremors rattled through Isolina, climbing up her legs and through her chest, so she could barely squeeze out, “Zia Lucia.”

When Lucia's eyes finally swept over her, Isolina kissed her on both cheeks, but Lucia treated her like a stranger. “My daughter needs me,” she said, before turning away, her beautiful face frozen in grief.

Hours passed. Word came that the doctor was delayed in Grappone.

“Do something,” Lucia begged the midwife. So, Cecilia Zanotti, who doubled as the town witch, chanted a spell and slipped the powerful
cimaruta
charm around Sofia's neck. Not to be outdone, the priest lit a candle and read from the Book of Job. Afterwards, Isolina's relatives murmured among themselves, arguing whether their preferred method of treatment—prayer or sorcery—was more effective.

Still, Sofia's lips were fading. Isolina didn't have her mother's faith. She was quite certain only a miracle would save her cousin and God wasn't likely to grant her one. She gripped Amelia's sleeve. “She's going to die, mamma, if we don't do something.”

“Pray,” Amelia replied, pulling out her rosary. Her fingers climbed the beads as if they were rungs on a ladder leading to heaven.

Fear and hopelessness caught in Isolina's throat. She could do nothing to save Sofia and this horrified her as much as her guilt. Her mind leapt back to just hours before when Sofia was playing in a pool of sunshine on the dress shop floor. When she had grown tired of drawing pictures and designing outfits for her doll with strips of cloth, she climbed into Isolina's lap, fingered the ribbon tied to Isolina's braid and brushed it against her cheek. Even now, Isolina could still see her curls, big brown eyes and mouth that was petal pink and rarely stopped moving. And she could almost feel the weight and warmth of her and inhale the scent of her hair, which smelled as fresh as summer grass. “Play with me,” Sofia had begged, but in a fit of impatience, Isolina pushed her off her lap. “Can't you see how much work your mamma and I have to do?” she said, ignoring Sofia's mouth scrunched into a knot.

Isolina choked back a cry and took refuge in the parlor amidst Lucia's collection of alabaster angels poised on the mantel and leather-bound books in French, containing suspicious ideas and romantic foolishness, according to Nonna Angelina who used them as evidence that Lucia couldn't be trusted.

By the fireplace, one of the policemen was whispering to the priest, who nodded, his black
berretta
quivering on his bald head. As she walked closer, she heard the policeman say, “That big shot from Roma has no heart. How else could he leave a child to die like a dog in the middle of the road?”

She didn't have a chance to puzzle over this for long because the priest caught sight of her and murmured to the officer, “This is best saved for the confessional.” He grasped her by the shoulders and said, “How unfortunate Sofia was in your care when she was hurt.”

She swiped away tears, but others followed, running down her cheeks. Padre Colletti handed her the handkerchief tucked into his sleeve. As she wiped her eyes, she told him, “It's my fault,
padre
. And I can't do anything to help her.”

“Of course you can, dear child. A wise person turns to the Lord in a time of need. He's a balm to all wounds. He soothes the soul, even the most troubled one.”

Isolina nodded, her throat squeezed tight.

At last, the doctor arrived, handing his imperious hat to Nonna Angelina who ordered everyone from the kitchen except Lucia, of course, and Isolina, who was given the task of boiling water and making bandages. Working fast with a pair of scissors, she slashed a pillowcase into strips, but her eyes flickered over Sofia, naked and shivering on the table, and her aunt scrutinizing the doctor who pressed leeches on Sofia's arms.

Lucia stopped him. “Won't that weaken her?” she asked, startling the doctor whose authority was rarely questioned—at least to his face.

“Of course not,” he explained. “It's advantageous to bleed the patient to eradicate the bad blood.”

“But she's lost a lot of blood already,” Lucia said.

“I suggest you stick to sewing clothes,
signora.
It's what you know best.”

“It's just common sense.”

Dottore di Matteo reached for his bag. “In that case, I'll leave her in your care.”

Nonna Angelina touched his arm and Isolina flinched, dreading what was coming next. Her grandmother was about to deliver one of her blunt opinions—which she dispensed often and with great satisfaction. She told the butcher he didn't know how to debone a chicken. She told the baker his oven was too hot. She told the priest to add organ music to his Sunday services so he'd draw a bigger crowd. But the doctor was different. For years he had treated her for a variety of ailments, real and imagined, and she greatly respected his erudition and skill. “My daughter-in-law is in shock,” she insisted. “She doesn't know what she's saying. Without a doubt, you're the finest doctor in the South.”

That might not be far from the truth. Isolina knew only one other physician practicing within fifty kilometers and he was a drunk.

“I know perfectly well what I'm saying,” Lucia said, but Nonna Angelina silenced her with a fierce whisper.

“You can be sure my son is going to hear about this.”

Everyone in town knew that for the past four years Nonna Angelina and her son Donato exchanged letters nearly every day between Montebello and Boston. To his wife Lucia, he wrote considerably less.