“You found her?” I shouted.
Oriana's face fell. “Sorry. But I have found a partigiano for you. Someone who was here in the war and who was connected to everything that went on. He was connected to many partisan brigades. My mother remembered some people who knew some other people, and we were finally able to locate him. He is eighty-seven years old. I spoke to him on the telephone, and his mind is still very clear.”
“Thank you. This might be just what I need.” Of course, it might also be a total waste of time. I didn't say that. If Mrs. P. had been there, instead of on the run, she would have shouted, “Onward into the breech!”
“I hope so. His name is Luciano Falcone. He was a famous partisan. They called him il Falco.”
“The Falcon. I'll write down the information,” I said, reaching for my bag in the car.
“I have already written it, with his address.” She handed me a small piece of paper, with neat European style handwriting and a name, address and telephone number. “He is expecting to hear from you and will be happy to talk about his time in the mountains here.”
“He's in Florence?” I said.
“Yes. Firenze. Is that a problem?”
“Of course not,” I said, although I had a plan, and Florence didn't figure into it. No point in disappointing Orianna after all her efforts. I'd just keep going south to Montechiaro and head back up to Florence afterwards if I didn't locate Mrs. P.
“It is just a few hours from here,” she said. “You Canadians are used to long distances.”
She had a point. What was a couple of hours? Florence it would be, after I'd exhausted the towns on my list. After a final round of hugs and cheek-kisses, I got into the Ka and turned the key. I gave a wave at the send-off party, a cluster of ancient farmers, Orianna and the still smiling proprietor, who reached through the Ka window to give me a bearhug.
Italy always took a bit of getting used to. I pulled away to a chorus of ciao! ciao! ciao!
I soon whipped past the tiny main street and headed down the steep and winding mountain road. As I had promised myself, I pulled over and stopped at every point I could on the way down. I found no skid marks and no silver Opels lying crumpled at the foot of rocky hills.
I was surprised at how soon I was passing through the nameless village, where I'd spent the first night. I'd forgotten there was a cross-roads. I pulled over, checked the map, and concluded after some poking around, that if I took one road, it could knock some mileage off my approach to Montechiaro.
A small group of cars was clustered outside the bar, and people were standing around enjoying the absence of fog and the presence of sunlight. That dashing young man about the village, Dario, pulled up behind the Ka in his red Alpha Romeo. I waved, and he hopped out of his car, looking like a billboard ad, all that bedhead to go with the bedroom eyes. Good thing my affections were committed.
“Bella!” he shouted. What the hell, maybe he'd heard something. I got out of my car, and he greeted me with a triple cheek kiss. He made a valiant attempt to entice me into the bar to eat something.
“No, thanks.” I remembered to get back into character. “I was wondering if you'd heard anything about my grandmother. Did she drive through here on her way from Berli?”
“Sorry, I didn't see her. I am not on this road all the time. Just when I am fortunato.”
“Can you ask these people, please, Dario. Remind them she was driving a silver Opel.”
“Of course.”
No one claimed to have seen her on the road. It had been foggy, they reminded me. And it was still nippy, even if the sun was shining. Dario said, “They told me to tell you it's a good day to be inside drinking grappa with your friends. They think you might want to try that too.”
“Not a chance.”
I knew enough about grappa to stay away from it. There are potent drinks, and there are really potent drinks, and then there is grappa.
I was distracted by a minor fuss. A tiny old man, bent nearly double, was jabbering at Dario, in a high-pitched whine. I didn't remember this man from my visit the day before. He wasn't a type you could forget easily.
Dario nodded and nodded and laughed.
Everyone else laughed too.
I waited. Finally I could wait no more.
“What did he say?”
“He said he saw an old woman driving very fast. Like a Formula One driver.
“That's my nonna,” I said proudly. “Which way did she go? Dov'è andata?” That was one of my better Italian phrases, and one which I figured I would get to use again at some point.
Dario pointed to the road that went south, the one I would take if I were to head to Pieve San Simone.
This seemed to enrage the tiny man. He jumped up and down, and shouted at Dario. He gave him a whack on the backside for good measure. The crowd howled.
“Scusate, zio,” Dario kept saying, laughing.
The small man turned to me and pointed emphatically in the other direction.
