The Italian Wife

by Kate Furnivall

  Davide Francolini was Dottore Martino’s right-hand man. He was the person who made things happen, working with engineers and builders, ensuring that the drawings on Isabella’s tracing paper leapt into life as buildings of solid stone and brick. She didn’t envy him his job when so many hundreds of buildings had to be constructed at such breakneck speed, often with untried workmen, but he functioned with a calm efficiency and was well respected within the office. He’d never spoken more than two words to her before.

  ‘Complaints?’ he asked.

  ‘I only know what I was told by Tommaso,’ Isabella explained. ‘You should speak to him.’

  ‘But I’m not. I’m speaking to you.’

  He said it with a soft smile. He wasn’t looking to make trouble for her.

  ‘I just heard from Tommaso,’ she said, ‘that some of the builders are complaining about the stone quality and that makes him spit nails because he would never provide inferior stone.’

  He considered what she’d told him. ‘I will look into it.’

  His manner was friendly, so when he started to move away towards the iron gates that opened on to the wide thoroughfare where a constant stream of lorries poured in and out of the yard, she moved with him.

  ‘Signor Francolini.’

  He glanced at her, surprised that she was still at his elbow.

  ‘What can I do for you, signora?’

  ‘I was wondering whether you had ever discussed with Dottore Martino why he decided to take me on as part of his team.’

  She knew the question was risky but she might never get another chance to ask it. To her surprise he laughed easily.

  ‘No, Signora Berotti, I have never discussed that subject with him. But I assume he took you on for the same reason he hires any architect – because you’re good at your work.’

  His eyes examined hers and he was about to add something more when a sudden barb of lightning ripped open the underbelly of the black clouds that were still jostling above the mountains. It seemed to suck the light out of the sky and a crack of thunder rolled across the wide open plain. Isabella sensed a change in Davide Francolini. He wasn’t just staring at the distant storm, he was transfixed.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘I used to live up there,’ he muttered, ‘when I was a boy. I know what those storms are like.’

  ‘Violent, I imagine.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It must be interesting for you to see how the plain has changed now.’ She smiled at him. ‘For the better, I hope.’

  He shook himself. The way a dog shakes a rat.

  ‘Come,’ he said, reverting to his usual courteous tone, ‘and have lunch with me. We don’t have to be at the rail station for the grand reception of the new arrivals until two o’clock, so we have plenty of time.’

  Isabella’s feet took a step away from him before she could stop them. But she had the sense to arrange her face into an expression of regret.

  ‘I’m sorry, but there’s somewhere I have to go first.’

  ‘Well, another time perhaps.’

  It was vague enough. She said, ‘Yes.’

  Isabella hurried away down the street. She couldn’t tell Davide Francolini that she hadn’t had a meal alone with a man for ten years – except her father, of course – because it plunged her back into that time when being alone with a man meant being with Luigi and she would hear the shots and the screams all over again.

  She couldn’t tell Davide Francolini that just the thought of lunch with him set the bullet hole in her back throbbing.

  The convent building bore the distinctive fingerprint of Dottore Martino. Isabella could see it in its use of heavy triglyphs on the stone architraves and on the Roman pilasters. It was the convent of the Suore di Santa Teresa, a newly constructed cruciform building with attractive planes of symmetry and strong vertical lines heading straight up to God.

  Isabella felt nervous. There was something about the girl and Chairman Grassi’s lies about her mother’s madness that tangled together in her head, sharp as strands of wire. She walked up the gravel path to the oak door and lifted her hand to the brass bell-pull. She rang it and waited. They made her wait a long time. She stood on the front step, the air cooling around her as the mist thickened to a leaden cloud, and she watched a flock of crows descend on to the convent’s patch of dark earth. They proceeded to rip up the film of grass seed where someone was trying to create a lawn.

  ‘Yes?’

  A small hatch in the centre of the door had slid to one side and all she could see was a pair of suspicious blue eyes and the crisp edges of a wimple.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes, I hope so.’ Isabella smiled pleasantly at the nun but the suspicious look didn’t go away. ‘My name is Isabella Berotti and I would like to speak to Sister Consolata, please.’

  ‘She is busy at the moment.’

  ‘I believe you have a girl called Rosa Bianchi here. She’s a friend of mine and I’d like to speak to her.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘When will it be possible?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘When will Sister Consolata be free to see me?’

  The blue eyes blinked, as if trying to blink her away. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Can I make an appointment to see her?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Can I make an appointment to see Rosa?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Is this a convent or a prison?’

  ‘May God’s blessing be upon you.’

  The hatch banged shut.

  ‘Francesca, are you coming down to the station to welcome the newcomers?’

  ‘You bet I am, Bella. I’m not stupido. The Party is one of my best customers, so of course I’ll be right there on the platform waving my flag with the rest of them.’

