A Funeral in Mantova

by David P. Wagner

  “Capon. You were a business major?”

  “No,” she said through a mouthful. “Chemistry. But Angelo said I had a knack for business, whatever that means.”

  “Plus he trusts you, being a member of the family and all. And Mrs. Rondini?

  “She died about five years ago. Wonderful woman of Irish ancestry, so she was able to give as well as she got from Angelo. It took him more than a year to get over her passing, if one ever truly gets over that kind of loss.”

  “Do you have much time for a personal life, what with having to jet around the country all the time?”

  She tilted her head at Rick and smiled. “That sounds like a leading question, Mr. Montoya, and one I will decline to answer. It is also not one you will hear me asking you.”

  His mind churned in an unsuccessful attempt to interpret her comment; he’d had too much wine.

  “Fair enough. And now, since you have almost finished your secondo, it is time to return to the business at hand, which is the possibility of ordering something else. I understand they make an excellent banana split here.”

  “Rick, that’s not even funny. Pour us the rest of that bottle and let’s take our leave.”

  A few minutes later Rick was helping her on with her coat inside the door of the restaurant. They agreed that after the warmth of the restaurant the chill night air would feel good on their faces, but they did not expect what they saw on stepping outside. While they had dined, a windless cold front had parked over the city, coating everything with a light layer of snow. The flakes were still coming down softly, glimmering as they caught the rays of the streetlights and dropping silently to the ground. The street, always quiet at this late hour, was made more silent by the insulating whiteness.

  “I can call a taxi,” Rick said.

  “Absolutely not. Look how pristine the snow is. In Chicago it turns to dirty slush even before it reaches the ground. No, we walked here and we’ll walk back.” She looked down to check out their footwear. “We’re both dressed for it.”

  She took his arm and they started down the street, their boots leaving the only marks in the snow until a single car slowly passed. After two corners they emerged onto the piazza where Rick had been earlier in the day. Two police cars sat empty in front of the questura and a young armed policeman stood next to the door trying his best not to look cold. Many public buildings in Italy had guards; would Lexi know that it was the police station? Rick opted not to point it out.

  “Rick, do you think that note on the car is really nothing to worry about?”

  Perhaps she did recognize the building.

  “Like I said to Mr. Rondini, I suspect it was just some silly prank, perhaps tied to the possible land sale, perhaps totally unrelated. If it happens again we’ll rethink it.”

  “How would they know about Angelo being a developer?”

  “After that sparkling phone conversation I had with you, I got online and found out all sorts of things about your boss. Anyone who has even minimal English could have done the same.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Angelo doesn’t get upset about these things. I’m sure he’s sleeping like a baby now.”

  “And you will too, Lexi.”

  They had left the piazza and reached a block of covered sidewalk, its shops shuttered and dark. At the end of the street Lexi clutched Rick’s arm as they stepped back into the open, noticing that the flakes were now smaller and fewer. By the time they reached the hotel the snowfall had stopped. They stamped their feet on the mat outside and pushed through the doors.

  “I am in the habit of taking a run every morning.” Rick brushed the snow from his hair and coat while Lexi did the same. “But I don’t think the streets will be cleared by tomorrow. I doubt if the city of Mantova has much snow-removal infrastructure.”

  Lexi brushed a final bit of snow from his shoulder. “Don’t be a wuss, Rick. I run every day in Chicago, no matter what the weather.”

  A picture of Lexi Coleman in running tights formed in his head. “How about a nightcap in the bar to warm us after the long march across the Lombard tundra?”

  “I’d love to, but I have to go up and check the messages that piled up while we were enjoying our capon. Oh, I remembered where I’d read about capon. Jaques’ monologue in As You Like It about all the world being a stage. One of the ages of man is…” She closed her eyes tightly as she thought. “The justice, wasn’t it? ‘In fair round belly, with a good capon lined.’ That’s us tonight, even the round belly part.”

  “I’m impressed that a chemistry major would remember that.”

  “My minor was English Lit.” She kissed two fingers and touched them to Rick’s lips. “Thank you for a wonderful dinner, Rick.” She walked to the elevator while he watched.

  He hadn’t thought about Betta the entire evening.

  Chapter Five

  Rick chose his steps with care, trying to avoid the few ice patches left on the sidewalk from the previous evening. He could see his breath, but in the last hour the temperature had climbed enough to begin to melt the snow. With no clouds, the sunshine would make quick work of it. It was turning into a pleasant morning, but he was annoyed nonetheless. If he’d not been on a job, he would have taken his morning run, snow and ice or not, but the risk of twisting an ankle or worse was not worth taking when he was on Rondini’s payroll. He tried not to think what Lexi would say when she found out he’d skipped the run. At least the newspaper office was close to the hotel. Some of the sidewalks had been cleared and others were in the process. Either the Mantovani were fastidious about the walkways in front of their homes or there was a city ordinance that required them to be. He reached the corner, crossed a busy street at the light, and came to the entrance to La Gazzetta di Mantova.

