The Italian Wife

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘Thank you for your help, Gisella.’

  She heard the dismissal in his voice and quickly finished pushing a biscuit into her mouth, regarding the mound in her hand with a panic of indecision. Clearly they were permitted no pockets in their dresses. Roberto removed a clean handkerchief from his jacket.

  ‘Here, use this.’

  She wrapped the biscuits in it, tied the corners in a knot and tucked it behind the bib of her dress. She grinned up at him, delighted with herself, and the grin, so unexpected in the solemn face, pulled at Roberto’s heart.

  ‘Would you like me to take your photograph?’ he offered with a smile.

  Her eyes widened with delight and she nodded shyly. This time he used the Leica. He walked Gisella out into the yard and talked to her for a few minutes about the time when he was also nine years old and had stolen his uncle’s dinghy for an afternoon because the sea was so blue, sparkling all colours of the rainbow.

  ‘But the wind off the Amalfi coast can be treacherous,’ he told her, ‘and the boom swung across and knocked me into the sea. I had to tread water with the fishes.’

  ‘What happened?’ she whispered, appalled.

  ‘I went to school the next day with a thumping headache and a backside walloped by my father,’ he laughed.

  She laughed too and that was when he took the picture. ‘When it’s developed, I’ll get it to you,’ he promised. ‘Somehow.’

  She stared at him with such fixation that it embarrassed him.

  ‘Thank you for your help. You should return to your classroom now.’

  He stepped back into the storeroom to pick up his case, but to his surprise Gisella followed him into its musty interior.

  ‘Will you kiss me?’ She said the words quickly, as if they were burning a hole in her tongue.

  Roberto looked with surprise at the nine-year-old girl.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’ Her cheeks were beetroot red. ‘The older girls will ask me if you did and they’ll make fun of me if I say no. They’ll say I am too ugly for any man to want to touch me.’

  ‘No, Gisella. You are far too young. Not ugly at all, for God’s sake.’

  ‘They kiss the man who delivers the coal.’

  ‘They’re lying.’

  Tears slithered down the girl’s pale cheeks.

  ‘Oh, Gisella, don’t listen to them.’ With difficulty Roberto kept a grip on the stab of anger towards the girl’s tormentors and quickly swung his case over his shoulder.

  She was still standing there between him and the door.

  He walked right up to her, gently took her face between his hands, surprised by how hot her skin was, and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. He smiled down at her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Now go to your classroom.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Enjoy the biscuits,’ he said.

  She nodded again.

  He drew a small sealed envelope from his jacket pocket. ‘And give this to Rosa Bianchi. In private.’

  Carmela was shaking. Eyes huge with distress. Her long bony fingers were welded to Rosa’s wrist, above which a sheet of paper was clutched in her hand. With every tremor it rustled through the air that was ripe with the stench of the lavatory block. They were jammed into one of the cubicles and speaking in whispers.

  ‘Get rid of it,’ Carmela hissed. ‘You’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘No. No one knows.’

  ‘They’ll make her tell them. You saw them take the biscuits from her.’

  Rosa shook her head and tore open the envelope. Her heart was knocking against her ribs and inside her head she could see the bloodless hand pushing her into the pit of darkness again, except this time it would be worse. This time she would be locked in for days. Or weeks. No one would know or care. They would slide food under the door, flat slices of bread. Or maybe they would let her starve. The darkness would suck all life from her soul and her hair would turn as white as the novices’ robes.

  ‘Aren’t you frightened?’ Carmela asked.

  ‘No.’

  She was so frightened her eyes could not focus on the words written in black ink on the paper. She blinked to remove the mist but it clung to her eyeballs like oil.

  ‘Is it from your father?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He must have seen the light in the window.’

  ‘I knew he would.’

  ‘You’re just like him, Rosa. So brave.’

  But Rosa had stopped listening to her friend. She screwed the letter into a tight ball and hurled it into the lavatory bowl with a feral moan that rose from her empty gut. Her eyes cleared but now they had to fight back tears.

  ‘What does he say?’ Carmela demanded in a shocked whisper. ‘Is he coming for us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not from Papa. It’s from the photographer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The photographer who came today. He says he is a friend of the architect, Signora Berotti.’

  ‘So why is he writing to you? What does he want?’

  ‘She wants to see me. To help me.’

  Her friend eyed her warily. ‘That’s good. Isn’t it? You like her.’

  ‘But Mother Domenica won’t let her in.’

  Rosa bent over the lavatory bowl, plunged in her hands and tore the sodden letter and its envelope to shreds.

  ‘Don’t,’ Carmela crooned. ‘Don’t be upset. The architect can help you find him.’