“Grazie,” I said and stammered out something in Italian that was supposed to mean “Did you see a Mercedes following her?”
No results there. I was at the end of my useful Italian. I turned to Dario. He shrugged. He was going to end up with a lot of wrinkles on that pretty face if he kept using those expressions.
“Please, Dario. Ask him again. I really need your help.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Sure, for you, bella,” he grinned and turned to the elderly man.
A torrent of Italian followed. Everyone joined in. A few more people, who had been inside drinking grappa, emerged to join the chaos. The Mercedes excited a lot of chatter.
“What are they saying?” I asked Dario.
“Different things,” he said. “What would you like to hear? You can have your many choices.”
I nodded in the direction of the small, fierce gentleman. “What does this man say?”
“Now he says a car stopped in the fog. He doesn't know what kind of car, and he doesn't know which way the car went. He says maybe someone else in the village will know. If you are not in a hurry, he will ask everyone.”
I kept a straight face. “Thank him very much for me, but I have to leave right away. I have an appointment. I guess it means the Mercedes…”
“…with your uncle driving,” Dario added helpfully.
“Yes, I guess it means he didn't see where my grandmother went.”
“I think that is true,” Dario said.
“Well,” I said, keeping the grin of relief from spreading across my face.
I thanked the old man and shook his hand. Dario beamed on the sideline. He sidled up next to me and said, “Do you have a cellulare, bella?”
“My cellphone doesn't seem to work in Italy.”
“I will give you my number. I will let you know if we see your nonna again. I will find out for you.”
“Terrific. I'll check in with you later.”
Dario scribbled a number on a piece of paper, and I dropped it into my purse. I was eager to get away, especially since Mrs. P. was driving like a race driver. I hopped into the Ka before I got another hug. I'm not all that huggy and kissy as a rule. Even without Ray in my life, I wouldn't have been looking for a weekend romance in a strange country. If I read Dario's body language right, that's what he had in mind. I'm not the girliest girl, and I wouldn't have thought that an unglamorous widowed lawyer wearing running shoes would be his type, but I didn't have time to fret about that. The old man seemed certain about the direction she'd driven off in. Southeast, unless I was mistaken.
I thought about it as I turned the key. None of the towns on our list were in that direction. Was Mrs. P. just trying to give her so-called son the slip? That made sense. It didn't give me any guidance about where to go next. The profound feeling of relief I'd experienced evaporated. Italy might be small compared to Canada, but it was still a hell of a lot of territory to comb looking for one very fast and tricky elderly lady who definitely didn't want to be found.
Of course, a new thought came to me.
Southeast would lead me to Florence.
Firenze.
The home of Luciano Falcone. Ridiculous coincidence? Or belated stroke of luck?
The thought of driving in Florence made my stomach hurt. Florence was a spectacular medieval city renowned for its art, architecture, magnificent piazzas, jaywalking tourists, gouging prices, suicidal scooters and other frenetic Italian drivers, not to mention five-hundred-year-old streets that switched from one-way to two-way at whim. I was going to have to negotiate those ancient streets in my mobile dehumidifier. And for all I knew, Mrs. Parnell could have just waited to give that Mercedes the slip and headed for one of the other destinations.
Any decision was better than no decision, I knew that. There was no way to be sure I was doing the right thing. It was important to do something. A new thought dawned on me, as I thought about Florence and the navigational chaos I would encounter in the middle of the city. There was something else in the middle of Florence.
The letters O, R and E. ORE, the one word we hadn't been able to figure out on the list on Mrs. Parnell's telephone book. To hell with Pieve San Simone, Montechiaro and Alcielo.
My decision was made.
During the trip, my brain worked overtime. I tried to think like Mrs. Parnell. What would she do after she gave this guy the slip, which I was sure she had? Was this direction just a diversionary tactic? Did she still intend to visit the other towns? Had she ever intended to visit them? Did he have the same list of towns? If so, it was just a matter of time until he found out where she was. The first thing she'd do would be to ditch the Opel, which was large and noticeable. She'd decide on camouflage.
Florence was a major centre, and I knew from personal experience that all the car rental agencies had offices in the city. It would be easy enough to switch cars, even if you had to pay a penalty. Mrs. Parnell is always willing to pay for what she wants. If my memory served, the car rental spot I needed was not too far from the railway station and near the highway leaving town. Knowing it and finding it were two different things, of course.
