“The usurers knew well that there was no trick to lending money. Handing out écus and pieces of gold was easy. The rub was recovering the principal amount and its high interest when the loan came due, especially since they lacked the size and strength to enforce their business agreements. Without the second half of the transaction—the restitution—the brothers realized, they would be bankrupt and in the poorhouse in no time. They were not in the business of philanthropy, after all, even if they tried to project a public image of piety and Christian charity. So when the snows began to melt and the good weather returned, they devised a plan to collect the payments from their impoverished debtors.”
Throughout his narration, Lucio continued to strum and pluck his guitar in a most pleasant and competent manner. The man could play after all.
“In the capital there lived a wicked man named Venereo Ruttonaccio,” he said. “Reputed far and wide as the hardest, most ruthless brigand in the land, Ruttonaccio stole from the collection plate at church, extorted money from local merchants, and made a habit of having his wicked will with innocent maidens and maids alike, as well as with ladies of ill repute. He happily burned down homes for a fee, robbed travelers on the highway, drank to excess, and brawled with fellow drunkards in the most disreputable inns of Paris. Ruttonaccio took the Lord’s name in vain several times a day, but saved his most potent oaths for the Madonna . . .” This time Lucio glanced at Giuliana and threw her a high sign to urge forbearance on her part; he was not advocating piety. “He kept poor hygiene, throwing off an odor that suggested a strong bovine lineage in his blood, and never once in his life had he failed to kick a stray dog whenever presented with the opportunity. Indeed, he did so sometimes even when not presented with the opportunity. On more than one occasion, he was said to break into burghers’ homes with the sole goal of seeking out the guard dog in order to give him a swift kick in the rump. Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. He also sang off key.”
Lucio punctuated this last statement with a sudden and violent rasping of his fingers across the strings of his guitar, producing a loud, dissonant chord. Everyone laughed.
“Where was I?” he asked after swigging from his grappa again. Tato, noticing the nearly empty glass, snatched it and refilled it as Lucio resumed the ancient air on his guitar and, along with it, his tale.
“Faced with the task of collecting from hundreds of impoverished debtors, the Francese brothers traveled to the capital to seek out this Venereo Ruttonaccio and engage his services to do the necessary. The blackguard set his price, which was high. The moneylenders negotiated a more advantageous fee by offering the terrible man room and board in their house while he extracted the money from the poor contadini—Oh, Scusami, Giulià . . . the poor lavoratori agricoli. The trio shook hands and sealed the deal.
“Over the next fortnight, Ruttonaccio terrorized the debtors who had no means to repay the loans, never mind the usurious interest. He threatened violence, slaughtered lambs as a warning, and even poisoned the well of one unfortunate borrower. And his tactics bore fruit. The poor farmers and townsfolk scrounged to find the money to pay the scoundrel, some resorting to stealing, while others borrowed from different opportunistic usurers. More still sold their sons and daughters into servitude to raise the funds. All the while, the Francese brothers kept their distance from their collector in attempts to maintain their good Christian reputations.
“But soon after he’d begun his collections, Ruttonaccio fell ill and took to his bed. His head pounded as if possessed by a thousand demons, his tongue swelled as large as an eggplant—the same color, too—and he burned with fever. In his agony, he cursed the lavoratori agricoli he’d visited, for he believed they’d infected him with the horrible, festering contagion that had laid him low. After three days of suffering, he called the Francese brothers to his side and told them he feared he was not long for this world. On the one hand, the brothers were sorry to lose such an effective debt collector, but on the other, they secretly rejoiced that they would not have to pay him his fee if he expired.
“While the brothers lived a sinful life of moneylending, a practice prohibited by the Church, they nevertheless took pains to present an image of piety in their town, at least to the richer folk. They attended Mass every day, including twice on Sundays. In fact, they often marveled to each other about how much business they routinely conducted inside the walls of the church. God was good for commerce, said they. And for that reason, they came to understand the danger that Ruttonaccio’s imminent death posed for them. If word were to get out that a sinner had died under their roof without the sacrament of the last rites, the brothers would be shunned by the local bishop and all the town’s most respected communicants. To remedy this potential undoing of their social standing, they summoned their local priest, Father Fabrice, to perform extreme unction for their moribund houseguest.
