Nine

I stared. “She doesn't have a son.”

“Si, si. She does, signora,” Dario said. “Certamente. Hundred per cent. He had a picture of your nonna. He was going to Berli too.”

“My God,” I said.

Dario said, “No problem! If she is in Berli, he will have found her. That's good. He will look after her. It will be fine, signora.”

I didn't think so. My head swam. Hold on, I thought. Perhaps this was one of those bizarre disjointed dreams you have while travelling in foreign countries. Too much espresso and salami, not enough sleep. It messes with your head. I decided if it wasn't a dream, I'd better behave strategically because something was very, very wrong.

“Please ask your zio Domenico what this man looks like?”

Dario regarded me oddly. “You do not know what your uncle looks like, signora?”

“Actually, I don't have an uncle.”

“Your father?”

“No.”

“He said…”

“Probably it's just some misunderstanding. But I am worried now.”

Dario said, “Zio Domenico is almost blind, that is why everyone helps him.”

“He's blind? But he said she was bella.”

Dario grinned. “Zio Domenico loves women. It runs in the family. He sees them in his mind.”

“Then how does he know about this man who says he's her son?”

“He heard him speaking.”

“And he was speaking English? Asking for my nonna?”

Dario turned and fired off a volley of questions. He got a variety of answers. I heard l'Americano, il Canadese, l'Inglese and Parnell.

The Parnell part made my heart race. American, Canadian, English. I guess we all look and sound alike. L'Americano seemed to win the day.

“Your uncle, he spoke American.”

“You mean not like a Canadian?”

Another series of questions.

“Maybe,” Dario answered after a very long while. “Zio Dominico doesn't know any Canadians, just one cousin in Montreal, and that one speaks French. He thought your uncle was from United States. What does he know? He is a simple man.”

“Did anyone else see anything? Can anyone describe him? And what kind of car he was driving?”

“I will ask the others.”

Dario turned and held an intense conversation with the two men who had helped zio Domenico into the bar. After a lot of arm-waving and shouting, Dario turned back to me and shrugged. “He looked like an American. He had dark hair. Maybe fifty years old.”

At the end of a lively discussion, Dario translated enthusiastically, and warned me to keep an eye out for someone not too light, not too dark, eye colour indeterminate, medium build, although he may have been large or even small. He was middle-aged, although some thought he might have been a bit older. No distinguishing characteristics, except for his overcoat. Then again, that may have been a raincoat, or possibly even a jacket. One trembling fellow with cataracts suggested a sweater. He was quickly put in his place.

A small, wizened man with tobacco-stained fingers gave Dario a look and elbowed him out of the way. Dario elbowed back.

Dario said, “Mercedes-Benz.” He made the international finger gesture for expensive.

“Mercedes?” I said. “Certo?”

He frowned as if I had questioned his intelligence. What were the chances that someone claiming to be Mrs. Parnell's son roared through this town in a Mercedes?

“Nera,” he said.

The wizened man hopped up and down with rage. He shouted, “Stupido, stupido, stupidone.” Dario ignored him.

“Crazy old man,” he said to me in a whisper.

My mind was on the black Mercedes. There are lots of Mercedes all over Italy. Had I seen a black one recently?

“Did anyone notice the license plate number?” I said.

Dario translated, and the old man shook his fist. No one else had seen a license plate number.

“Grazie,” I said and meant it. I dodged the wizened man. I shook zio Domenico's hand. I accepted a big hug from Dario.

Whoever my new uncle was, he had done all right for himself. I excused myself from the group and headed for the pay phone. I didn't know where the hell Alvin was. I hoped it was somewhere important. I left him a clear and forceful message that he should not flip out when he heard this. Now his urgent task would be to find out if Mrs. Parnell had a son she had never mentioned. I tried to do this without shouting, because everyone in the room was listening.

I pulled out my stash of Euros and bought a round of whatever anyone wanted. Espresso, vino, didn't matter. I got off kind of easy, because it was morning. I made sure to thank everyone for their help. I promised to return with my grandmother for a special meal. Zio Domenico seemed especially keen. Dario gave me another huge hug.

