Chapter Twenty-Three

The office was silent. It was Saturday morning, early. The day had dawned with an empty blue sky, so clear and brittle it looked as if it would crack if anyone dared touch it. Isabella kept her mind fixed on what lay ahead, not on what skulked behind her. Sometimes the past seemed to her to be a giant mantrap with iron teeth that could snap your bones if you didn’t watch where you put your feet.

She had brushed her hair till it shone, put on her brightest dress and brightest smile, and strode into the office with a cheerful “Buongiorno” for the receptionist. Only a handful of the draftsmen were yet at their boards, so she nodded a cheery good morning and was gathering up her personal belongings, throwing the ruler, sharpener, and her favorite drawing pens into her shoulder bag, when Dottore Martino’s secretary, Maria, strolled across the room with an envelope in her hand. Her face was shiny; she was excited about something.

“For you, Isabella.”

“Grazie.”

It would be her official notice and final paycheck. Isabella almost didn’t open it there. It was the kind of reading you kept for the privacy of your own room, so that no one else could see the turning of your hopes to ash in your mouth or the way your eyes go dead behind the smile. But Maria started chattering on about how thrilled she was that Mussolini had smiled at her when he came to the office yesterday—“A proper smile from Il Duce just for me!”—and how she couldn’t wait for the big rally at midday today in the field that was being turned into a sports arena.

“It is a privilege,” she enthused, her hands dancing through the air, “to have our great leader here among us, addressing us at the rally. Un grande uomo. A great man in our midst. A man of history. I can’t wait to view him again, so proud and—”

Isabella had stopped listening. Her restless fingers had slit open the envelope. There was no check inside. One folded sheet of paper, that was all.

“I hope Dottore Martino lets us leave early,” the secretary was saying eagerly, “so that we can get there first and choose good places to—”

Isabella could think of nothing worse on earth at this moment than to rush to a propaganda rally to be close to Mussolini when he delivered his speech. She flicked out the sheet of paper, her eyes reluctant to read the words of dismissal. To her surprise she saw that there were only three handwritten lines.

Signora Isabella Berotti, I am pleased to inform you that I am withdrawing your dismissal. It seems I need you more than I thought I did.

It was signed Alberto Martino in a quick impatient scrawl.

Withdrawing your dismissal.

It took an effort to drag air into her lungs. Suddenly everything smelled different. The world smelled alive again; it smelled of damp earth and freshly baked bread. Of cement. Of coffee. Of salt and tears. Something that lay cramped inside Isabella unfurled as she sought to work out exactly what had happened to reverse her employer’s decision.

Who was responsible? Mussolini himself? Hit by remorse or driven by belated loyalty to Luigi? Or Davide Francolini? Did her escort discover last night that she’d been fired from her job and did he put pressure on Martino?

She had no idea. But her hand was trembling with relief as she carefully put each pen, one by one, back in its place.

The Church of St. Michael was bare. Unadorned and unpretentious. Isabella liked it at once, the moment she pushed open its heavy door. Its colors were soft and the air was fragrant with incense. The pews and the altar were of honey-toned woods and modern design. It was the kind of place where she could imagine prayers lingering, unwilling to abandon this cool restful space. The exception was the vivid sapphire-blue gown of the Madonna that glowed in the recess of a side chapel where a handful of votive candles flickered, remembering the souls of the departed. Isabella walked over and lit one for Luigi.

“Dio vi benedica,” a quiet voice murmured at her shoulder. “God bless you, signora, in your time of need.”

It was the priest. A tall shapeless shadow in his black robe. She had last seen him in the police station the day all this had started and she remembered his kindness to Rosa, the firmness of his words. Years ago he had been a friend of her father when they worked together in Milan hospital.

“Thank you, Father Benedict.”

“A time of quiet reflection at the start of the day benefits us all. Especially on a day like today when the battle cry of Il Duce will soon resound in our ears.” He stepped backward, melting into the muted light that filtered like amber oil through the stained-glass windows.

“Father, one moment of your time, please.”

He halted and she approached him. He gave no sign of recognizing her.

“Father, do you know what happened to Sister Consolata?”

“She was transferred to another convent.” He spoke as though words were things to be measured out with care, not used to excess.

“Do you know why? And who made the decision? Was it Chairman Grassi?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. But the church makes these decisions within its spiritual realm, not politicians, I assure you, Signora Berotti.”

So he knew exactly who she was.

“Was it because of Rosa Bianchi?”

His dark eyes had something of old leather about them, as if they had seen things that eyes were not meant to see, but they softened at the mention of the child’s name. To Isabella’s surprise, he nodded.

“I believe it could have been,” he said. “She is important to them.”