“The sick man rebuffed the priest, feigning unconsciousness. After two more days of worsening health, reasoning with the last of his failing wits—for the fever was working its magic on his mind—Ruttonaccio decided that his last act on earth would be to thumb his nose at the priest, the Church, and, indeed, God Himself. He summoned Father Fabrice to return and listen to his last and—in truth—his first confession.
“‘When was your last confession, my son?’ asked the priest at his bedside.
“‘It was the very day I fell ill,’ said the sick man, feeling no shame for his lie. Indeed, he secretly relished his brazen dishonesty. ‘One week ago. But I have not unburdened my soul since that day. For that I am deeply aggrieved for the offense I have given to God.’
“Father Fabrice assured him that the omission was understandable under the circumstances and hardly offensive to the Lord. He then asked Ruttonaccio how he had spent his life.
“‘Verily I must confess that I have led a spoiled existence,’ said the sick man. ‘Born into a rich family, I inherited my father’s considerable fortune at a young age. But rather than spend my days in honest toil, I gave away all but a small portion of my riches to the poor, and occupied myself in good works, devotion, and prayer because those kindnesses gave me joy. A most selfish act on my part.’
“The priest disagreed and declared that this was a most admirable way to live a just life. Then he asked Ruttonaccio for his confession.
“Knowing that in order to fool the priest he would need to summon all his failing wits, Ruttonaccio asked for absolution of sins so minor that Father Fabrice came to believe that he was indeed a saintly man. The priest assured him that performing the sign of the cross too slowly was not a cardinal sin. Neither did expressing admiration for his neighbor’s cow for the prodigious amounts of milk she produced qualify as the sin of coveting.
“‘But, Father,’ protested Ruttonaccio, ‘I am a sinner. I have not always honored the Sabbath. Once I asked my servant to sweep the hall on a Sunday.’
“‘Why, pray, did you do that, my son?’
“‘A group of tired and sick and hungry pilgrims chanced upon my house on their journey to Rome. I offered them succor and forced my poor servant to work on the Sabbath.’
“Father Fabrice was moved by what he perceived as the exemplary holiness of a man who considered such insignificant transgressions sins.
With a great gladness in his heart, the priest absolved Ruttonaccio of all shortly before he died.”
Pausing for another sip of grappa, Lucio wet his whistle before continuing.
“As a final gift to the saintly man, Father Fabrice arranged for Ruttonaccio to be buried in a crypt in the church. He eulogized the good soul to the entire congregation, extolling his virtues and good deeds, and urged the faithful to pray to Ruttonaccio to intercede with the saints on their behalf whenever they were in need. The locals followed his advice, especially the debtors who’d not yet repaid the Francese brothers. To those poor souls, the demise of the fearsome collector was a miracle, as the moneylenders lacked the courage even to visit them thereafter to demand repayment of the loans.
“A movement grew in the land. The poor prayed to Ruttonaccio for relief from their pecuniary woes. In time, the local priest took notice. He recounted Ruttonaccio’s virtuous life to the bishop and presented evidence of certified miracles of financial salvation attributed to the dead man by the poor of the region. Soon, the bishop was pleading the case for sainthood with the Holy Father himself.
“In due course, Ruttonaccio was beatified as the patron saint of impoverished victims of usury. To this day, the faithful pray to this most holy saint in times of financial difficulties, thus proving the old adage that a life well lived is its own reward. The end.”
With that, Lucio plucked a few happy notes on his guitar, and concluded his tale. Tato applauded vigorously, Giuliana somewhat less enthusiastically, but with a satisfied smile on her lips all the same. Franco frowned, perhaps reacting to the ambiguous moral of the story, perhaps from too much drink. Locanda seemed unmoved. Vicky snored. She’d long since fallen asleep. Bernie leaned in to whisper in my ear.
