Lunch with Mussolini

by Derek Hansen

  ‘Heinrich, it’s Colombina. I’ve brought you some food. Real food. Rouladen. I thought you deserved a change.’

  ‘Colombina. Forgive me. How could I be so impolite? Come in! Come in!’

  ‘Thank you. I couldn’t bear the thought of you sitting down alone to the same old Meals-on-Wheels food, day after day.’

  ‘So you have made Rouladen for me?’

  ‘And for me. If I’m invited to stay, of course.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I haven’t had food like this for so long I’ve forgotten what it tastes like. And you made it for me?’

  To Colombina’s surprise, the old man’s voice shook and he seemed close to tears. The iron control was showing the wear of age.

  ‘Please, please … put it down here so I can lift the lid and smell it. To remind me. You see, there was no point in remembering. Why remember something you never expect to taste again? Growing old is bad enough. Why make it worse?’

  ‘Sit down and I’ll take the tape off. Then you can sniff all you like while I go out to the car and bring the rest in.’

  ‘There is more?’

  ‘What’s Rouladen without Blumenkohlsuppe before, and apfel strudel to follow?’

  ‘Blumenkohlsuppe? And apfel strudel? Colombina you are an angel. You are an answer to an old man’s prayers. What have I done to deserve such kindness?’

  ‘What indeed!’ thought Colombina as she turned to go back out to the car. So far so good. But she knew the test was still to come when he put on his regular glasses.

  Heinrich had his head over the casserole dish and his reading glasses lodged firmly on his nose when Colombina returned.

  ‘Colombina, this is magnificent. Absolutely magnificent!’

  ‘Wait till you taste it. You might not think so highly of it then. Now let me into the kitchen so I can start warming things up. Out of the way.’

  The Oberstleutnant sat back.

  ‘Colombina, if the Lord struck me down now, before a morsel had passed my lips, I would die a happy man.’

  ‘Can’t have that,’ said Colombina.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Colombina waited the right amount of time, till the silence begged a response, then turned around to face him.

  ‘Can’t have the Lord striking you dead now. I’ve gone to too much trouble.’ She smiled then held up the Rouladen. ‘The least you can do is live long enough to enjoy it.’

  Heinrich put his head back and the laugh Colombina had once loved tumbled from his throat. She set the table with her fine china and silver while the soup heated and the potatoes resumed boiling beneath the cabbage-filled steamer. She noticed that Heinrich still wore his reading glasses.

  ‘Do you want me to find your other glasses?’

  ‘Later, perhaps. I’ll manage with these. With these, I can see what I’m eating. With the others, I can see where I’m going but I cannot see what is right in front of me. I fell over just before Christmas because of that and injured my knee. Both glasses do their job very well but there is an area perhaps one metre to two metres away where neither work satisfactorily. But I manage.’

  Colombina smiled. Inside, she was elated. That was why he had studied her so intently the first time. She was in his blind spot. He couldn’t have recognised his own mother.

  ‘Reading glasses it is then. Now, let me see if I can poison you with the soup.’

  Mario had always enthused about her cooking, and her son-in-law raved. But Heinrich made Colombina feel her efforts were world class. He drank each spoonful of soup with reverence and obvious appreciation. He was like a small child opening Christmas presents, each mouthful a wonderful gift, each course a new delight. The Rouladen left him speechless, as he renewed his acquaintance with hot mustard and dill-pickled cucumbers. The strudel was the perfect conclusion. He watched as Colombina smothered his portion in cream.

  ‘So much cream will kill me,’ he said. ‘But please, don’t hold back.’

  Colombina didn’t. Her own portion was much smaller because she wasn’t used to large meals in the middle of the day, and she finished before Heinrich was half-way through.

  ‘I’ll put the coffee on,’ she said, rather than sit and watch him eating.

  ‘Thank you, I drink tea.’

  ‘Of course.’ ‘Why “of course”?’

