Dedication
In memory of Michael A. Trigiani
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
A Note from the Author
Overture
Prologue
Act I 1
2
3
4
5
Act II 6
7
8
9
Interlude
Act III 10
11
12
Epilogue
Postlude
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Adriana Trigiani
Copyright
About the Publisher
A Note from the Author
This novel is set in 1949 after World War II, a time of jubilation in America, following a victory won by the brave women and men in our families who courageously fought for democracy with our allies around the world. Attitudes regarding matters of personal freedom, work, art, family life, religion, and the role of government as described were of their time. Use of specific language to describe women, girls, citizens of color, and immigrants is now considered outdated and offensive. The words we use to describe one another have evolved. I hope.
Overture
May 1, 1949
Roseto Valfortore, Italy
A cool breeze shook the old wind chimes on the balcony outside the ambassador’s bedroom. The peal of the delicate glass bells sounded like the tings of crystal after a wedding toast.
The stone palazzo had been grand before the war, with its terra-cotta-tiled roof, marble floors, and carved monastery doors. Positioned on the highest peak in Roseto Valfortore, it was also imposing, like a bell tower, save the bell or the tower. It was named Palazzo Fico Regale because the hills that cascaded down to the road that led north to Rome were speckled with fig trees. In summer the trees were lush and green, loaded with purple fruit; in winter the barren branches, wrapped in turbans of burlap, looked like the raised fists of Mussolini’s blackshirts.
Inside, the official consort, Signora Elisabetta Guardinfante, packed her husband’s dress uniform with care. Elisabetta was small and dark, her eyes like thumbprints of black ink, more iris than whites. Her fine bones and lips were delicate, like those of her relatives of French descent from the north of Italy.
She rolled the red, white, and green sash tightly into the shape of a snail shell, so that when he unfurled it, the silk would lay flat across his chest without a crease. She pinned the chevalier ribbon and the gold satin braid across the breast of the royal-blue jacket before buttoning the beaded cuffs to the sleeves. She hung the jacket on a hanger padded with cotton batting and placed it in a soft muslin dress bag, as though she were laying an infant in his bunting. She turned her attention to the trousers, folding them over a wooden hanger and straightening the military stripes that ran down the outside of each pant leg before slipping them into a separate muslin sack.
The wife hung the garments in an open standing trunk, took inventory of its contents, and counted out six pairs of socks, including three she had mended before packing. She checked the black patent dress shoes, each in its own chamois bag, and pulled out the left one. Finding a smudge on the toe, she buffed it with the hem of her apron until it shone. She rolled a wooden shaving cup and brush, a small circle of soap, and a straight razor tightly in a linen towel, then tucked the bundle into the dress shoe before placing it inside the trunk.
Elisabetta examined the impeccable stitchwork on the hem of her husband’s undershirt, where she had used the silk trim of her own camisole to bind the frayed fabric. Satisfied that her husband had everything he needed for the journey ahead, she hung a small net pouch filled with fragrant lavender buds and cedar shavings inside the trunk, securing it tightly with two knots. The little things she did for her husband went unnoticed, but she did them anyway, because she knew they mattered.
She snapped the lids shut on a series of velvet jewelry cases containing regulation Italian Army gold cuff links, a matching tie bar, and two medals awarded to the ambassador’s father from World War I, al valor militare and merito di guerra. She left the solid gold aiutante medal from World War II on the nightstand. It had been a gift from the previous ambassador, who was eager to unload it, as it bore the profile of Benito Mussolini etched on one side, with the symbol indicating a rank of major in the Italian Army on the other.
The winter of 1949 had been the worst in memory. A mudslide caused by a flash flood of the Fortore River marooned the locals high in the hills for several months. The Italian Army had dispatched a rescue party to bring supplies and medicine up to them, but the burro and cart regiment failed to reach the town because Via Capella della Consolazione, the only road with access to the village, had been washed out. Instead of saving the Rosetani, the regiment nearly lost their own lives as they slid back down the steep incline in a gloppy trough of deep mud.
The people of the village had lost all hope until spring arrived. The sun, which had disappeared for most of the winter, suddenly exploded in white streams over the town like the rays of gold on the monstrance in the tabernacle inside the church of Santa Maria Assunta.
“It’s time, Bette.” Carlo Guardinfante stood in the doorway of their bedroom wearing the only other suit he owned, a brown wool custom cut with wide lapels, his best pale blue dress shirt, and a rose-and-cream-striped tie. His wife fixed the knot and slipped his round-trip ticket and the telegram confirming his arrival into the breast pocket of his jacket.
Carlo was a southern Italian, typical in temperament but not in appearance. He possessed the passionate disposition of his neighbors but did not share their dark Mediterranean coloring. He had the freckled face of a farmer to the north, the large hands of a man who could handle a plow, and the height that gave him, at six foot two, the stature of a general. His broad shoulders had earned him the nickname Spadone.
