The Train to Orvieto

by Novelli, Rebecca J. ;

  They exchanged glances and laughed. One came closer, peered at me, and nodded. “Zingara!”

  I pulled my purse closer to me. He ran his finger over it. “Expensive purse for a zingara or a student. Where did you get it?”

  “Mio ragazzo.” My boyfriend.

  He held the lantern near the stain on my dress, then next to the abrasion on my forehead. “Sì, certo.” Oh, sure. “I suppose he’s a student, too.”

  “Carta d’identita! Forza! Forza!” the first poliziotto said. Hurry up! Where was my identification? I couldn’t find it.

  The second officer came closer. “We don’t like trouble.” He flipped open his jackknife and idly tested the blade with his finger. “Or troublemakers without a carta d’identita.”

  “I’m not a troublemaker and there’s no trouble,” I said. “I just can’t find my carta. I know it’s here.”

  He looked at me like I was merchandise. I could see his pocked skin. Spittle clung to his untrimmed mustache. He licked his lips suggestively. The lights came on. He pointed his knife at the sack. “Even the look of trouble.”

  “She probably doesn’t have one,” said the other polizotto.

  “Yes, I do.” At last, I remembered that I had put it in my suitcase. I got it out and handed it to the first poliziotto.

  “Counterfeit,” he said without looking at it. “And stored improperly.”

  The second poliziotto nodded and closed his knife with a snap. “Watch out, zingara. If you cause trouble in Milano, we’ll arrest you and seize your documenti.” He took my arm and squeezed it hard. I knew he intended to leave a bruise.

  “Let me go! How dare you!” I said. He jerked my arm, pulling me off balance. I fell back onto my luggage. I heard my dress rip.

  “Stammi bene!” Take care! They left the compartment laughing.

  I got up to make sure that I could still open the door, still escape. My temple throbbed. Using the mirror from my purse, I examined the swelling next to my eye. There was a lump and a large bruise. I combed my hair so it would cover my temple and my eye. The conductor will get me some ice. I pulled on the cord again. No response. I got a clean dress out of my suitcase and went into the corridor.

  The conductor was talking to an elegantly dressed woman in the next compartment. I edged around them. He followed me and stood in front of the door to the lavatory. “Zingari use the lavatory at the station.”

  “I’m not a zingara. I just need to change my dress.” I pointed to the stains. “And some help with my luggage.”

  “You sit with zingari. You talk to zingari. You eat with zingari. You smile at zingari. You drink with zingari. In what way are not a zingara?” He glared at me and crossed his arms. “The lavatory is closed to zingari. Do I need to call the polizia again?” I retreated to the compartment and put my dress back in the suitcase. Fear settled over me like dust, sifted through my skin, and coated my bones. Trembling, I heard the call for Milano Centrale. At last, the train entered the dim and monstrous maw of the station.

  I dragged my largest suitcase into the corridor and then into the vestibule. At the stairway door I saw the polizotti watching from a distance, waiting. I held the railing with my left hand. With my right hand I eased the suitcase down the steep and narrow steps onto the platform and returned for the second suitcase, and then the third. At the top of the steps I set the third suitcase down and pushed my damp hair away from my face. My temple throbbed. I held my purse under my arm, picked up my suitcase, and took a deep breath. As I negotiated the final step, I slipped and lost my grip on the suitcase. The suitcase landed on the platform and the latches released instantly. My belongings scattered. I scrambled down the steps and caught my foot in the open suitcase. My ankle twisted. I heard it crack. Stunned by the pain, I bit my lip and suppressed a cry so I wouldn’t attract the attention of the poliziotti. People gathered around me.

  The velvet bag containing Nonna Marcheschi’s pearls and earrings and mamma’s rosary lay on the pavement next to me. Our family photograph was nearby. I reached for the photograph and pricked my finger on a shard of broken glass. A drop of blood landed on the photo. I wiped it off on my skirt and sucked my finger. Just then, a young man in dark glasses approached me. He’s coming to help. He stooped to pick up my two largest suitcases and disappeared into the crowd with them.

  “Thief!” I screamed.

  “Which way did he go?” someone said. I pointed toward the station. More people joined the group around me.

