Lambrusco (10 page)

Verdi's face grew pinched with a whole new level of disapproval. “But it's only a fairy tale. Don't you know there's a war on? It's inappropriate for a war. Stop it at once.”

“A fairy tale? No, no, no, no,” said Rossini. “It's solidly grounded in real life. My Cinderella is a girl of astonishing dimensions. Most importantly, she's not doomed. I pity your narrow-mindedness and lack of imagination.”

Verdi looked ready to explode. “No one pities Verdi!” he cried.

“I'll stop humming now,” said Puccini. “My throat's a wreck. I just want to say to you, Signora Fantini, I was disappointed when you didn't play the role of Tosca for those
nazifascisti,
on that terrible night when you were called on to serenade them. All the same, you were very Sicilian about it. You were resilient, and you did what you had to, and you were highly successful with that last song, even though it wasn't mine.”

“It was mine,” said Rossini. “It couldn't be otherwise. And it wasn't on the list they gave her.”

Rosina, I remembered.

All those soldiers. The cooks with their ears stuffed up.

Uniforms, leather, boots, guns, the smells of scented colognes and shaving lotions. And a poster of Mussolini's face on the wall, bigger than life size, all doughy and jowly in a tight-fitting black helmet, as though the helmet had taken the place of his skull. I had promised myself when I first walked in that I wouldn't look at it carefully, but then I did. You won't win in the end, I'd thought. You big coward. Under that stupid iron hat of yours, your bones are as weak as a sparrow's.

The Barber of Seville.

I'd felt Rosina take possession of me. I'd felt that her lines were advice, which I'd decided to follow. If you touch me in my weak spot…

I'll sharpen my wits.

I'll be a viper.

I'll devise a hundred snares.

I'll never give up
.

“I sang badly that night,” I said. “I sang like an amateur. I sang with less than half of my strength.”

“Badly on purpose doesn't count. They didn't know. That is the essence of a Fascist.” Saying this, Rossini leaned in more closely to me, taking hold of both my hands. Puccini came over to the window seat and touched me lightly on the side of my face.

Poor Verdi. He seemed to be feeling left out. He looked like he needed some sympathy.

“I wear white when I sing you,” I told him. “Or silver. It's a sign of my respect. Customers tip generously when it's you—that's a fact. When I sing the dying song of Violetta, everyone weeps, even our head cook, who, believe me, is tougher than nails.”

“Excuse me for changing the subject, but I wish I could hear you sing right now, Signora Fantini,” whispered Rossini.

“I'm sorry, but I'm very far away from my voice.”

“Perhaps another time. However, I don't know when we'll meet again, so I must tell you something. It breaks my heart to think that of everyone you know, the only person who doesn't know that you are beautiful is yourself. What's the matter with you?”

“Oh, be quiet,” I said. “You embarrass me.”

“Tips and weeping in a restaurant!” cried Verdi. “On top of being the favorite of Fascists! I've got to do something about this!
Bella, ciao,
I must hurry! I have things to do! I am Verdi!”

He was incredibly loud. His big, deep voice set off echoes that seemed to come at me from all directions.

Now I was alone. The slant of my body was shifting. The earth was moving. What had happened to the music?

The new sound in my ears alarmed me. Was this a landslide?

It was raining rocks and pebbles and loose bits of gravelly earth. In the distance was the sound of thunder, and it seemed that Verdi must have left me to go up to the top of a mountain, white with clouds and snow, where he was flinging his bolts at the earth, just like Zeus.

The grayness in the sky wasn't twilight. It was smoke.

Then suddenly those voices again. Closer.

“Lucia, I've got your hand. Hold on.”

“Careful, careful.”

