Turn to Stone

by James W. Ziskin

  Franco, too, though a little tipsy, was in good spirits and happy to share his impressions of Veronica’s tale. Even Max found Veronica’s misreading of the story amusing.

  We, the remaining comrades, enjoyed a few more drinks and stories not, I’m glad to say, from the Decameron. It was one of those nights you recall fondly later on. Muted conversation, so as not to disturb those who’d already turned in, and occasional bursts of laughter followed by shushes and fits of not-so-sorry guilt. And then giggles, softer but naughtier because we knew we shouldn’t be unkind in our mirth. Yet even then, in the low light of the salone, in the first hours of the first day of October 1963—cigarette smoke choking the room like a cloud—I knew I’d cherish this moment in the years to come. Friends, laughter, and no intention of ever growing older, wiser, or more sober.

  But then, as it had to be, the hour grew late and the will to carry on flagged. First it was Franco who yawned and, blaming advancing age for his fatigue, threw in the towel and exited with no curtain call. We soldiered on a short time longer until Lucio and Tato accepted that slumber was the undeniable sovereign of the night and must be obeyed. We teased them in good humor for their weakness, but they went off all the same.

  Bernie was next to go, bleary-eyed as he shuffled away, leaving only Giuliana, Max, and me. Was this a dance marathon? What was the prize for the one who outlasted the others? Or were we simply enjoying a long, slow waltz? No prizes, no applause, only sore feet in the morning.

  “What happened to that girl? Come si chiama? La Vicky?” asked Giuliana apropos of nothing, effectively splashing cold water on the spell we’d fallen under. But that was Giuliana. Always defiant and combative, uncompromising in her passions and opinions. “Where is she?” she asked Max.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must have an idea where she might have gone.”

  Max frowned. Clearly he didn’t enjoy answering to others, least of all young women. “The female mind is a mystery to me.”

  “Was she upset? Why would she leave without a word?”

  Max rose from his seat, crossed the room, and refilled his glass. What he didn’t do was answer Giuliana’s question.

  “Did she take her things?” asked Giuliana. “Or maybe she just disappeared somewhere for a few days to collect herself. A riprendersi.”

  “Collect herself how?” asked Max from the drinks tray. “She’s a spoiled girl with more beauty than brains. Better lost than found.”

  “But . . .”

  Max had heard enough. “Basta. This is none of your affair.”

  If nothing else, Giuliana suffered the sin of pride, a shortcoming that hindered her fondness for battle. Even in the wrong, she would scrape, scratch, and spit. But in this case she was his guest. Even if she was there against her will, she was accepting his bourgeois hospitality, eating his delicious food —earned on the backs of workers—and drinking his expensive liquors and wines. Somehow she bit back on her rage, and her tongue, and offered a weak explanation that she was merely worried for Vicky’s safety. Max, true to form, said nothing, and Giuliana bade us goodnight.

  My wristwatch read 2:15. Ermenegildo would be up screeching through that scrawny neck of his before too long. Thoughts of the crowing rooster aside, the hour was late, and there I was alone with Max Locanda. Still standing at the drinks tray, he filled a glass with whisky and presented it to me.

  “I probably shouldn’t,” I said. “Look at the time.”

  He urged me to have one last drink to wash away the distaste of la Giuliana’s memory. “And why not? La Vicky’s, too.”

  He sat down beside me and offered his glass as a toasting partner to mine. Then, formalities observed, he took a healthy sip and exhaled a long breath. Was it fatigue, relief, or contentment that inspired him to let down his guard? Or did he feel at ease with me now?

  We sat in silence for a short moment until Max put a question to me in English. “This Bernie fellow,” he began. “Are you in love with him?”

  I turned in my seat to look him in the eye. Still no hint of anything going on behind the mask. Just those cool, blue eyes.

  “No, I . . .” How was I supposed to answer that?

