La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

  Alfonso looks around the tavern. Most of the men have left, save for a couple of elderly gentlemen and the man at the bar. The latter’s hand clasped around a flask is gnarled and pale, reminding Alfonso of the hairless claw of a chicken. When the man turns slightly, peering past the swinging kitchen doors, Alfonso catches sight of a face that is as colourless as the skin on his hand except for the prominent network of veins pulsing at his temple and down his gaunt cheek. Alfonso looks away, slightly repulsed, and starts when he realizes that the woman is at his side, holding a piece of paper in her hand.

  Annoyed at her stealthy return, he takes the bill and surveys the amount scrawled on it. As he withdraws a pouch from his vest pocket, extracts the required amount, and sets it down on the table, she nods and slips it into her apron pocket. To his surprise, she does not leave. He looks up at her, wondering at her audacity, knowing he has paid more than enough for the meal, and frowns.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she curtsies again, her eyes lowered. “I could not help but overhear you mention the name of someone you are searching for….”

  Alfonso straightens immediately, his eyes blazing. He watches as her eyes slowly travel from the floor, to his trousers, then up his chest to his face. For the first time, his gaze meets hers directly, and he is struck by the pallor of her eyes. Again, she shifts her gaze, as she should, he thinks, seeing as how she is speaking to someone in a class above hers.

  “Gabriella Falcone,” he prompts sharply. “What do you know of her? Has she been here? Is she with the priest, Don Simone? Or her brother?” A flicker in the depths of her eyes makes him blurt out, “I will gladly reward you for any information you can give me.”

  Hesitating, she looks over to the bar where the grizzled man is making his departure, turns slightly as if she needs to approach him, but then redirects her gaze at Alfonso.

  “I…I have heard some things in the village.…” Her eyes sweep downward and settle for a fraction of a second on the pouch still in Alfonso’s hands. Concealing his contempt, he stands and pulls out the chair Valerio had used. He watches a flush suffuse her gaunt face as she sits down primly, her shoulders rigid and not touching the wicker spindles. She keeps her hands in her lap, and is motionless, save for the nervous tapping of one foot against a chair leg, which, Alfonso suspects, she doesn’t even realize she’s doing.

  He opens up the money bag a little wider so her shifting eyes can catch sight of the coins within. He sees her thin lips part slightly, and to his disgust, a tiny drop of spittle bubbles at the edge of her mouth before dribbling down. Yet, despite the revulsion he feels for a peasant who is obviously adept at procuring what she can for herself, he feels a strange stirring. She may not be a whore in the usual sense of the word, but a whore nonetheless, ready to sell her knowledge for money, instead of disclosing it readily, as a good citizen would do. He feels himself grinding his teeth, and he takes a deep breath, knowing he has to control himself if he is to gain the information he wants.

  “You have been most hospitable,” he says in his most genuine, appreciative tone. “Please allow me to offer you a heartfelt sign of my gratitude.” He extracts a fistful of ten centesimi coins that he knows will make an impression and watches with satisfaction as her face brightens. “Prego. Please accept my gesture of thanks.”

  He places the coins on the table, and after a momentary hesitation, she takes the money and shoves it into a deep pocket inside her apron. Alfonso catches a glint of gold encircling a red stone on one finger.

  “Now, Signora, please tell me what you have heard about the Signorina Gabriella, my dear niece. As you may have surmised, she has been missing from her village—Camini—and you can imagine that our family is most preoccupied as to her safety. I have been scouring the countryside with a guide, and as of yet, have discovered nothing.” Alfonso pauses, letting his head droop in one hand. He sniffs, wipes an imaginary tear, and looks at her piercingly. “You must help; I must bring Gabriella back, God willing, safe and unmolested. I don’t even want to imagine what may have already befallen her….”

  “I have heard,” the woman speaks in a low voice, making Alfonso lean forward, “that this Gabriella and a priest are in the company of some outlaws. Briganti.”

  Alfonso draws back, his gasp genuine. “What about her brother? He is missing as well; he is no more than seven years of age.”

  “There has been no mention of a boy.” The woman purses her thin lips.