“I’m worried about her. They are treating her like a prisoner. Why? Why is she so important to them? Is it because of her father? Have you spoken to her?”

“Signora, you ask too many questions. It is not always wise. You think I do not see what goes on in that place in God’s name.”

The priest glanced quickly around the body of his church, mindful that somebody might have slipped unnoticed into one of the pews. But no, at this hour the pews were empty of morning worshippers.

“Why do you come to me?” he asked in a low tone.

“I am not permitted to see Rosa, but I know she needs help. I thought that you, as the town’s priest, would be able to enter the convent and—”

“That’s the only reason you came here?”

“Yes.”

“No one told you to come?”

“No.”

Isabella studied his long sallow face and sensed that she was on the verge of learning something important, but it was so intangible that she didn’t know where to look. The air in the church seemed to grow milky around them, thick with secrets that she had not expected to find in the house of God.

“Father”—Isabella pronounced his title sharply—“who is Rosa Bianchi’s father?”

For a long moment there was nothing but silence in the church and the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears, but during the silence the priest’s eyes scrutinized her face.

“How should I know, signora?”

He was lying. And he was no better at it than she was.

“Will he be coming for Rosa?” Isabella asked. “It’s what she believes and also what Grassi seems to believe.” A thought suddenly struck her and she was appalled that it hadn’t occurred to her before. “Has Allegra Bianchi been buried yet?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In our cemetery, in sacred ground. Some say a suicide should be cast into outer darkness and denied hallowed ground, but I believe she is one of God’s beloved children, despite her mortal sin.”

“Was Rosa at the funeral?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But it didn’t draw her father into the open? Colonnello Sepe must have been watching for him, but I’ve heard of no arrest, so I assume his scheme didn’t work.”

This time the slightest of smiles released the tension around his mouth. “Apparently not. Or we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation.”

Suddenly Isabella lost patience with the wall of secrets that blocked her path in every direction. Without warning she grasped a handful of the front of his cassock, gripping it tight.

“Father Benedict,” she said fiercely, “please tell me the truth. I feel you know more than you are saying.”

“Signora Berotti, you are too quick to jump to conclusions.” He sighed. “What is it that you are so eager to know?”

“I want to find the man who killed my husband.”

Father Benedict’s eyes widened with surprise. “What makes you think that I know anything about that?”

“My father has told me in the past that you used to work with him at the hospital in Milan.”

“That is true.” He quietly extricated his robe from her fingers. “But it was a long time ago. A lot has changed since then.”

“My husband was killed in Milan ten years ago, and Rosa’s mother mentioned it to me here in Bellina before she took her own life. Somewhere there is a connection, I feel sure of it, but no one will speak out.”

“Is that your only interest in the child?” He regarded her sadly. “Because you believe that she will lead you to what you want to know?”

“No.” But the question stung. She found herself wondering how much of it was true. “I am of course concerned for the child’s welfare too. She has lost her mother and I know how that feels.”

He smiled kindly. “I used to see you sometimes as a child, trailing behind your father like a lost lamb. You don’t remember me but I remember you. Even then you were different from other little girls.”

Isabella felt the warmth of his memories bridging the gap between them. “Help me,” she said softly. “Help me now. Tell me what you know.”

“I’m not the one you should be asking.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“No one has ever thought to come to me before to ask about what happened ten years ago. But you’re right, there is a connection.”

“What is it? Please, Father, I need to know.”

“In that case, Signora Berotti, I suggest you talk to your own father. He is the one who nursed your husband’s killer back to health.”

Isabella threw open the door of the new Bellina hospital, a place she had helped to design. So she knew its layout, its corridors, and its wards. She had drawn with fine-tipped pens the floor plan of its operating theaters. But understanding a building was not the same as understanding the people within it, and living with her father was not the same as knowing the secrets beneath his skin.

“Dr. Cantini is busy, I’m afraid.”

Isabella limped hurriedly past his secretary without breaking stride, through the outer office to the door of the inner sanctum. No doors were stopping her now, and she jerked this one open so hard that it bounced back against the wall with a bang, making her father leap to his feet. He was behind his desk and wearing his doctor face. Not the one he showed patients, which was all smiles and chuckles. This was his face of concern and worry when he was studying their files and working out what treatment to give.

“Papa!”

“I’m sorry, Dottore, but I couldn’t stop your daughter from marching straight in like this with no—”

Dr. Cantini took one look at his daughter’s face and held up a hand. “Enough, Carla, it’s all right. Shut the door after you.” But his eyes didn’t leave Isabella’s and he threw the pen in his hand down on the desk with a clatter the moment the door closed. “What is it, Isabella? What has—”

“Liar!”

