“BETTER THAN FORCE, POWER”
The mountain loomed before her, black against the starry night sky. The car began to climb up toward Arcidosso. There was no moon, and in this little-electrified area of Italy, the Milky Way was like a white tulle wedding arch. She dropped the car into a lower gear and slowed for some deer that had Ecco on high alert. She steered around a giant toad whose eyes glowed in the headlights. There was utter blackness all around her, and she was was glad of Ecco’s company.
She drove through the ancient medieval centers of Castel del Piano and Arcidosso, then, after a sharp, nearly vertical right-hand turn, saw a battered handmade sign for Santa Fiora. It wasn’t 1956 here; it was a place out of time, like in a fairy tale.
She gasped and slammed on the brakes as a pair of eyes shone in her headlights. As she came to a stop, the silvery tan figure revealed itself.
A wolf. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
Ecco gave a ridiculous growl as the wolf disappeared into the darkness. The roads got rougher as she drove on. She realized, the farther she got from him, that she was more worried about what would happen to Michael than what would happen to her. He was a homosexual. What a lonely life that must be, she thought. To have to keep a secret like that. She wanted to ask him, talk to him about what that had meant for him, what it had cost him.
The Ford bumped along the dirt road. Slowly, a house appeared in the darkness ahead. She found a flashlight in the glove box and got out. Ecco hopped out beside her and raced off into the darkness, barking. The crickets were so loud it sounded like they were inside her head. When she closed the car door, the darkness was profound.
She shone the flashlight around. She could smell woodsmoke in the distance. She saw three or four small outbuildings. It was a neat and tidy cottage, from what she could see in the darkness.
She caught a familiar scent—horse. It must be just Franca’s donkey she was smelling, she thought. But this would be a long way to bring the little guy.
Holding the string bag of supplies in one hand, Scottie shoved the flashlight under her arm as she struggled to open the heavy front door, warped by centuries of rain and snow. She leaned into it, and finally it gave. At that moment there was a rushing sound, and everything went black.
* * *
Scottie woke up in complete darkness. It was a strange sensation, to open her eyes, then close them again, and have there be no difference. She had a terrible headache and was lying flat on a bed. She listened. She could hear a slow drip of water. The smell was dank and cool, as if she were underground.
“Hello,” she called out. It hurt to speak. She touched a knot on her head and winced.
She heard footsteps. A woman’s voice demanded, crying, “Why have you come here? What do you want?”
“Franca?” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “Franca, is that you?”
“I don’t know you,” said the woman. “Please go away.”
Scottie could hear other movements around her. Her eyes began to adjust to the dark. She began to make out shapes—dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, demijohns of wine and olive oil.
“Franca? It’s Scottie Messina.” She tried to sit up, her head aching. “I came to your house near Siena. With Carlo.” She paused, feeling guilty, then went on. “I’m sorry I didn’t knock.”
“I didn’t mean to hit you. I was frightened.”
Scottie wondered if that was true. Franca had every reason to want to hurt her. “Carlo said you wouldn’t be here. He said it was all right for me to stay. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.” She sat up, feeling sick to her stomach.
Franca put a mug of tea in her hands. “It will ease the pain,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Just drink it and get out. I’ll show you the way.” Scottie heard a lamp being lit. Franca stood before her in one of Carlo’s old monogrammed shirts and an incongruous pink flowered skirt. Black rubber boots, very clean. “Please leave.”
“Yes. I will.” Scottie tried to stand, but sat back on the bed. She looked up and realized she could just barely make out another figure in the darkness, across the room on a cot. “Who’s there?” she called.
“No one,” said Franca. “Get out of here.”
Scottie realized she recognized the person on the cot. “Robertino? Is that you?”
“No,” said Franca, in anguish. “You took my husband. You can’t have my boy.”
“Yes,” said Robertino quietly. “I’m here.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. But I broke my leg.”
“She’ll go to the police,” said Franca, frantic. “You’ll go to jail, for the horse.”
“No. It’s okay,” said Scottie. “You won’t go to jail. Franca, you know that. He won’t go to jail.”
Franca, weeping, lit another lantern. Across the room, Scottie saw Robertino clearly now, lying on his back, a cast on his leg. He was in a sort of makeshift traction.
“I stole the horse,” he said. “I was coming here to ask her to hide the horse for me. But I fell off. I couldn’t move. The pain was terrible. She found me, hid me from the police, took care of me, healed me. I told her not to tell anyone.”
“I saved him,” said Franca. She stared at Robertino for a long moment. “He looks so much like Raimondo.” A sob caught in her throat.
It was wrong of Franca not to tell anyone that Robertino was here, was safe, but at the same time Scottie felt so terrible for her, to have lost a child. “I’m sorry. I know you and Carlo loved him very much.” She paused. She only knew what Carlo had told her. Scottie felt she owed Franca more than that. She needed to know her side. “Were you there when it happened?”
Franca paced back and forth, agitated. Then she began to speak.
“It was my son’s birthday. He was fourteen. Food was so scarce, and I just wanted to make him a nice lunch. That was all. I was lucky to find some flour. I picked the weevils out of it. Rolled it out on the kitchen table. Tortelli.” Something in Franca’s eyes shifted, as if she were transported back to that day. “They cook quickly. I have a little bit of butter I bought on the black market. A tiny hunk of cheese for my darling son. My husband is late. He’s always late. Probably with his whore. Did he tell you that?” She turned on Scottie, fury in her eyes.
“No.”
“A nurse. A German nurse. He was … with her. That’s why he was late. I put the pasta on the table. I turn my back, to get the bread. Then I hear the planes. The Americans.
“There is no time to move. The bombs begin to rain down. The house shakes. I scream. I’m still holding the bread. I reach for my son, but he isn’t there. The house disappears around me. There is a pause, a silence, I am deaf, then the sound comes back and I can hear screaming everywhere. Then I hear the sound of the planes again. I can’t move. My leg is caught. I free it, but there are more bombs, more than the first time. It will never stop. Over and over and over, boom, boom, boom, dust and screaming and fire.” Finally she was silent.
“I’m so sorry,” Scottie said at last. “You have every right to hate America. To hate me.”
Franca sat down on a chair. She picked up a jar of tomatoes, and Scottie wondered if she would hurl it at her, but then she set it down again. “I’ve been angry for twelve years,” she said. “I’m tired.” She looked at Robertino. “Then he arrived. His mother was dead, and he was hurt, like Raimondo. But he was alive. I could pretend I had my boy back.” She began to cry. “I don’t want him to leave.”
“I know. But I need to get him to the hospital. He needs to go home. And Carlo is waiting for you.”
“Carlo doesn’t want me anymore. I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken,” said Scottie. “He still loves you.” She knew this was true.
A deeper quiet fell over the room. Franca put her hands over her face, her grief making her shake.
“I miss him so much,” Franca cried, but she sounded different now. “I miss Raimondo.”
“I know,” said Robertino, pulling himself to his feet. He leaned over Franca, put his arms around her. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for taking care of me. But I have to go now.”
She nodded. Using Scottie as a crutch, Robertino hobbled out, leaving a silent Franca sitting alone.
Ecco was waiting by the car, a large chunk of horse manure in his mouth.