Eventually, tired, cranky and unbelievably lost on the outskirts of town, I parked the Ka and sought out a small, pleasant trattoria. I asked for a telephone book along with a menu. I gobbled a calzone without tasting a bite. I found the address for the car rental Mrs. P. had used and picked up a flurry of conflicting directional advice from the staff and the other diners. I was on my way.
No one said it would be easy, and it wasn't. After a ridiculously long time, I wedged the Ka in a half parking space and scoured the area on foot. I was hot and tired, when I found what I was looking for.
“Hello.” I smiled brightly at the middle-aged man behind the desk. He looked tired, irritable and bored, in equal parts. “I hope you can help me. I believe my grandmother planned to exchange her vehicle for one that was easier for her arthritis. She was renting an Opel from you. Her name is Violet Parnell. I am hoping to catch up with her before she leaves the city. She needs a bit of help with her trip. I can just wait around if she hasn't been in yet.”
The rental agent didn't seem to have any concern with checking out the information for me. I'd learned that a grandmother is the one key that opens all doors. He nodded, and after a few taps on the keyboard, I had my answer.
“Sorry, signora. We have no one by that name.”
I felt myself deflate. Had I been wrong in assessing her strategy? I didn't think so. She would have to use her real name. She'd probably had to show her passport. I now knew her maiden name since reading some of those letters. No harm in trying. “Sorry,” I said. “I meant to say Violet Wilkinson. Parnell was her husband's name.”
Bingo.
Pretty sneaky, Mrs. P. Two can play sneaky games. She had indeed returned the Opel, the agent told me. Her new car wasn't ready yet.
“I'll wait,” I said.
“Domani mattina, signora.” He smiled. “Scusate, it will not be ready until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I said. “That's fine. I'll just check in with her at her hotel. She's at the Paris Hotel, is she?” I gave the name of the hotel Paul and I had chosen on our honeymoon. I held my breath to see if he would fall for this new ploy and reveal the place she was staying. My usual concerns about the value of privacy were well overwhelmed by my need to know and know fast.
He frowned at the screen. “Strano. It seems we do not have a local address. She will be picking up the new vehicle at one o'clock.”
“That's fine,” I said. “I'll find her. What kind of car was she able to get this time? Was it a Ka, by any chance?”
“Ma no, signora! A Ka! No no no no. No. She selected a Volvo sedan. Very nice. Molto elegante.”
“She likes those,” I said.
I left the office and ambled along the sidewalk. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of places to stay in and around Florence, so there wasn't much chance I could find her hotel.
I decided I needed a place to stay. I could use the time to check out the partisan, signor Falcone, then pounce on Mrs. P. at the car rental. Since it had been a what-the-hell kind of day, I decided on the Hotel Paris. It would be a nice treat and a trip back in time. I allowed myself plenty of time to find the hotel, counting on being lost. It took even longer. Lucky me, there was a room available. That's the nice thing about the foggy old off-season.
I got a reasonable deal on a room on the fourth floor and dragged my sorry ass up the stairs. I had fond memories of the historic mansion with high ceilings and casement windows that opened over the narrow street outside. The decorations were vaguely Florentine, with frescos and curlicues. The bed was welcoming. I conked out seconds after getting into the room and slept for a while. That was one bad habit I'd need to drop, and soon.
I spent a half hour in the shower and emerged, shampooed, clean and rested. I changed from my jeans to my black pants and jacket. I slipped on the leather loafers, because a woman wearing running shoes would not get taken seriously in Florence. I fiddled with the silk scarf until it looked right and finished with a slash of the Graffiti Red. I was ready to deal with the Florentines.
I used the hotel phone to call the number for L. Falcone. No answer.
Okay. No problem.
The Paris Hotel was within easy walking distance of the historic centre of Florence. I had plenty to keep myself busy until someone answered. Just to be on the safe side, I headed downstairs and double-checked with the front desk. Could they show me how to get to this address?
I left with a map. The route to Luciano Falcone's house was marked out in yellow highlighter. No more than a forty-minute walk. A piece of cake compared to five minutes behind the wheel in this town.
