The Italian Wife

by Kate Furnivall

  Dawn slid through the slats of the shutters, casting a ladder of gold across Roberto’s chest where he lay beside her in the bed. Isabella was up on her good elbow, watching him sleep on his back. She adored watching him. The soft fullness of his lips, the long straight nose. The rapid movements of his eyes beneath large eyelids fringed with lashes that glinted gold in the dawn light. She leaned down so that his breath brushed her lips and it took all her willpower not to kiss him.

  She had woken with the warmth of him on her skin and the scent of him in her nostrils, and the knowledge that it would be dangerously easy to forget the world outside this room. No Grassi or Sepe. No enemies or friends. Not even Rosa or her father. Yet when she smiled down at Roberto like this, all the good reasons for keeping a sharp watch on them vanished from her head. So she forced herself to look away, and only then could she leave his bed.

  ‘No, Isabella.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Roberto. It’s no good. Pietro Luciani will tell me things about when he was Luigi’s brigade leader that he would never tell an outsider. To him I am the good Fascist widow, still grieving ten years later and still needing answers to the question of why my husband died.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  Isabella wrapped her arm around his neck, her body flush with his. ‘I have to go.’ She kissed his lips and could taste his anger there. ‘I am going to inform Dottore Martino that I will be travelling to Rome today to inspect the quarry that is one of our main suppliers of stone. I want to check on the quality of their stock.’

  ‘What about your hand?’

  ‘Don’t, Roberto,’ she said softly and placed the flat of her left hand on the centre of his chest. She could feel his heart drumming like one of the marsh pumps. ‘Don’t look for excuses. My hand will be no trouble. Papa will give me some pills for the pain, and anyway,’ she smiled up at him, ‘I’m left-handed, so I can manage.’

  ‘If they decide you are out to make trouble, they won’t give a damn whether you’re left or right-handed.’

  ‘It’s the only way, Roberto.’

  They were standing by the bedroom door. He had positioned himself between her and it. She knew he would lock her in if he had to and she could think of nothing she would prefer, but she was going to Rome to meet with Luigi’s brigade leader. She knew that Roberto was only wanting to keep her safe, so she hooked two fingers inside his white shirt between the buttons and said, ‘Come with me.’

  His hand closed over hers, gently trapping it. ‘You stay here. I know that you are fretting about the child, Try to see Rosa. I’ll go to Rome to speak to Luciani for you.’

  ‘Roberto, you and I both know he won’t tell you anything. But we can go together – it’s less than an hour by train – and we can try to get Rosa out of the convent as soon as we’re back.’ She felt a need to see the girl again, not just to find out more about her father, but because she needed to wrap an arm around her again, to make sure the child was not breaking into pieces.

  But Isabella could see Roberto’s fear, a dark wing at the back of his eyes, and she knew it was for her.

  ‘What did Grassi say?’ she asked.

  ‘That they will be watching you.’

  She rested her forehead against Roberto’s chest so that he wouldn’t see her face. ‘Why me?’

  ‘They think you have some connection with Rosa’s father. I swore to Grassi that you don’t even know him, but,’ she felt a rumble in his chest, ‘he chooses not to believe me.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  He rested his chin on the top of her head. ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But we’d better not be seen together. We’ll catch separate trains.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I work for Grassi. At the moment he is willing to give me information. But if he thought I was consorting with the enemy…’ he pressed his lips against her hair, ‘you, my love, have become the enemy, he would feel it necessary to remove you. Just like he removed Rosa.’

  ‘The enemy’? How did she become ‘the enemy’?

  ‘We’ll travel on separate trains,’ she said flatly.

  He cupped her head in his hand and tilted it backwards so that he could see her face. For a long quiet moment when the room and the bed and her coat on the floor ceased to exist, he examined every light and shadow in her eyes.

  ‘I want you to be afraid,’ he said sternly. ‘Because if you’re afraid, you’ll be careful. But I’ll be there. All the time I’ll be there with you. I’m serious, Isabella. What are you smiling at?’

  ‘How can I look at you and not smile?’

  His dark brows swooped down and he scowled at her, but his hand caressed her cheek. ‘They released you once, Isabella. Be very careful. They won’t release you so easily a second time.’

  The memory of the dead-white tiles on the cell wall and of Colonnello Sepe with the gun butt in his hand lurched into her head. Quickly her unbandaged fingers started to fasten the shirt buttons.

  31

  Italy came to Isabella. Bit by bit, kilometre by kilometre, it came back to her. With its lush greenery, its beautiful ancient villages tumbling over the sides of hills or sprawling in shady valleys. Through the train window the Italy that Isabella had loved all her life burst upon her with a force that she had not expected, because she had forgotten how much she was missing it.

  Vineyards and orchards were scooped up for a few tantalising seconds and left behind. And trees, so many trees, so many shades of green shimmering after the morning’s rain shower, vivid emeralds and dusky olives mingling with the darker hues of autumn. In Bellina there were no trees yet, no really thick trunks and towering greenery. Thousands of young saplings had been planted, especially feathery eucalyptus to line the roads and soak up the underlying water from the soil, but it would take years before the plain of the Pontine Marshes would look anything like wooded again.

