Lambrusco (20 page)

“Captured,” I said to myself. It wasn't like “Adalgisa.” It wasn't only a word.

“We just need to check,” said Geppo. “I'm sure we'll find someone who's willing to help partisans by way of information. This town is small. If the Germans have prisoners, everyone will know. There's nothing to worry about. We want you to go back down this hill the same way we came up. There's a hollow and plenty of bushes. You'll be safer there.”

“Come daybreak, even a sparrow wouldn't be protected in these trees,” said Roncuzzi. “But no doubt we'll be back to you before daybreak.”

“No doubt!” said Geppo.

It seemed that the plan had been formed already, without me.

“We'll leave Lido with you,” said Roncuzzi. His jacket was wool. He'd given it to me. The sleeves were much longer than my arms. Just because I couldn't see my hands didn't mean they weren't there.

“I'll protect you,” said Lido. His sigh of relief was so enormous, it seemed to stir some low-hanging leaves, like a breeze.

Prisoner. That wasn't just a word, either. I pushed myself away from the peach tree. I tried to not feel dizzy, like I was seasick. I tried to feel strong, like Folco.

“I'm a tower,” I said to myself.

“But you might want Lido with us, as three of us will be better than two, down there,” said Geppo. “One of us can cause a distraction, if necessary, and the other two can start looking around.”

“You could benefit from the experience,” Roncuzzi said to Lido.

Lido stamped his foot and put his hand on his hip, petulantly, like a little boy. “I've had experience! I was already involved in a distraction!”

“No, you weren't. It didn't come to fruition,” said Geppo.

Poor Lido. The shape of his arm, with his elbow poking out from his body, was called a triangle. It was a basic geometric form. “Mama, men who have restaurants don't have to study geometry. Why do you make me? Why do you torture me like this?”

Other forms were called square, circle, and rectangle.

The zodiac was a circle.

The sky was a rectangle, more or less. Or maybe one should call it a cube.

It wasn't as if I weren't able to keep my mind occupied with important things. If I insisted they bring me with them, they'd let me come; I knew that. But I'd never be able to keep up with them.

“Tell us what to do, Lucia,” said Geppo. “We think you can make it down the hill, as wounded as you are, or we wouldn't have suggested it.”

“Aquarius,” I said to myself. “Pisces, Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn. There are twelve. Just like the months of the year.”

My own sign was Pisces. Aldo was a Scorpio. Aldo, that son of a bitch, where was he? I would have appreciated his help. Maybe there was a good reason why he wasn't available. Maybe he was with Beppi. Maybe he had his hands full, protecting our son. Not even a ghost could be in two places at once.

Wasn't there a song about the zodiac? Somewhere far back in my mind, a few notes of a tune started up, lightly, not played by an instrument but hummed by a man's voice. Whispery.

Aries was the Ram. Beppi was an Aries. “Mama, change my birthday. I want to be a Scorpion like Papa.”

Three of them looking for him would be better than two. I didn't need protection.

“Take Lido with you,” I said. “I'll be fine.”

I didn't look at his face in the moonlight. This was no time to feel the fear of another person. If Beppi was down there, Lido might be the one to find him! It would give him confidence.

I didn't tell them that I couldn't remember the way we'd come up the hill. What hollow?

“Good luck,” I said. “I'll be waiting.”

I hadn't forgotten what I wore. I was military. I knew how to give myself orders. I could talk to myself like a commander. “Don't worry! Don't feel wobbly, don't feel sick, don't
throw up,
as there's been quite enough of that already. The zodiac is still there, holding everything together, same as always. No one shot it apart, and tonight, this is true, the stars are on your side. The whole zodiac is on your side. You have allies. Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're not there!”

I
'D BEEN ASLEEP.
It had been a strange one, as if I'd thudded into it, like walking into a wall. No dreams.

My eyes were open. Looking up. I wasn't surprised to find myself outdoors.

“
Salve,
Signora Fantini. Or perhaps I should say
buongiorno,
as we're well on the way to dawn. I've heard a lot about you,” said Enrico Caruso.

His head was high, against a brightening sky. He had come to a stop in front of me with a long-handled, two-wheeled cart. It was the type of cart that was usually attached to a bicycle.

Odd to see it pulled by a person. Especially that one.

“I've heard a lot about you, too, naturally. I recognized you right away,” I answered.

“Is that so? Did she show you a photograph?”

I nodded, although I'd no idea what he meant by “she.” Who wouldn't have recognized him? His face was marvelously large and expressive, and his eyebrows were very distinctive—they were longer than most men's, reaching all the way to the bottom of each eye. Also, there was that unmistakable cleft in the chin. I'd read somewhere that it was said to be the thumbprint of the God of Tenors, put there at the great Caruso's birth.

It was obvious, by the way he was dressed, that he was on his way to, or coming from, a performance, not in a recording studio but onstage. I recognized the costume: homespun, loose-fitting white shirt, with the top buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of his chest. Over it was a long, dark, wool vest. He wore high-topped boots, with trousers tucked into them tightly, showing off a pair of strong thighs.