  ‘She doesn’t even know he exists.’

  ‘Then you must tell her.’

  Rosa’s head shot up. ‘Yes, you’re right.’ She stared with relief into her friend’s speckled eyes. ‘I must tell her.’

  ‘But how? She can’t get in here to see you.’

  Rosa flushed the lavatory, dragged her wet hands down her dress to dry them, leaving behind a murky trail, and wrenched open the cubicle door. She looked straight at Carmela.

  ‘Then I must get out,’ she told her.

  15

  The moment Isabella pushed open the huge brass-edged doors of the Fascist Party headquarters and set foot on the coral marble of its reception hall, she knew she was in trouble. A black uniform stepped in front of her. Bull-chested and heavy-booted. She could smell his sweat.

  ‘No entry, signora.’

  He stood too close, forcing her to look up. She could see an old scar like a silver brand under his broad chin and feel the blackness of his shirt squeezing out the narrow strip of air between them.

  She smiled at him. ‘I’ve come to make an appointment to see Chairman Grassi.’ She had unleashed her hair from its usual tight restraint and shook it at him with a light laugh. ‘I’m hoping he might be free today.’

  She had been coming to the headquarters every day and taken her place in the queue at the desk of Chairman Grassi’s deputy, Signor Marchini, but each time she had been turned away with an abrupt ‘No appointments today, Signora Berotti.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Not tomorrow.’

  ‘Next week?’

  ‘Chairman Grassi’s diary is fully booked next week.’

  ‘Surely not every day.’

  ‘He is a very busy man.’

  Today she didn’t even get as far as Signor Marchini’s desk. She tried to step around the Blackshirt but he moved with her like a black wall. The vast hall echoed with the footsteps of others who were allowed to approach the inner sanctum, as she was edged back towards the entrance.

  ‘At least give him this letter,’ she said quickly before she found herself outside on the steps once more. She thrust an envelope under the black wall’s nose. ‘For Chairman Grassi.’

  His fist swallowed the letter and he opened the glass door for her in a way that in anyone else would have seemed polite, but in this man it just seemed threatening.

  ‘Leave now, Signora Berotti.’

  He knew her name. Isabella swallowed a hard
knot of anger, smiled politely and walked outside into the sunshine. He closed the door after her and stood behind it, arms folded across his chest, watching her every move. She was certain the letter would be tossed straight into the bin. She descended the steps, picking out a path along the edge to avoid stepping on the spot where Allegra Bianchi must have lain.

  She ran a hand across her forehead as though it could alleviate the ache. It was time to find another way in.

  ‘Where is Signor Francolini, Maria?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘He’s out on inspection. Why?’

  The older woman paused her varnished fingernails above the typewriter keys. She was always more than ready to stop for a chat, at the same time possessing bat-like ears for the first sound of her boss’s footstep. Maria was Dottore Martino’s secretary, one of the few other women working in the architect’s building and prone to mothering Isabella, given half a chance.

  ‘I need to speak to him.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘No. I just need to query something with him.’

  ‘You always were a bad liar,’ Maria chuckled and let her gaze drift over her colleague’s slim-waisted emerald dress with flared skirt and at her long dark curls that hung loose around her shoulders. ‘You’re looking extra pretty today. For someone special?’

  ‘Maria, behave yourself! Of course not. Just tell me where he has gone.’

  ‘To check on the Via Corelli apartment block.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry though. He seemed quite happy. It’s his job to make sure construction is going smoothly.’

  But Isabella did worry. The Via Corelli apartment block was the one she was working on herself. ‘Grazie, Maria,’ she muttered and hurried towards the door.

  The building vibrated with noise as Isabella entered. Workmen in grubby vests were hammering and sawing, a plumber was slicing through a metal pipe while whistling the Toreador song at full throttle. And the odour of wet cement caught at the back of Isabella’s throat. But the moment she entered, her pulse started to pound. It was always the same. Her response was strong and physical to the smell and sound of one of her designs going through the process of being transformed into the reality of bricks and mortar. This would soon be a building where people would live and dream, give birth and die, generations of them, unaware that her breath and her fingerprints were woven into the fabric of each wall and each door frame. She wondered if at night in years to come the occupants would hear her heartbeat as they lay safe in their beds.

  ‘Is Signor Francolini here, Nico?’ she called to a workman with a drill in one hand and a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

  He gestured upstairs and blew her a smoky kiss. Not how he would treat a male architect. But she smiled, because that’s what you did, and she took the stairs faster than usual to work off her irritation. She found Davide Francolini on the third floor. In one of the rear apartments his slender frame was crouched on the floor in a corner, examining a long crack in the wall. It sent a stab of dismay through Isabella.