“Ciao, ciao, bella,” he said as if he meant it.

Eventually, I tore myself away. It had started to rain softly as I hurried out the door to my Ka. I waved to everyone gathered in the door of the bar and drove off up the mountain, wondering why I hadn't packed anything for a goddam headache.

* * *

If you're heading to a mountain village in the Appenine mountains, be prepared to abandon the highways and drive in a zig-zagging pattern up steep, narrow passages that barely qualify as roads. Twice I pulled over to the side. I had my fingers crossed that nothing would come barrelling up the hill and ram the back of the Ka. Or down the hill and slam the front of it. There wasn't much metal between me and meeting my maker.

Problem two lurked on the edge of every road. In this part of Italy, the roads ended in steep falls, a long way down to the rock-strewn pastures below. Naturally, there were no guardrails. Best not to dwell on that.

I kept my eyes open for a silver Opel and a dark Mercedes. The Ka might have been small and slow, but it had a tiny turning radius, and I was prepared to rely on that.

No one passed me on the road, and eventually I made it to Berli. Peering through the fog, I concluded the town couldn't have more than fifty houses, perched on the glossy green hillside, some seeming to defy physics. Most were built out of rough gray stone, probably lugged by hand from the surrounding fields generations earlier. The stone houses had new roofs, doors and windows. A few attached stucco houses had a newish look to them. Every dwelling had a small car parked in front of it, the sign of the new Europe. No silver Opels, no Mercedes.

The fog was lifting a bit. I navigated along the main street, which had mostly houses, interspersed with small businesses: a hairdresser, a barber. On a two-storey stone building, at a sharp corner, I spotted a battered sign: Bar-Hotel Natalia. It would have to do. I parked and made my way on foot up and down the rutted side streets, avoiding potholes deep enough to swallow the Ka. These streets were just a few years away from the subsistence farming communities they'd once been. I knew from previous trips to Italy that the lower levels of some of the cute stone houses had once been the stables, with the families living above on the second floor. There were no animals now, except for one dog energetically announcing my presence. I saw no one. Most of the houses were unlit, shutters closed.

The back end of the building was crumbling, although the wheelbarrels and materials near it indicated a rebuilding of some sort was underway. There was new money in Berli, I was sure of that.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the bar. In Italy, bar is used to mean a café restaurant, the place you get your sandwich or grab a quick breakfast. Of course, you can always get wine there. Or whatever. You're quite likely to get homemade food. Usually you'll find a few kids running around. The Italians aren't too hung up on booze restrictions, like some places I could name. Later in the evening, they turn into pleasant drinking establishments.

The room was full of people, again mostly elderly. Everyone nodded at me when I came in. The noise level was high, boisterous, happy. Or maybe just trying to drown out the large-screen television mounted in the corner and going full-blast. I'm not sure what gives with Italian television, and I don't want to find out.

I began by greeting the burly woman, possibly Natalia, who was using her muscles to polish glasses that already gleamed in the low light. “Buona sera, signora.”

Her eyes narrowed, her mouth turned down. Maybe that was deep suspicion. Maybe she'd just had a very bad day. I could sympathize.

I smiled. This wasn't as easy as it sounds, since I had just crawled up miles of winding, foggy mountain roads on my way to a godforsaken place where no one would speak English. I had practiced my piece and managed to ask in my fractured Italian if she had seen my grandmother. I produced the photo of Mrs. Parnell and mentioned the silver Opel.

I smiled again for good measure. She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head emphatically. New wrinkles sprouted at the downturned corners. I pointed at the picture again. “La nonna,” I said, soothingly.

“No,” she said.

“È malata.”

She shook her head.

I wanted to ask about the so-called son in the Mercedes. I gave it a shot with figlio and Mercedes. That merely caused her to turn her back on me. She half-turned her head when I ordered a glass of red wine and a plate of cannelloni. I was feeling ridiculously fatigued and hungry. Both of which I found irritating since I couldn't really enjoy a meal until I tracked down Mrs. Parnell. Then we could eat and drink happily together, and I could help her with whatever she was trying to do here in the remote mountains of Italy.

