Turn to Stone

by James W. Ziskin

“Italian is spelled exactly as it’s pronounced,” he’d said. “Right down to the double consonants. If you can hear it, you can spell it.”

  The desk’s large side drawers were locked—yes, I tugged at each of them—but the center one slid open on command. Inside were more pens and pencils, erasers and paperclips, as well as stationery. And a small triangular enamel pin with the letters GUF above a red-white-and-blue fleur-de-lis. I thought it might be French, given the colors and the heraldic device, but I didn’t know why it might be in Locanda’s desk drawer. I glanced at the door to ensure I was alone, then picked up the pin. on the verso was the inscription, “Stabil.ti Artistici Fiorentini (Florentine artistic works).” I shrugged, replaced the pin, and slid the drawer closed.

  The correspondence on his desk looked to be run-of-the-mill business mail. I didn’t know how Locanda supported his comfortable life-style, though I’d assumed his elderly wife in Switzerland kept him in silk ascots and fancy cigarettes. A cursory peek at two or three letters revealed words such as olivicoltore, ettari, and vendemmia (olive grower, hectares, and harvest), indicating his business might well be olive oil production.

  I made my way over to the secretary against the wall. This was where I’d found the photographs and assorted newspapers the night before. Someone had straightened up the disorder, but everything was still there. I shuffled through the photographs once again, stopping to examine the group photo in the café. The faces were clearer in the light of day. The young woman was quite pretty, that much I could see. Knowing no one in Italy, I had little chance of recognizing any of the people in the café. But since this was Locanda’s house, perhaps he was in the photograph. Then again, maybe not. This was his wife’s house after all, wasn’t it? I squinted at the blurry photo and thought he might be one of the three men, but there was no way of telling for sure, given the intervening years and the soft focus.

  I left them as I’d found them, and moved on to the paintings and photographs on the walls. The Tuscan landscapes, drab watercolors, and dusty old framed photographs of whiskered bald men merited only the barest of glances. Some nineteenth-century portraits of Thoroughbreds and jockeys, however, struck me as out of place. On closer inspection, I ascertained that they were oil originals, most of which were unsigned. Two bore brass plates on the frames identifying the artist as John Alfred Wheeler. Perhaps Locanda’s wife’s late husband had been a horseman. The paintings predated Max’s birth by at least twenty years. But who knew? Maybe his wife was old enough to have placed a wager on some of the illustrious horses.

  Next, a bank of tall bookshelves held leather-bound volumes that showed almost no wear at all. Most likely bought by the yard, I guessed, unless the marchesa’s late husband was interested in eighteenth-century tomes on physics, French philosophical thought, histories of indigenous peoples of the Americas, and legal references, some in English and French, others in Italian, and more still in German and Latin. A mishmash of disciplines and traditions, with the only common denominator being the beautiful bindings. Not much to see here. Until I noticed a nook of sorts between the bookshelves and a corner of the room. There was a leather armchair flanked by a standing ashtray on one side and a small decorative folding table on the other. A brass floor lamp completed the scene. A lovely spot to read, I thought.

  Then I gasped. There on the wall behind the armchair, arranged in rows of threes and fours, each with a different idea of alignment, hung ten or twelve framed glossy photographs. Soldiers in black shirts bedecked with various insignia and tasseled fascist fezzes perched atop their heads. A casual observer might have been tempted to return the broad, beaming, straight-toothed smiles the men were brandishing like swords. They looked so satisfied, hale and hearty, heroic even. But I knew from the uniforms that these were bullies on the prowl, searching for any pretext to bash some heads. The Camicie Nere, also known as squadristi, were the allvolunteer paramilitary arm of the fascist party. They represented the most fanatic, dogmatic adherents of Mussolini’s lictorian movement. Staring at their smug posturing, I felt sick. I wanted to tear the frames off the wall and smash them under foot. Of course, I couldn’t do that, so I studied them more closely instead.