  Max continued, in Italian again. “I suspected that you invented the story of losing your underwear in my study, but I’m not sure why. Either you were kissing Bernie for real, or you were trying to convince me that you were.”

  I sipped my drink to buy time. If this had been a chess match, I’d have been down to my king and, at most, one pawn. “No, I’m not in love with Bernie.”

  Max nodded solemnly as he considered the implications. Then he spoke, slow and measured. “You asked me before where Vicky has gone. Everyone, in fact, is wondering, even Giuliana. What if I told you I sent her away because of you?”

  If ever there was a moment to spit my drink across the room, that was it. Unfortunately I had nothing in my mouth when he said it.

  “What are you saying?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Don’t be alarmed.” He was still using lei with me, which meant we hadn’t crossed into the dangerous territory of tu and unwelcome familiarity. “I only wanted to tell you that.”

  I finished my drink in two quick gulps then, feigning a yawn, consulted my watch and said I was going to bed. He stood and wished me goodnight with a tilt of his glass and—at long last—a sparkle in his eye.

  Halfway up the stairs, a whisper in the dark called my name. Hidden in the shadows of the second floor landing stood Giuliana. She wanted to talk.

  “I’m tired,” I said. “I want to go to bed.”

  “Please, Ellie. It’s important.”

  I drew a sigh and agreed. “Give me five minutes to wash my face and change for bed.”

  It was easily ten minutes before the soft knock came at my door. It wasn’t Giuliana.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Franco?” I said, gathering my robe tightly about my chest. Had I known it was he at the door, I would have thought to put something on beneath the robe. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”

  He put a finger to his lips, urging me to maintain silence, then produced a bottle of whisky from behind his back with one hand and two glasses with the other.

  “No, Franco. I’m tired,” I said, holding up a hand as a stop sign.

  He didn’t answer. And he didn’t stop, either. He stepped inside and nudged the door closed with his foot. Then, placing the bottle and glasses on the dresser, he took me in his arms and planted his lips on mine. Though annoyed—and yes, disgusted—I wasn’t in mortal fear for my safety or my honor. I knew that Lucio and Bernie were a door away on either side, and Tato another couple of steps farther down the corridor. Plus, Giuliana was due at any moment to tell me something important. Nevertheless, my confidence was counterbalanced by my awareness that alcohol seemed to inflate Franco’s sense of his own irresistibility. It somehow gave him the daring of a smooth Latin lover when, in fact, he was more of the fumbling stablehand variety. I hadn’t forgotten the night he’d tackled me on the stoop of Albergo Bardi.

  “No, Franco,” I said, shoving him away.

  Not one to be repelled after one parry, he riposted immediately. Oh, not in any kind of violent way, but his forehead did collide with my mouth accidentally, causing my upper lip to balloon instantly and—I can only imagine—him to see stars. He staggered away, holding his head, and took a seat on my bed. In a daze, he reached out a hand to steady himself and practically tore the robe off my body.

  And that was when the door opened. Giuliana peered in and was treated to the spectacle. Me, robe falling open, my lip engorged, and Franco, wearing a red welt on his forehead that called to mind the swollen rump of a female baboon in estrus.

  “Scusate,” she said, red faced, and closed the door again. I called out for her to come back. “Are you all right?” she asked once she’d returned and joined us in my tiny room.

  “I bumped my head . . .” said Franco. “So clumsy of me.”

  I co
nsidered myself a reasonably good reader of faces, and Giuliana’s wasn’t buying his story. I was sure she suspected the accident had occurred as the result of some best-laid scheme gone agley. And that was a smear on my honor.

  Things got worse. Summoned by the noise, Lucio poked his head inside just as Giuliana asked me when I’d stopped sleeping with Bernie in favor of Franco. Another in a series of when-did-you-stop-beating-your-wife questions. How to answer? And then Bernie showed up, wondering what all the ruckus was about. As the implications of the tableau dawned on him, his crest fell, and I feared I’d somehow broken his heart. The last person to witness my disgrace was Max. He’d heard the row downstairs and come to investigate. The look on his face told the tale. Perhaps he’d misjudged me. Sent Vicky away for no good reason. Not that I was pining after him, but a girl hated to witness a run on her stock.

