Lucio was one of those men who, like small boys, can’t contain their urge to entertain in social gatherings of any kind. They know they’d be better off reining in their enthusiasm, but the temptation to dominate the stage, sing a song, or play the clown, is just too great. The performance often ends in disappointment, if not disaster, and regret and tears are the result. Yet, at the slightest hint of an invitation to perform again, they dive in headfirst and repeat the cycle. Lucio knew, I was sure, that no one wanted to hear him sing just then, least of all me, but he was powerless to stop himself. Until Franco spoke up.
“Please, Lucio. Basta with the songs. We’re not in the mood.”
I decided to take control of our tête-à-tête when Lucio, burning red from Franco’s censure, gulped down his enthusiasm with a Campari chaser.
“If you really love me, Lucio, you’ll tell me something,” I said in a low voice only he could hear. He liked the attention and the flirting. Recovering from the humiliation in an instant, he was almost ready to start singing again. I headed him off. “I want to know why you chose that story last night.”
“Boh. It’s a story I read in school. I thought it would be fun, especially to tease Giuliana a bit about politics.”
“And maybe our host, too?”
He blinked slowly and raised his eyebrows, a not-so-subtle sign that I was welcome to my conclusion.
“And . . . Professor Bondinelli as well?”
His eyes popped open. “Cosa?”
“Your debt collector, Ruttonaccio. That was your little revenge on Bondinelli, wasn’t it?”
Lucio’s gaze darted across the room, first falling on Franco then Locanda. He whispered to me. Hissed might have been a more apt description. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you changed the name of the priest in the story.”
“I can’t talk about it here,” he said. “Come to my room later.”
I smirked at him. “I’m not that naïve. Let’s step outside for a smoke instead. We can talk there.”
We strolled to the far end of the terrazza, far from the open doors and the people inside. As the misty rain was still falling, we stood beneath the canopied pergola.
“Okay, so I made a little joke about Bondinelli. You shouldn’t mention it. If Franco heard you, it could spell trouble for me.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me. Acqua in bocca (mum’s the word). But tell me why. Was Bondinelli really a horrible man with a saint’s reputation?”
Lucio took my assurances of confidentiality to heart and, after another glance toward the salone, leaned in closer to me. We were nose to nose like a couple of lovers, but at least he felt safe to speak this way.
“He was my professor,” he began. “But that doesn’t mean I liked or respected him. Of course, those who didn’t know him thought he was a saintly man, with all his charities and humble nature. He spent half his life on his knees in a church praying. That’s what the public saw.”
“But you knew the real Bondinelli?”
“Not at first. I never would have agreed to study under him if I’d known.”
“What do you know?” I asked. “That he was a thief, a fornicator, blasphemer, a man who kicked dogs?”
Lucio frowned. “No, none of those things. That was just for fun in my story. But worse. He was a fascist.”
“But many young men joined the fascists in those days, didn’t they? Even Benedetto Croce was an early supporter of the fascist government.” I remembered my father lecturing a colleague once about the great Italian philosopher’s politics. Another of those useless pieces of information one acquires when growing up the daughter of an academic.
“But il Croce later saw the evil,” insisted Lucio. The class clown also had a passionate side. “He changed his mind on the fascists in less than two years. Bondinelli took the opposite route. He was an anarchist who came to embrace the fascists as their power grew. He even married the daughter of a fascist industrialist. Did you know that? Did you hear that girl call him ‘zio’ this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Our charming host’s father was a powerful supporter of Mussolini’s in the early days. He used his riches to fund rallies, propaganda, and arms for the fascists. He was awarded the Ordine dell’Aquila Romana medal during the war. They didn’t hand those out for good penmanship.”
“Did you know any of that before this weekend? Or last week?” I asked.
“Of course not.”
Then where had this information on Locanda’s father come from? When had Lucio had the time to do so much research? I asked him. At first he hemmed and hawed, then admitted he’d helped Giuliana with some digging at the library the previous Monday.