  The lowest of the three rows of photographs was a collection of four portraits of a bald middle-aged man in full military regalia. I figured him to be sixty or sixty-five. He looked somehow familiar to me, though I couldn’t see how. Then I remembered the photograph from the café. Was he one of the men? And who was he? Locanda’s predecessor, I assumed. His wife’s late husband?

  That thought blunted some of my disgust at staying under the same roof with a person who celebrated fascists with a portrait gallery in his inner sanctum. I’d been raised to hate fascists and, indeed, taught there was no dirtier word than “fascist.” But if these photographs had belonged to his wife’s husband, then perhaps Locanda had no authority to remove them. Or did he have the authority and had simply chosen not to? Hadn’t Bernie told me the marchesa refused to return to Italy after the war? Would she even know if he took down the offensive photos?

  I mulled that over as I leaned closer to view the bald man’s features. Then I heard a commotion coming from somewhere beyond the closed door of the library.

  Stealing along the wall, I reached the door and cracked it open to listen for footsteps. No one seemed to be approaching the library, but there were three or four voices in the front hall. I heard two men, a woman, and what sounded like a young girl. A teen, perhaps. Another woman was weeping. I slipped out into the corridor, assumed as innocent a demeanor as I could muster, given my upset at having discovered the photos, and strode toward the source of the commotion.

  As I emerged into the front hall, I spied five people. The first I recognized was Locanda, who, I’d assumed, was in Florence with Vicky to buy “a little something bright and shiny from Torrini’s.” But there he was, very much present in casual attire, and I realized how lucky I’d been that he hadn’t surprised me again in his library. Behind Locanda, Achille stood awkwardly, surrounded by four large valises and a couple of vanity cases. Next to him was Berenice, who, I could see now, had been the person wailing. A second woman, her back to me, faced Locanda, whose fierce glare frightened me, never mind her. And in the middle of it all was a girl, also back to me. Outfitted in a plain cornflower-blue sailor dress, she stood with her light-brown hair drawn back into a simple coda di cavallo,ponytail. A leather camera case was strung over her shoulder.

  Uninvited, I nevertheless intruded on the scene, circling around to see the two people I’d been unable to identify from behind. I was startled to discover the woman whose comforting arm was holding the girl to her side was none other than Teresa Ortega y Martín, Bondinelli’s donna di servizio. She nodded subtlety, almost imperceptibly, to acknowledge me. The girl looked miserable. No more than fourteen or fifteen, she stood there gaping up at the stern man before her. Her eyes were clear, though her nose appeared red and chapped. Tall and gangling for her age, skinny, with an overbite, she wasn’t quite pretty yet, but I was sure she would grow into her frame and might well wind up a statuesque beauty. I knew instantly that she had to be Bondinelli’s daughter. He’d stood nearly six and a half feet tall, after all. And Teresa’s presence at her side clinched the deal in my mind. But what I couldn’t fathom was what she was doing at Bel Soggiorno. There was no connection between her and Massimiliano Locanda beyond the long-standing friendship between him and her father. Then I overheard the girl say two words that only deepened the mystery. Or perhaps shed light on it. “Zio Max.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  She’d called him Uncle Max. But how? Had she meant “uncle” as in a close family friend? Surely he wasn’t her flesh and blood. Locanda would have mentioned it, wouldn’t he have?

  “What do you want, Signorina Stone?” he hissed at me once he became aware of my presence.

  “I heard raised voices and weeping,” I said. “I came to see if I could help.”

  Barely containing his prickly an
imus, he told me I wasn’t needed. “Everything is in order.”

  “Why is Berenice crying?” I asked.

  “Povera bambina,” she answered, and her wailing started anew. “Povera piccola Mariangela.”

  I was confused. It was one thing for Locanda to know his late friend’s daughter, who might well have called him “zio,” as children are wont to do with close friends of their parents’. But how would Berenice have known this girl?

  Before Locanda could dispatch me with a swift kick in the seat of my pants—and I was sure he was itching to do just that—footsteps descending the stairs drew his attention away. The dormiglioni were emerging with perfect timing, if inconveniencing and thoroughly annoying their host had been their goal.