His dark brows swooped down and his cheeks flared the deep plum red that Isabella knew from experience was the forerunner of anger.

“All these years I believed you. All these years I thought you had tried to help me.” She stormed over to his desk and slammed both hands down on its surface. “You lied! You told me there was a manhunt. That while I was in the hospital fighting for my life, and then learning to walk again with operation after operation, the police had worked hard to find the killer of my husband or even his identity, but no clues were found. No evidence. He escaped. That’s what you told me, Papa.”

“It’s the truth, but you—”

“You lied! You lied!”

“Isabella, stop this at once!”

“That’s why you ordered me to stay away from Rosa, isn’t it? In case I learned the real truth. That’s why you were so pleased about Roberto last night because you thought I would now forget about the killing and about Rosa and just get on with life.”

“Isabella, you are wrong.”

“No, I am not.”

“Sit down. Stop this shouting. At once.”

His voice was the one he used on negligent junior doctors, the one that had always been able to turn Isabella’s knees to water. But not this time.

“I know the truth.”

She ignored the fact that he came striding toward her from behind his desk, ignored the chair he pointed to with his long forefinger. Ignored the “Sit!” As though she were a dog.

“You nursed the man who shot Luigi. The killer who put a bullet in me.”

Her father froze. Hands midair. All color leached from his face. And in that fraction of a second, Isabella knew that anything more he said would be a lie. She couldn’t trust him.

“Isabella, that is a wicked thing to say.” His voice came out hoarse as if something hard and dry had stuck in his throat. “It is grossly untrue. How could you ever begin to think such a thing? You mean the world to me—don’t you know that, cara mia? I would never nurse any man who deliberately harmed you.”

“Swear it!”

“What?”

“Swear on Mamma’s grave. That you did no such thing.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I swear it on your dear mother’s grave.”

Nothing moved in the cold office. Not a breath. Not an eyelash. Not the beat of a heart. Isabella did everything in her power to disbelieve him, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t. He had loved her mother more than his own life and would never swear on her grave if it weren’t true.

She walked over to the chair and collapsed onto it, breathing heavily as if she’d been running hard. Her father remained for several seconds standing stiffly in the center of the room, then came over and placed himself beside her chair. Gently he rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Who told you such a terrible lie?”

“The priest.”

“Father Benedict?”

She nodded. She felt his hand jump, startled, and then return to its place.

“I’ve told you before that Father Benedict and I were friends in Milan,” he explained quietly. “He used to bring comfort and the last rites to my dying patients, and I used to patch up the congregation in his rough neighborhood after knife stabbings and bottle fights. They were common outside the bars.” She felt, rather than saw, the resigned shrug he gave. “You know what we Italians are like. All hot temper and points of honor.”

“But what reason would he have to lie to me?”

“To him it’s not a lie. He believes what he told you. But he’s wrong, I promise you.”

“It doesn’t make sense, Papa.”

“The day Luigi was shot, a policeman was in the marketplace. He fired shots at the window where he thought the gunfire had come from, but no one was found there.”

“You’ve never told me this before.”

“There was no reason to. I was out of my mind with worry about you, but two days later one of Mussolini’s henchmen came to my home at night in secret. He asked me to remove a bullet from his shoulder. I did so.”

Isabella lifted her head. She studied her father’s face. He was staring down at his wedding ring. Remembering. His expression was tight. Was he listening for the rustle of truth weaving in and out of his words?

“Why in secret?” Isabella asked. “What was he afraid of?”

“He’d had a run-in with some rebel Socialists who were raging against Mussolini’s takeover of power. He’d been throwing his Fascist weight around as usual, provoking trouble, getting them riled up.”

“Why you? Why come to you?”

“I was known as a medic who could keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want Mussolini to know he’d been fool enough to get himself shot.”

“And the priest?”

“Father Benedict caught me treating him and got it into his head that this was the gunman who killed Luigi.”

“Why?”

“The man was feverish and was loose-tongued enough to mutter about killing a man and his wife. But Isabella, it wasn’t Luigi he shot. It wasn’t you. The bullets in you and in Luigi didn’t come from a police gun. Hell, I’ve removed enough of them in my time to know exactly what they look like.”

Slowly Isabella rose to her feet. She thought hard before asking the next question. “Who was that man, then? The injured one, the Fascist you helped.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”

“It matters to me, Papa. Tell me.”

He drew himself up to his full height, his presence expanding to fill the room. “It was Alberto Grassi.”

“Chairman Grassi?” It was the last name Isabella had expected.

“Yes.” Her father moved with heavy steps toward the door. “Now forget I ever told you.”