  The building was not what he expected—the oldest newspaper in Italy was housed in what had to be the city’s most modern building. Steel, glass, and sharp edges caught the rays of the morning sun and bounced them off dripping tree branches and the cars driving by. The glass door of the main entrance was marked with the newspaper name. Underneath, in a smaller font, was a simple Fondata nel 1664. No big deal. He pushed the door and entered an open space, its only furniture a tall dark desk behind which a woman sat on a stool. A telephone and laptop were lined up neatly in front of her on the wood surface. She looked up from her screen and smiled at Rick.

  “Desidera?”

  In this context the word meant, simply, “Can I help you?” But since it was a form of the verb “to desire,” Rick always found it a wonderfully Italian way to say something so mundane.

  “Buon giorno. I am doing some family genealogical research. Is it possible to have access to your archives?”

  “Of course. Just sign in here.” She turned a clipboard in his direction and slid it across. “And if you could give me your identification, please?” She pulled a badge from beneath the table and put it next to the clipboard as Rick wrote. He finished writing, passed his ID to her, and clipped the badge to his coat collar.

  “Take the elevator to the basement and follow the signs. Dottor da Feltre will help you.”

  When he got to the basement, signs for the archivio took him down a long corridor to a set of glass doors. The ceiling was low, giving it the feeling of a crypt, which would be appropriate for a place where ancient texts were kept. The lighting was dim, in contrast with the brightness of the atrium just one story above. Rick pushed open the door and once again was surprised. He’d expected rows of shelves, extending deeply into the basement, on which editions of the Gazzetta would be bound and stacked, their browned pages reaching back centuries. Instead, two cubicles, each with a chair and computer, were positioned against one wall. Ahead, three imposing doors were marked with the warning: No admittance to unauthorized persons. Unlike the corridor, the room was bright with the light of fixtures set into the ceiling. On the side opposite the cubicles a man
sat hunched over the morning’s edition. The newspaper was the only item on his desk except for a nameplate, its letters carved from a wood block: VITTORINO DA FELTRE.

  The man looked up from his paper when Rick pushed open the glass door. Only a green eyeshade was lacking to give him the central casting image of an archivist: thinning gray hair, thick glasses, and a wrinkled shirt and tie. Rick was disappointed to find that the fingers were not stained with newsprint.

  “You lost?”

  “Not if these are the archives,” Rick answered.

  The eyes widened, their outlines blurred through the glasses. “Really?” He closed the newspaper and pushed it to one side of the desk. “I haven’t had anyone in here in a week. And he was looking for the boiler room. What are you searching for?” He took off his glasses, pulled a dirty handkerchief from a jacket pocket, and began to clean them while squinting at Rick.

  “Background on the Rondini family.”

  The glasses were replaced. “The guy who just died.” He tapped the newspaper in front of him. “I read the paper pretty closely every day. You a reporter? You don’t look familiar. Not that the reporters come down here much. They do their research online.” He raised his eyes and pointed to the upper floors.

  “I’m not a reporter. Is everything you have online?”

  “No, not everything, only back to 1875. The older stuff is in there.” He pointed his chin toward the doors along the back wall. “You need anything before 1875?”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” said Rick.

  “If you do, let me know. Just turn on one of those computers and you’re into our system. There’s an instruction sheet in each cubicle on how to get in and do a search. By word, dates, whatever. It’s pretty easy. There’s a printer if you need to make copies, but if you do a lot of them, I’ll need to charge you. There’s paper if you want to make notes.” It was an instructional speech recited by rote. When he finished, the man studied Rick for a few moments, decided that this visitor would not be a problem, and returned to his newspaper.

  Rick followed the instructions and quickly found the obituary of Roberto Rondini. It had nothing unexpected, but he took notes on the basics anyway. Son of Enzo and Pina Rondini, long deceased, husband of Berta Rondini, who died four years earlier. Daughter Livia Rondini Guarino. A cousin, Angelo Rondini, lived in America. Owner of the Rondini dairy farm and cheese producer. Italian obituaries, he noted, were considerably shorter than the ones he remembered reading in the Albuquerque Journal. There was a photograph which showed more than a strong resemblance to Cousin Angelo. Further searches brought up passing mentions of Roberto Rondini buried inside news stories, mostly related to the dairy industry or the associations of cheese producers. Rick got the sense that his participation in such groups was minimal. Not so with the local fishing club, of which the deceased was active to the point of serving as an officer. The man knew his priorities. Fishing was apparently considered a sport by the newspaper, since a story about the fishing association election appeared in the back pages of the sports section, after all the soccer news. In the same election in which Rondini had been voted onto the board, the previous president resigned from it. Probably not much there, Rick concluded, but worth mentioning to Crispi. He copied down the name of the disgruntled fisherman: Sandro Bastoncini.

  Next, he searched Livia and Francesco Guarino. Of Roberto’s daughter there was almost no mention, other than her marriage to Francesco. For the husband, Rick found numerous articles in connection with the Parmigiano-Reggiano Consortium, mostly participation in industry meetings or boards involved with production standards. Francesco was a bureaucrat.