First, I headed along the street to find a payphone to check in on the home front.
Alvin took seven rings to answer the phone. I reminded myself that we were being nice to each other and said, “Glad you could bring yourself to answer. Have you heard anything from Mrs. Parnell?”
“That means you haven't either.”
“No luck so far.”
“That's so bad. Where are you?”
“I'm at the Paris Hotel in Florence, if you need to reach me, and, believe me, I'm thinking of nothing else but finding her.”
“Florence? You're in friggin’ Florence? With Violet at death's door? You're at the Paris Hotel? Sounds very cushy. Too bad you're not here answering the phone, and I'm not over there trying to find Violet. It's not like we got all the time in the world to find her, before she has a heart attack. I don't really want to be planning a funeral.” Alvin's voice went up at least an octave during this.
I kept my own voice level. “I know it's urgent, Alvin. You don't need to remind me about that. And I am not in Florence on an art tour. Mrs. Parnell is here.”
“Florence wasn't on the list.”
“Remember that fragment? Ore. Think about it. There's a man here who might be able to help. Anyway, any luck on tracking down the son?”
“That's another thing, all that stuff about the son. She doesn't have a son. I spent all day checking. Your sister Alexa got Conn on it. It was a crazy idea anyway. He came up empty. No big surprise. How could Violet have a son and us not know a thing about it?”
“Of course, she would have told us if she had a family. But we had to check it out. If he's not her son, then he's pretending to be her son. He can't be up to any good. Anyway, we have to follow up on whatever we find out on either side of the Atlantic, no matter how weird it might be. I have something else for you. And don't sigh like that. Now I need you to find out about the crash of a bomber in 1944 in the mountains, near Berli. The information would have surfaced after the war.”
“Okay, sure, downed planes in 1944. What's the connection to Violet?”
“I don't know. She was in that village, and that plane seems to have been a big secret deal during the war. Someone told me that she was very upset about it.”
“You mean that could be connected with the dead guy Violet was talking about?”
“Maybe. I don't know. See what you can turn up. See who was on it. Any luck with the security images?”
“Not so far. Do you have any idea how long it takes to watch twenty-four hours worth of images on six separate cameras?”
“Stiff upper lip, Alvin. Talk to you later.”
I called Ray Deveau next. No answer at home. No answer on the cell. So much for romance.
I tried the telephone number for Luciano Falcone once more. No luck there either. Then I did a little calculation. He would have been a bit older than my father. My father often doesn't hear the phone ringing these days, especially if he's chosen to leave his hearing aid in his dresser drawer.
The address was in Oltarno, the other side of the Arno River. According to the reception clerk, it was not too far past the Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens. Paul and I had ambled along that route together on our honeymoon. I didn't let myself dwell on that.
I strolled through the narrow medieval streets, crammed with tall stone buildings housing small shops, restaurants, businesses and homes. I deliberately chose those streets off the beaten track to avoid the tourists. I also gave the Ponte Vecchio a miss. Too many memories. Instead I took the Ponte Santa Trinità, the next bridge down. There was less foot traffic on that one, and it had a great view of the river and the city on both sides, if you cared about the view, which at that moment I didn't.
After several wrong turns on foot, I finally found the address. signor Falcone lived behind a door-sized gate in faded black. Two black metal pots with geraniums flanked it. I rang the doorbell next to the name Falcone. No answer. I rang again. A curly-haired boy of about twelve opened the door. He could have rivalled any cherub in any painting in the Uffizi gallery. This was a modern-day cherub though, wearing a long-sleeved soccer shirt and expensive-looking running shoes which made his feet look huge. Apparently, I scared him. He squeaked, ducked past me, skittered along the curving street and disappeared around the corner. I put on a burst of speed and caught up with him. I managed to trap him in a corner. I did hope that no conscientious Florentine would call the carabinieri. What was the matter with the kid? He squirmed and whimpered. There was no reason for him to look quite so terrified.
I said in garbled Italian, “I am looking for signor Falcone. No one seems to answer. He is an old man. Do you know if he is at home?”
He stared at me. “Signor Falcone?”
“Si!” I shouted joyfully.
“È morto.” His lip quivered.
“Morto? Dead? That can't be.”