  “Where did you get this information? Where were they last seen? Did you see them?”

  The woman’s eyes flutter wildly and she recoils; Alfonso realizes he has plunged forward, his face only inches away from hers.

  “I heard some talk at the public fountain.” She looks away. “They were seen by some shepherds in the mountains beyond Calvino, an hour or so away. I did not see them.”

  Alfonso stares at her profile; something in her manner and in her denial does not sit well with him. From the set of her jaw, he doubts that she is willing to disclose any further information. He pulls out a few more coins and slides them over. He is willing to eke out whatever details she is withholding, no matter how many lira it takes. He raises his fingers to his temples, both pulsating now.

  “How can I get a message to the brigands?” he wonders aloud, rubbing his temples. “To let them know that I would pay for the release of the girl?” He looks up, and she is staring straight at him, her eyebrows raised.

  “I know a goatherd from that area,” she says. “He is a cousin. Perhaps I could pass the message to him; he may come across Galante or his men.”

  “Galante?” Alfonso says sharply.

  She fidgets in her seat. “He is the chief of the band roaming the area. It is common knowledge. He is wanted for a crime he committed near Calvino.”

  Alfonso jerks from the nerve pain above his ear that feels like a jab from a forger’s iron. He restrains himself from grabbing the wench’s arm and twisting it until she spits out whatever else she is keeping back. He is willing to wager that she knows much more than she is revealing to him. He feels it in his gut, and as she reaches for the money, he scrambles to come up with a plan. “Perhaps you could tell this goatherd cousin of yours that I will pay twice the amount if he can find the girl and bring her to me here.”

  He opens up the money bag and lets the woman see its full contents. “Now, of course, if you were to find Gabriella and bring her to me safely, the money would go to you.” He watches her expression as she considers his offer.

  “Actually,” she murmurs, “I do help my cousin Ilario from time to time with his herd. And Stefano Galante—the brigand chief—used to be a friend of Ilario’s, before he went into hiding. He’s from Calvino.”

  “Stefano Galante.” Alfonso swallows. Gabriella, in the hands of a brigand chief. He hoped to discover her in the safety of a monastery, not in the wilds with a wanted criminal. He rams his fist on the table, making the woman tremble. Right now, he does not even want to imagine what Galante might have done with her. “What does he look like?” Alfonso demands.

  “He is about your height, Signor, with dark hair. He is easily recognizable; he has one brown eye and one green.”

  “Will you inform your cousin of my request?”

  The woman nods, and for the first time, attempts a half-smile. “I will leave tomorrow before dawn; he or I will return the day after tomorrow.”

  “Whoever returns with Gabriella will get the rest of the money.” His eyes burn into hers. “And if she is rescued from the brigands before they can compromise her in any way…the reward will be even greater.”

  “If it is of any reassurance to you, Signor, the brigand chief Galante is known as ‘Il Galantuomo.’”

  Alfonso wants to reach out and slap her. The Gentleman indeed. With trembling fingers, he extracts another handful of coins, and instead of placing them on the table, holds them out to her. When her han
d closes over the money, briefly brushing against his fingers, he clasps her hand tightly. “I expect, Signora, that should you or your cousin not return with Gabriella, the money I am entrusting you with will be returned to me. In full.” He gives her a piercing look. At this proximity, he can see that her eyes are of a grey-green colour that reminds him of the lagoons in Venice, murky and impenetrable most of the time, but flashing with silver glints when pierced by the sun. He waits until she nods, then releases her hand, stroking her ring as he lets go.

  He rises from his chair, and she does the same, lifting her skirts slightly before turning on her heels. As she swirls away, Alfonso catches a glimpse of a dagger strapped to her leg above one boot. She strides through the kitchen doors, and above the clanging of pots, Alfonso hears the angry voice of the owner: “Dorotea! What took you so long? There are dirty pots stacked as high as heaven. Get to work, goddammit. I don’t pay you to stand around like a whore waiting for a lick and a promise!”

  GABRIELLA’S EYES WIDEN. “YOU…YOU KNEW?”

