The Breach

by Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger

  “How do you find the room?”

  “Ample space. Marco and his nanny are set up across the hall from us.”

  At least he’d have Chiara alone, and he was as nervous as a bachelor about it. When he took her hand, he thought she too might be anxious about the shared bed. The idea pleased him. Despite all that had happened in the past eight months—longer—maybe they still had a chance. He was making the effort to prove his good intentions. Even talked about sacrificing himself and resigning as minister of Civil Engineering. He would have to court her again, like he had the first time, and put everything they’d done to one another behind them. He was prepared to do that if she was. A tall order, though, for a woman who held a grudge against him.

  He looked at the incoming tide. If only it would swallow up all his mistakes, all his regrets, and carry them away so far that even he could no longer remember them.

  ***

  T he air was still warm and scented by sea, jasmine, frying fish, and olive oil as Angelo and Chiara strolled arm in arm to the casino. Ahead, his sisters gossiped busily, categorising the bachelors they’d seen at dinner between handsome and ugly. It was an activity they were able to do freely now that their mother, who’d complained of her usual headache, had turned in for the night. Then there was the Colonel, visibly annoyed by Angelo’s avoidance of the hearings. Each attempt his father made to bring it up again, Angelo made certain to deflect.

  On the steps of the Art Nouveau casino, he steered Chiara inside, the feel of her back, her movement beneath his hand, a pleasure. Inside, palm fronds reached for the high glass dome above, as if to get away from the thick tobacco smoke. A plush crimson-and-black carpet in Harlequin print, the movement of which played tricks on the eyes, padded the floor. At one table, a group of people cheered as the croupier paid out bets. At another, the house won and the players slumped into their tuxedos for a brief moment before counting out chips for another shot at luck. Amidst the din of casino-goers was the flash and glitter of evening gowns and polished canes. Angelo heard the swish of cards and the knocking of balls on the roulette wheels, like something caught in the paddle of a steamship.

  The Colonel had arranged for their entries and returned with chips for all of them. “I reserved a private poker table. Will you join me, Angelo?”

  “Chiara and I will take a prosecco at the bar.” He turned to his sisters. “The two of you as well?”

  His sisters nodded, obviously excited by their first visit and about the freedom they had in their mother’s—and soon, their father’s—absence.

  “I’ll take care of the ladies,” Angelo added.

  His father’s displeasure only lasted as long as it took for two men to descend on him. Angelo recognised them from the Fascist meetings, and in the next breath, all three men headed for the back of the casino, finally disappearing behind a gilded mirrored door.

  At the bar, Angelo called for the barkeep but froze at the sound of a familiar laugh, a calculated, not merry, tone. He whirled around, saw a flash of royal blue and green on gold—a gown—and a head of dark hair. Gina Conti was standing just ten steps away in the centre of half a dozen men in tuxedos. The pistil of a black-and-white flower.

  The notion of fleeing died when Gina’s eyes darted to him, a glance that was quick and subtle but seemed to set her mind in motion at the discovery of him there. The general stood next to her, head bent, as if listening to his wife’s thoughts.

  “Sir? What can I get for you?” the barkeep asked.

  Angelo shook his gaze away. His sisters and Chiara were pointed elsewhere. “Four prosecco.”

  “Make that five.” Gina’s voice just behind him, a little laugh at the end of her request. She was at his left elbow but did not look at him. Instead, she turned casually as if to say something to her party of admirers before resting her eyes on him.

  “Minister Grimani, you’re here too. Bolzano seems to have completely emptied this August. The Tyroleans might get it into their heads to reclaim the city.” She leaned back a little to look past him. “I see your wife is here too. Signora Grimani, a pleasure. I am Gina Conti.” She offered Chiara her hand, who took it with obvious distaste.

  Angelo’s heart flipped. “Signora Conti is General Conti’s wife and—”

  “I know who you are,” Chiara said.