  The first poliziotto pushed his way through shouting, “Clear the area.” The bystanders retreated, watching me from a distance. “Well, zingara, it didn’t take you long to make trouble.”

  I tried to stand. “That man stole my luggage.”

  “Another one of your tricks!” The poliziotto reached down for the velvet bag and opened it. “Where’d you get these?”

  “My grandmother and my mother.”

  He laughed. “Sì, certo!” He put the bag in his pocket. “Evidence!” I saw the other poliziotto coming toward us.

  The postcard and the clipping of James Dean lay on the pavement next to me. Before I could put them in my purse, the second poliziotto yanked the purse away from me. “What else are you hiding?” He reached inside. “Molti soldi!” A lot of money. He dropped my purse and held the envelope with the money in his hands. “Where does a zingara get so much money?” He put the envelope in his pocket. “Evidence!” I grabbed my purse and put the postcard and the clipping inside. He pushed my clothes into my suitcase and held it shut under his arm. “We know what to do with thieves.” I touched the corno.

  “I’m not a zingara and I didn’t steal anything.” The poliziotto reached down and pulled me up by one arm. I heard the sound of fabric ripping. “Be careful. I don’t have my clothes.”

  He pulled me close to him. I felt his hand on my breast and his warm breath near my ear. “I hear zingare don’t like to wear clothes,” he whispered.

  I pushed him away. “Don’t touch me!” I put my foot down. Pain shot through my ankle. I couldn’t walk. The poliziotto took my arm again.

  My heart surged. If papà finds out.... “My trunk is still on the train.”

  The poliziotto held onto me until we came to an opaque glass door inside the station. Gold letters outlined in black spelled Polizia. He opened the door. Inside, Alpine travel posters hung at odd angles on the walls, their edges moldy where moisture had percolated from the waterstained ceiling. Directly in front of me a man wearing a khaki uniform sat at a battered desk reading a giallo, a popular crime story. “Over there, zingara,” the polizotto said. I hobbled to a wooden bench near the wall and sat down. My ankle throbbed.

  “Capitano…,” my captor began.

  “Aspetta…aspetta,” the officer said, holding up his hand. We waited until he came to the end of the chapter. Reluctantly, he closed the book and gazed at me, stroking his large mustache. “Cattiva gente creano un sacco di guai.” Bad people make a lot of trouble. Is he talking about the characters in the book or about me? I wondered. He was bald except for the long, thin hair that extended from above his right ear over his head to just above his left ear, which he had plastered against his scalp so that his head appeared to be wrapped in thread. He might have been a character from a giallo himself, but I was too frightened to enjoy the resemblance.

  “I am Capitano Fiorelli,” he said, indicating the sign on his desk with the same title. “I am in charge of this station.” His face was round and full, like unbaked bread with eyes. His shirt pulled at the armholes, and his greyish undershirt showed in the opening where a button was missing. He stood up. His stomach hung over his belt, and his pants strained to contain his girth. I thought of the pale sausages tied in the middle that Grazia always prepared for the Feast of Corpus Christi.

  The poliziotto handed Fiorelli my purse and carta d’identità. “She’s one of the zingari who made all the trouble on the train, capitano.” Capitano Fiorelli stood up and leaned over the desk. He studied my dress
and shoes, nodded.

  “I would like to know why I’m here and why you’re staring at me,” I said. My own boldness surprised me. Had I already changed so much that I was capable of challenging a policeman?

  “I ask the questions, signorina.” Capitano Fiorelli examined my carta d’identità with a magnifying glass. “Serafina Luisa Marcheschi. Who is that?”

  “Me.”

  He held the picture next to my face. “Marcheschi.” He leaned back and looked at me, stroking his mustache. “Marcheschi.” He returned to the carta d’identità. “Where did you get this?”

  “Orvieto.”

  “Orvieto…Marcheschi.” He thought for a moment. “How do I know that name?” He looked around. “Where is your ticket for Milano?”

  “In my purse.”