“Lucia, you're a mess and your clothes are ruined, but at least you're not dead, not that I thought so. It's a good thing we're near the shrine to the saint here, because he's the one who protected us. Etto Renzetti's all right. He's right here. He came looking for us from the cave when we didn't turn up like we were supposed to. All of San Guarino is hiding in that cave! Had I told you that? Before the bombing, they had a feeling it was coming! Who knew carpenters could be fortunetellers? Etto's factory exploded, which I think he told you already. It exploded along with most of this town! I'm not speaking to your American golfer. I refuse to even look at her, because
Americans were the ones who did it.
”

“Signora Fantini, can you hear me? It is I, Etto Renzetti! I lost everything I had, but your ordeal is over! Here we are to set you free!”

T
ALKING AND TALKING
and talking, the three waiters began laying out supper on the grassy floor of the grove.

The cypress trees were still standing. The grove was intact. It was still called the Saint's Grove, and it was still the special province of Guarino Guarini, even though, as Etto Renzetti explained, the shrine had been moved to the church in a nearby village some fourteen or fifteen years ago, when the station was being built. The people of San Guarino had felt that the racket of trains would be unsuitable to the memory of such a quiet, contemplative man.

But the nearby village had been bombed, too. The people of San Guarino who'd gone into hiding felt too afraid to come home. The roads were a mess—debris, fallen trees, household objects everywhere, battered, unrecognizable.

A stillness was in the air. Not the slightest breath of wind was stirring.

The three waiters had come on bicycles: Cesare Morigi, Cenzo Ballardini, Ermanno Vizioli. They carried guns. They'd put it out of their minds that Italians on bicycles were
verboten.
They had not met Germans along the way.

Talking, talking, talking. They didn't know where Beppi was. They hadn't been told about blowing up the German truck ahead of time. Who knew that Beppi could keep anything to himself? All his life, he'd never been able to keep a secret. A secret to him was like accidentally picking up a piece of charcoal you thought was cold, then you felt a sensation of red-hot burning.

He'd given no warning of his plan, no hint. It was a totally covert operation, and they didn't give a damn if Beppi had meant it as a birthday present for Aldo.

When they found him, honest to God, they and all the rest of the squad planned to break his goddamn neck for leaving them out of it. If there happened to be a barrel of water at hand, or better, a barrel of piss—sorry to sound offensive—they were going to put his head in it, his whole head.

Nizarro had ordered the squad to separate. The three of them were sticking together, just as they'd always done in the restaurant.

They didn't know where anyone was, not counting Nizarro, who had the radio; they'd left him about an hour ago. Nizarro was on his way to Mengo to my house, no, not for the supper that wasn't going to happen, but merely to check it, from a safe distance, to see what was what. No one thought Beppi would have been stupid enough to try to hide at home, but it was reasonable to suppose that Germans had gone there. It was not a good idea to dwell on worries of what they might have been doing.

Nizarro had been in radio contact with Carmella Pattuelli. She'd given instructions on what to do with us in San Guarino. She knew what had happened. “I think this might be a good time for a picnic, especially if the grove, which I always loved, is still there,” she had said. It wasn't a coded phrase, but it sounded like one.

A picnic in the trees, the pretty grove, a good time for it, yes indeed…

I tried hard to imagine those words as part of a song. It didn't work.

The three waiters didn't know if Carmella would join us, with or without Mauro. But it was probable, seeing as how their children had arrived already. The younger ones had somehow managed to keep those white clothes clean.

They were safe, they were fine, all nine: Marco, fourteen, their
capo,
head and shoulders above the rest of them and obviously thinking himself a man already; Francesca, a year younger, a real tomboy, and with her sharp eyes and quick tongue, she was the brains of that particular squad; the first twins Mario and Sandro, twelve and roly-poly, who not only were identical, but resembled their father so much, you could call them two more Mauros; Rudino, eleven, skinny and agile, with a slingshot in his hand and a homemade bow on his shoulder, along with sticks for arrows poking out of his belt; Antonella, eight, the graceful one, who wore her hair in two long braids and liked to walk on tiptoe, as if she fancied herself a ballerina; the second twins, Alda and Lucianna, seven, the honorary Fantinis, full of hell and in trouble every minute, but also a little aloof, a little formal, and it was true they had a special sort of brightness in their eyes, and a lustrous, unusual shine to their skin, like two apples scooped up from a dusty pile and polished; and then of course there was the baby, Giuseppina, five, a cherub, in spite of the way she had her father's sad-clown face.