  Isabella stared transfixed at the rows of tall elegant cypresses that so casually littered the landscape and the silvery stands of birches. She had been born and raised in the city of Milan with its industrial smoke and dirt engrained in her pores, but like all Italians she loved the countryside, loved its abundance. She had felt starved of its ever-changing scenery. She missed its undulating hills and fertile valleys, its unexpected ridges and buckles, instead of the billiard-smooth table of the Agro Pontino divided into rigid bare rectangles.

  As the train rattled through the stations and wheezed its way nearer to Rome, Isabella felt a kick of excitement. A tightness in her chest. Here she would find answers. Here she would meet the man who knew far more about Luigi than she did, who would be able to point a finger at his killer.

  Able to point a finger, yes. But would he be willing to?

  She was wearing a stylish black dress and black fitted coat that she knew suited her slender figure, but she had barely worn them. When she came out of hospital she had draped herself in shapeless black garments that meant no man would look at her. Her father had given her this dress and coat and she had smiled her thanks but pushed them to the back of her wardrobe and stuck with her unattractive outer shell. It had felt safer. But now…

  Now was different.

  Now she was entering Rome, the centre of the world.

  Here she would meet Roberto.

  She was careful. Just as Roberto had warned her to be. She took a taxi from the railway station to the Trevi Fountain, as though she were just one of the many tourists who mingled there all year round. She had always thought the vast fountain was intensely ugly, far too baroque for her taste, so she didn’t linger, but climbed out of the taxi and crossed the street, one of her favourites. It was lined with small shops in the classical style and an abundance of wrought-iron balconies. The last of the summer geraniums spilled over in a riot of scarlet overhead, while Isabella ambled along doing a decent imitation of window-shopping.

  The sky had cleared and the sun was picking out the scrollwork on the brass tables scattered o
ver the pavement when she reached the pretty square of Piazza San Silvestro. She wandered into the small ristorante on the corner and, without stopping, walked right through to the kitchens and out the back, ignoring the waiter’s puzzled questions. From there she made her way quickly up to Via Sistina where she jumped into another taxi.

  ‘The Ministry of the Interior, per favore.’

  She peered out of the rear window at the vehicles behind as the car barged its way through the crush of traffic and swung past the Fontana del Tritone in Piazza Barberini – yet another grandiose baroque fountain by the seventeenth-century sculptor Bernini. She sank down in the rear seat, keeping her head low. She was sure she’d make a good spy.

  ‘Signor Luciani, please.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Minister Luciani is an extremely busy man. He has meetings all day today, I’m sorry.’

  The woman didn’t look sorry. She looked pleased at being the one to lay down the law. She had fine blonde hair that she wore in tight waves in rows over her head, like the rungs of a ladder, and almost transparent skin that would burn easily in the sun. Her fingernails were painted red and were very pointed, like claws dipped in blood.

  ‘Will you tell him that the widow of Luigi Berotti is here to speak to him?’ Isabella said.

  The woman eyed her through long theatrical eyelashes, her curiosity roused. ‘He is due to finish his meeting any minute now. I’ll inform him that you’re here.’

  ‘Grazie.’

  Isabella returned to her plush red seat and tried not to look impatient. Not for one second did she take her eyes off the blonde behind the desk in the reception chamber and that was how she caught her speaking softly into the telephone, rolling her eyes flirtatiously with whoever was on the other end. Isabella rose to her feet and walked briskly back to the desk. The woman looked up, startled.

  Isabella smiled. It was the kind of smile that had nothing to do with being friendly. ‘Please inform Minister Luciani that I am the personal architectural adviser to Il Duce in the spectacular new town, Bellina, and that it was Il Duce himself who gave me the minister’s name.’ She nodded smartly and returned to her seat.

  Two minutes. That’s all it took for the woman to come over, her high heels clicking on the polished marble floor. Only two minutes for Isabella to sit as if she had no concern other than to admire the elaborate plaster decorations that Manfredo Manfredi had designed into his buildings for the Italian government. Her heartbeat was as noisy as the woman’s heels.

  ‘Minister Luciani regrets that he is unable to see you this morning.’ Her gaze dwelt on Isabella’s bandage. ‘But he can spare you a few minutes this afternoon.’

  Isabella rose to her feet. She tried not to let her relief leak out. ‘At what time?’

  ‘At two o’clock.’

  ‘Please give the minister my thanks.’

  She walked across the expanse of polished floor in her black coat, black flat shoes and small black beret tilted at an angle. For once she didn’t try to hide her limp. She was the widow of a Fascist hero.

  Isabella found herself a café and chose a seat at a pavement table tucked in a corner away from the bustle and ceaseless flow of Rome’s inhabitants. She loved Rome. Loved its noise and its vigour, the blaring of its car horns and the delicious aromas of pasta cooked with herb sauces and spicy sausages that drifted from doorways and small ristorante kitchens. The women were slender and fashionable; the men in their stylish suits flashed their dark eyes at each other and took themselves too seriously, which made her laugh.