  Fiorelli opened my purse, took out my ticket, and held it up to the bare lightbulb that hung above his head. He rummaged in his desk drawer, found his magnifying glass and examined the ticket again with his glass. Then my carta d’identità. “These are real,” he told the poliziotti. He looked in my purse again and found the letter. He studied the envelope with the grave expression of a professional. “This letter is addressed to a Signora Farnese in Arezzo, but you say you live in Orvieto. The name on your carta d’identità is Marcheschi. And so is the name on your ticket. This letter is not addressed to you.” He removed the letter from the envelope and read it. “Obviously, this letter is from an amante, but the writer doesn’t sign his name.” Capitano Fiorelli smiled. “Perhaps, he has something to hide.” He winked as he folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

  “Why have you come to Milano?”

  “To go to university. Someone has stolen my luggage.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you study if you don’t know why?”

  “I don’t know why that ragazzo took my luggage.” I pointed at the officer. “And I don’t know why he took my jewelry and my money.”

  “Is there someone in Milano who could identify you?”

  “Yes. His address is on the back of the envelope. He is expecting me. His name is Michel Losine.” I saw their surprise.

  Capitano Fiorelli turned the letter over and looked at the address. He showed it to the two poliziotti. “You said you had arrested a zingara who was making trouble on the trains.” The poliziotti glanced at one another. “Your zingara, as you call her, says Signor Losine knows who she is.” The poliziotti looked at their feet. “She says Signor Losine will identify her. In fact, she says that he expects her.” Fiorelli snorted contemptuously. “Now, I am the one who must call Signor Losine and tell him that two poliziotti in my department have arrested Signorina Marcheschi because they think she is a zingara, although she doesn’t look like a zingara and she has an Italian name and an Italian carta d’identita. Not only that, she is injured.” I saw their discomfort and their fear. Fiorelli turned to me. “Please, won’t you sit here?” He got up and helped me into his chair. Then he pulled out the drawer of his desk so that I could rest my foot on it. The drawer was filled with gialli. He pointed to the books. “Something to read? Please help yourself.” My ankle throbbed and so did my head. Fiorelli went out, leaving me alone with the two poliziotti.

  One took the velvet bag from his pocket and set it in front of me. “Signorina, mi dispiace.” I’m sorry. “Per favore don’t tell Signor Losine about our little mistake. Signor Losine doesn’t like mistakes.” He wiped perspiration from his forehead. “He is a great friend of the capitano. In fact, you could say that Capitano Fiorelli works for Signor Losine, in a manner of speaking. If there are mistakes, the capitano could lose his job. So could we.”

  When Fiorelli returned, he set an espresso and a plate of fresh biscotti in front of me and handed me a cloth napkin. “Signor Losine says it would give him great pleasure to greet you.” He turned to the two officers. “Find her luggage immediately. Make sure they don’t sell anything. Bring all of it to me. And no payments! Capite?”

  “Sì, capitano. Immediatamente.” The poliziotti turned to leave.

  “My trunk is still on the train,” I said. “And I want my money back.”

  “Give her whatever you took and bring her trunk!” Fiorelli ordered. One reached into his pocket and brought out the envelope with my money. He put it on the desk. Capitano Fiorelli counted out the money. “Is that the correct amount?”

  “Yes.” I took the money and put it in my purse.

  Just then, a tall young man entered with my suitcases. He set them on the floor, wiped his hands on his jeans, and took a deep breath. “They told me you were in here,” he said in English. He cracked his knuckles. “That guy dropped your suitcases as soon as he saw me coming.” He smiled. “Lucky I wore my running shoes today.” He ran his hands through his red hair. “This a police station?” He came around the desk and held out his hand to me. “Sorry. I always forget to introduce myself. Joey…Joey Dunne.” We shook hands. His eyes were grey blue, perhaps light brown. “Piacere,” he said. “That’s right isn’t it? Piacere. Pleased to meet you.” He looked kind. “I guess you can probably tell I’m not Italian.”

  “Yes. Piacere. Thank you.”

  “It was my pleasure…is my pleasure, I mean.” He shook my hand again. “Already said that, right?” He looked at my torn and stained dress, at my swollen ankle, and then at my face. “Geez, you look sorta banged up. You okay?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You want me to stay here with you? I’m not busy…not right now, anyway.” He seemed friendly. Not dangerous.

  “Grazie. Yes.”

