“I am not at liberty to tell.”
Michael nodded, drew in a deep, smokeless breath, flipped his notebook closed, and stubbed out his cigarette. When he finished, he looked up, his smile complaisant. “I think I have a grasp on this language of yours. You say you agree with most of what’s being done. Tell me what you do not agree with.”
“Nothing comes to mind.”
“Chiara says to me that you’re unhappy with the Reschen Valley project.” He turned slightly towards the model. “She says you stand against it.”
Damn it, Chiara, Angelo thought. He’d mentioned it to her once. Once, when he’d had a tirade about the Colonel’s plans, and she had been sympathetic. Maybe she was even ignorant about how Angelo felt adversarial towards Michael, but no matter what her intentions, she was not helping matters one bit by opening her mouth. Not to this man.
“To an extent, I do not agree with it. Not all of it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I, myself, proposed to keep the original plans that the Austrians had outlined. It would provide enough electricity for the intentions decades ago.” He leaned forward. “The reservoirs and dams are necessary. You can see for yourself the industrial growth we have, and that calls for more electrical power.”
“But the Reschen Valley plans are in dispute, no? Chiara says Rome is greedy and even you are concerned about, how do you say? The impacts. But who has the power to make decisions, Minister? Rome is not listening to you. The consortium is not listening to you. Who is listening to you?”
“You’re out of line, Michael. I am not the one you should be angry at.”
Angelo pushed himself away from his desk, itching to put this man in his place once and for all. “I get my directives from the legislature. On the rare occasion from Mussolini himself. I can only make my recommendations and appeals based on the surveys and the expert reports. Yes, my power is limited, but what I have available, I use to the fullest extent.”
Michael laughed drily. “Limited powers, you say. Interesting. The consortium’s president is Colonel Nicolo Grimani, your father. Your father runs the growing electrical Monopol: Grimani Electrical. Limited powers because you are, what is the phrase? In cahoots. You have an interest yourself to see the Colonel’s success. After all, you do have a son, an heir.”
Angelo stood up and leaned over his desk. “I can assure you that I do a clean job.” He winced inside. Glurns. Kastelbell. But he’d been sure to cover his tracks. “There is nothing you can write that would prove otherwise.”
“I only write the truth.”
“Here’s the truth, Herr Innerhofer: the world does not give a damn about a little valley in the outback of Italy. After the war and when all the world’s politicians drew up the treaty, not even the US president checked the maps he’d received. Tolomei and his delegation drew the rivers to run from south to north, and nobody came to investigate if that was true. The world’s leaders wanted it to be true because it was a matter of convenience. The Americans were not about to dispute the agreements in a pact drawn up by the Triple Entente and Italy in nineteen fifteen. Tyrol, south of the Brenner Line, was sold out. And that, Michael, that was a big deal. That redrawing of the maps and the geography—of history—that part of the Versailles peace treaty attracted national attention, and nobody gave a flying damn about truth then. Nobody paid attention to the fact that you are all German-speaking citizens with a different culture, with a different language and history and that, that alone, compromised Woodrow Wilson’s ninth of fourteen points. Now…” He shrugged. “You and the Ladins, of whom no one has ever heard, are Italian. So, Herr Innerhofer, I ask you once more. Why should anyone in power want to be inconvenienced? You will soon see that you too are limited by the system.”
Angelo stalked to the window located behind his desk and caught a reflection of himself. The black hair swept back, the beard he had grown making his face fuller. He could not see his eyes in his reflection, just two dark shadows where they should be. Michael was busy scratching in his notepad. He decided to let the journalist catch up. It did not matter anymore. Let the censors deal with him.
When Angelo focused outside the window, he saw the street where the parades took place and the church. He saw carts of hay being lugged by barefooted boys, and wicker cone baskets filled with early apples on the backs of old women. He thought of the Reschen Valley. He thought of her. Of Katharina.
Turning back to Michael, he pointed out the window. “The electricity we will get and the compensation we pay will put an end to crumbling houses and farms in a mountain province where prosperity now means that someone owns more than one pair of shoes. The world will see this dam as progress.
“Why wouldn’t the Reschen Valley people be happy to accept recompense or sell their land for a better life? Mussolini’s government is offering money or a steady income for land that will be of some use to necessary and modern changes.”
Michael’s face was satisfactorily stony, and it provoked Angelo to continue, even if he did sound like the Colonel. “Progress! That’s what this is all about. This ministry is doing all it can to bring advantages to all its Italian citizens as intended. You included.”
Angelo sank back into his chair and turned the consortium’s report over. Beneath it was the drafted order for new soil samples in the Reschen Valley, ready for his signature. He looked up at Michael, to share the document as proof that there was nobody leading his ministry by the nose, but Michael was at the door.
“Thank you for your time, Minister.”
“Michael, I am trying to do things right. I cannot stop progress, but I can help with the impacts and make sure they are safe for the citizens. You can quote me on that.”