  It was in a previous Rondini generation that things got interesting.

  Enzo Rondini, the father of the deceased, had been a prominent politician in his day, but his prominence had been gained without the support of the Gazzetta. From the selection of stories and the tone of the reporting, it was clear that the newspaper had it in for the man. First mention was of Enzo as a student activist, in what the paper considered the wrong political party. His initial foray into politics was on the campaign of a city councilman, then as part of the man’s staff when the election was successful. Enzo steadily moved up and eventually gained elective office himself. Rick scrolled quickly through the pages, finding one article after another which insinuated shady dealings, or out-and-out corruption. If the stories were to be believed, Enzo Rondini had used his political clout to go from being a small-time farmer to owning large tracts of land. One of the losers had been a farmer who’d fallen on bad times, been unable to pay his taxes, and had his land confiscated. When it was put up for sale, it was Rondini who managed to put in the winning bid, something the paper did not believe was by chance. On another occasion, posters of a political opponent had disappeared from the walls of the city, with suspicion placed on Rondini’s campaign workers. No one was ever charged. The newspaper finally was successful in thwarting his political career when he lost an attempt to get into the national parliament. At that point Enzo Rondini retired from politics and concentrated his efforts on making money from cheese. The paper, still showing animosity, covered allegations that Rondini had bribed dairy inspectors, but Rick could find nothing to show he was ever charged.

  Rick looked at the clock on the wall and pushed back his chair. One thing was sure, the Gazzetta di Mantova and Enzo Rondini did not get along. But was it something personal between an editor and Rondini? Or could it simply have been a tiny local skirmish in the national political war of that time between the Christian Democrats and the Communists? Hard to know. He reluctantly turned off the computer and got to his feet.

  The archivist looked up from the sports pages. “Find what you needed?”

  “I found quite a bit. But I’ll have to come back.”

  “You don’t need a reservation.”

  The horse showed impatience, its face lowered and the hoof of one muscular leg raised slightly from the ground. The groom had a hand on the saddle, his expression showing no concern as he chatted with a friend standing next to him. Two large dogs stood next to the horse, tense and ready to jump if the huge white animal next to them showed any more signs of aggression. The animals were more excited than their human masters; they knew they would soon be bounding over the flat fields of Lombardy, the wind in their faces and the smell of the countryside surging into their lungs. It was what they enjoyed most. It was the day of the hunt.

  “Bottom line,” Rick said, “if what I read is to be believed, your Uncle Enzo was no angel.”

  Angelo kept his eyes on Mantegna’s hunting party for a few more seconds, then craned his neck to study the work on the ceiling. A peacock and several winged putti, framed by blue sky and clouds, looked down with curiosity at the group standing in the center of the square room. The uniformed museum guard stood to one side. He worked in the most famous collection of art in the city, but he kept his eyes on the visitors, not the walls.

  “It sounds like he might have broken a few rules, Language Man. Sometimes you have to do that to make it in this world. I wonder if any of that was passed on to my cousin, either through the genes or in the upbringing. I’ve often thought about that with my parents. They were simple, hard-working people, your classic immigrants. I wouldn’t call them overly ambitious; they just wanted the best for me. And look how I turned out. I couldn’t have been more different.”

  “You turned out well, Mr. Rondini,” said Lexi.

  “I bent the rules a few times, Lexi, and as you well know, I’ve made a good number of enemies.” Angelo was looking now at the court scene, the seated Ludovico Gonzaga surrounded by family and courtiers. A trusted aide was whispering something in the duke’s ear. “Look at this guy. You don’t think he stayed in power by following all the rules, do you? My Uncle Enzo was just following the local customs.”

  “We should be on our way if you want to go back to the hotel before meeting your niece f
or lunch, Mr. Rondini.”

  The Lexi of business hours had returned, without so much as an acknowledgment to Rick that she’d ever been away. On the way to the museum she had sat in the back seat and continued briefing her boss on issues from the home office in Chicago uncovered during the night. Rick wondered if she’d gotten any sleep, not that her appearance indicated it. Quite the contrary.

  A few minutes later they had descended into the courtyard where Marco and the car were waiting.

  “You enjoyed the castle, Signor Rondini?”

  “Immensely, Marco, and they saved the best for last.”

  “I never tire of seeing those walls.”

  “I should have asked you to come in with us. Next time.” He looked up at the castle stone. “I wonder if the Gonzagas felt cooped up in this place.”

  “Mr. Rondini, we really must—”

  “I know, Lexi. We’ll drop you at the hotel so you can get back to work. That’s really why you’re in such a hurry, isn’t it? You can get to your computer and work while Language Man and I go off to have a leisurely lunch, Italian-style.”

  They all got into the car. Marco drove them back through the winding streets to the hotel where Rick jumped out and opened the back door for Lexi. She unfolded her long legs, stood at the curb, and bent down to look through the open door. As always, she was clutching her briefcase.

  “Have a nice lunch, Mr. Rondini.”

  Her boss waved.