  There it was! A reflex remark and he’d seized on it. He stared at her intently, squinting, searching for focus. Forty-eight years on the run had made him wary. What could she do? That was the odd thing about the Oberstleutnant which she knew well but had forgotten. He only drank tea. Her mind raced. How could she have been so stupid?

  ‘Because it always happens. If I offer somebody coffee, they always drink tea. If I offer them tea, they always drink coffee. Don’t ask why it happens that way, it just does.’

  Heinrich relaxed.

  ‘This strudel is wonderful. I haven’t enjoyed strudel so much since I left Switzerland.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t make you a Swiss meal. I don’t actually know what Swiss eat. Your accent sounds German so I made German.’

  ‘The Swiss dip their food in melted cheese. It is a disgusting way to eat. It smothers the natural taste of the food and makes cheese taste revolting. But then, I am not Swiss. Switzerland was my adopted home. Both my parents were Silesian. My father was half-Jewish. They thought it prudent to move to the German-speaking part of Switzerland in the early thirties. I grew up in Sankt Gallen. My accent is typically Swiss–Silesian.’

  Colombina had to smile at his cleverness. There would not be enough Swiss–Silesians for anything to be considered typical. How better to conceal Saxon origins than to claim an accent that was uncheckable?

  ‘And your accent?’

  ‘Australian. I was born here. Both my parents were Italian, of course, and we always spoke Italian at home. I have an Italian accent without ever having been there.’ Touché. ‘Where did you learn to speak Italian?’

  ‘Ah … yes. In Switzerland. The Italian Swiss are very attached to their language.’

  ‘Rightly so.’ Colombina laughed. ‘Now, what would you like next Sunday?’

  ‘You are going to do this again?’

  ‘Every Sunday. My son-in-law says that without good sex and good food, life is not worth living. At least I can help with the food.’

  Once again Heinrich put his head back and laughed. For half an hour they discussed favourite dishes while they drank their tea and Colombina cleaned up.

  ‘I have left you soup and some strudel for your dinner tonight.’

  ‘I cannot believe that I could possibly eat again today. But I will. And I will enjoy the soup and the strudel again as much as I enjoyed having it for lunch. Come, I will see you to the door.’

  ‘That’s not necessary.’

  ‘It’s okay, I know the way.’ He leaned heavily on his cane as he made his way to the front door.

  ‘Thank you, Colombina.’ Despite the fact that Colombina was loaded up with the pots and plates, he took her arm and leaned close to her so that she came within range of his reading glasses. He peered intently at her.

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you for this wonderful surprise. You have given this old man immense pleasure.’

  Colombina held herself tightly under control, her smile fixed. She sensed his words were just camouflage, a distraction while he examined her. He took his time then held her eyes.

  ‘You remind me of someone I met a long time ago.’

  ‘Who?’ Colombina met his gaze, hardly daring to breathe.

  ‘Mother Teresa.’ Heinrich let go of her arm and laughed.

  Chapter Five

  After her brothers and sisters had gone to school, Cecilia wrapped up the few clothes and shoes she had in newspaper, and tied the little bundle together with string. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop her tears. She was being thrown out of her home, separated from her family and, what hurt most of all, abandoned by her mother. She never thought she would ever lose her mot
her’s love, her friendship and her closeness. Her tears stung her eyes and she sobbed silently. Why? Why? She’d done nothing wrong! But of course she had. She’d brought shame on her father and therefore the family. Her best intentions counted for nothing. It wasn’t fair!

  ‘Come.’

  Her mother had put on her hat and shoes and was standing grim-faced by the open door. Head down, eyes averted to hide the shame of her tears, Cecilia did as she was told. To her surprise her mother took her hand and led her up the pathway to the road. She glanced up but her mother’s face was as hard as it had been all morning. But at least they were holding hands. As they set off down the hill Cecilia couldn’t help herself. She squeezed her mother’s hand as hard as she could. Then came a sound as sudden as it was unexpected, a sound she instantly recognised—she’d heard it often enough through the thin walls. Her mother sobbed, just once, but it was a cry of pain and despair that Cecilia knew came from the depths of her heart.