“Has she always hated Bondinelli?”
“No. That’s a recent development. She was never particularly fond of him. She objected to his DC politics, of course, but nothing more. It was only last week that her attitude toward him changed.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“No details. Just that she suspected he’d been a Black Shirt.”
“Do you think Bondinelli committed crimes?” I asked. “Or was he just like so many others of his generation?”
“Have you heard of the leggi razziali?” he asked as he lit up a cigarette. “The racial laws of 1938?”
“Sì, so qualcosa,” I said. “They denied citizenship to Jews. And the right to work.”
“Esatto. Thousands and thousands of citizens lost their jobs, their property,” he said in an angry whisper. Then he began counting the items on his fingers. “Their right to serve in public office, travel privileges, even marriage to Italians. The fascists expanded those laws as the years went on. They became more restrictive, more severe, and ended with the deportation to concentration camps. These were Italian citizens, Ellie. People whose families had lived here for centuries. They were a small number, a tiny part of Italian society, and well integrated. The fascists passed those laws against their own citizens to appease their racist Nazi allies in Germany. It was a disgrace for Italy and all Italians. I feel that shame even now.”
“And Bondinelli? What was his connection to the racial laws?”
Lucio took a quick drag of his cigarette, then explained, smoke oozing from his mouth and nose as he spoke.
“Jews were not permitted to work in public education. No universities. Hundreds lost their positions here too, in Florence. And when those men were thrown out . . .” he tossed his cigarette aside, “others were ready to take their places.”
“Are you saying Bondinelli got his job at the university because . . .”
Lucio nodded solemnly. “He took the position previously held by a Jew. And he’s had that position ever since. Twenty-five years.”
I asked Lucio why he cared so much. He wasn’t a Jew, after all. He seemed baffled by my question, and explained that he was a Communist and a believer in the brotherhood of man. It was nothing personal about Bondinelli. Finally, he insisted, he cared because he was an Italian. Just as the deported Jews had been.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
While Locanda seemed to have adapted to, or at least accepted, the new reality of having his erstwhile secret niece in our midst, the others clearly felt uncomfortable after they’d witnessed his boorish behavior upon her arrival. They surely would have rather shared drinks with the Borgias than spend another awkward minute in his icy company. But that option was unavailable to us. We were stuck, trapped in a beautiful sixteenth-century villa on the outskirts of Fiesole, perched high above the city of Florence. Sentenced to wait out the quarantine, we had no choice but to enjoy the hospitality of a man who made us feel supremely unwelcome. Of course he was generous with his food and liquor, but a good host—even if he’s a poor man with little to offer—never makes his guests feel uncomfortable.
For me, the quarantine had removed all impulses to avoid Locanda or, for that matter, to suffer his intimidation. I didn’t want to be there, after all, and had inform
ed him of my intentions to leave before the fateful diagnosis had been delivered. That fortuitous order of events gave me a certain moral high ground, at least to my mind, and it freed me from the discomfort the others were experiencing. They were guests of a boor while I was a prisoner.
As we were being seated for dinner, I caught Mariangela’s eye and patted the chair on my left, a signal for her to sit with me. Her uncle frowned weakly, but said nothing. This wasn’t a battle he wanted to fight. If I was willing to babysit his inconvenient niece, then so be it. He would devote his attention to Vicky, or to his wine and meat.
“Do you like music, Ellie?” Mariangela asked me over the antipasto, a sampler of salumi, olives, and cheeses.
“Of course,” I said, then butchered the Shakespeare quote, “The man that hath no music . . . Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.” I got the treasons, stratagems, and spoils, but the rest was a mess. Mariangela smiled. “I like music, too. I’ve got the biggest crush on Paul McCartney.”
“Paul . . . Sorry, who?”
“Paul McCartney. Don’t you know the Beatles?”
“Beetles? I know the Crickets. Buddy Holly and the Crickets. Of course he died in a plane crash a couple of years ago.”
