Chapter Fifteen

The atmosphere in the architect’s office was quiet. As if someone had died. There was that same kind of hushed, brittle feel in the room, with voices muffled and sounds muted except for the rustle of tracing paper as the flimsy sheets on the drawing boards were rearranged, old ones lifted off and new ones slotted into place.

Isabella felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck as she worked, aware of being watched. She was conscious of Dottore Martino’s cold stare as he prowled the studio in his highly polished shoes, padding between the drawing boards, notebook in hand and his head pulled back farsightedly as he jotted down his notes. It was one of his rituals. Once a month. A wordless assessment of their work, followed by a summons to his office for the unfortunate few who had fallen below his exacting standards.

Isabella struggled to focus on the lines she was drawing, on the angles of a low-slope roofline, on the optimum height of the apex of the ridge, trying to drive the watchful figure of her employer from her mind. But the sunlight caught his spectacles and flashed like a beacon at the corner of her eye, splintering her concentration.

“You don’t need to worry, Isabella. Your name won’t be on his blacklist.”

The voice was no more than a low murmur, and she glanced to her left where another architect, Ferdinando Acone, stood at his drawing board with a disconsolate droop of his shoulders. He was a quiet man who spoke little, with clever hands and a soft smile. He wasn’t usually so talkative.

Isabella’s eyes flicked to the notebook in Dottore Martino’s hand. “It seems that none of us is safe,” she muttered.

“He has to weed out the weakest. Before they make mistakes.”

She looked at Ferdinando sharply. Did he know something? Was he warning her? She glanced around at her male colleagues in the room, all bent earnestly over their drawings, all keen to demonstrate their dedication and commitment to the job.

She leaned across the gap between Ferdinando and herself and asked in a whisper, “Or is he looking for a scapegoat?”

“A scapegoat?”

His smile slipped from his face.

“Why does Dottore Martino need a scapegoat, Isabella?”

“Because when everything is done at this breakneck speed, things are bound to go wrong. He must be aware of that. And he won’t want it to be his own head on the block when that happens.”

Ferdinando’s fingers went to his short dark beard and tugged at it, the way they always did when he was nervous. He looked tired. Like all of them. Too many long hours at the drawing boards. She looked across at the far end of the room, where Dottore Martino was jabbing his pen at his notebook, and her father’s words rose in her head.

We’re all working here under sufferance.

She turned quickly back to Ferdinando. “You are a specialist,” she reminded him. “You’ve been working on the urban master plan. You trained under Albert Speer in Berlin. They will always want you as part of their team.”

He stared bleakly at the sheet of paper in front of him. On it were the rudiments of a new street running along the southern edge of town. “My wife wants me to move back to Padua.”

“Oh, Ferdinando! Do you want to?”

“I can’t make her understand what it means to work here.”

They looked at each other and shared the shadow of a smile. They both knew they would prefer to lose a limb than lose this job.

Time ceased to exist when Isabella worked. Her mind went somewhere else, some place cool and clear where time had no meaning. There was no Rosa. No Caldarone family. No Blackshirts. No dark-edged fear of what lay hidden in tomorrow and in every other tomorrow. Only the tip of her pen existed, only the lines that emerged on the paper.

So she was unaware that more than an hour had passed before, emerging from designing pierced bargeboards and finials, she became conscious of movement at her elbow. A rustle and a sigh. When she turned her head she saw Ferdinando striding over to the supply storeroom at the back of the studio. Immediately she put down her ruling pen and followed him.

She found him crouched down on the floor, rummaging through a stack of new drawing pads on a bottom shelf. The storeroom was long and thin like a railway carriage, with gray metal shelving slicing up each wall, all piled high with architectural necessities, and there was a narrow window at the end that let in a spur of sunlight. It seemed to stab Ferdinando in the back. He looked up in surprise when Isabella entered.

She nodded pleasantly and reached for the first thing that came to hand—a thick reel of white tape.

“Ferdinando,” she started casually, “you spend a lot of time checking the layout of the streets, don’t you? Making sure they adhere to the master plan.”

“Yes, I do.” He looked at her curiously and she felt her cheeks redden. “Why do you ask?”

“I am concerned.”

“Concerned? What about?”