“Entertaining,” he said. “But he lifted it straight from the first story of the Decameron. That was the tale of Ser Cepparello.”
“Did you expect anything less?” I asked. “He lifts all his love ballads from the radio. Why wouldn’t he steal from Boccaccio?”
I had certainly read some of the Decameron over the years. My father had been a renowned scholar of Italian literature after all. But I confess I didn’t remember the Ser Cepparello story. Still, I didn’t begrudge Lucio for appropriating it. He’d changed enough details—probably due to a faulty memory—to make the tale his own. Yes, I told, Bernie. I’d quite enjoyed it. The clever way Lucio turned the themes to fit his twentieth-century political ends impressed me. But why had he changed the names? “Were the moneylenders named Francese in Boccaccio?” I asked Bernie.
“Franzesi, or something like that, I believe. Why?”
I ignored his question for the moment and asked about the priest in the story instead. “What was his name in the Decameron?”
“I don’t remember. I think he was just referred to as a friar. But what difference does it make if Lucio changed some names?”
I huffed an annoyed sigh, not aimed at Bernie, but at the unanswered question. “Lucio’s confessor priest was named Fabrice. Remember the opening ceremony of the symposium at the Palazzo Vecchio yesterday morning? Bondinelli’s priest—his confessor—offered a tribute to him. And his name was Fabrizio. Why would Lucio change the name like that? Was he implying something sinister about Bondinelli?”
Bernie considered my question for a moment before leaning in even closer to whisper again. “Are you suggesting that Lucio—that wooly-headed sweetheart of a guy—was equating Bondinelli with a maggot like Ruttonaccio?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1963
Veronica slept through the night. I can attest to that since she snored like a well-fed porker from the time I retired at about two a.m. till the cock crowed outside our open window at 5:43 sharp. Lying there in my hard bed, puffy-eyed and dry-mouthed, I swore I would convince Berenice to take an ax to that damn rooster’s neck and serve his remains for dinner that evening, burnt to a crisp if possible.
Holding a pillow over my head didn’t do much to dampen Veronica’s snoring. It might have done more good had I squashed it over her face for about three minutes instead. Unable to sleep, I got up and took consolation in the knowledge that I was the first to rise and had the bathroom to myself. By seven, I was bathed and ready for the day.
Downstairs in the dining room, however, I arrived second. There, alone, sitting before a bowl of caffellatte at the head of the table, his legs crossed elegantly, Max Locanda was smoking a cigarette and reading the paper.
“Buongiorno,” I said.
He lowered his newspaper and regarded me over his eyeglasses. He said nothing for a long moment, choosing instead to study me as one might a rara avis. At length, he offered a lukewarm hello and asked if I’d slept comfortably.
“Very well,” I lied. Had I known then the verb for to snore in Italian—russare—I might have given him the real story.
He took a sip of his coffee and then, snapping his paper back into its reading position, buried his nose in the news.
“What shall I call you?” I asked from behind the curtain of news-print.
He lowered his newspaper again and fixed me with a penetrating stare. “Prego?”
“What shall I call you?” I repeated. ‘“Signor Locanda? Dottor Locanda? Cavaliere?”
Okay, the last one might have been a tad insolent on my part. Or perhaps not. I’d met a few cavalieri in my day, and they’d taken their honorific seriously.
“Call me Max,” he said, unfazed by my effrontery. “Massimiliano is a waste of breath. Too many syllables.”
“Va bene.” I cleared my throat. “Max.”
Though I’d agreed to call him by his first name—and a diminutive at that—I was not about to use the familiar tu with him. A dusty Florentine memory of my father rose like a cloud from somewhere deep in the past. On our long-ago Italian voyage, the ten-year-old me had once used tu when addressing a friend of my father’s, the ancient Professor Dagoberto Lucón. Dad corrected me in front of the old man and told me never to use tu with someone so senior to me, except perhaps with close relatives.