  Locanda was fuming now. He turned his attention back to the girl just as Lucio, Giuliana, and Tato reached the ground floor.

  “Mariangela, go with Berenice. She will show you to your room. I’ll come to see you as soon as I finish some important business.”

  “What about Teresa?” asked the girl. “I want her to stay with me.”

  Locanda ran a hand through his hair, and I had to wonder if he intended to rip the silvery mane out of his head. His house was already packed to the rafters with unwelcome guests, and now the inconvenient appearance of a young girl seemed to inspire a desire to give someone— anyone handy—a thorough drubbing. But with so many witnesses present, he couldn’t very well wrap Achille in a half Nelson or strangle the life out of me. So his own head of hair suffered the brunt of his ire.

  He drew a deep, restorative breath. “Everyone, please go about your business,” he said in a softer voice.

  Thanks to the liberal application of brilliantine, a couple of locks of his hair were left jutting out from his head at awkward angles, and I struggled to suppress a snicker. The look was quite clownish, at least until I realized he was aiming a murderous glare at me. I swallowed my mirth.

  “Signora Teresa, please go with Mariangela to her room. Berenice will make up a bed for you in the servants’ quarters.”

  On a silent signal from Locanda, Achille gathered up the luggage and lumbered off behind the women and the girl. Lucio, Giuliana, and Tato averted their eyes and wandered off toward the back terrazza. I wanted to follow, but not before having a word with Locanda.

  “I am busy,” he said in English, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.

  I scurried after him. “This won’t take long,” I said.

  He reeled around to confront me, and I nearly ran into him in my haste. His eyes, wild and piercing, stopped me in my tracks. I took a step back and summoned my nerve.

  “I need to talk to you about what I saw in your study last night.”

  He stewed as he weighed my words, staring me down for a good ten seconds. Then he nodded curtly and set off down the hallway. After a few steps, he realized I hadn’t moved. Stopping yet again, he turned and motioned to me with a jerk of his head.

  “ Viene o no?”

  Shifting into gear, I followed him down the corridor. When he reached the library door, he shoved it open and entered with no thought of ceding the way to the lady.

  “Si sieda,” he told me once we were inside, indicating a chair before his desk. I gulped, feeling like a truant schoolgirl hauled up before the principal. We both took a seat. “Now tell me what this is about.”

  “I’m leaving,” I said.

  “Come?”

  “I said I’m leaving Bel Soggiorno immediately. I cannot in good conscience stay in this house.”

  His anger seemed to dissipate. “Of course,” he said. “Once Achille has settled our new guests into their rooms, I’ll have him drive you back to town.”

  “Thank you,” I said, dissatisfied with his reaction. I waited.

  “Is that all?”

  I answered reluctantly that, yes, that was all.

  He nodded and rose from his seat behind the desk. And then he paused. Though he’d done his best to hide it, he was as interested in hearing my reasons for leaving as I was in telling him. “Did you say that you saw something in this room last night?”

  “I did. And I’ll be happy to share my reasons for leaving with you if you’ll answer one question for me.”

  He settled back into his seat and tented his fingers under his chin. “I am happy to answer your questions whether you tell me why you’ve decided to leave or not.”

  He was trying to play it cool, but I was convinced he was curious. Still, I could use his arrogance to my advantage if he wanted to play it that way.

  “That girl,” I began. “Mariangela. She’s Professor Bondinelli’s daughter, isn’t she?”

  He nodded.

  “Poor thing. She must be devastated.”

  “She’s holding up well. Is that your question?”

  I fidgeted. He projected a strong suggestion of menace in all his interactions, even when he was the one being questioned, but he was even more intimidating when engaged in a one-to-one chess match, which, I was sure, was what was happening at that moment. He made a game out of normal conversation, as if there were points to be won by gaining the upper hand or divulging as little information as possible, even if it were as innocuous as the existence of a fourteen-year-old niece. So, if he was bent on keeping his mouth shut, I was forced to ask him.

  “No, that’s not my question,” I said. “The girl, Mariangela. What is your relationship to her?”

  He knitted his brow. “It’s not really any of your affair, but she is my niece. My sister’s daughter.”