“I wondered if in your inspections you’ve seen much premature decay in some of the housing sectors of the town?”

His dark eyes widened; hairline creases tightened the corners of his mouth. He tucked a large pad under his arm and rose to his feet. A wariness had settled on him like dust, almost too fine to see. He glanced briefly in the direction of the open door.

“What are you saying, Isabella?”

“I know it may be nothing. Just small superficial details.” She leaned her back against the edge of the shelf in a relaxed pose that fooled no one.

“What have you seen?”

“Just bits and pieces. Downpipes that have broken loose, cracks in cement facings, guttering that leaks, brickwork that is—”

“Have you reported it to anyone?”

“Not yet.”

He shook his head. “I suggest you don’t.” Both were aware of the danger of ill-voiced criticism under the Fascist regime.

“Sometimes, Isabella, it is wiser to look the other way.” He said it in a soft soothing voice. “Let someone else be the one to report it.”

“But then I’m not doing my job.”

“Your job is to create buildings. It’s what you were hired to—”

“Yes, but those buildings have to be strong. They have to be well constructed for the people of Bellina who will live in them.”

“Of course.” He gave her a small ironic smile. “Viva Bellina.”

“The surveyors should be spotting these things.”

“Maybe they are.”

“It seems to be at its worst in the streets of smaller houses.”

“Where no one bothers to look closely?”

“Exactly.”

“Everyone is working in a rush, Isabella. We all are. So occasionally corners are cut. Most likely these are minor errors that will easily be repaired, so don’t concern yourself.”

She pushed herself from the shelving. Don’t back away, she wanted to say to him, don’t shut your eyes.

“Each of us has a responsibility,” she pointed out. “To the town that we’re building.”

“Oh, Isabella”—his fingers gripped the drawing pad tighter, as if he needed to hold on to something solid in the crowded little room—“give them time. They’ll get it right in the end. Just keep . . .” His words faltered.

“Keep my mouth shut?”

Ferdinando shrugged. “You are a fine architect, Isabella.” He said it kindly but when he glanced at her, his narrow face revealed a look of pity. Or was it shame? “Don’t shine a spotlight on the town’s weaknesses,” he urged. “It is too risky. Mussolini does not tolerate weakness.”

He gave her a long silent stare.

“Ferdinando,” she said softly, “what if your wife lived in one of those shoddily built apartments? What if the roof fell in? What then?”

He walked away without a word, back to the safety of his drawing board.

The moment Isabella pushed open the huge brass-edged doors of the Fascist Party headquarters and set foot on the coral marble of its reception hall, she knew she was in trouble. A black uniform stepped in front of her. Bull-chested and heavy-booted. She could smell his sweat.

“No entry, signora.”

He stood too close, forcing her to look up. She could see an old scar like a silver brand under his broad chin.

She smiled at him. “I’ve come to make an appointment to see Chairman Grassi.” She had unleashed her hair from its usual tight restraint and shook it at him with a light laugh. “I’m hoping he might be free today.”

She had been coming to the headquarters every day and taken her place in the queue at the desk of Chairman Grassi’s deputy, Signor Marchini, but each time she had been turned away with an abrupt “No appointments today, Signora Berotti.”

“Tomorrow?” she’d asked.

“Not tomorrow.”

“Next week?”

“Chairman Grassi’s diary is fully booked next week.”

“Surely not every day.”

“He is a very busy man.”

Today she didn’t even get as far as Signor Marchini’s desk. She tried to step around the Blackshirt, but he moved with her like a black wall. The vast hall echoed with the footsteps of others who were allowed to approach the inner sanctum, as she was edged back toward the entrance.

“At least give him this letter,” she said quickly before she found herself outside on the steps once more. She thrust an envelope under his nose. “For Chairman Grassi.”

His fist swallowed the letter and he opened the glass door for her. His movement was polite, but something about the gesture was threatening.

“Leave now, Signora Berotti.”

He knew her name. Isabella swallowed a hard knot of anger, smiled politely, and walked outside into the sunshine. He closed the door after her and stood behind it, arms folded across his chest, watching her every move. She was certain the letter would be tossed straight into the bin. She descended the steps, picking out a path along the edge to avoid stepping on the spot where Allegra Bianchi must have lain.

She ran a hand across her forehead as though it could alleviate the ache she felt there. It was time to find another way in.