  Franco muttered an inadequate apology for disturbing everyone’s rest, insisted that he’d only been checking in on me, then vanished like the little dot on a television screen when you switch it off. The one person he hadn’t apologized to was me.

  I shooed everyone out. This was not the time to renew the ties that bound us. I was humiliated. And, as I sat in the low light, reflecting on my blackened name and reputation, I poured myself a drink from the bottle Franco had left on the dresser. The fatigue I’d felt just moments before my public indignity had dissolved like a ghost in the night. I felt properly sorry for myself and was going to indulge in one or two more drinks until the shame faded.

  And, of course, there was another knock on my door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “Chi è?” I called through my swollen lips.

  A soft voice came through the door. “It’s Teresa.”

  I tucked my glass away behind the dresser’s mirror and let her inside. She mumbled the perfunctory “permesso,” though there was clearly no one else in the small room. I invited her to sit in the one chair, offered a glass of water, which she refused, then settled onto the edge of the bed to wait for her to reveal the purpose of her visit.

  “Mariangela tells me you’re very kind to her,” she said. “Thank you.”

  I brushed aside the praise. “It’s no trouble. But surely you didn’t come here at . . .” I consulted my watch on the bedside table, “three in the morning to tell me that.”

  She blushed. “No, I came to ask if you found the letter. The letter from the professor.”

  “It was you who left it? Then it was also you who took it at the Cavallo last Thursday?”

  “I was afraid someone might steal it. It was lying on the table. Anyone could have taken it. The good professor intended it for you, and only you.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “No, but I found it on his desk that day. I thought it must be important.”

  I retrieved the letter from my purse where I’d stashed it, opened it, and re-read the mysterious reference to our shared name.

  “Do you know what he means by that?” I asked once I’d read it to her. She professed ignorance. “He never changed his name, did he? I mean, he was born Alberto Bondinelli, wasn’t he?”

  Teresa shrugged and declared herself baffled. I put the letter away and squared up to look her in the eye.

  “I want you to tell me the truth. If you only wanted to know about the letter, you could have come to ask me any number of times during the day. You didn’t need to wait until three in the morning.”

  She chewed her lip ever so delicately. “I don’t sleep much, even less since the professor died. So I heard the noise a little while ago, and decided to come talk to you when the others left.”

  “What is it you want to talk to me about?”

  “The professor, of course. I hear what these people say about him, and I want you to know that it’s not true. Professor Bondinelli was a saint. Un santo, digo. The rest is all lies. Mentiras. Bugie.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “Because he wrote you the letter. He must have respected you very much. I didn’t want you to leave thinking he was a bad man. He was not.”

  “There’s so much I don’t know about him. Did he share his life story with you? Do you know about his history? His marriage?”

  “He never talked about his wife to me.”

  “What about P. Sasso? Did he ever mention a man named P. Sasso?” She drew a blank and shook her head.

  “Then there’s nothing else?” I asked. “You came to my room for no other reason in the middle of the night?”

  She blinked a couple of times as she considered her answer. Either she had nothing more to add or she was plucking up the courage to say it. At length, she spoke.

  “I don’t know where to turn, but I have to tell someone. On the day the professor died, he came home early, which was unusual. It was long after lunch. About four. He looked upset. Sad. He locked himself in his study for an hour, then he left the house in a rush.”

  “Did he say where he was going or where he’d come from?”

  “He said he was going out.”

  “Those were his words? ‘I’m going out’ ?”

  She focused intently on a spot on the floor as she tried to recall. “Yes. He said, ‘Esco.’”

  “Nothing else?”

  “He said, ‘adiós.’”

  “In Spanish? Why?”

  “Sometimes he used Spanish words with me.”

  “Did he speak Spanish well?”