  Gina flashed her a smile of acquiescence. “A pleasure to finally meet you in person. And these lovely young ladies, Minister?” She now stepped away from the bar, as if to evaluate merchandise. Angelo took in her gold satin gown upon which were alternating rows of emerald-green deer and sapphire hawks.

  He played along. “These are my sisters, Cristina and Francesca.”

  She took a special interest in Francesca. “You must be the same age as my daughter. Perhaps you know my Filipa?”

  “No, Signora.”

  “Certainly you must. Are you not a member of the youth group?”

  Cristina answered, “I am. Francesca has more important things to do.”

  Francesca elbowed her sister.

  “That the Colonel would allow for such a gap in the family,” Gina said, sounding amused.

  “A gap in what?” Chiara challenged.

  “Why, in Fascist engagement, of course.”

  The barkeep placed five stemmed glasses on the bar, and Angelo checked the mirror above. The general was standing alone.

  He handed out the drinks. “Salute.”

  Gina’s was the first to touch his, and Chiara brandished her glass at him.

  “Did you not want to play roulette, husband?” she said. “A space has opened up at that table there.”

  He followed her look, but all he saw was a sea of bodies wading by on the red-and-black carpet, the room swimming all the more for all the mirrors. Just below his left shoulder, he could feel Gina as if she were pressing against him, though she was off to the side.

  Francesca, eager to play games or be near the bachelors, grabbed Chiara’s hand. “Hurry, Zia. Let’s get the table. Angelo still has to pay the barkeep.” She tugged his wife away with Cristina on their heels.

  When he was alone with Gina, Angelo reached for his wallet while looking for the general in the mirror above the bar. He was not too far from where he’d been before, staring at the back of Angelo’s head. Christ. Gina was gazing at Angelo with keen expectation as she took a sip from her glass.

  He paid the bill before facing her. “It’s been a long time, Gina.”

  “Indeed, Angelo. We haven’t spoken since the disaster.”

  Did she mean the Gleno Dam or the night at the Laurin?

  “It must be a relief to have a break from the press for a while.”

  “By tomorrow they will be here too.”

  The idea that Michael Innerhofer could appear made him glance in Chiara’s direction.

  “You look worried,” Gina said. “When are the hearings?”

  “October.”

  “Well, the Colonel will certainly manage, won’t he? Just the other day, we saw him at the Laurin.” She looked thoughtful. “You must be aware of his efforts to regain support for his ventures.”

  “If I know my father, he will receive the least of penances. A few Hail Mary’s and maybe one Our Father.”

  Gina lifted her head, an appreciative smile. “And you?”

  He scuffed the heel of his shoe on the carpet. “According to the Colonel, I’m to sacrifice a lamb to ask the gods for forgiveness.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Now, now. Let’s not start calling Il Duce a god just yet.” She leaned in, her smile conspiratorial. “He’d wet himself if he heard that.”

  He had to smile back, feeling surprisingly at ease. He yearned to have more than this one drink with her. He wanted to just be with her and, at the same time, realised that was exactly what all those men who flocked around Gina Conti wanted. This and more. And he had to wonder whether, like he, they ever got more. He had his doubts. He felt sure they had to settle for titbits like this.

  He bent o
ver her, his voice low. “Gina, I want to apologise—”

  “Don’t.” She cast another look at the mirror above them. He did too. The general was gone.

  Her mood changed once more, this time to something more intimate, as if they were old friends. “I’m going to have a cigarette, and you will light it. We have a little time before our spouses have had enough. But, Angelo, we will not use that time to revisit what happened between us.” She took a step back, her eyes on his. “Besides, I know I am not the first you’ve left behind.”

  “But that’s not true.” He felt a sharp prick at the back of his head and automatically scratched the rise of the scar.

  She was busy with her handbag and took out an etched cigarette case, flipped it open, and pulled one out before looking at him again. He reached into his pocket for his lighter, but it was not there, and he remembered the day he’d pretended to receive his war medal from Katharina.