“Si. È morto. Certamente.”
His huge luminous dark eyes filled with tears. Was signor Falcone his grandfather?
“I am sorry,” I said in my best Italian.
He rubbed his nose on his sleeve. He shook his head.
“He was expecting to hear from me,” I said.
“Aspetti, signora.” The young man turned, ran back along the narrow curving street and vanished into the house of Luciano Falcone. I hurried after him, thinking no matter how horribly inopportune this death was, it was obviously a personal tragedy as well. As I reached the black door again, the boy emerged with a woman. She was tall and voluptuous, like Italian film stars of the fifties, with the same dark hair and luminous eyes as the boy. Hers were rimmed in red. He rattled on in Italian, pointing to me. She blew her nose and then nodded.
“La mamma,” he said to me, in explanation, “parla inglese.”
She introduced herself as Maria Martello. “I am speaking English only a little bit.”
“Already I can tell that your English is much better than my Italian.”
“Thank you, signora,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“Your son tells me that signor Falcone is dead.”
She choked up as she spoke. “Si. A car hit the signore in the street. He was just going to the Bar 45 for a caffè corretto. He went every day. He would have a beautiful lunch, a little nap. Then he would walk to see his friends. He was very old. Perhaps he fall down in front of the car.”
Caffè corretto, I knew from happy experience, was espresso “corrected” with a shot of grappa. I also knew it could knock your socks off if you weren't used to it. Most Italians seemed to have adapted well to the correction. It was only tourists who fell over as a rule.
“You think he fell?” I said. “What a shock that must have been for you.”
“It was a tragedia.”
“Signor Falcone was your father?”
“No, I am the housekeeper. He was wonderful man, very good to me and to Fabrizio, my son. He is very upset.”
“When did this happen? Recently?”
“Oggi. Today. This afternoon.”
“This afternoon? I can't believe it.”
She began to weep. “Why now, when he was so happy?”
“Now, when he was so happy? Why was he happy now?”
“Because after all these years, the telephone was ringing and people were coming to ask him about the war. He loved to talk about the war,” she wailed.
“What people?”
“A signora. An old woman. The age like signor Falcone. She came to see him.”
I fished in my backpack and pulled out the battered poster of Mrs. Parnell. “Is this the woman?”
“Si. This one.”
“And she was here today.”
“Si. This afternoon.”
“And what happened?”
“They talked and talked. They laughed a bit, they talked some more. I make them lunch,” she sniffed. “They did not eat much, they drank some sherry. They talk and talk more.”
“What did they talk about?”
“I did not listen too much. I had much work to do, and I was glad signor Falcone had someone else to talk to this time.”
“You said people wanted to talk about the war. Do you think that's what it was?”
“Yes, the war for sure.”
“Did they seem sad? Upset?”
“Signor Falcone was a big partisan. Sometimes it makes the old people cry to remember the war. Not signor Falcone. He had funny stories. I have heard them all a thousand times. They are not quite so funny after a while.”
“And the signora?”
She stopped to think. “Si, perhaps whatever they talked about made her sad, but something made her furiosa.”
“You didn't hear what she said?”
“Just her voice. Very angry. And signor Falcone trying to make her cheerful again.”
“Did he succeed?”
She shrugged. “I was not really listening.”
“Do you know where the signora went after?”
“I do not know.” She turned and spoke rapidly to Fabrizio, who was leaning against the wall scuffing his feet. He answered just as rapidly.
His mother turned back to me. “Scusate, signora. We do not know. To her hotel, I think,” she said.
“Did she have a car?”
The woman shrugged again. “I did not see her arrive.”
“You said that people came to see him. Who else?”
“Si. Look you are here.”
“Besides me.”
“No one else came. A man called on the telephone, and he was going to meet the signore.”
“And then the man didn't come here?”
“He make an appuntamento. He did not come yet, because the appuntamento was for five o'clock and by that time, the signore was already…”
I touched her sleeve and said, “This must be very hard.”
“Si. I don't know what we will do.”
“Did you see what happened?”
She reached for her son. “Fabrizio saw it. He is very upset.”
I glanced at the boy. The kid was definitely shaken, all right. And more than just shaken.
“What about the car that hit him? Was the driver arrested?”