“Everything is ready for you.” Bette looked into her husband’s eyes. In the bright morning light, they were the color of the soft waves in the port of Genoa, more green than blue. His reddish brown hair had flecks of white, too soon on a man of thirty-eight, and a reminder of all he had been through. Carlo had spent the last few years worried about the citizens of his province, frustrated by the lack of progress on their behalf, and the anxiety had taken a toll on him. Carlo was so thin, Elisabetta had punched two extra holes in the leather of his belt and attached the grommets herself. She’d adhered a small brass bar to the long end of the loop, so it wouldn’t look as though she had made any adjustments.
“How’s the belt?” She tugged on the loop.
He patted the brass plate and smiled. Carlo’s front teeth had a space between them, known in the village as lucky teeth because, in theory, he could fit a coin between them, which meant good fortune would be his all his life. But Carlo didn’t feel lucky, and any hope of prosperity had washed away with the road to Rome.
So Carlo looked for luck wherever he could find it.
“Am I supposed to pass this off as a new Italian style?”
“Why not?”
Carlo kissed his wife on the cheek. He picked up his billfold, opened it, and counted the lire. “There’s more here. Did you club the priest?”
“The smart wife puts aside money and doesn’t tell her husband.”
“Your mother taught you well.”
“Not my mother.” Bette smiled. “Yours.”
Carlo patted his wife on the fanny. “Pack the Il Duce.”
“Oh, Carlo. Americans hated him.”
“I’ll show the symbol side. His faccia will face my heart. Maybe the brute bastard will finally do some good for us.”
“He’ll do better melted down a
nd sold.”
“The more gold I wear, the more important I seem. My chest should rattle like a tambourine.” Carlo snapped the case shut and handed it to his wife. “La bella figura.”
“Va bene.” Elisabetta picked up the medal from the nightstand and placed it in with the others, locking them into the safe box of the trunk.
Carlo pulled his wife close. “When I come home, we paint the villa.”
“It needs more than paint.” Elisabetta looked around the suite. As the lady of the house, she saw the failure to meet her obligations. There were the cracks in the plaster, rusty streaks where the ceiling leaked, frayed hems on the damask drapes, and most disturbing to her, squares of plywood covered the windows to replace the glass that had shattered in the heavy winds. Elisabetta sighed. The windows had been the most dazzling aspect of their residence, their rippled glass carted from Venice, but now the missing panes looked like teeth long gone from a lovely smile. “Our home needs a miracle.”
“Put it on the list, Bette.” Carlo embraced her.
“We won’t live long enough to fix everything that needs repair.”
Carlo did not take his appointment as Ambasciatore da Provincia di Foggia e Provincia di Capitanata da Apulia lightly, nor did he see his role simply as a figurehead. He wanted to do some good, but there were no funds attached to the honor and few favors. All across Italy, from the Mediterranean to the Adriatic and from north to south, reparations went to replace waterlines, restore electrical plants, and rebuild essential factories.
There was little concern for Roseto Valfortore and small villages like it. Stranded during the winter months, Carlo had not been able to go to Rome and plead for help. The letters that had made it through had been met with the curt response that there was greater need elsewhere.
The Holy Roman Church advised him to rally the townspeople to do the work themselves, but Roseto Valfortore had been deserted by the young; some had died in the war, and the rest migrated to Naples to find jobs along the Amalfi coast or east to the Adriatic to work on the trade ships. Most Rosetani, however, emigrated to America, where there were plenty of jobs in steel mills, factories, and construction. The families that stayed behind were too poor to take a risk, and too old to want to. Everywhere Carlo looked, life was bleak. He had hoped for a sign that their luck would change, and when none appeared, he hatched one final scheme to save his village.
The sun bathed the town in white light as Carlo, in his suit and fedora, and Elisabetta, who had put on a straw hat, linen coat, and her best black leather shoes, emerged from their home. The polished couple inspired confidence against the backdrop of the ravaged village where the tile roof tops had been mended hastily with mismatched planks of wood, ancient stone walls had crumbled to rubble, and deep potholes pitted the stone streets.
As the old houseman followed them out, he kept his head down and chewed on snuff, balancing Carlo’s trunk on his back with ease as though it were light and he were still young.
The townspeople filled the winding streets for the ambassador’s send-off, waving long green cypress branches high in the air like flags. Carlo tipped his hat and bowed to the people, taking in their cheers and affection like sips of cool water for his parched soul. Women rushed forward holding letters in sealed envelopes, which Elisabetta collected for her husband, promising them he would deliver them in person once he arrived at his destination.
The houseman placed the trunk in the cart, freshly painted in bright yellow partly to draw attention away from the decrepit donkey hitched to the carriage. The animal, too, was decorated in honor of the important passenger, his bridle festooned with colorful ribbons in pink and green. Carlo smiled, reflecting that the decorations on the donkey were a lot like a new hat on an old woman, a temporary distraction from a permanent problem.
