RED SHIELD, WHITE GATE WITH TWO ARCHES, TOPPED WITH A ROOSTER
1.
Scottie was staring up at frescoes of the Black Death in the Ospedale Santa Maria della Scala when Tenente Pisano’s face intruded into her field of vision.
“Buongiorno, signora,” he said with his usual formality.
“Leave her alone,” said Nonna Bea, who had been trying to spoon some horrible broth into Scottie’s mouth.
“No, no, va bene,” said Scottie. Nonna Bea reluctantly withdrew.
“About this matter with the marchesa.”
“She found Robertino, saved him,” said Scottie. “He thought you were after him for stealing the horse. He fell off, broke his leg. She wasn’t kidnapping him. She was healing him.” Scottie had driven Robertino down the mountain, brought him to the hospital. They insisted on examining Scottie, too, making sure she was all right as well, that the bump on her head was nothing more than a mild concussion.
The baby was fine.
“Yes, I have talked to Robertino,” he said.
“How is he?”
“He’s fine. The marchesa may be a little pazza, but she set the leg perfectly. He says she took very good care of him. He says he was there of his own free will. I have sent a truck for the horse.”
“So she won’t go to jail.”
“No. She has returned to live with her husband.”
It’s so different here, she thought. We haven’t fought a war on American soil since the Civil War. We who stayed at home have no idea. The Italians seem so childlike, with their love of style and wine and laughter. But that’s because they’ve been through hell, all of them, on all sides, who survived that. American tourists come here and they see only the happy, beautiful Italy they want to see, and that the Italians want them to see. The party. They don’t see the scars. The ongoing struggles. Why would they? They don’t see them at home, either.
“My husband,” she said. Had Pisano arrested Michael? Was he languishing in some jail somewhere?
“He was here earlier, while you were asleep. He will be back.”
“Oh,” she said, relieved.
“There is paperwork,” he said, dropping a file folder on her nightstand. “All of which must be properly stamped and signed.”
“Of course,” she said.
He turned to go, then said, “Grazie, signora.”
2.
Pisano did not tell the American woman that the night before, as she was driving up Monte Amiata, he had found her husband in the Ford office, a gun to his head. Pisano had begun talking softly as he pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the man, talking, talking, talking. Finally, the American put the gun down, and Pisano took it. Then they had continued talking.
The American began to cry, which was unpleasant, because it also made Pisano want to cry, which he could not do, except for a few very small, masculine tears that could be passed off as sweat.
“Did you kill the prostitute and Robertino Banchi?” Pisano demanded.
“No. But I think it’s all my fault.”
“I don’t think it is. I happen to know that the prostitute got her drugs from Brigante.”
Michael swiveled around to point in the direction of Brigante’s warehouse. “That guy?”
“Yes. He has Mafia ties. He helped establish a network of prostitutes here, and he was trying to introduce heroin as well. And you. Apparently no one is ‘only’ a tractor salesman around here.”
Michael looked at the gun Pisano had taken from him. “If you leave, I will end this here, right now.”
“No. I need you alive. I know you are Minaccia Rossa.”
Michael sighed. “I know you won’t believe me, but it’s a trick. To make the Communists look bad.”
Pisano frowned. “Of course I believe you. Do you think I am stupid? I also know you are CIA. And that you asked Robertino to steal papers for you from Communist Party headquarters.”
Michael nodded. “And then he disappeared. It is all my fault.”
“I don’t think so,” said Pisano. “I have infiltrated every group in Siena. I do not think his disappearance is political.”
“So where is he?”
“I don’t know.” He slapped his fist on the desk and made Michael jump. “And this makes me angry.”
Now Pisano knew the answers to these questions, and that was good. All was in order again. He thought of what the American man had said after that. How he had frowned, and rubbed his hand over his face, and said, “You said you needed me. How?”
“To keep using Minaccia Rossa to discredit the Communists.”
Michael had smiled then. “I have a plan,” he said. “But I could use some help.”
3.
Scottie dressed behind a screen while Michael waited with Ecco.
“We were both worried,” he said, nodding at the dog, who put his paws on Scottie’s knees and wagged his tail.
They walked home from the hospital in silence. When the heavy front door closed behind them, Michael told her he had rented a small apartment near the Ford warehouse.
“You and Ecco can stay here for as long as you like,” he said.
She did not ask him what came next.
“What can I get you?” he asked. “Cold drink? I could bring up a pizza.”
“Nothing,” she said. Michael sat down next to her on the sofa.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Perfectly fine. You can stop looking worried. I got a bump on the head is all.” He reached for her hand. He kept his eyes down.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “So, so sorry.”
“How long have you known you … preferred men?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes were down again. He looked like he wanted to disappear into thin air.
Scottie offered, “I had a crush on a tennis pro when I was five. I remember pressing up against the fence while he played, desperate for him to notice me.”
Michael sighed. “Five. That sounds about right.”
“You must have been frightened.”
“I don’t want to be this way,” he said quietly.
“Do you think you can change?”
He was silent for a moment, then shook his head. He began to tremble a little, and she reached over and took his hand.
“I’m sorry I thought you had done something to Robertino.”
“I would never hurt him.”
“I know that.” She thought of the Minaccia Rossa flyers in the cabinet. “Are you a Communist?”
“No.” He gave a short laugh, glanced around, then whispered, “That’s part of … an operation I’m involved with.
“Oh,” she said. “How are things … at work?”
He thought of Gordon, the polygraph, the way he had fucked everything up. “Okay,” he said. “I’m busy with the reports. The election is only a few weeks away.”
“You’re good at this, you know,” she said.
He looked up briefly, smiled. “I enjoy it, mostly.” He paused, then said, “I love you very much.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but he stopped her. “Don’t. I know you don’t love me back. It’s fine. But I want you to know that you are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met. You’re smart, you’re kind, you’re courageous in ways I can’t even fathom. I love you, and I will take care of you, no matter what.”
He was gone, and she was alone.
She put her hands on her growing belly. Not alone for long, she thought. The baby would come at Christmastime. Before then she would have to decide what came next.