  ‘Something is wrong there,’ she said with concern.

  Francolini turned, caught by surprise, but smiled up at her, his cool caramel eyes warming when he realised who it was. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, marred by a streak of cement dust that snaked up one sleeve. She hadn’t spoken to him since the day she’d declined his offer of lunch, though she had seen him now and again flit through the office. He struck her as a man not easy to get to know, with an air of privacy that clung to him as stylishly as his clothes. Isabella stepped forward and offered her hand.

  ‘Good afternoon, Signor Francolini.’

  He rose to his feet and returned the handshake with a firm grip, brisk and efficient. ‘Don’t worry about the crack,’ he said easily, ‘I’ll have it taken care of.’

  ‘I’m glad I’ve run into you.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  She noticed his eyes take in her dress and her hair. ‘I wanted to congratulate you on how fast the apartments have gone up. Your men must be working around the clock.’

  ‘They are. We use floodlights at night.’ He nodded, as though to reassure her. ‘They are good men.’

  ‘I’m sure they are. I’ve just come to check on the positioning of the pipes. We don’t want them in the wrong place, so that they have to be torn out. It has happened before. Not all plumbers study the plans correctly.’

  ‘Are you criticising our workmen, Signora Berotti?’

  ‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘But in haste sometimes mistakes are made.’

  For a moment he regarded her coolly and she wondered if she’d gone too far, but what lay heavy in her mind were the deaths that her father had mentioned among the workforce. But Davide Francolini was clearly a man who put the success of his construction first. He ran a hand through his springy brown hair, the first unplanned gesture she’d seen from him, and his expression shifted to one of respect.

  ‘I am pleased,’ he said, ‘to see you are so thorough in your work, signora.’

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘So let us go and inspect these pipes of yours.’

  It took longer than she expected, but Isabella didn’t risk hurrying or skimping on the inspection in each of the six apartments, not in front of Davide Francolini. She had to request some adjustments from the plumber and one of the door architraves didn’t sit squarely, so it all took time. Their voices trailed behind them, echoing in the empty building, but she enjoyed talking it all through with Davide.

  So she was smiling when she emerged and it was the easiest thing in the world to turn to him and say, ‘I have a favour to ask.’

  He raised a dusty eyebrow in surprise. ‘What is it? You want me to take the plasterers off another project to bring them in on yours?’

  ‘No. It’s more personal than that.’

  She saw his eyes brighten with interest and the topmost layer of his reserve fell away like an unwanted snake’s skin.

  ‘In which case,’ he said as he started towards a bar, ‘you can tell me over a drink.’

  This time she didn’t refuse.

  ‘What is she doing here?’

  They were standing in Chairman Grassi’s grandiose office, elaborate in its combination of pale marbles and black ebony in modern geometric designs. The hard lines and strong angles left visitors in no doubt as to the power and dynamism of the owner of such an office. It was intended to impress, and it succeeded. Isabella was careful to do as Davide Francolini had told her and kept her mouth shut.

  ‘She’s been working alongside me today,’ he informed Grassi casually, ‘learning my end of the business. Take no notice of her, she’s just observing.’

  He took the chair in front of the desk as if it was his by right, leaving Isabella stranded in the middle of the gleaming floor. She moved over to stand by the door, hands behind her back like a dumb sentinel. She let her limp show. Let Grassi think she was no threat.

  ‘I don’t want her here,’ the chairman stated, puffing out his overfed chest but not bothering to rise from his black chair that looked more stylish than comfortable. ‘She’s been troublesome.’

  ‘Her?’

  Francolini glanced over at Isabella dismissively and shrugged, as though she were far too insignificant to cause trouble. Isabella did not care for the gesture but she had to admit it seemed to work because Grassi focused his attention on Francolini with a grimace.

  ‘Be quick,’ the chairman ordered curtly, ‘I have other meetings to attend.’

  But he opened a cedar box on his desk and both men reached for the cigars inside as if it were their custom. They didn’t hurry through the ritual of lighting them from the chrome desk-lighter and exhaled with satisfaction as the skeins of smoke twisted together, binding them to each other for that moment. Isabella stood silent and unmoving. She listened carefully to their talk of delivery of greater numbers of roof pantiles from Naples, of progress on the construction of the sports stadium and the need to widen the approach ro
ad to it.

  Davide Francolini delivered his report clearly and concisely, explaining the problems and being specific as to where the chairman could use his influence to unblock any logjams. It was an impressive performance. It gave her an insight into his complicated world. Yet it told her nothing about him, about the man behind the efficient well-groomed façade, except that he was good at handling people. He blunted the chairman’s darts of anger, just as he had blunted her own fears.