Cavalleria rusticana.
He was the hot-blooded Sicilian, Turiddu, and what was Turiddu's mother's name? Lucia. The coincidence was stunning.

He said, “May I offer you a ride to the home of some people you can trust? They're new friends of mine, the Galimberti family, and they're not far off. I hope you're not getting agitated about the name, as you'll be calling to mind the fact that, the last time you saw a few of the boys, they were attempting to rob your family's restaurant, unfortunately while you were singing, for which I'm sure they'll offer their apologies. They told me all about it. I know your son was distressed that they managed to disentangle themselves from his grasp, make a getaway, and remain at liberty. In their favor, they came away empty-handed, and they had quite enjoyed your voice.”

I didn't remember anything about thieves at Aldo's, or anyone called Galimberti.

“I fell,” I said. “I was coming down the hill, and I fell. That's why I'm on the ground like this.”

“We saw you.”

“I was looking for peaches.”

“With your friends. We know. May I ask you to go easy on the Galimberti boys? I only mention it because, as you'll find out yourself, they're not in good shape. When those Germans on the other side of the hill passed through this area, they found it necessary to act like roughnecks. The Galimbertis put up a good defense. They're good boys, in spite of their criminal tendencies.”

“I'd like somewhere to rest, if you don't mind. I'm very tired.”

“I'm going to help you.”

“I feel lucky you found me,” I said.

“So do I!”

He beamed at me in the moonlight—moonlight combined with almost-sunlight. What was it Puccini had said when Caruso had shown up to sing to him one day? Someone, some enterprising voice broker, had arranged an audition. It must have been around 1900. At the sound of Caruso's voice—young, then, and raw and pure and astonishing—Puccini had dramatically gone through the motions of someone who'd been knocked on the head by a thunderbolt. He'd made a big show of falling off his chair, and he'd cried out, crouching on the floor, “I understand too well who it was who sent you to me! It was God Himself!”

Poor Caruso. He must have been terrified, going before Puccini like that. He was barely educated. He was a boy of Naples, impoverished, the son of a drunkard. A hick. How had he worked up the nerve?

I felt I now shared something important with Puccini. But I wouldn't say it was God who'd sent Caruso to me. I'd say it was my
lucky stars.
I'd say it was the whole zodiac.

A song. I felt myself reaching for it. I was certain I hadn't learned it when I was young. It wasn't Sicilian. What was it?

The spot at the bottom of the hill where I'd landed was some sort of trench, like a canal without water. The ground was hard-packed, cold, bare. I had managed to arrange my body so that my head was resting against the slope. One leg was tucked under me and the other was at an angle, poking up from the trench. I didn't recall having fallen. I'd only said so because I was sure I hadn't chosen this position consciously.

Caruso reached into a pocket of his trousers and took something out. A tube, like an ointment container.

“Look what I have,” he said quietly. “From the Galimbertis, who found it in an American parachute drop. It's no compensation for all the bombs, I know, but it's useful.”

I didn't care what he had. I wanted to tell him about the song. I was trying so hard to remember it.

The belt that holds the belly of the sky.

Aquarius, Pisces, Aries. Beppi. Something to do with Beppi.

“It's called, in English, a
syrette,
” said Caruso.

Oh, the tube. A syrette. He must have picked up the word when he was in America. He'd been there for so many years. It was nice to know he hadn't picked up an accent. He didn't sound American. Aldo used to say it was shocking to listen to Italians who'd been there—been there and then returned. Their vowels became corrupted, and worse, the music went out of their words, which was something to watch out for, like New York thieves, traffic, bad shoes, all sorts of vulgarities.

He had wanted so much to live in America. The Metropolitan Opera House, he had felt, would become our second home. American audiences would throw American flowers at me. They would love me as they loved Caruso.

How many recordings of Caruso's did I own? I didn't know. Beppi counted them once. A high number. How many were duplicates? How many were Italian-made? How many had Aldo bought by mail from New York? I used to know all those numbers.

“When I was younger, I almost went to America to sing,” I said.

“I would have gone out of my way to hear you, if you had, although Italy would have suffered from your loss. Look, a small needle comes with this. For the injection. It's clever, don't you think?”

Maybe I'd have sung the zodiac song in New York. A man was in it. A hero, larger than life-size, striding through the night sky, all night long, with some sort of weapon in his hand. Moon, sun. Folco's hill.

A mosaic. On the floor. Old. The part of my mind that was my memory kept delivering things—pieces of things—that needed to be put together. I was just like the old-time mosaic makers. It was an art. On the floor, Roman faces, clothes, a fish. What floor?

“Is this place Folcore?” I said.

“We're outside of it,” Caruso answered. “You've been injured, and now you'll have to trust me,
va bene
?”

He fiddled with the tube, never taking his eyes off me.

“I think you're supposed to do this on a bare upper arm, but I'm sure you wouldn't want me to ask you to take off this jacket and roll up your sleeve for me. Am I right about that?”