  Tears sprang afresh to her eyes, yet she was also gladdened beyond description. Her mother still loved her! She loved her! Cecilia didn’t know where her mother was taking her or why, but she now went willingly. Her mother still loved her!

  They walked through Ravello, past the square, the café and the church. Old Mentore Parente watched them pass by from the doorway of his garage. His eyes took in the mother’s weariness and the apprehension in the daughter, noting her age and the discomfort in her walk. For once he didn’t call out a greeting. He knew better. He’d seen it all before.

  They continued down the hill towards Menaggio until they came to the white-washed walls of the Villa Carosio, home of Count Vincenzo d’Alatri. Bougainvillea and jasmine spilled recklessly over the walls, but autumn had already deprived it of its splendour. They walked past the imposing iron gates and turned down the laneway that ran along the southern wall. Two-thirds of the way down, Maddalena stopped at a small gateway and rang the bell suspended above it. Then she settled down to wait for somebody to answer it.

  Cecilia’s mind raced. This is where her mother worked, where she scrubbed linen and kitchen and bathroom floors. What was her mother doing? What did she have in mind? She looked up at her mother, but she turned away and gazed through the grille in the gate to the garden beyond. They waited in silence for perhaps five minutes, but to Cecilia it seemed like an eternity.

  ‘Maddalena! It is good to see you.’

  The gate creaked open and Cecilia could see an old man framed in the doorway. He was smiling and wore clothes like her father wore. She’d foolishly expected the Count to open the gate, after all, it was his house. Cecilia had never seen anybody more important than the mayor of Menaggio and the prospect of meeting a real, live Count terrified her.

  ‘Buon giorno, Roberto. I have brought my eldest daughter. Cecilia, say hello to Signor Bertani.’

  ‘Buon giorno, Signor Bertani.’

  The old man smiled at her but Cecilia had seen the look of concern that had crossed his face when he realised her mother was not alone.

  ‘Roberto, I would like to speak to Signora Mila.’

  ‘Of course. Come, come!’

  The old man ushered them both through the gateway and led them down the pathway towards the rear of the villa. In the cold autumn air, the garden was far below its best, yet Cecilia was awestruck. She’d never seen anything so beautiful in her life. Beyond the busyness of the gardens she could see a sweep of immaculately manicured lawn crossed by white pathways, some of which led to an ornate gazebo. There were fountains that played into pools alive with red and golden fish. And there were more statues than she could count. But why was her mother bringing her here?

  Roberto led them in through the back door into the rear of the villa. He sat them down at a heavy wooden table that had known many uses. The top was not polished but worn smooth and had acquired its own glossy patina.

  ‘I will find someone to fetch the Signora.’

  ‘Thank you, Roberto.’

  ‘Mama, who is the Signora?’

  ‘Signora Mila is the Count’s housekeeper. She runs the house for the Count. She makes sure the house is always spotlessly clean. She looks after the servants and supervises the day workers. People like me.’

  Cecilia looked around the room and noticed the washing tubs and copper boiler. She began to recognise it from her mother’s description. She knew without looking that there was a shelf at the opposite end of the table where soap and scrubbing brushes, starch and bleach were kept. But the room was so much bigger and the ceiling so much higher than she’d imagined. If this was just the laundry, what was the rest of the house like? She began to feel frightened. The room was cold but that wasn’t why she shivered. She reached across and took her mother’s hand. Her mother squeezed her hand gently and smiled encouragingly. Then she turned away.

  ‘My mother says to tell you she’ll be here shortly.’

  Cecilia spun around to see a girl her own age standing in the doorway. She recognised her from church—not from the church in Ravello but from the Sanctuary of the Madonna of Peace in Menaggio which they attended on saints days. Cecilia had envied her for the clothes she wore and the assurance with which she carried herself. She’d often looked at her and wished she was as pretty.

  ‘Grazie, Signorina Carmela … grazie.’