  “Not true? Then I must take your word for it.” She tapped the end of her cigarette on the bar before holding it to her lips. “Be a gentleman, will you?”

  The lighter was in his other pocket. He lit Gina’s cigarette.

  “Your wife is watching.”

  In the mirror, he saw Chiara at the roulette table. Even in the half dark, he could see she was anxious.

  “You really must keep her close to you. She’s your best ally,” Gina said.

  “But my wife is not prepared to forgive me unless I leave the party. Which may mean resigning from the ministry entirely. If I am to enjoy any sort of reconciliation, then that is what she will ask me to do. She’s hoping to achieve that on this holiday.”

  Gina chuckled. “Quite the dilemma.” She waved the cigarette towards the roulette table. “And quite shortsighted of her. It’s a reaction of the heart, Angelo. She likely believes that if you are prepared to lie to her about your involvement with the party, then you are able to hide a great many things. Things she may never forgive you for.” She dropped her arm below the edge of the bar, and he felt her fingertips brush his thigh. The touch jolted him.

  Just as quickly, her hand was back on the bar. She smiled behind her cigarette. “She only suspects. Unless you unmask the evidence, such as your desire for me right now.”

  Her touch still searing through him, he remembered her: Naked. On the bed. He looked over his shoulder to see whether Chiara had noticed anything, but without the mirror, he was disoriented and could not find her. When he faced Gina again, she had turned her attention to the inside of the casino.

  “Gina.”

  “Go to your wife,” she said, looking at him again. “You need her alliance just as much as you need your father’s leverage. If the tides turn in the Socialists favour, she is the one who will protect you. As for her demands on you, plead to her sensibilities. Admit that you have made mistakes. Not necessarily what they were, or why you made them, but just that you have. Make yourself vulnerable to her. She may be moved to save your soul.” Her smile teased him a little, but her grey eyes were solemn.

  “Save my soul?”

  “The Gleno is not the only thing you’ll have to pay penance for.”

  She put out her cigarette, and Angelo looked for the men she’d abandoned for him. They had all drifted to a card game, including the general.

  Turning back to him, she said in a low voice, “You are far from having beaten the Colonel, Angelo. Do what you must to ensure that you still can. Move cautiously. The web is thick. Remember that.”

  ***

  O n the beach the next day, beneath the shade of an umbrella, the whispering waves and the hot sun had put Angelo to sleep. What woke him, he did not know. Perhaps his sisters nearby, for when he looked over at Chiara, she was engrossed in her reading in the chair next to him. She did not notice that he was awake, and his eyes roamed over her lean skin, pale and freckled.

  He’d made love to her last night. Aroused by Gina at the casino, it had been easy, at least for him, and he believed that Chiara had also been surprised by a feeling of homecoming. Had they waited much longer, Angelo was sure there would have been nothing to salvage.

  Francesca said something he couldn’t understand, and Cristina squealed. Laughing, his sisters sprang from their lounging chairs and chased each other into the water, all dark curls and long legs. Angelo laughed, and Chiara bent her paper so that she too could watch the girls. He reached out to touch her, still hungry for lovemaking.

  She let him stroke her arm before saying, “Angelo, after this holiday, I’d like it if we could resolve our issues and be a family again.”

  He nodded.

  “You know that I am still trying to forgive you. It would help if you… What I mean is, I need you to do something for me. For us.” She was behaving as if she were coaxing him into a narrow space.

  Lay yourself open, Gina had said. Make yourself vulnerable. “You want me to leave the party.”

  “Would you?”

  He pushed his sunglasses up and looked towards the sea. “It’s something we can talk about, but not at this moment. I’m enjoying this day, this peace with you.”

  By her silence, he read pacification. His thoughts drifted to his conversation with Gina. Everything he had thought to have understood about that woman had been turned upside down on its head last night.

  His son’s squeal interrupted his thoughts. Near the water, Marco was standing with a green plastic bucket over the Colonel, his legs showing patches of the sugar-fine sand that had stuck to them. The Colonel was in a bathing costume, kneeling and excavating their spot on the beach with his big hands. Angelo had never seen his father like this.