“Where is Signor Francolini, Maria?” Isabella asked.

“He’s out on inspection. Why?”

The older woman paused her fingers above the typewriter keys. She was always more than ready to stop for a chat, at the same time possessing batlike ears for the first sound of her boss’s footstep. Maria was Dottore Martino’s secretary, one of the few other women working in the architect’s building and prone to mothering Isabella, given half a chance.

“I need to speak to him.”

“Trouble?”

“No. I just need to query something with him.”

“You always were a bad liar,” Maria chuckled and let her gaze drift over Isabella’s slim-waisted emerald dress with flared skirt and at her long dark curls that hung loose around her shoulders. “You’re looking extra pretty today. For someone special?”

“Maria, behave yourself! Of course not. Just tell me where he has gone.”

“To check on the Via Corelli apartment block.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, though. He seemed quite happy. It’s his job to make sure construction is going smoothly.”

But Isabella did worry. The Via Corelli apartment block was the one she was working on herself. “Grazie, Maria,” she muttered, and hurried toward the door.

The building vibrated with noise as Isabella entered. Workmen in grubby vests were hammering and sawing; a plumber was slicing through a metal pipe while whistling the Toreador Song at full throttle. And the odor of wet cement caught at the back of Isabella’s throat. But the moment she entered, her pulse started to pound. It was always the same. Her response was strong and physical to the smell and sound of one of her designs being transformed into the reality of bricks and mortar. This would soon be a building where people would live and dream, give birth and die, generations of them, unaware that her breath and her fingerprints were woven into the fabric of each wall. She wondered if at night in years to come the occupants would hear her heartbeat as they lay safe in their beds.

“Is Signor Francolini here, Nico?” she called to a workman with a drill in one hand and a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

He gestured upstairs and blew her a smoky kiss. Not how he would treat a male architect. But she smiled, and took the stairs faster than usual to work off her irritation. She found Davide Francolini on the third floor. In one of the rear apartments his slender frame was crouched on the floor in a corner, examining a long crack in the wall. It sent a stab of dismay through Isabella.

“Something is wrong there,” she said without preamble.

Francolini turned, caught by surprise, but when he realized who had spoken, he smiled up at her, his cool caramel eyes warming. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, marred by a streak of cement dust that snaked up one sleeve. She hadn’t spoken to him since the day she’d declined his offer of lunch, though she had seen him now and again flit through the office. He struck her as a man not easy to get to know, with an air of privacy that clung to him as stylishly as his clothes. Isabella stepped forward and offered her hand.

“Good afternoon, Signor Francolini.”

He rose to his feet and returned the handshake with a firm grip, brisk and efficient. “Don’t worry about the crack,” he said easily. “I’ll have it taken care of.”

“I’m glad I’ve run into you.”

“Why’s that?”

She noticed his eyes taking in her dress and her hair. “I wanted to congratulate you on how fast the apartments have gone up. Your men must be working around the clock.”

“They are. We use floodlights at night.” He nodded to reassure her. “They are good men.”

“I’m sure they are. I’ve just come to check on the positioning of the pipes. We don’t want them in the wrong place, so that they have to be torn out. It has happened before. Not all plumbers study the plans correctly.”

“Are you criticizing our workmen, Signora Berotti?”

“No. But in haste sometimes mistakes are made. Look at that crack.”

“I told you, I’ll have it taken care of.”

For a moment he regarded her coolly and she wondered if she’d gone too far, but what lay heavy in her mind were the deaths that her father had mentioned among the workforce. But Davide Francolini was clearly a man who put the success of his construction first. He ran a hand through his springy brown hair, the first unplanned gesture she’d seen from him, and his expression shifted to one of respect.

“I am pleased,” he said, “to see you are so thorough in your work, signora.”

“It’s my job.”

“So let us go and inspect these pipes of yours.”

It took longer than she expected, but Isabella didn’t risk hurrying or skimping on the inspection of each of the six apartments. She found no more cracks. She had to request some adjustments from the plumber and one of the door architraves didn’t sit squarely, so it all took time. Their voices trailed behind them, echoing in the empty building, but she enjoyed talking it all through with Davide, who demonstrated an interest in every detail.