Oh, that Beppina! She was a joy, a princess, a good-luck charm—but all the same, God help her if she grew up to be anything like the pain in the ass she'd been named for, no offense intended.

“You're not telling me anything I don't already know.” Those were the first words I'd said since I entered the grove.

I lay on my side, with my knees bent up, on the backseat of Ugo's car, against the tree trunk where the statue of the saint used to be. The seat was the only part of the car that survived in one piece, although some of the leather had been charred, and reeked of burning. For a blanket, I had the long dress of Annmarie's habit. Etto Renzetti's jacket, smelling of wood and the factory, had been fashioned into a pillow.

Etto Renzetti. I
knew
he'd show up, as crazy as it seemed. The one non-Fascist Italian I'd wished never to lay eyes on again.

There were bird's-feet wrinkles around his eyes, his hair was thinner and less greased-down, and he had two gold teeth now—business must have been good. Other than that, he looked the same as he had all those years ago.

“Here, Lucia, let me fix my coat for you to rest your head on.”

His face close to mine. Speaking to me gently, softly. Not making me feel that he burned me, like before. Making me feel that he wanted to warm me.

“You're injured, I know. I'll be brief. Do you remember the day Beppino was lost and we even looked in the well for him? I know you must remember. I know your distress, not knowing where he is, although you're being so careful not to show it. Distress is too mild of a description, I know. Myself, a bachelor, childless, being married to my factory, I can only imagine your state of mind. He might be lost at the moment, but the outcome will be the same, I swear to you, although I can't guarantee he'll be found on his back in some bushes, happy as anything, dreaming about becoming a carpenter, like Jesus. Let me say also, when they dropped their bombs on my factory, I shed no tears. The moment tears poured from my eyes—tears of
joy
—was when we pulled you out from those stones, and saw that you were very much alive.”

I hadn't been pretending not to hear him when I didn't answer. I had not been able to speak.

But it felt good to hear Sicilian. It felt good to turn my face into that pillow.

And the waiters kept talking, soothingly, professionally, expertly.

Remarkable children! They'd decided on their own that the curse on San Guarino had come to an end, and the Pattuelli banishment was over, seeing as how, more or less, San Guarino wasn't here any longer. There was plenty of food for them, if they ever came indoors from their first-ever golf lesson.

Indoors. As if this were a house we'd all moved into.

Don't worry! They were safe out there, swinging sticks at rocks where the train station used to be. Wasn't that a great thing about the aftermath of bombardments? A peacefulness sets in.

Yes, the golfer was out there teaching them golf. There were plenty of holes in the ground now, to hit their little stones into. And they were learning new words:
putt, bogey, birdie.
The waiters didn't know what the first two meant, but the third was
uccellino,
little bird. Whether or not it was a good thing to have in golf, they didn't know.

But really, it didn't make sense to resent Annmarie Malone for what her countrymen had done. She was a good one. She was a soldier, not a pilot, and—not to be vulgar about it—she had balls.

And what about that dinner at Aldo's not even a week ago, part of the
nazifascisti
program of inviting nuns and priests to eat with them? Not that they included Enzo, of course.

Wasn't it something that the golfer, as a nun, had made friends with a secretly partisan convent in Riccione, right near Mussolini's summer villa? It was the reason she came to Romagna in the first place!

So they all went to Aldo's on a Fascist bus, that whole convent, and the golfer came away with the thing she'd gone there to steal: a map of German mines on the shore from Rimini to Bellaria. Well, with the Americans getting interested in taking hold of the beaches, naturally, it would help out a lot to know where, and where not, to put down one's feet.

But surely the American had described all of that to me?

I didn't answer. I was listening carefully, though.