  “No. In fact, very poorly. Always using Italian words. Once, when he went to Spain several years ago, he tried to board a bus through the exit.”

  “He didn’t even know the word for exit in Spanish?” I asked.

  “It’s difficult for an Italian. You’ve seen the buses here in Florence?”

  I said I had.

  “Which door do you use to climb aboard?”

  “The salita, of course.”

  She smiled knowingly. “In Spanish, salida means exit, not ascent or climb like salita in Italian. So the professor misunderstood and was almost trampled trying to go in through the exit. Everyone swore at him and called him . . .” she blushed . . . “gilipollas.”

  It struck me as odd. Not that he would speak Spanish to her, but that he would have chosen that moment to do so. Was it a playful, friendly gesture on his part? I doubted that; she’d described him as upset and sad upon his return home that afternoon. Why not simply say “a dopo” or “a più tardi” in Italian?

  I shook off the niggling feeling adiós had caused in my tired mind and turned my attention back to Teresa’s story.

  “What time was that? When did he leave?”

  “I remember exactly because I was preparing the evening meal for later. I always start at five. Dinner is at nine. He left ten minutes after I started washing and cutting the vegetables.

  “Ten past five,” I said, considering the timeline.

  “And that’s what you wanted to tell me? That he was upset and left the house at five ten last Tuesday?”

  She gave a confident bob of her head. “Yes. But also that I think someone—one of these people in this house—wished him harm.”

  She wasn’t alone in her suspicions.

  “Who?” I asked.

  She made a show of not wanting to accuse, but in the end she opened up. Giuliana topped the list, but she granted Lucio might have had reasons to dislike Bondinelli as well.

  “Politics,” she said almost in a whisper. “They are Communists, after all. And they know the professor fought the Communists in Spain.”

  I took a moment to consider her assertion. From the American side of the Atlantic, especially in our household, we were used to hearing of foreigners who’d gone to Spain to fight. Those who joined the International Brigades were revered for their courage, sacrifice, and prescience about the fascist threat in Europe. Willing to die in a foreign land to stop the rise of authoritarianism, they were labeled “premature antifascists” and “fellow travelers” after the fact for their trouble. The idea, apparently, was that the
re was a proper moment to become antifascist in America, and that was only after Pearl Harbor. Any opposition before that and you were branded a Communist. So, now, to hear of a man—Bondinelli—who’d made his way to Spain to fight for the other side—the Nationalists, felt perverse to me. Of course I knew there’d been Germans and Italians in Spain—they’d bombed civilians in Guernica after all—but to think a “santo” had taken up arms in the Nationalist cause seemed unfathomable to one, like me, who’d been raised to loathe fascists. It made me question Teresa’s judgment of Bondinelli’s character.

  Whom could I trust to tell me about the late professor? The ones who knew him best? I’d heard both sides of that argument, and even a couple of opinions from the center. His brother-in-law painted an unemotional portrait of a flawed man. His daughter, too, offered only measured praise in describing her serious-minded father. I wanted to believe the best about him, but I was struggling in that moment. I pressed on with my questioning.

  “Is that when you met him?” I asked. “During the war in Spain?”

  “Yes. I am from Brihuega in Guadalajara. In March of thirty-seven, the Italians staged an attack to take Madrid from the north. There were several days of fighting. Brihuega fell to the Italians, then was retaken by the Republicans. It was chaos.”

  She wiped her upper lip, which was glistening as the memory returned. Gulping twice to gain control over her emotions, she struggled to find the words to continue.

  “My husband was dead. Killed in battle three months before. I was with his mother and my infant son, José Maria—Chema—in Brihuega. We prayed for an end to the war. But on the eighteenth of March, 1937, our house was destroyed by a mortar. I’ll never forget the date. My mother-in-law was killed. My child was trapped in the rubble of the house. I could hear his cries and nearly went mad trying to dig him out. No one was able to help. Our men were all away fighting or dead. Nobody could help me dig.”