“Not Beetles as in insect,” she said with a giggle. “Beatles, B-E-A, not B-E-E. They’re the coolest band in England. You have to crawl out from under your rock, Ellie.”
I laughed. “Sorry.”
“I can’t decide which song is my favorite, ‘Please Please Me’ or ‘She Loves You.’”
“It’s a tough choice,” I said.
“Oh, what am I saying? Of course my favorite is ‘She Loves You.’ It just came out last month.”
“I’d love to hear it sometime.”
“What kind of music do you listen to?” she asked, letting me off the hook.
“Mostly what people call classical music,” I said. “My father drummed it into me from a young age.”
“Some of it’s all right, I suppose. We have music appreciation class at school.”
“The important thing is to cherish music in some form or other. I know a man who once heard Mongolian horse herders playing some stringed instrument at a cultural exchange concert back in the thirties. He remembers it to this day as a thing of beauty. He said all authentic music is beautiful. Are the Beatles authentic?”
“Authentically dreamy. Who is this man?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper. “A boyfriend of yours?”
The memory of a lost love tickled me, the way a stray finger grazes your neck and sets your skin atingle. It was a bittersweet memory. Perhaps more sweet-bitter. “No, not a boyfriend,” I said. “His father, actually. I’ll never forget how his eyes sparkled when he recalled that Mongolian music. Probably never heard it again.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” she said. “But you should hear the Beatles. I brought two records back with me. If there’s a record player here, we can listen together.”
“I’ll ask your uncle.”
Her eyes grew. “You’re not afraid of him? I am.”
Before I could answer, Vicky broke the reigning silence among the others by inquiring in a strong voice when Max thought the quarantine would end. She wanted to go into town.
“My dear,” he said with more indulgence than I thought him capable of, “do you know the origin of the word ‘quarantine’?” (What were the odds?) “Quarantine derives from the word quaranta. Forty. Traditionally quarantines lasted forty days.”
“Forty days?” she gasped. “That’s impossible. I’ll go crazy.”
“Would a week be better?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Then let us say one week. At the most. I hope this will be resolved before that. My physician, Dottor Gherardi, is due back day after tomorrow. He will provide guidance then. Nelfrattempo . . . how do you say that, giovanotto?” he asked Bernie.
“In the meantime,” he answered, mouth full of the saltless bread Achille had laid out.
“In the meantime,” continued Locanda, now addressing all of us, “let us enjoy the good food and wine.” He aimed his gaze at me. “And each other’s company.”
“Has anyone checked on Typhoid Mary today?” asked Vicky, and not out of any real concern for the sick girl
Only Bernie and I got the reference, which meant that he had to explain Vicky’s comment to the others. Strange how a bit of sarcasm, no matter how clever, loses all its humor when someone has to translate it, supply footnotes, and place it in historical context. But that was our Bernie, ever clueless about the patience and intellectual curiosity of others. Exactly like my father.
“I looked in on her before coming down for cocktails,” I said. “She seems fine today, except for the rash. But even that looks better than yesterday. And she’s eating like a horse.”
“How long is the rash supposed to last?” asked Tato.
“Didn’t the doctor say three days? For all the symptoms. Veronica first started scratching Wednesday, before we went to dinner at Cammillo. She wasn’t feeling well. Bernie took her home in a taxi.”
“So that’s . . .giovedì, venerdì, sabato,” said Bernie, counting the days. “Three nights have passed since she first started itching. Seems right to me. Ellie, you said the rash was improving. That’s consistent with rubella.”
“Yes, but her fever was gone yesterday, if it ever was a fever. She might just have got some sunburn on Franco’s Vespa. And she never had swollen glands or a headache. Does that make a difference? Does one always have all the symptoms?”
No one was sure.
“The boy doctor said symptoms can be mild,” offered Lucio.
“I, for one, am worried about this rosolia,” said Franco. “Remember she was on the back of my Vespa. I’m not sure I’ve caught it, but I’ve been itching all day. Ever since that doctor told us.”