  Cecilia was stung by the humility and deference in her mother’s voice. She recognised it. The cleaners at school used that tone of voice when they spoke to the teachers. And even to the older students. The reality of her mother’s status came home to her. Now she understood why her mother made her read books. Now she understood the shape of the prison from which her mother wanted her to escape. She fought back tears and stared hard at the table top in front of her. How much of its sheen did it owe to her mother?

  ‘Ah … Maddalena.’

  ‘Buon giorno, Signora Mila.’

  Her mother stood, so Cecilia instantly did likewise. She would have stood up anyway, not just because it was polite to do so, but because the Signora was the most formidable woman Cecilia had ever seen. Even her headmaster would cower before this woman.

  ‘Where have you been, Maddalena?’

  ‘I must apologise, Signora … I have not been well.’

  Even the Signora was aware of what it was that made Maddalena unwell. She knew all the gossip. Primo’s excesses were scandalous.

  ‘I am not unsympathetic, Maddalena, indeed I think you will agree that we have been most tolerant.’

  ‘Yes, Senora, I am most grateful …’

  ‘But you make a problem for us … you understand? While you are unwell, there is still washing that must be washed, there are still floors that must be scrubbed. Am I making myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Signora.’

  ‘Personally, I am very sorry, but I am sure you understand.’

  ‘Yes, Signora. I understand, and I appreciate that you have been very good to me. It is for this reason that I have asked to speak to you. I am not here for myself because to be honest, I am no longer up to doing the work. I have come to see you for the sake of my daughter here, Cecilia.’

  Signora Mila turned to Cecilia as if noticing her for the first time. She peered at her as if she was a stray and unwelcome animal that had followed Maddalena in from the fields.

  ‘Buon giorno, Signora Mila,’ Cecilia said, then bowed her head and curtsied. Nobody was more surprised than Cecilia herself, but instinctively it seemed the right thing to do. The Signora smiled.

  ‘A fine girl, well mannered. But I don’t see why you have brought her to me.’

  Maddalena hesitated, wondering how to phrase her request in a manner most likely to gain acceptance. ‘She is a good worker. She can wash and iron, sew and darn. She can cook. She has a good voice, a voice of the city not of a peasant. And she can read. She can read like an angel. Signora … please … I was hoping you could find a place for her here, in your household, perhaps as a chambermaid.’

  ‘I am sorry, that is out of the question.’r />
  Cecilia didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. But her mother had not yet given up. ‘Please, Signora. She will not require wages, just food and lodgings. And she will reward you many times over, not just with the work she does but also with her reading. Look! I have brought this book. Let her read something to you.’

  ‘I am sorry, Maddalena. I understand your situation but you must understand mine. If I take your daughter, I will have to let someone else’s go. I’m sorry, there is nothing I can do. Besides, I have no interest at all in The Count of Monte Cristo.’ She gestured towards the book in Maddalena’s hand. ‘One Count at a time is enough for me to worry about. I am sorry.’

  ‘Signora.’

  The resignation in her mother’s voice said it all. Cecilia picked up her little bundle of belongings and followed her mother to the door.

  ‘Come, I will walk you to the gate. Roberto is never around when I want him. Besides the fresh air will do me good. Perhaps that’s what you need too, Maddalena. Fresh air and plenty of rest. Perhaps when you are feeling better we can find some work for you. Ah, here is Roberto hiding in the bushes. Roberto can take you the rest of the way … oh, I beg your pardon, Count, forgive me, I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Good morning, Signora. We have been discussing the pruning of my roses. Ah! Who do we have here? Who is this delightful child?’

  Cecilia looked up and into the Count’s eyes. He wasn’t a bit like she expected him to be. He wore tweeds with a cravat and the most comical hat she had ever seen. The clothes were fine to be sure, but nowhere near as lavish as she’d seen the mayor of Menaggio wear, or indeed the bishop. Where was the gold and scarlet, where was the silk and brocade? He wasn’t even tall. His face was lined and wrinkled, his eyes watery and his skin the colour of parchment. His only distinctive feature was his thin black moustache, which he’d waxed to a shine.