“They did not find him. He left signor Falcone to die on the road. Disgraziato!”
I gave her a minute. “Did anyone see the car? Did anyone tell the police?”
She said, “Of course, the police were called. I heard my neighbour crying. I thought it was Fabrizio. I ran out and…”
“And the car was gone?”
“Si.”
“Your neighbour saw it happen?”
“She found signor Falcone lying in the middle of the road.”
“Maybe she knows what kind of car?”
“I don't think so.”
“That information might save someone else.”
“But why?” she stopped and stared. She brought her apron up to her mouth. “Dio mio!”
The boy turned as white as marble.
“Was the car a black Mercedes-Benz?”
Fabrizio tore past me and raced along the street and around the corner. I said, “He's understandably upset.”
I would have chased the kid, but I wanted to talk to the neighbour, and I needed his mother with me. Half an hour later, I'd had a long conversation with the woman who'd found signor Falcone. We stood in her doorway, our conversation translated by the signora, including the hand movements, tears and words of lamentation which needed no translation. At the end of the conversation, I had no new information. A fine and generous old man had been killed. No one knew quite how. No one had seen anything. Everyone was stunned. I knew since neither woman invited me in and forced food on me, that they must have been in shock.
“And the police?” I said, winding up the conversation.
They both shrugged, implying what was the use of police?
Maria Martello said, “Of course, police officers came, lots of police. Photographers too. The ambulance took signor Falcone away.”
A remnant of red and white police tape still flickered in the breeze in the spot the women had pointed to, although the police had obviously come and gone. I didn't know how the Italians handled these things as a rule, but these narrow streets couldn't be completely blocked off for any length of time without chaos.
“I need to talk to one of his friends. Someone else who might have been in the mountains near Berli as a partisan.”
Maria Martello spread her hands, a silent entreaty. “Signora. It is very hard for me to think of anything today.”
“I realize that this is a tragic day for you. It's important for his memory. Can you think of someone, maybe not here in Florence? Anywhere in Italy. Anywhere, anytime.”
She paused. “There might be someone. I will try to check his papers. He has photographs and names in the apartment. There is one old friend. Maybe I can find that.”
“Thank you. Did you see photos? Photos of when he was a partisan?”
“Si.”
“Could I have a look at them?”
She hesitated.
I knew she was wondering about the rightness of this, as I would have been myself. That was not my problem. I needed something to move forward on. I tried to smile sadly, in a trustworthy fashion.
“It would help so much,” I said.
The signora might have been distraught, but she was not stupid. I could tell that she was starting to wonder about me and what I really wanted. Perhaps she was processing the idea that, if the death had not been an accident, and since people wanted to talk to him about the war, there might be some connection. She seemed like an honest and transparent person. I could imagine her thoughts written on her face.
“I must go to my son,” she said. “He is very upset. Later, I will look.”
“Please give me your address and telephone number, signora,” I said.
She looked surprised. “This is my home. Fabrizio and I live here, with the signore.”
“I didn't realize that,” I said.
“I do not know what will happen to us now.”
“Did signor Falcone have any children?”
She shook her head absently. I hoped that the kind and generous old man had made formal provisions for Maria and Fabrizio, since they were pretty damn ripped up about his death.
As I left, the signora went off in search of her boy, pausing briefly to lock the door.
“Firenze is full of thieves now,” she said, meeting my eyes.
I tried not to take it personally.
Toronto, Ontario
June 12, 1946My dearest Violet,
What excellent news to hear that you plan to attend Queen's University. I think you will make an excellent mathematician, and it would be a waste not to take advantage of the government's education program. Perhaps you will be able to teach it after you graduate. If you were a man, I'd say you would make a first-rate lawyer, but teaching is a very fine job for a woman. As it is, I would like to be a fly on the wall in your classes. You will give the boys a run for their money and probably your professors too.
I am continuing my own studies. I have been accepted to medical school. It will be good to put one's energy into saving lives instead of taking them or watching helplessly as one's colleagues fall.
The next few years should be quite demanding. However, Kingston is not so very far from Toronto. It is easy enough to get the train between the cities. I hope we would be able to get together. Perhaps next Christmas would work out for both of us. I certainly hope so.
Yours very sincerely,
Walter