“Do you have a rash?” asked Locanda, joining the conversation. His tone dripped with impatience.
Franco had to admit he did not. “No rash, but I feel like scratching, especially when everyone is talking about it.”
“Psicosomatico,” said Locanda. “Fever? Headache? Ghiandole gonfie?Swollen glands?”
“No, niente. I feel fine. It’s a nervous itch, I suppose.”
“Anyone else?” he asked the others. “Does anyone have a rash?
The response was a unanimous no.
“Bene. Then I suggest you enjoy your meal and wait for Dottor Gherardi’s return. And if it turns out to be rubella, just be glad the symptoms are usually mild.”
Still, concern hung in the air. Heads bowed and forks clinked as the diners resumed their meals. I tried to gauge the worry on each guest’s face. While no stroll in the park for grown men, German measles was known to cause devastating side effects in unborn children. I figured it was unlikely that any of us was pregnant. But if one of the four young women in the house were, or even suspected as much, the concern would show on her face.
I studied them one by one and concluded that Vicky was in the clear. She frowned, all right, but also yawned and made no attempts to conceal her boredom. Whether she’d already had the German measles or she knew for sure that she wasn’t pregnant, I couldn’t say.
That was not the case for Giuliana. Her demeanor was too cloudy. She might well have been twisting herself into knots at the prospect of carrying a child who, in all likelihood, would be born with serious birth defects. But in fairness, I had to admit that she’d worn the same dark expression even before anyone suspected a rubella outbreak.
And, of course, it was ridiculous to think Mariangela might be pregnant. She was in love with some singer named Paul McCartney, but I doubted the two had even been in the same city, let alone had the opportunity to meet and conceive a child together.
I certainly wasn’t pregnant, which only left Veronica herself. And while she certainly was eating enough for two, I wasn’t buying that she was with child. Her strong religious beliefs, for one thing, and her winning pe
rsonality, for another, rather reduced the odds.
Relatively certain that none of the women in the house was pregnant, I turned my attention to the men. Locanda clearly had no concerns. He’d probably contracted German measles at some point over the years. Bernie had stated he’d had rubella when he was a boy. Franco was worried, but he struck me as a hypochondriac. Lucio wasn’t sure if he’d ever had the disease, nor was Tato. And Dottor Pellegrini had said the risk of sterility in adult men was slight, so perhaps they could rest easy. A rash and a little discomfort might not be the worst bargain in exchange for a brief vacation in a lovely villa.
The first course arrived on the rough but steady hands of Achille. He distributed the noodles, which, that night, were maltagliati in a Bolognese sauce. As was the case with every dish Berenice prepared, the macaroni was delicious and perfectly cooked.
The mood brightened as the wine flowed. A simple Chianti, but what could be more authentic in Tuscany? Franco led the charge on the wine, and I resolved to keep an eye on him. I’d already witnessed his fresh behavior when he’d had too much. Even Locanda seemed to be making an effort to be cordial. He engaged Giuliana, of all people, in a civilized discussion of the finer points of olive cultivation. Giuliana’s grandfather, who’d owned a small machinery business, once manufactured olive and grape presses for local cultivators. I wondered if Locanda remembered that he’d met her once with Bondinelli. Her beautiful face was not one easily forgotten. Nor was her Jewish name.
“Perhaps I know the company,” he said. “We bought a lot of presses over the years.”
“The company was Dalla Torre Fratelli,” she answered. “It was my mother’s father and his two brothers.”
Locanda’s mien darkened, as if he was sweeping the corners of his memory to find his bearings. Or was he? “I remember the name,” he said. “They went out of business. Didn’t they have sons to carry on?”
Giuliana stiffened in her chair. “They . . . lost the business,” she said. “In 1938.”
Locanda understood. Lucio, I noticed, was listening in as well. To his credit, our host expressed his sympathies for what had happened to her family, indeed to all those who lost their rights. I couldn’t say if he meant it. After all, he had told me that very morning that he simply didn’t care, was indifferent to the suffering of others.
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