The journalist pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. “The Italian citizens, you said. And those of us who are still in no-man’s-land?”
“Tell me. I really want to know. How do you propose to get this story through the censors?”
“Did you not hear? We are being pulled into the river. It won’t be long now.”
Angelo did not understand.
“Tug of war,” Michael said. “The last two Tyrolean papers will go under, Der Bozner and Der Tiroler. Tolomei is making sure of that. We are losing. I am free to work for whom I want.”
“Around here, Michael, that too will be limited.” His tone was regretful enough.
“You mean to say you are sorry to hear it. You notice, Herr Minister, how you always apologise for the things that are too late to change?”
***
A ngelo was reading an opinion piece about the German Worker’s Party when Chiara walked into the salon. He wanted to address the visit with Michael, reprimand her for convincing him to do the interview, but she had Marco in her arms, and as soon as the boy saw him, he squirmed to get down. Angelo placed the paper aside and lifted his son onto his lap.
“He wanted to say good night to you since we missed you at dinner,” Chiara said.
Angelo kissed Marco on both cheeks, and his son snuggled into him. “Let him stay.” He turned back to his newspaper to finish the last lines, then asked Chiara, “What do you think of the situation in Germany?”
She was sitting on the settee across from him, her eyes on their son. “You mean the growing anti-Semitism? The blaming of all the wrong people for the treaty’s unfairness? I read that article, calling on Hitler to march on Munich like Mussolini did on Rome.”
Someday he would learn to stop having these discussions with her.
“He’s tired,” she said.
“Hitler?”
“Your son.” Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “They ought to be watched carefully. Hitler seems to follow Mussolini’s path, like a little brother imitating his big brother.”
“Uh-huh.” He reached for his Journal of Civil Engineering, careful not to disturb Marco.
“Edmond believes his party’s nationalistic fight is the right one, but Susi sees through it,” Chiara said. “She say
s she doesn’t like the smell of it.”
“Really? How quickly the leaf turns. The great divide between the count and countess has grown more than just geographically, I see.”
Marco’s head jerked, and Angelo lowered the journal to look into his son’s face. The boy’s eyes were closed.
“I’ll put him to bed.” Chiara stood and hovered over them.
Angelo touched her wrist before she could take Marco from him. “Michael came to see me today.”
“He said he had.”
So she’d seen him afterwards.
As she scooped up Marco, he put a hand out to her, but she kept her arms around his son. He picked up the newspaper from the table and held it up, the anger rising so quickly it came out in his voice. “Tell me how we can keep the outside world away from us, from my family.”
Chiara’s face read surprise, and she pressed Marco to her. “Obviously you’re as interested as I am in the way things are progressing. Neither of us is in a position where we can keep these things out, Angelo.”
“Chiara, it isn’t who we are. We did not come together as man and wife because we wanted to change the world. I want peace in my house. I want peace between us. I want my wife back.”
“I have always been here. I never went away. I have not changed.”
A bright, sharp sliver raced from the back of his head, over his scar, and pricked his breastbone. He had to look away from her.
“Funny how little peace we have now that the battles are over,” she said. “The war was just the start, wasn’t it? You have served your country to come this far. You serve it now too, I suppose. You’re right, Angelo. We did not come together as man and wife to change the world. We came together despite the fact that we have been involved in changing it. This is me, Angelo. I have always taken an interest in justice and in people’s rights. If I remember correctly, it was what fascinated you about me in the first place. And you. Well, do you know what side you are on? Do you know what you really want?”
He watched her jawline move as she waited for an impossible explanation. She wanted a black or white answer, right or wrong. In all her experience with politics, with people, did she not realise that she would never get that kind of answer from him? Or anyone?
She sighed and straightened with the boy in her arms. “I see no difference between living with a wolf in sheep’s clothing and a lamb dressed up as a wolf. None at all.”
***
W ednesdays were market day, and the air was saturated with jasmine. On the way home to lunch, Angelo walked through the square, when he passed Signora Conti at one of the flower stands. She was wearing a close-fitting blue hat or he would have recognised her sooner. He looked around. Neither General Conti nor any of the four children were to be seen. Her tunic-shaped dress was the colour of crushed pomegranates and only hinted at the curves beneath. He had seen her often, heard her speeches often enough, but he knew little about her save for what others said, or from the rumours that swirled around the general’s wife. Her many male admirers in the party had not gone unnoticed by Angelo, yet she appeared to be loyal to the one castoff amongst that crowd: General Conti. Perhaps the rumours were just indecent fantasies.
The florist was putting together a bouquet of roses and gardenias for her when Angelo stopped next to her and pretended to admire the flowers. After she paid, she turned and recognised him.
“Minister Grimani, what a pleasure.”
“Signora Conti.” He raised his hat and kissed the hand she offered him.
“It’s a fine day to buy flowers,” she said. “Your wife will certainly appreciate some. The roses here are exquisite.”