  “Would you look at that?”

  When she did, Chiara’s face read a mixture of amusement and scorn.

  “I’m going down there to see what those two are up to.”

  The Colonel and Marco were too busy to notice him, and as he came closer, Angelo could see they had made a circular pit, as if they were building the moat to a castle before the castle itself. Inside and outside the pit were mounds of sand dotted with pebbles and rocks. The mounds were a mess of shapes and sizes, and if they were to be part of the ramparts, then the Colonel was being lax about the design. The two of them were busy near the middle of the pit, building a wall across the excavation. Marco patted the sand into place, and the Colonel gave instructions.

  Marco looked up from his end, his little green pail next to him. “Is it time to pour the water in, Nonno?”

  “What are you doing?” Angelo asked.

  “We’re building a dam,” Marco said, looking at his grandfather again.

  “Are you now? What kind of dam?”

  The Colonel pulled back from the wall and stepped out of the pit.

  “Nonno, what is it called again?”

  But Angelo could see it now. The scar on his head throbbed.

  “Why the look, Angelo?” the Colonel asked. “Marco should know what it is we do and how. The sand makes an excellent model.”

  Angelo pointed to the rocks and pebbles grouped inside. There, the Colonel had been pretty precise after all. It was the Reschen Valley. First, Gorf and Spinn, then more rocks and pebbles for Reschen and Graun. “And those? Those are the villages?”

  Marco pointed to a sharp rock, bigger than all the others, sticking straight up out of the sand. “That’s a big church. Nonno says we have to blow up all the houses and buildings.”

  That rock. The church in Graun. And there, those three stones, that could be Arlund.

  “I’ll get the water,” Marco cried. He ran to where the sea licked the sand.

  Angelo watched his son scoop water into the pail and, when he returned, asked Marco to hand it to him.

  “But I want to do it,” his son whined.

  He pried the handle from his boy’s fingers. “You will, but before you begin dumping water on these villages, you need me first. I am the one who has to check the dam structures and approve them. And these houses. Did you evacuate the people?”

  Ma
rco shook his head. “There are no people, Papa. They’re all gone.” He put his hand out for the pail, but Angelo hid it behind his back.

  “Are you certain? What will happen to them if you pour water all over them?”

  His son dug his toes into the sand.

  “Angelo,” the Colonel said, “we were having a fine time before you came.”

  “You’re the one who said you want to teach him, so let us teach him. Marco, if you want to learn how this is done”—he looked at the Colonel and then at his son—“then it must be done properly. Before you can have this bucket of water, we need to relocate all of these people and their houses.” He set the pail off to the side and reached for the stones of Spinn, then placed them on the mounds on the outside of the reservoir. Marco got to work on the other end, on the village of Reschen.

  The Colonel brushed sand off his hands, and Angelo checked to see if he too would help relocate the stone houses, but he simply watched.

  “You see, Marco,” Angelo said as they worked, “what your grandfather has forgotten is that these people’s lives come first, and to relocate them is very expensive.”

  “What’s ’spensive?” Marco asked, letting the stones slip from his hands and randomly onto the mounds.

  He went to Marco and led him a few steps towards the water. He picked up a broken shell. “If money were shells, then we’d need lots and lots of them. Imagine you have to walk up and down this beach all day long, collecting shells. You have to give the shells to the people in those houses so they can afford to live. What your grandfather has also forgotten is that we don’t have enough shells to do that, so you shouldn’t have built a reservoir in the first place.”

  “What your father forgets is that too few shells is a temporary condition. Always.” The Colonel had the pail in his hand. He pointed it towards the sea, where in the distance, large ships were heading to Genoa. “You see them? They’re sailing to a place called Industry. And in Industry, they make shells.” He held the bucket out for Marco. “There’s more shells coming, Marco. Pour the water in.”