  The young woman leaning against the bakery shop window wafted her cigarette through the air at Isabella as a demonstration of her flag-waving prowess. She possessed white-blonde hair inherited from her Norwegian father, and the heavy-boned features of her Sicilian mother; the unusual mix gave her a striking appearance. She had three passions in life – dough-making, Hollywood film stars and cigarettes. Francesca Chitti chain-smoked every day outside her shop, when she wasn’t baking bread, and she coughed like a camel. The two women had become friends since Isabella had taken to dropping into Francesca’s shop each morning to buy breakfast rolls.

  ‘Busy?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘No, not now. I was up all night baking bread for this latest lot of farm newcomers,’ she yawned elaborately, ‘but it’s quiet now.’

  ‘So walk with me to the station.’

  A broad smile spread across Francesca’s face. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, tell me all about this “nothing” of yours.’

  ‘I just want to ask you a few things.’

  ‘Bella, cara mia, I am all yours. Just give me half a minute.’

  She threw off her apron, locked up the shop, pulled the net off her pale hair so that it cascaded in a snowy river down her back, lit another cigarette and scowled at the sky. ‘I hope it doesn’t rain. I can’t bear all the mud in this blasted town.’

  ‘At least the rain gets rid of the dust.’ Isabella removed the cigarette from her friend’s fingers and trod it into the pavement. ‘The buildings will be all finished soon and the grass will grow in the spring, transforming the place. Wait and see. It will be beautiful.’

  ‘You are an optimist!’ Francesca laughed and she rolled her dark eyes in mock despair.

  The two friends found the pavements crowded as they walked together along the street, conscious of cars and pedestrians all hurrying in the same direction towards the railway station. Many of the town’s workers had been granted a half-day holiday for the occasion.

  ‘So what is it you want to know?’ Francesca asked with curiosity.

  ‘I was wondering
whether you’ve heard anything about the woman who died in the square?’

  ‘Oh, Isabella, you’re not fretting over that sad woman, are you? You’ve got to forget about it. I know it was a grisly shock but…’

  ‘Have you picked up any rumours? Allegra Bianchi was her name.’

  Francesca was always a source of astonishing amounts of information that she wheedled out of customers or overheard while making deliveries of her bread. She had as good a nose for gossip as she had for dough and made Isabella laugh with her stories of impending disasters or clandestine affairs.

  ‘Why are you so interested in her?’ Francesca asked with a lift of a pale eyebrow. She looked closely at her friend.

  ‘Because she knew something about Luigi.’

  ‘No, Allegra Bianchi was new in town. How could she have known anything about your husband? Bella, you’re imagining it.’

  ‘No, I’m not. She mentioned him to me before she climbed up the tower.’ Isabella saw Francesca shake her head. ‘It’s true, Francesca, so I need to find out more about who she was and why she came here.’

  She tried to make it sound normal. Not like a burning need. Not like something that was churning in her stomach with every breath she took. But Francesca knew her too well and stopped short in the middle of the pavement, ignoring a woman’s perambulator that had to make a quick diversion to avoid a collision.

  ‘Bella, don’t do this to yourself. You’ve been through enough.’

  ‘Allegra Bianchi knew something about Luigi’s death and I have to find out what it was.’

  ‘Are you sure you can believe her?’

  Isabella nodded. ‘Help me, Francesca. Please. I’ve got to speak to her daughter too. I’m worried about her.’

  ‘The girl in the convent?’

  ‘Yes.’ Isabella gripped Francesca’s arm and set off walking again more briskly. ‘Chairman Grassi is involved somehow, according to Rosa’s mother. She claimed the Party knows who killed my husband – which means Grassi must know.’

  Francesca quickly lit herself a new cigarette. She inhaled harshly. ‘Be careful, Bella.’ She glanced around nervously as if expecting a carabiniere to step out of the shadows. ‘It was a long time ago. Let it stay in the past.’

  ‘How can I?’ Isabella turned her head and looked with bewilderment at her friend. ‘He was my husband. My husband!’

  ‘Oh, Bella, my dearest Bella, don’t do this.’

  They walked in silence for a whole block, not one of their usual easy silences but an awkward spiky one that made their shoes sound loud on the pavement. As they neared the station Isabella was only dimly aware of the voices around her, of the crowds gathering, of the sense of excitement making people smile at strangers.

  ‘Francesca, listen to me. I know you. If your husband were killed, you’d move heaven and earth to find out who did it. However many years it took.’

  ‘If Piero was killed, my angel, I would be the one who did it!’

  Isabella could not help but laugh. Her friend’s domestic relations were always stormy.

  ‘See what you and that nose of yours can sniff out,’ she urged. ‘You’re good at digging up things.’