She was different, this close and this unguarded. Sweet. Accessible.
“Perhaps Signora will help me to choose the most beautiful one then.”
Her smile was obliging. “It depends on what you would like to evoke with them. What would you like to say to her?”
“I am afraid I have not thought it through,” he said. “The prettiest rose and the one that will last the longest will do.” He’d not bought Chiara flowers in probably over a year, and the realisation was a jolt. He had better explain himself. “You see, we have plenty of rose bushes around the villa.”
“I understand,” she said. “You are frugal as well. I’ll not bore you with romantic nonsense then. As an engineer, you will want something straight, well built, and functional.”
“And beautiful.”
Her grey eyes flashed amusement. “Of course. An engineer who is also interested in aesthetics. These days, a rarity indeed.”
“You sound as if you are unhappy with the modern architectural style.”
“Ah, but you are not then?” She smiled before looking down at the buckets of roses. “Allow me to find the rose that represents you just as well.”
She sifted through the flowers, sometimes checking whether he approved. Her face was smooth and heart shaped, and when he watched her move in that dress, he thought again of pomegranates, the globe-like fruit with its tough rind, the chambers he had to fold back to get to the meat. He pictured his thumb running over the seeds to loosen them from the piths. Sweet, succulent. And he never got a mouthful without staining his hands. He could feel the lust that had emerged on his face and quickly masked it.
“This one,” she said, holding a coral rose. She reached for another one, a dark ruby red. “Or the classic. Would you like to know the difference in their meaning?”
Was there a colour for if my wife won’t have me, you’ll do just fine? “I don’t have to know. They are both straight, well built, and functional, as well as beautiful.” He paid for them and held the coral rose out to Gina. “Signora, if you will allow me, you were immediately drawn to it, and therefore this one is for you. My wife prefers the classics.”
“You ought to know what such a rose means.” Her eyes were fixed on his, long lashes a little lowered. “I couldn’t accept it.”
Angelo smiled apologetically, confident of what he was about to start. “Of course not.”
“But I will.” She gingerly took the rose from him and handed it to the florist. “Add this to my bouquet please. Place it right in the middle.” She turned to him. “That way I may always keep an eye on the minister’s delightful gift.”
The florist obliged her, and Angelo imagined the flowers in a vase on the Signora’s dining table, hiding the sulking General Conti behind them. He could also picture her in the ministry, those legs across from his desk every day. When Signora Conti had the flowers in her arms again, he offered to take her shopping bag and walk with her a part of the way.
“This is a rare pleasure, Minister.”
“You must cease calling me Minister,” he said.
She smiled at him and touched his arm lightly with a gloved hand. “What should I call you then? You are the minister, and Minister is such an appropriate title, isn’t it? Besides”—she laughed softly—“I can’t call you Senator. Not yet anyway.”
“Of course. I apologise, Signora. The formalities do not allow for anything more familiar.”
Gina smiled broadly. “Oh, we can change all of that, can’t we? After all”—she wrapped her hand lightly around his forearm and leaned into him—“we are comrades in arms. That’s where I prefer the Socialists. They are all so informal with one another and call one another by their first names.” She laughed softly, grey eyes steady, watching him.
He gave her an acknowledging nod, and Gina suddenly stopped. They were standing outside the Laurin Hotel, and she tilted her head towards the entrance.
“Shall we tread on more familiar territory, Minister? Or are you in a hurry to get home to your family?”
Angelo checked his pocket watch. Either way, he would already be late. “Perhaps an espresso at the counter.”
Gina moved ahead and led him through the lobby, the smoky saffron window behind the reception desk casting too church-like of a glow for his tastes. The hall echoed with the footfalls of people coming and going, of
knives scraping against porcelain, and the soft murmur of people tucked into their luncheons and conversations. Next to the reception desk was the spiralling staircase that led to the rooms above. He fantasised leading her up there, but the idea of it was as far as he would let himself go.
They went into the café, and at the bar, she ordered two Martini Biancos. He watched her scanning the lounge and looking at herself in the large mirrors where the drinks and wines were written in white chalk. The hotel was gilded in every shade of yellow possible: lemon, gold, brass, saffron, and sand. The dark wooden tables, the rust-and-white chequered floor, and the grey marble countertops were practically the only contrast. And Gina.
“It might be awfully naughty of us when we know lunch is waiting at home,” she said. “And at midweek. But I’m very glad we are finally talking. We frequent the same places, and I hear so much about you, but we never talk, do we?”
She turned and leaned against the bar, her elbows barely reaching the top. For a moment, he thought she might kick her legs up, like a showgirl. He had the distinct desire to remove her hat, unpin the dark hair underneath, and watch the black waves cascade down her neck and shoulders as far as they would go. He could understand how someone would easily misconstrue her intentions. Or be fascinated by her. She excelled at walking the thin lines of leader and follower, disciple and rebel, matron and sex object.
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