The ambassador hoisted himself up into the open bench of the carriage. A cheer of great jubilation echoed through the streets as Elisabetta handed her husband the stack of letters, which he held high in the air. Carlo leaned down to kiss his wife good-bye.
The crowd parted as the cart lumbered down the street followed by Elisabetta on foot. The Rosetani fell into place behind her as the cart moved through the village. A small contingent of girls threw rose petals chanting “Kiss Carlo!” as their mothers ran alongside the cart, reaching for him. The women were thrilled when Carlo chose them, took their hands, and kissed them.
Father DeNisco, wearing a black cassock, stood on the white marble steps of the church and made the sign of the cross as the carriage passed. The driver and Carlo bowed their heads and blessed themselves.
As they reached the entrance of the town, a new mother stepped forward and lifted her baby up to the carriage. Carlo reached for the infant and gently cradled the bundle swaddled in white in his arms. He pulled the baby close and kissed his cheek.
Elisabetta brushed away a tear at the sight of her husband holding the baby. It was the picture of her highest dream.
There was a time in Roseto Valfortore when the streets had been filled with prams. There were a hundred babies in the village before the war; now, they were as rare as this one infant. The thought of that galvanized Carlo to move forward with his plan.
As the carriage went through the gated entrance of the town, the throng stopped and cheered.
“The people love you,” the driver said.
“They love you when they need you.”
“And when they don’t?”
“They find someone new.” The ambassador pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes. “How’s the road?”
“If we are careful, we’ll make it.”
“On time?”
“I think so. The car is waiting for you in Foggia.”
“Does it have enough petrol?” Carlo asked wryly.
“Depends on his gratuity.”
“And yours.” Carlo smiled.
“I don’t work for fun, Ambasciatore.”
“No one does.”
“Italy forgot about us. All the money goes to Roma. Milano. Even Bologna took a slice of the reparations.”
“For railways.” Carlo was not interested in talking politics with the driver; he knew all too well that his people had been forgotten. “The station in Bologna is important.”
“Of course. But so are we. The farmers feed the people, but they starve us. They forget the villages and save the cities.”
“Can you pick up speed?”
“Not if I want to keep the wheels on the carriage. Your road is the worst I’ve seen.”
“I appreciate your assessment,” Carlo said, and checked his pocket watch. “I can’t miss the boat in Naples.”
“How’s your luck?”
“The sun is shining, when I thought it never would again, so I would say my luck is good.”
The ambassador was on his way to America, and he would need it.
Carlo turned to take one last look at his village. The hillsides were mounds of wet black mud, smattered with a few hopeful sprigs of green. The spindly trunks of the fig trees had survived, stubbornly pushing up through the earth like markers of hope itself. The clutter of stone houses on the hilltop stood against the powder blue sky like a stack of cracked plates on a shelf. All was not lost, but what remained might not be enough to save his home.
Carlo watched as his wife pushed through the crowd to get a final glimpse of the carriage. Carlo waved to her. Elisabetta placed her hand on her heart, which made him feel more pressure to return a hero and gave him an ache in his gut.
Elisabetta’s face was the final image Carlo would take with him on the road to Naples to board the ship that would take him to America, where he would make his way to a small village in Pennsylvania that he believed held the key to saving Roseto Valfortore. He had heard that in America, all that was broken could be mended; there was a solution to every problem, and money flowed like the sweetest wine at a party that had no end.
Ambassador Carlo Guardinfante was about to see for himself what was true, and
whether the land of hopes and dreams would provide either for him so he might save the village and the people he loved.
Prologue
May 1, 1949
Philadelphia
Philadelphia est omnis divisa in partes tres.*
All of Philadelphia was divided into three parts because Dom Palazzini and his brother Mike had not spoken to one another since March of 1933 (or thereabouts, the date was fuzzy on either side of the vendetta). As a result of their argument, they split the family business, the profitable Palazzini Cab Company, down the middle, and with it, the city they served.
Hoc est bellum.*
Dom lay claim to Montrose Street and all blocks south, while Mike took the tony territory of Fitzwater and Center City to the north. It was decided that Broad Street, both north and south, would be neutral territory. Pickups and dropoffs could be made on either side without censure. The flip of a coin determined that Dom would keep the name Palazzini Cab Company, while Mike would call his new venture the Pronto Taxi & Limousine Service.
The brothers severed ties over money, the cause of every split in every Italian family since the Etruscans, but the details behind the rift changed depending upon whom you asked and which side of Broad Street they lived on.
The inheritance of a small plot of land on Montrose Street had been verbally promised to Dom by their father but left to Mike in his will. Mike intended to sell the parcel to Dom—who had purchased Mike’s half of the family homestead upon their father’s death—but Dom felt the land parcel was part of his rightful inheritance and should have been included in the buyout of the house at no additional cost to him. Dom believed Mike should have simply done the right thing and handed over the deed. After all, their father had lived with Dom and his family in the homestead for many years, and Dom’s wife had cared for the old man until his death.
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