His hand reached for the door handle, but before he could grasp it Isabella made a strange hissing sound that escaped from her lips without warning. The room seemed suddenly too hot, her father’s eyes too narrow, the secrets too big.

“That’s why, isn’t it?” she said in a low voice. “That’s why I have my job.”

His eyes flickered, but he made no comment.

“In payment to you. That’s why Dottore Martino employs me.”

Who do you trust? How do you know?

Isabella returned to the office. Tried to work. Failed. Her head would not stay still. Her eyes kept seeing again the priest’s fiery eyes and her ears kept hearing again her father’s sincere voice, I swear it on your dear mother’s grave.

We all keep secrets. We hide our secrets from each other. From ourselves. But how do we know when the time has come to undo the locks on the secrets?

It was a relief when at eleven o’clock the office was emptied and coaches arrived to trundle every employee out to the arena field where the rally was to be held at noon. It was good to be out in the open, in the sunshine under a lofty blue sky that looked as if it had been swept clean for Mussolini’s visit. Where shadows and secrets couldn’t crawl up on her unnoticed. Isabella breathed more easily and felt the tight band around her chest loosen.

The field was a mass of color and movement, a cauldron of noise and crowds and excitement. Isabella stood on tiptoe on the top step of the coach and surveyed the scene before her, section by section. Row after row of flags leapt back and forth impatiently in the breeze, the green, white, and red flag of Italy alternating with the bold and dramatic flag of the Fascist Party. The Fascist flag looked to Isabella as if it wore jackboots. It bore a golden fasces, the ancient Roman symbol of authority, on a dominant black background, and it made a harsh statement that no one could ignore. Luigi had told her that black was the official color used by the Blackshirt militia as a reminder of the Italian Arditi soldiers for whom it represented death and an unswerving willingness to sacrifice self in combat for the cause.

Yes, I hear you, Duce, you and your flags. Isabella removed her gaze from the banners. The individual becomes a trivial cog in the vast Fascist machine. Dispensable. Replaceable. But I am not a cog. I am an architect, a good one too. Is that not so, Dottore Martino?

“Isabella!”

It was Ferdinando. He was lingering on the grass beside the coach, waiting for her to emerge. Out here on the rally field his movements were more relaxed, and she wondered if his wife and children were waiting for him somewhere in the crowd.

“Ready for the big speech?” she asked him.

“Isabella,” he said again, and edged nearer with a sharp glance around. “I’ve heard something.”

For a moment her head was still so full of her confrontation with her father that she thought Ferdinando meant he had overheard what they had said at the hospital. But that was ridiculous. Then she noticed the stiff muscles of his face and the tight line of his mouth. Quickly she descended a step.

“What is it?” she asked softly. “What have you heard?”

“There’s a stone quarry on the northern outskirts of Rome that we do business with.”

“Ferdinando, there are a number of quarries near Rome that supply us with stone.”

“Yes, but this one is called the Orrico Quarry.”

She waited for more.

“It is run by a man called Gaetan Orrico.”

“Gaetan Orrico,” Isabella echoed while watching behind Ferdinando, where a young woman in a flowered dress was approaching the coach with an easy swinging stride, trailed by two excited boys throwing a ball to each other. “What have you heard about him?”

She spoke rapidly in an undertone before the woman reached them.

“He is . . .” He paused, unwilling to voice the words.

She forced a smile onto her face. The woman was now right behind Ferdinando but he was unaware of her. “He is what?” Isabella urged.

“He is questionable.”

“Questionable? What do you mean by—”

The young woman slipped a hand onto Ferdinando’s shoulder. He spun around nervously, but when he saw who it was a wide grin spread across his features. Isabella had never seen him look so happy as at the moment that he curled his arm around the slender waist in the floral dress.

“Isabella, let me introduce you to my wife, Margherita.”

“Buongiorno, Margherita.”

The young woman smiled shyly and gestured toward the two boys who were running off in the direction of a pasticcini stall. “They have been impatient for you to get here, Ferdinando.”

Her husband nodded indulgently. “Andiamo.” He waved a hand at Isabella. “A presto.”

She watched them walk away together, hip to hip, arms entwined, and for the first time it occurred to her that Margherita was right. Ferdinando should pack up his happy little family and leave this place, go to Padua away from the spotlight that held Bellina in its glare.

Isabella smiled as she watched them vanish into the crowd.

Her eyes dissected the field as efficiently as they would a drawing on her board, roaming over every corner of it. Seeking. Scanning. Hunting down. Right now she was searching among the thousands of scarves and hats and caps for a head of thick chestnut hair. A tall straight figure. A pair of shoulders that a Maremmana bull would envy. The smile stayed. Waiting for Roberto to come and claim it.