So she was smiling when she emerged, and it was the easiest thing in the world to turn to him and say, “I have a favor to ask.”

He raised a dusty eyebrow in surprise. “What is it? You want me to take the plasterers off another project to bring them in on yours?”

“No. It’s more personal than that.”

She saw his eyes brighten and the topmost layer of his reserve fell away like the unwanted skin of a snake.

“In which case,” he said as he started toward a bar, “you can tell me over a drink.”

This time she didn’t refuse.

“What is she doing here?”

They were standing in Chairman Grassi’s grandiose office, elaborate in its combination of pale marbles and black ebony in modern geometric designs. The hard lines and strong angles left visitors in no doubt as to the power and dynamism of the owner of such an office. It was intended to impress and it succeeded. Isabella was careful to do as Davide Francolini had told her and kept her mouth shut.

“She’s been working alongside me today,” he informed Grassi casually, “learning my end of the business. Take no notice of her, she’s just observing.”

He took the chair in front of the desk as if it were his by right, leaving Isabella stranded in the middle of the gleaming floor. She moved over to stand by the door, hands behind her back like a dumb sentinel. She let her limp show. Let Grassi think she was no threat.

“I don’t want her here,” the chairman stated, puffing out his overfed chest but not bothering to rise from his black chair that looked more stylish than comfortable. “She’s been troublesome.”

“Her?”

Francolini glanced over at Isabella dismissively and shrugged, as though she were too insignificant to cause trouble. Isabella did not care for the gesture, but she had to admit it seemed to work because Grassi focused his attention on Francolini with a grimace.

“Be quick,” the chairman ordered curtly. “I have other meetings to attend.”

But he opened a cedar box on his desk and both men reached for the cigars inside as if it were their custom. They didn’t hurry through the ritual of lighting them from the chrome desk lighter and exhaled with satisfaction as the skeins of smoke twisted together. Isabella stood silent and unmoving. She listened carefully to their talk of delivery of greater numbers of roof pantiles from Naples, of progress on the construction of the sports stadium and the need to widen the approach road to it.

Davide Francolini delivered his report clearly and concisely, explaining the problems and being specific as to where the chairman could use his influence to unblock any logjams. It was an impressive performance. It gave her an insight into his complicated world. Yet it told her nothing about him, about the man behind the efficient, well-groomed façade, except that he was good at handling people. He blunted the chairman’s darts of anger, just as he had blunted her own fears.

“You have regular meetings with Chairman Grassi, don’t you?” she’d said to him over a shot of grappa at the back of the bar he’d chosen. “To keep him up to date. That’s what they say in the office.”

“Yes, it’s true.”

“I need to see him urgently, but I can’t get an appointment.”

“What is it you want to speak to our respected chairman about?”

“It’s a private matter.” She shook her head apologetically, not wanting to offend him. “It’s nothing to do with architecture or buildings. Something personal.”

He didn’t seem to react, yet she sensed a heightened awareness in him on the other side of the table, a brightness at the back of his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“I see.”

He had made a telephone call. It was as simple as that. Now she was here in Grassi’s office, impatient for their meeting to end. Francolini was only halfway through his cigar when he stood up and shook Grassi’s hand across the wide ebony desk.

“Thank you, Chairman, for your time. We have clarified a number of problems and I can push ahead. I’ll keep you informed.”

Grassi prowled forward from behind his desk and clapped a fleshy hand on the narrow bones of Francolini’s shoulder. He moved with such vigor that Isabella could readily see how much he enjoyed working with him. Davide Francolini had a knack for keeping things clear and simple. She must do the same. When Francolini headed for the door and opened it, she moved for the first time, her skirt rustling, an incongruously female murmur in the hard-edged male office. But instead of following Francolini out of the office, Isabella stepped smartly in front of Grassi.

“One moment of your time, per favore.”

The chairman’s shoulders pulled back, but his head jutted forward. “Get out of my office, signora.”

“I don’t intend to disturb your work. Just a couple of quick questions.”

There was a darkness to his heavy features, as thick as the smoke that he breathed in her face. At this time of day his jaw glinted with the beginnings of a silvery stubble, but his hair was the dense black of paint.

“Leave now!”

“In the name of my husband, Luigi Berotti, who died for your Fascist Party, listen to me for two minutes. Please.”