  Isabella ordered a tisane for herself. She wanted a glass of wine but needed a clear head. Without appearing to, she studied the people who passed the café, seeking a face that appeared twice or a pair of eyes that intruded beyond the normal indifference to the city-dwellers around them.

  She saw nothing to arouse her suspicions. She sipped her hot tisane, took one of her father’s pills and felt the muscles of her ribs relax a notch so that she could breathe more easily. She looked down at her left hand. How could skin retain memory? She uncurled her fingers and smiled at her palm as if she could still see the kisses that lay in its centre. She lifted it to her own lips and felt the warmth of him still cradled there.

  Are you in Rome yet, Roberto?

  She sat at the table for an hour, alert and watchful, till her tisane grew cold and clouds swung in from the east, bringing an odd kind of white light to the street that drained it of colour. Or was that in her mind? The brightness inside her head was so strong that everything else retreated into a veiled blandness. Around her, people were minding their own business and drinking their coffee, cigarette smoke weaving from table to table, while the road snarled up with dusty trucks and cars. A grey cat skulked against the wall.

  She ordered herself an espresso and a cinnamon roll. Not that she was hungry. Her stomach was too tense for food but she wanted something to do with her fingers, something to pick at. It was when the stout waiter in his small black waistcoat placed her order and a glass of water in front of her that a man dodged across the road, setting horns blaring, and headed straight for Isabella’s pavement table. He had long ginger hair that Titian would have been proud of and a black overcoat that showed it off.

  ‘Buongiorno, signora. May I join you?’

  He pulled out a seat and beamed down at her. He was good-looking in an arty way, about thirty years old, and Isabella had no idea whether this was a random pick-up or if he was someone who had come looking for her.

  ‘No,’ she said politely, ‘you may not.’

  He sat down.

  ‘Please leave,’ she insisted firmly.

  ‘Ah, signora, I was passing and saw you here, too beautiful to be alone, so I said to myself, Marco, you cannot walk on without…’

  A random pick-up, damn it. Isabella took her coffee and moved to another table. This one was more in the open, more exposed. She didn’t like it. He followed her.

  ‘Bella signora, what have you done to your poor hand? Don’t look so —’

  ‘If you don’t go away, I will throw this coffee over you.’

  His eyes widened with surprise but his smile broadened and he started to pull out a chair to sit on. ‘Per favore.’

  ‘No! Va via!’

  He flashed his white teeth at her.

  Isabella tossed her coffee over the front of his blue shirt. He leapt back, startled, but then burst out laughing. ‘I adore a woman with spirit,’ he said and made to sit down, but a large hand swept forward from nowhere. It gripped his black collar and yanked him a metre away from her table.

  ‘Bastardo, leave the lady in peace.’

  ‘Get your hands off me, you…’

  But Isabella heard nothing. No words. Just the thud of her heart. Roberto was there. Standing before her in a long raincoat the colour of sand and a chocolate-brown fedora that gave him a harder city edge. Suddenly she caught a new glimpse of him – not a professional photographer or a muscular fisherman or a gentle farmer who could calm an animal’s fear. This was the man who had spent five years in prison and who knew how to make other men turn and walk away when he chose.

  It was the first time she’d seen him use the powerful large-boned structure of his body as a weapon rather than a source of comfort and help. How could she have missed seeing it? How threatening those muscles could be. She looked at the ginger-haired man’s face and knew he would walk away and be glad his limbs were in one piece.

  Roberto released his grip on the collar.

  ‘Merda!’ The man shook his shoulders and straightened his coat but failed to retrieve his composure. Without a glance at Isabella he walked back across the street, only turning when he was at a safe distance to shout ‘Bastardo’ at Roberto.

  Roberto paid him as much attention as he would a fly. His solemn grey eyes regarded Isabella with a stillness that silenced the words on her tongue. With the courteous gesture of a total stranger, he raised his hat to her.
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  ‘I wish you good day, signora.’

  ‘Grazie.’

  He walked away. She wanted to summon him back to her, but she sat mute in her chair and let only her eyes follow him to the corner of the street where he turned and vanished from sight.

  How had he found her?

  She rapidly scanned the crowded pavement. If it was so easy for him, who else had found her?

  32

  The Ministry of the Interior was housed in the Palazzo del Viminale on the Viminal Hill, the smallest of the seven hills of Rome. It was the strategic centre of executive power, constructed in 1914 to be close to the Quirinale.

  Isabella crossed the newly built square with its fountain in front of the palazzo, and even though her mind was focused on the meeting she was about to enter with the government minister, her professional eye could not help admiring the giant spiral volutes that decorated the parapets of the wide steps up to the Viminale’s grand entrance. Pigeons drifted up to the high roof on thermals of intrigue and political manoeuvring that rose from inside the building, even thicker than the cigar smoke that fogged its hundreds of chambers.