What was he talking about now? “Are you cold?” I said, concerned. “Do you want my jacket?”

“No, no, although it might fit me. It's a man's, yes?”

“I don't know.”

“This may pinch.”

He crouched down and leaned toward me. He took hold of my wrist and pushed up my sleeve—both sleeves, of the jacket as well as my shirt—so a bit of skin was exposed. He might have been attempting to put a bracelet on me, as if he'd brought me a gift of jewelry.

The pinch was only that: a little prick, like touching a thorn on a rose. It didn't hurt. A gift. A long, melodious whistle was issued from Caruso's throat, followed by two shorter ones.

“That sounded beautiful,” I said.

“Thanks. I was sending a signal. I was letting my friends know you're all right, relatively speaking. This medicine shouldn't take long to start working. Don't worry.”

Folcore. Named for Folco. Everyone knew the story of Folco. It was one of those legends so ingrained in one's mind, you didn't know where you'd heard it first. A tower that was also a prison. The sky out the tower windows. Great strength, great courage. Vanquisher of enemies! But he wasn't the hero of the song.

Heart of the Scorpion, scales of the Fishes, mane of the Lion, horns of the Bull. The Scorpion's heart was red. A song I'd sung to Beppi? I must have learned it in Mengo. A Romagnan song.

I couldn't quite get it. It was like reaching for something on a shelf that was too far over my head. There wasn't a stool to step up on. There was no pole, or broomstick, to knock it down with. There was no one taller to do it for me.

Dawn was coming. It was the kind of sky where the sun was coming up one side while the moon, at the same time, at the opposite edge, was descending. Beppi used to believe that if you went outdoors and stood between them, you'd have a lucky day.

There'd been a picture of the sky on the wall behind Beppi's bed, a long time ago. Stars. What picture? It seemed important. Did it have something to do with the zodiac? Yes.

“Are you all right?”

“I am, Enrico. May I call you Enrico?”

“You may call me whatever you like. I'll try to make your ride in this cart as comfortable as possible. It'll be a little bumpy, but I doubt very much you'll be aware of it.”

Caruso had stood up. The sky at the back of his head looked purple, like a bruise.

Soft. Everything felt soft. Myself, the ground, the whole world.

“Enrico, there's a song…” I couldn't understand why my voice came out sounding as if I'd whispered. I hadn't whispered. I tried again. “A song…”

It's raining gold coins in Palermo. Thank you, Beppino Strepponi.
That wasn't it.

Where was Aldo? Why was he always talking about composing things that only remained in his head?

“I'm here, Lucia.”

“I thought you were at the restaurant.”

“They don't need me. Beppi's safe, you know.”

“I was so worried about him.”

“He's fine, he's fine. Look, I've got the new song. It's done, finally. It's all about stars. Lucky ones. I was inspired by the picture over his bed.”

There it was, revealing itself to me. A sort of tapestry, about half the size of a blanket. A dark background. Black, like the night sky. A gold circle, or wheel, on it. A gold belt. Signs, pictures, all recognizable: a ram with spectacular horns, a scorpion with shiny eyes and a dark red dot for a heart. Beppi's picture. It was the last thing he looked at every night before he slept.

“The zodiac song?” I said.

Aldo murmured yes. He was proud of himself.

“I've been trying for ages to remember it. Did you write down the words, Aldo?”

“I did. Beppino Strepponi, I'm happy to tell you, is about to step into the sky. He's going to commit robberies on a much grander scale.”

Aldo reached into his pocket. He took out a piece of paper, which was covered with his handwriting. I couldn't make out the words, although he held the paper close to my eyes. “I'll read you the lines, so you can learn them,” he said. “It starts where it's supposed to. The horns of the ram are lethal weapons, by the way.”

I pictured myself at the restaurant, ready for the spotlight. It wasn't a Verdi night, or a Puccini, or a Rossini, or anything I had a color-coded dress for. So I'd borrowed my husband's clothes. A pair of pants, a shirt, a jacket. No necktie. Nothing fancy, just old clothes Aldo wore around the house. His shoes, too. Why did Aldo's shoes fit me when his feet were so much bigger?

I asked him about that.

“It's magic,” he said. “Remember, Beppino's incredibly strong, and he is also Sicilian. He might get banged up now and then, but he can never die, so don't worry. Up in the sky, he has chores to do, like Hercules.”

I pictured the whole zodiac. I pictured Aldo's hero with a face that was just like Beppi's. A club was in his hand. He was walking across the sky.

I knew the words. The spotlight had never felt as bright, as warm. I'd been so very cold, and it was warming me thoroughly.

“What about the tune?”

“Oh, make it up as you're going along,” said Aldo.

“I'm not a composer!”

“It can't be all that hard. What did I do all those years ago when I was singing the song about raining gold coins to our baby? I just thought of a note, then another, and another, and so on, just like drops of water. One thing leads to another. A critical mass is achieved, at a certain height, and before you know it, what have you got? You've got a waterfall, Lucia, plain and simple.”