“But he called me tu,” I said in my defense.
“He has that privilege. You do not. When you’re as old as he, you may use tu with young girls. But for now, you must show Professor Lucon the respect he deserves and use lei with him.”
Then he winked at the old man before concluding his lecture to me. “After all, you don’t want people thinking you’re Professor Lucon’s girl-friend.”
I didn’t think it was funny, and I doubt Lucón did either, if a red face and averted eyes meant what I thought they did.
“I prefer Ellie,” I said to Locanda, even though he hadn’t asked.
After a moment’s pause to digest my name, he informed me that he would stick with “signorina.” His response silenced me. In fact, it felt like a tight slap in the face.
The niceties over, he folded his newspaper once and for all and put it down. Somewhat reluctantly, it seemed, he indicated the chair opposite him, a signal that I was to join him.
“I expected you young people would sleep in this morning,” he said once I’d taken the seat. “After so much wine last night.”
“You should know that I have a horror of men who keep track of how much I drink.”
It was a weak attempt at banter, especially after the “signorina” remark. Why was I trying to engage him in conversation anyway? Yes, I wanted to draw him out, confirm or disprove my suspicions about him. Clearly he was a womanizer, or he wouldn’t be carrying on so shamelessly with a woman thirty-eight percent his age. But how much of my interest was personal? I couldn’t possibly be attracted to a man of his years and temperament, could I? Still, I had to admit he had magnetism. I pushed that thorny thought to one side. This was about him, not me. At least as long as I was lying to myself.
My comment—the one about men monitoring my alcohol intake— prompted a frown from him, more due to surprise, I thought, than outrage at my manners. Then he realized perhaps that I was attempting to flirt, or at least joke, and his expression softened somewhat. I figured he was unused to young women telling him where to get off. He drew a last puff on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray before him.
“May I confess something to you, signorina?” he asked, using the formal lei with me. I was relieved to know that my instincts—as well as my father’s advice—had been right. Use tu with your familiars, classmates, friends, and dogs. Not with aging Lotharios like Locanda or relics like Professor Lucón.
“Of course you may.”
“I find your friends tiresome,” he said.
“Tiresome?”
“Esatto.”
“And me? You don’t find me tiresome?”
Aga
in I’d surprised him with my candor. And again he recovered his aplomb forthwith, or at least disguised his discomfort by summoning Berenice. No sledgehammer was necessary for her. He tinkled a small bell on the table instead. She appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Il signore desidera?”
“Un caffè per la signorina,” he said softly. “And something to eat.”
Berenice nodded and withdrew.
“The weather will be hot today,” he said. “Not as hot as August, but you might find it uncomfortable at midday.”
Oh, God. He was discussing the weather with me.
Berenice breezed back into the room with a great bowl of coffee and milk for me, along with a tartina of bread, butter, and marmellata.
She asked Locanda if la signorina Vicky was on her way down to join him for breakfast.
“Yes. Bring her the usual,” he told her. “Whatever it is she eats in the morning.”
Berenice huffed, then observed with the supercilious air of an offended cook that Vicky didn’t eat anything. “Quella ragazza non mangia proprio niente.”
Locanda wasn’t in the mood for a lecture from his servant. “Bring her some tea then,” he snapped, and she headed back to the kitchen.
We were alone for the moment. My native curiosity prodding me to action, I took advantage to ask him some questions before his lover appeared.
“I’d like to offer you my condolences. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“My loss?”
“Your old friend, Alberto. Professor Bondinelli.”
He mugged an expression that didn’t quite communicate sorrow, but something akin to fatalistic acceptance instead. I waited for him to speak. He just sat there in silence.
“I understand you’d known him for many years,” I continued.
“Già,” he said as if he’d only just remembered his late friend. “Since we were children.”
“Then you knew his sister, too? The one who died from influenza?” He nodded.
“Not well. She was older.”
“Cecilia was her name, I believe.”
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