  Joey Dunne found a chair and set it down opposite me. “I’m an American,” he said. “A tourist, I guess you could say. Came to Milano about three weeks ago. I was planning to hitchhike around Europe, but I got interested in all the old stuff here. Today, I went to Lake Como. You been there?” I shook my head. “Beautiful. Saw ‘The Last Supper,’ too. Wouldn’t mind seeing it again, though. Leonardo da Vinci’s notebooks, too. He looked at people’s insides—cadavers, I mean—and drew what he saw. Page after page of hearts, big toes, brains. A baby in a womb. He put it all in his notebooks so he could remember. That’s what I want to do: remember everything I see, save it all up so I can think about it whenever I want.”

  That’s what I need, too, I thought: a notebook where I can write down everything that I know is true: one true thing added to another true thing to another true thing until everything I know about mamma and papà and Michel Losine is the truth.

  “…Da Vinci could have been arrested,” Joey was saying, “and put in prison for what he did.”

  “Anyone can be arrested or put in prison for no reason. It just depends on who people imagine you are,” I said.

  “And send you off to war, too.”

  “Are you a soldier?”

  “Not yet, but I could be in a few months. Vietnam. And then it’ll be all over. Lights out.” I wanted to console him. “I applied for conscientious objector status. Draft counselor says I have a good case. I’ll soon find out how good.”

  “Would you like a biscotto?”

  “Sure.”

  I held the plate out to him and accidentally knocked my open purse off the desk. The contents scattered on the floor.

  Joey went to pick them up. “Hey, this is a picture of James Dean.” He handled the fragile paper carefully. “How come you have it?”

  “He just seemed like someone without a true friend.”

  “You know he’s dead, right?”

  “Yes, but lots of people feel alone…sometimes, anyway.” I was thinking of mamma and now papà. “Sometimes they need to be consoled.”

  “But James Dean made a point of living without consolation.”

  “Yes, but if he…if people…knew they weren’t alone….” Maybe not Bruno or papà, but other people.

  Joey smiled. “So you want to console the people who feel alone?”

  “Yes, the people who must bear more than th
ey can.”

  Joey looked at me, his eyes full of more light than the sky over Orvieto. “That’s very kind of you. Very, very kind.”

  18

  Joey Dunne and I had been talking for more than an hour when a man with a cane entered Capitano Fiorelli’s office. Everything about him was thin, so thin that he appeared capable of slipping through walls and materializing wherever he pleased. From where I sat it was difficult to guess his height, but he looked taller than papà. He had a long, narrow face with a nose to match. His half-closed eyelids gave him a disinterested, almost sleepy look, but his glacier-blue eyes sparkled, intense and jewel-like. His neatly trimmed goatee and mustache, both soft brown and mottled with grey, suggested tweed. He was well dressed. His carefully-pressed tan suit, the luminous sheen of his ecru shirt, the silvery green tie the color of moonlight, and the carved ivory handle of the cane he held in his manicured fingers gave the impression of elegance and control. Despite this refined appearance, his dominant quality was that of pervasive grief.

  He limped around the desk to where I sat. “Please, don’t get up,” he said as if we had already been introduced. He held out his hand. “Michel Losine.” Mamma’s amante. The M of the intertwining MW engraved on mamma’s jewelry. “Molto piacere.” His hand was cool and smooth. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “Fina Marcheschi. Piacere.”

  “Well, now you’ve come to Milano.” He glanced around the room, then reached into his pocket and brought out a gold case. “Cigarette?”

  “Grazie, no.”

  He selected a cigarette and put it between his lips with nervous fingers, then put the case away and flicked open a gold lighter, lit the cigarette and drew on it lightly, exhaling slowly without leaving any smoke. I thought of Fred Astaire, but without the dancing.

  “Capitano Fiorelli tells me that you’ve had a problem with your luggage.” He winked at me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Service hasn’t been the same since la Guerra, don’t you agree?” He waved his cane at his leg and chuckled. “Neither have I.” His voice, a smooth baritone, seemed pleasant, dispassionate, as if our extraordinary circumstances were unremarkable. “I was expecting you, but not here. How did you come to meet Capitano Fiorelli?”