From within the grove the outside world could not be seen. The trees were like a wall without windows, and the open part of the semicircle faced a pale, shadowy hayfield, undamaged.

The three waiters went about their business as though they were back in the restaurant laying out a table. The Triumvirate, Beppi called them. To everyone but Beppi, they were Cesare, Zoli, and Cenzo.

Beppi was partial to Cenzo, whom he loved as a relative—an uncle, perhaps. But to cover it up and not seem to play favorites, he'd combined their names into one, and used it for each of them:
Cesarezolicenzo.

They weren't related by blood, but they were pretty much the same age, in their early fifties. They had formed their own subgroup a long time ago.

Zoli, the son of Marcellina's now-despised old friend who'd spoken so awfully to her at Aldo's funeral, was a round-faced, sunny-natured man, and he knew how to make customers feel that the only reason he ever got out of bed in the morning was to serve them, charmingly and gracefully.

Cesare, white-haired and lion-like, had a strong, lovely voice—he was an amateur baritone. He sang at church and sometimes at wedding receptions, accompanied by his wife, if a piano was there.

Cenzo Ballardini was stocky, muscular, gruff, and growly, and the husband of the egg dealer Assunta. Before the war, she'd never slaughtered her chickens, but treated them as if they contained in their feathers a soul and a personality. She gave them pet names, let them die of old age or their own diseases, and buried them in the back of her yard. “My ladies,” she called them.

I tried to look kindly on Cenzo because of Beppi's affection for him. Maybe he had a reason to be rough with the world, and so did Assunta—who in fact was shy and gentle, his very opposite.

They never complained about this, or seemed to feel sorry for themselves, but they only had one child, a daughter, Pia, close to thirty, who'd never been to school, but had always stayed at home, and was likely to stay there forever. The poor girl was sweet and pretty, but she'd been born as deaf as a nail, and mute as well. She might have been—no one knew for sure—a little feeble in the mind.

“Cesare-zoli-cenzo,”
I said to myself, hoping I'd hear it echo in my head, song-like. It didn't.

I tried to enter into the spirit of the picnic, but that didn't happen, either. The provisions came from the Pattuelli pantry. I had the feeling the three waiters must have emptied it. They had filled their bicycle baskets and their pockets: salami, ham,
mortadella,
cheese, biscuits, bread, cakes of roasted polenta, jars of olives and pickled artichokes, tins of anchovies, wine, water, and two of Aldo's large-table tablecloths, which, they pointed out, had been confiscated by Carmella Pattuelli.

They'd spread the tablecloths side by side on the grass, covering nearly every inch of it, as if the point of a picnic was to make sure that no part of the earth came in contact directly with one's body.

All along, Ugo sat alone by the opening of the grove. He looked like someone who'd been praying on his knees but had given up the position and sat back on his heels. His expression was perfectly blank, as if he were asleep with wide-open eyes.

“
Dottore,
please,” the waiters implored him. They took turns addressing him. “Talk to us. Tell us what sort of car you'll buy next. Tell us how you knew to get out of it before the bombs hit.”

“The American commanded me to jump out, and I obeyed her.” Ugo seemed to answer the question only because he knew they'd keep asking it. His voice was flat, not like his own at all.

He'd feel better, Marcellina had told me, if he were reunited with his medical bag, which had been within reach his entire life as an adult. She'd been so upset about that. She'd felt that it might have been the same to Ugo as if he'd lost a part of his hand.

She and Etto had gone outdoors to search for it. Marcellina believed they'd find the bag in perfect condition in a pile of rubble or car parts, for certainly God, through the intercession of Guarino Guarini, would have spared it. And while they were at it, they'd look for my purse, and the guns that were no longer in my coat pockets.

The Lugers, saved in the shopping bag with the nun's habit, were in the possession of Annmarie, which had appalled Marcellina. “How are we supposed to know she won't use them on us? I don't care if she insists they're not loaded. I'll never trust an American again.”