The wine came immediately. Just because I wasn't an instant hit didn't mean I wouldn't have a drink in my hand. A basket of warm, rustic bread was plunked on my wooden table, along with a bottle of olive oil. The cannelloni arrived shortly after and was plunked down without a word from the burly signora..

I sat alone, aware of the glances of the crowd in the bar. Who cared? It wasn't like I was looking for a new social group. I just needed information about Mrs. P. I ate in solitude and tried to figure out what to do next.

A glance out the window told me that the fog had descended again. Every few minutes, another small car emerged from the fog just feet from the window. Not much chance I could drive down the mountain without killing myself or someone else.

As far as I could tell, this bar was the only game in town. The proprietor had quite obviously taken an instant dislike to me. Not that I would care, as a rule. However, I needed cooperation.

I asked about a room, and she hesitated. A short, round man I took to be her husband gave her a quick nudge in the ribs.

“Si,” she said, citing a ridiculously large number of Euros.

Five minutes later, I tossed my little backpack on a double bed with a puffy duvet that looked very inviting on this damp miserable day. The pillow-cases on all four pillows had obviously been ironed. The room was bright and comfortable, with a fine view of the fog. Better yet, it even had a small new-looking portable heater in the corner and a shining white wastepaper basket. The heater had already been turned on. I found the bathroom next door in a dark green hallway. There seemed to be no other guests. The towels were large, bright white and fluffy. Maybe the little round husband took charge of guest hospitality. I figured the signora was in charge of clean.

I brushed my teeth, had an overdue shower, fixed my hair as well as I could, changed my T-shirt and put on the black pants and my sweater. I rinsed out my undies in the sink. I hung them to dry in the shower, picked up the photos again and headed back downstairs.

The proprietor was replacing a freshly polished glass. She stopped mid-task, gripping the glass, and stared me down.

I gave her a cheerful wave and started at the first table. A group of men paused in their card game.

To do them credit, I got a “buona sera, signora,” from each of them. I passed around Mrs. Parnell's picture. They all took the time to look at it.

No luck. Everyone shook their heads. No one looked sympathetic. No one said, “Oh, la nonna!”

I thanked them, picked up the photo and moved on to the next table. I repeated this at every table in the bar. Something was wrong though. The atmosphere didn't feel normal.

I'm not sure why it took so long, but eventually it dawned on me. The bar had become too quiet. Where were the competing voices? The raucous stories, the shouts of laughter? This was more like a morgue than a gathering of Italians.

When I reached the last table and had received the last negative shake of the head, I glanced at the proprietor. She shot back a triumphant smirk.

Great. I was fogged in on a mountain, with no clue about what had happened to Mrs. Parnell, trapped until the morning, wasting precious time. I turned back to the room full of strangely quiet people. I knew she had been there, and what's more, I knew that they'd seen her.

I said in my fractured Italian: “That photo is my grandmother. She is more than eighty years old. She is sick, and the doctor says she may die if she doesn't get medicine. I know she came here. I think you should help save her life.” I searched my mind for the word for shame. It eluded me.

The room remained silent.

I gave up. Time to go back to my room and think of a new and improved plan. I turned. I stopped. “Vergogna,” I said. Shame on you.

People turned away from me and reverted to nervous whispered conversations. I headed back up the stairs and kicked the white wastepaper basket.

Five minutes later, I had a new plan. Probably a waste of time; still, better than staring at the ceiling until morning. I was warm and well fed, and although I was bone-tired, I didn't intend to repeat my mistake of falling asleep too early. I put on my grey wool socks and slipped my jean jacket over the sweater. I checked my phrase book for a few more useful tidbits. I wrapped the scarf around my neck, applied a bit of Graffiti Red in case and slipped down the stairs and out the side door, without bothering to make eye contact with the useless lumps in the bar.

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!