  Stefano nods, his gaze never leaving her eyes. “I make it a point to know where all my weapons are.” He slowly sits back on his pallet. “Keep it; you need it more than I do.” He shrugs off his cloak, revealing the array of knives and pistols within its inner folds.

  “How do you know I won’t try to use it during the night?”

  Stefano’s eyes narrow. “Because I don’t plan to touch you, Signorina, and if I don’t come near you, you won’t have cause to stab me, will you?”

  He sees Gabriella’s face twist in confusion. “How do I know you won’t come near me? You were just about to—”

  “Touch your hair,” he says gruffly. “Nothing more.” He tilts his head at the knife still pointed at him. “You can put that down, Signorina. I will not touch you. Or are you afraid to trust a brigand?” As soon as he says it, he regrets the words. Of course she is afraid to trust him. He is an outlaw, a wanted criminal, a man no decent woman would go near…. And especially after her experience with that bastard Alfonso Fantin, how could she possibly trust any man? He knows that if he wanted to, he could lunge at her and in seconds the dagger would be in his possession. But he is reluctant to do so; her eyes are already brimming with barely concealed fear.

  “Why should I trust a brigante?” Her voice trembles. “And how do I know you won’t touch me?”

  Stefano shifts on the pallet so that that he is resting on his side on one elbow, his chin in his hand. He breathes in deeply, stares at her eyes, then her hair. Her dark, silky hair. “I wanted to touch your hair,” his eyes meeting hers, “because it is just like…my sister’s.” He watches as her eyelashes flutter wildly. “You see, Signorina Gabriella, my sister, like you, was attacked by a wealthy landowner. He brutally raped her and left her to almost bleed to death in the cornfields behind his estate.”

  He pauses at Gabriella’s gasp. Her fingers slacken, and the knife falls to the floor. Neither of them reaches for it.

  “Patrizia was his housekeeper,” he continues, changing his position to lie flat on his back. He stares up at the crude ceiling of intertwining branches. “She was going to be married in a few months’ time. I was working at a neighbouring village and left early to meet her so we could walk home together.” He turns his head to Gabriella. “I arrived too late.”

  He sees that tears are welling in her eyes. “I killed him with my bare hands,” he rasps. “At least I thought I did. Then I hitched up the mule and cart and brought Patrizia to the village doctor and then to our nonna’s house. She was too ashamed to return home.” He feels his jaws tighten. “She miscarried after two months. That was two years ago. She still lives with nonna, but she doesn’t speak. The doctor said the shock has left her mute. And who will have her now?” he growls, his fists clenching. “He ruined her life. So now you understand, Signorina Gabriella, why I have no intention of touching you. You are safe with me.” He reaches for his cloak and extracts a pistol. “Take this,” he says, setting it down near her pile of blankets. “You might need it one day.”

  RUSSO IS IN FULL UNIFORM, RIDING AHEAD of his rifle regiment and behind a half-dozen cavalrymen. He finds the heat unbearable. He curses under his breath and runs an ungloved hand over his scalp. He cannot wait until nightfall; the mission will be over, and he will be recounting the events to Liliana, including, hopefully, the news that he has captured Galante.

  He slows his horse down to a trot as the road forks off into two narrower paths. He notices a few wide-eyed youths pausing as the regiment marches past them. Their skin is sallow, their clothes tattered. A goatherd heading outside the village starts cursing when the incoming troops cause the goats to scurry off in every direction. One skitters beside one of the more volatile horses, and the rider tries unsuccessfully to steer his horse away. It startles, and Russo watches as it rears up, its hooves smashing against the goat’s head. The goat crumbles to the ground in a lifeless heap, the gash spurting blood like a fountain.

  The officers continue onward, ignoring the wailing of the goatherd at the side of his dead animal. Russo dismounts and hands the reins to one of the foot soldiers. He conceals his irritation as he walks over to the goatherd who is sobbing as if he has just lost a child, and extracts some coins from an inner pocket. “Please accept my apologies for this unfortunate mishap,” he says, wondering if the old man is mourning the loss of what the goat might have fetched him at market. “I trust this will compensate you for your loss.”