  Francesca sighed. ‘Oh, Isabella, you know I’m hopeless at saying no to you. But don’t let me catch you doing anything… foolish.’ They both were aware that the word ‘dangerous’ had hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she had not allowed it out. Everyone in Mussolini’s Italy knew not to talk out loud about danger. It made daily life feel too fragile.

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  Francesca nudged an elbow in Isabella’s ribs and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I’ve heard one rumour you’ll be interested in.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Mussolini is coming to inspect Bellina.’

  Isabella’s thoughts curled around the name. Mussolini. And a door seemed to open to the darkness at the back of her mind.

  7

  Chairman Grassi had something important to say. That was obvious. The dais on which he stood was a mass of colour, all decked out in the bold green, white and red of the Italian flag, and it seemed that half the town had turned out to listen to him, dressed up in their Sunday best. He cleared his throat, stuck out his chest and his dark eyes scanned the crowd of faces till they fell silent. Only then did he speak.

  ‘People of Bellina, Il Duce is proud of you.’

  ‘Viva Il Duce! Viva Il Duce!’

  The shout surged from the crowd and rang out across the railway station platform, sending the pigeons fleeing up into the grey sky with a resentful clatter. Grassi’s large head nodded, satisfied.

  Isabella shifted from foot to foot. Standing for a long time always made her back ache and sent what felt like ants in red-hot boots marching up and down the thigh of her right leg, but she fixed an attentive smile on her face. They’d done this before. This waiting. This speech-making. The part she liked best was the brass band but she knew she’d have to be patient before the trombones got their turn to belt out ‘Giovinezza’, the official hymn of the Italian Fascist Party. Maybe the train would be early.

  That’s what they were here for – the train. It was bringing the newest contingent of incomers selected to become residents of the area, but this time it was to be a collection of farmers, a hundred of them. It was autumn. Time for planting. Isabella couldn’t wait to see the barren landscape transformed from black to green when the wheat and maize burst forth in the spring. It was impossible not to be excited for the town and she felt honoured to be chosen as one of the ten representatives of the architectural office to attend this event, but her eyes kept switching from Chairman Grassi on his dais to the skeletal figure of Colonnello Sepe nearby.

  What do you know, Colonnello? How much have you discovered about Allegra Bianchi?

  The architects were lined up neatly in two rows, alongside groups from the hospital, the shops, the state offices, the fire brigade and many others on the platform. Isabella was tucked away at the back of her group but she noticed Davide Francolini was standing right at the front. He glanced around when she arrived and treated her to a half-smile. That was all. She was surprised she even got that much after turning down his invitation to a bowl of pasta.

  ‘People of Bellina,’ Chairman Grassi’s deep voice came booming out of the loudspeaker, ‘our great leader, Benito Mussolini, is building a powerful new Italy for all his people. Today here in Bellina we are witnessing an important advance in his Battle for Grain and in his Battle for Land. Il Duce is leading us forward in the magnificent economic rebirth of Italy, and he has vowed to make us self-sufficient in food. Here in Bellina we are in the forefront of that great Battle for Grain.’

  For a second he stood silent, silhouetted against the oppressive grey sky, his listeners hanging on his every word, and then his right arm shot out in the Fascist straight-arm salute. Instantly Isabella’s shot out too, and a forest of arms launched around her.

  ‘Il Duce! Il Duce!’ they roared back at him.

  ‘Five thousand new farms will be built.’

  ‘Il Duce! Il Duce!’

  ‘Five more magnificent towns that show the way to the future will be constructed on these plains. Mussolini has promised.’

  ‘Bravissimo!’

  ‘Bellina this year, Littoria next year, then…’

  Isabella’s gaze slid inexorably back to Colonnello Sepe in his dark uniform and glittering silver braid, and her ears ceased listening. What kind of man was he, this colonel in the carabinieri with the face of a hawk? One who could keep a child imprisoned, even after she had lost her mother in such a terrible manner. One who was willing to let a daughter view her mother’s broken body. The convent may be a holy place but it must be a barren prison for Rosa. Grieving and alone in a world of hair shirts she must be confused and frightened. Isabella felt a wave of pity for the lonely child. She remembered only too well what it was like to lose a mother when she was young. She drew a deep breath but her emotions were starting to spir
al out of control and she realised that although she needed to learn information from Rosa, it was also important to her to know that the girl wasn’t falling apart in the cold corridors of the convent. With an effort Isabella forced herself to look away from the hard lines of the policeman’s face.

  The train was coming. Isabella could see it in the distance, like an iron monster heaving smoke from its lungs as it advanced on Bellina, and the ground shuddered at its approach. The town was new and raw, and somehow she could feel its nervous breath on her neck. Even the sky seemed to lean closer to take a look at the newcomers from Friuli and Veneto.