  “Then Professor Bondinelli was your . . . brother-in-law?”

  “Mio cognato, sì”

  Why, I asked myself. Why had he hidden that detail from me? From anyone? What difference did it make if Bondinelli had been married to his late sister? It didn’t appear there’d been a falling out. By all accounts, the two men had still been chummy when the professor died. And I’d had a substantial conversation with Locanda that very morning about his late friend’s—his late brother-in-law’s—life, and he hadn’t seen fit to mention that Bondinelli had been married to his sister.

  “You’re wondering why I didn’t divulge that Alberto was my brother-in-law,” he said.

  “Of course I am. Why were you hiding it?”

  He frowned. “I wasn’t hiding anything. It wasn’t important. I had no intention of meeting any of you people here this weekend. I was supposed to be in Switzerland, after all.”

  “But . . .” I began then fell silent. I didn’t know what to say.

  “My sister, Silvana, was married to Alberto. She died seven years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He offered a fatalistic shrug, then continued. “I wasn’t expecting the girl here today. She was at school in England. I knew she was coming back to Florence, of course. There’s the funeral to arrange, after all. But I thought she would go to her home in the city.”

  “You weren’t expecting her?” I asked. “You’re her only living relative.”

  “That Spanish woman, Teresa,” he said, ignoring my question. “It was her idea to bring the girl here.”

  “Are you not close to your niece?”

  “I have little in common with a fourteen-year-old girl.”

  A girl of twenty-two—thirty-eight percent his age—was another matter, I wanted to say, but kept that to myself. Instead I sat in silence, trying to figure out this odd, standoffish man. For his part, he seemed content to wait for me to pick up the ball. At length I complied.

  “Max,” I began, though it pained me to use his first name, “I’m struggling to understand all this. First, you kept secret the fact that Alberto Bondinelli was your brother-in-law. And, by extension, you hid the fact that his daughter was your niece. Then you say you aren’t close to her, a fourteen-year-old girl. An orphan. Have you no heart? Don’t you care about her? About your friend Alberto?”

  He pondered my question for a long moment, rocking absently in his chair. “No,” he said finally. “No, I suppose I don�
��t have a heart. I certainly don’t wish them any harm, but I don’t really care about them either.”

  “How?” I asked, the horror surely visible on my face. “How is that possible? She’s just a girl with no one in the world.”

  Locanda swiveled his chair to face his desk directly. He straightened some pens and letters, and shook his head.

  “I don’t know how, signorina. Frankly, I wish I cared, but I don’t. I’ve always been this way.”

  I gaped at him, noticing for the first time his blue eyes. He stared back at me, emotionless, cold, terrifying.

  “You have no convictions? There’s nothing you love?”

  “I care for my comfort. My enjoyment. Nothing more.”

  His answers only convinced me that my sudden decision to leave Bel Soggiorno was the correct one. This man had no goodness in him, and I did not want his hospitality. First, I thought, I would find Bernie and drag him away with me. I was confident Giuliana would follow us, too, and, if she left, Tato wouldn’t be far behind. As for the others, they could do as they pleased, but I was decided. I considered Locanda lucky that I didn’t slap his face before I left.

  “You are judging me harshly,” he said. “But before you leave with your mind set against me, I ask you to consider this. I do not choose to feel this way. It’s how I have always been. Since my earliest memories. The sadness of others has never moved me. I was indifferent to the death of my parents. I wanted to feel something. Or, at least I thought I should. But there was nothing. It intrigued me. For years I asked myself why. I spoke to a priest about it once when I was a boy. He gave me some ridiculous penance to perform and assured me I would see the light. But I didn’t.”

  I wondered how he’d felt about his sister’s death. He hadn’t mentioned her. But I didn’t know how to ask him that. Didn’t want to ask him. Was it possible to be indifferent toward the world? No pity or compassion for others? No love or hatred either? I just couldn’t fathom it. And his trove of fascist photographs led me to believe he’d once believed in something. Something horrible. And perhaps that he was nostalgic for it now.