  The goatherd wipes his bloodshot eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and takes the coins. He murmurs a garbled reply of thanks and shuffles away, shouting to one of the boys to run off and fetch him a cart to transport the goat back home. Russo remounts and continues on his way, impatient to begin the mission in Calvino.

  When one of the officers on horseback doubles back and informs him that they are approaching the Galante farm, Russo feels a twinge of anticipation. He bids them continue to their pre-assigned posts; he will be the one to make the official call. He will be accompanied by two carabineers who are to wait for him outside while he interrogates the family members. While he is engaged in this task, the riflemen have been instructed to disperse throughout the hamlet, with each horseman stationed at any possible road or path leading out of Calvino.

  When the last of his men disappears around a bend, Russo dismounts. One of his men, Rodolfo Farina, proceeds to tether his horse and the other, Silvio Bertoli, follows several paces behind Russo, his hand over the pistol in his pocket.

  Russo strides up the main path to the farmhouse. He pounds on the doorway and waits, taking in the ramshackle appearance of the house with its small, curtainless windows and lichen-spotted stone walls, one of which is draped with a tumble of ivy. The main door, splintered and charred, looks as if it has been struck by a bolt of lightning.

  Russo knocks again, waits a few seconds, then with a nod instructs Silvio to enter the house and search the rooms. He continues along a straw-scattered path to the barn, which is bigger than the house but just as dilapidated. As he approaches its double doors, one creaks open and a ruddy-faced man appears, his brows knit together under a woven, wide-brimmed hat. He is a head shorter than Russo, with sagging jowls and vein-splattered cheeks. His arms jut out like sturdy tree limbs, with exposed forearms that are brown and pink in places where the sun has scorched the skin. His legs seem shorter than his arms, and twice as stocky. The dank odours of the barn have emerged with the farmer, and Russo also catches the scent of alcohol—something stronger than just wine, though. He looks beyond the man and catches sight of a flask containing a colourless liquid. Grappa.

  “Signor Galante?”

  Russo tilts his head questioningly, realizing that the man has been scrutinizing him.

  “Sì, Signoria Vostra.” Galante removes his hat and tips it. “In what manner can I assist you, Sir?”

  A shuffle behind Russo alerts him to Silvio’s return. He lifts an
eyebrow.

  “There is nobody in the house,” the officer tells him. “There are signs of women’s clothing, and some beds that haven’t been slept in.”

  Russo is aware of Galante’s startled gaze from him to his officer.

  “What has happened?” Galante cries. “Why are you here?” His face reddens even more, and his mouth gapes open, showing tobacco-stained gums and several missing teeth. Russo tries not to grimace.

  “We are here to obtain some information, which I am confident you will readily provide,” he says smoothly. He turns and instructs Silvio to wait for him with Rodolfo. “I am certain Signor Galante will be most co-operative.” He makes his voice silky, almost a caress. When they are alone, he asks, “Where is your family? Your wife?”

  “My wife is in Gioiosa Ionica with one of my daughters, sir.”

  “And your son?” Russo keeps his voice pleasant.

  Galante’s face hardens. Russo can see his jaw clenching several times before he spits out, “My son? I used to have a son before he abandoned me. I can barely keep up with the work on this farm without him.”

  Russo takes a step closer. “Where is he now?”

  Galante looks at him sharply. “I don’t know. He hasn’t shown his face in two years.” His mouth twists bitterly.

  “And no one in these parts has come across him?” Russo’s nostrils flare at the smell of mingled sweat and manure that he realizes is smeared on Galante’s trousers and boots.

  “Not that I’m aware of. Whether they have seen him or not, my neighbours and friends know better than to mention his name to my face.”

  Russo gazes intently at Galante for a moment. “You must have an idea as to his whereabouts.” He takes a step back, his stomach contracting at the stench of cow dung.

  Galante’s mouth twists. “He can be in hell for all I care. Vigliacco! Disonorato! He has dishonoured me and put a stain upon our family.” He turns his head and spits, leaving a yellow glob on the ground.