Her voice was quiet. Reasonable. Not a trace of the anger that burned in her throat. She had disconnected herself from it and consciously softened the muscles of her face. “It won’t take long. Then I will leave you in peace.”

Whether it was something in her voice or the mention of Luigi’s name, she didn’t know, but Grassi pulled back his head and drew on his cigar till its tip glowed like a warning. She saw something more of him as he disguised his arrogance behind a long, shrewd stare.

“Luigi Berotti was a loyal member of the Fascist Party. Back in the days before Mussolini came to power and needed every supporter he could get.”

Isabella hid her surprise. She trod warily. “Did you know him?”

“No.”

“But you heard of his death?”

“Yes.”

“No one was ever charged with his murder.”

“So I believe.”

“That’s why I’m here. Ten years ago I was told by the police that my husband’s killer escaped and no one knew who it was. Presumably an insurgent in a random attack.”

“Unfortunate. But it happens sometimes.”

Unfortunate? What kind of word was unfortunate to describe the escape of a killer?

“He shot me in the back,” she stated.

“That too is unfortunate.”

If she pushed his cigar down his throat, would that be unfortunate, too?

“I have reason to believe the Party knows more about the gun attack that day than it’s telling me.”

He rolled his eyes impatiently and looked at the door. “Young woman, the Party knows nothing about the incident, I assure you. The death of your husband was a sad loss. But it’s over.”

“No. It’s not over. Death is never over.”

He started to pace back and forth across his office, his gleaming black shoes marking out a line that she knew better than to cross.

“Who has been filling your head with this nonsense?” he demanded. “Not the blasted priest.”

“The priest? No, not him.” She paused. “Allegra Bianchi told me.”

The mention of the dead woman’s name brought him up short. He drew in a quick breath, expanding his broad chest, snorting out smoke.

“That woman was mentally deranged,” he declared. “Don’t waste my time with her unhinged ideas. She was a woman hell-bent on creating trouble and she is now where she belongs.”

Yet he crossed himself. Old habits die hard.

“What about her daughter? Is Rosa Bianchi where she belongs?” Isabella asked quietly.

He blinked at the conversation’s change of direction and his heavy features became leaden. “She has gone,” he announced.

“Gone?”

“Yes, the girl is being looked after elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“That, Signora Berotti, is none of your business.”

“Allegra Bianchi made it my business.”

His reaction was immediate. He strode straight over to her and for a moment she believed he was going to strike her, but instead he grasped the lapel of her jacket. He yanked her to him, so close she could see the small broken veins on the side of his nose pulsing with fresh blood and smell the tobacco on his hot breath.

“Signora Berotti, I am telling you to stay out of this. That girl is as damned as her whore of a mother.” He released a grunt of anger. “As damned as her father will be when I—”

Instantly he regretted his outburst. She could see it in the hooded caution that now veiled his dark eyes.

“Who is her father?” Isabella asked at once. “I thought he was dead.”

In answer, Chairman Grassi tightened his grip on her lapel so that it cut into the flesh of her throat.

“Chairman Grassi, I—”

At that moment a second hand landed lightly on her other shoulder and Davide Francolini’s voice sounded in her ear.

“Come along, signora, don’t delay further. I am tired of standing outside waiting for you.” His tone was sharp. “We need to discuss the points raised in the meeting.” His hand jerked her shoulder, overstretching its tendons.

In that second she lost all reason to trust either of them. She ducked from under their hands, tearing a seam of her jacket, and hurried out of the room. Out of the building. Out into the clean, smoke-free air of the town. She was surprised to find it was raining, a hissing slippery drizzle that pecked at the back of her neck as she limped across the Piazza del Popolo.

The facts kept circling in her head as she dodged the raindrops. That the girl had been spirited somewhere beyond her reach. That Grassi’s eyes had rolled away from her when he stated that the Party knew nothing about Luigi’s death. A lie. A blatant brazen lie.

“So what is it, Chairman Grassi, that you are so determined I will not find out from Rosa Bianchi?” Isabella flicked a glance back over her shoulder at the Party headquarters, a powerful monolithic building that defended its secrets with a blank marble face. The rain fretted at Isabella’s eyelashes. “Which one of you,” she asked aloud, “is a murderer?”