“A beautiful girl. I’m sorry.”
He snapped out of his reverie. “No reason to be sorry,” he said. “Think of it this way: She lived one hundred percent of her life. We all do. Whether we die at birth or at ninety-nine, our lives are complete. A whole.”
I’d never thought of life as a total made up of one hundred percentage points. And as I considered that thought then, I wondered if such an outlook made death easier to accept. Perhaps for deep thinkers, but for those experiencing the loss of a loved one, I wasn’t so sure. My brother Elijah’s sudden death had kicked me like a mule. Thinking of his short life now as one hundred percent complete and whole gave me no solace. No, this philosophy struck me as cold and soulless.
“How did Alberto take her death?” I asked.
“Like a sheep. With docile acceptance of his God’s will and wisdom.”
“That sounds quite different from his reaction to his sister’s death.”
“He had no God at that time. Religion provides strategies for coping with death, but I’ve found those lacking as well. If your deceased loved one is with God, then why be sad at all? Death should be reason to celebrate.”
I refused to believe sorrow could be tempered by divine recompense or mathematical completeness. I had to admit that I was glad death saddened me. How hollow life would be without mourning its passing.
“I have one last question,” I said, thinking back to something Padre Fabrizio had said in his eulogy. “What happened to change Alberto? If we assume the death of his sister, Cecilia, was the first moral crisis on his spiritual journey, then what was the second? What brought him back to God?”
“I have no idea. But it happened in Spain, I’m sure of that. He returned a changed man.”
I napped in my room for three hours, catching up on the sleep Ermenegildo had denied me, and missed the midday meal. The patter of the rain on the tiles above my head lulled me into a comfortable slumber, which was punctuated by pastoral dreams of bubbling creeks and butterflies and sunflowers. And then more dreams, of food and drink and laughter. Finally, I dreamt of Max Locanda having his wicked will of me on his desk in the library for the second time in barely twelve hours.
I awoke with a jolt. It was past four, and I realized cocktails were only a short way off. I’d had a head start, of course, swilling brandy with Max in the salone before noon. Now, lying in bed with only a sheet covering me, I stretched and yawned, at once trying to forget the disturbing dream and curious about its conclusion. I told myself it was Bernie’s suggestion that had prompted the erotic vision. That and the brandy, which I rarely drank. Or the lack of a proper night’s sleep. Yes, I found many culprits to blame for the appearance of the incubus in my unconscious imagination. The sole innocent party was me.
How was I going to face him now, after yet another explicit encounter? Even if it had only been in my mind. A while later, as I brushed my unruly hair, I urged myself to give him no reason to suspect any embarrassment or discomfort in my demeanor when I saw him next. That, of course, would be in a few minutes when I went down for cocktails. I rolled on some lipstick and applied a touch of blush to my cheeks, then steadied my nerves with a gulp of whisky from my bottle of Dewar’s. Feeling right again, I made my way downstairs.
“We missed you at lunch,” said Bernie, who poured me a drink in the salone. It was still drizzling outside. “I was worried you might have come down with German measles.
“I told you I’ve already had German measles,” I said, taking the glass he’d offered, whisky and soda.
We chatted alone for a while as the others arrived one by one and settled in. Even Veronica joined us that night. She looked her old self again.
“Have you noticed no one else has shown any symptoms?” I asked Bernie.
“Come to think of it, you’re right. You’d think at least one person might have developed a rash or a fever by now.”
I studied our companions from across the room. “I don’t think it’s German measles at all,” I said. “Veronica had a rash, but none of the other symptoms.”
“Didn’t she have a fever that first day?”
“It was a hot day, and she’s a delicate flower who’d spent an hour in the sun on the back of Franco’s Vespa. She said she felt fine that night except for the itching. And she never had swollen glands or a headache.”
“Still, the doctor gave his diagnosis.”
I sipped my drink. It was washing away the last of the sleepiness from my head. I took another, larger sip, then emptied the glass and held it out to Bernie who promptly refilled it.
“You drink too much,” he said, handing me a fresh whisky and soda.
“One more word about my drinking and you’ll be wearing this.” I showed him my glass.
Poor Bernie. He looked crushed, and I felt bad. He only had my best interests at heart, after all. But, as previously noted, I had a horror of people monitoring my alcohol consumption, and no one was going to tell me when to stop. Especially when I was only on my second. Well, that is if you ignored the belt I’d downed in my room and the two brandies that morning. Damn it. Now I was the one counting.
“I don’t trust that doctor’s judgment,” I said, changing the subject. “He’s young and inexperienced. And not confident in his own diagnosis. He can’t wait for that other doctor to return to confirm his opinion.”
“But how do you explain the rash?” he asked.
“Lots of things can cause a rash. Eczema, rheumatism, sunburn. Once, a new brand of soap gave me a rash. Never mind where, Bernie, you pig. The point is it wasn’t German measles.”
“Has Veronica been using a new soap?” he croaked, and I regretted having mentioned my rash.
“How should I know? But ever since Achille broke her bottle of witch hazel, the rash has been improving.”
Bernie was distracted. “Looks like someone’s arrived,” he said as the aforementioned Achille appeared to announce someone. “It’s the cop. Peruzzi.”
“Let’s hope he’s here to lift the quarantine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
We joined the others in the center of the room as the barrelchested policeman waddled in.
“Buonasera,” he said to one and all. “I’m happy you’re all here. I have some news to share about Professor Bondinelli’s death.”
The circled tightened around him.
“We are now convinced that Bondinelli was the victim of a crime.”
The consensus among the convened was one of shock and curiosity in equal measure. Franco Sannino stepped forward and more or less demanded to know what the police had discovered. Peruzzi didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but one sensed a dearth of patience in his expression.
“We are not ready to divulge the evidence that has persuaded us that this was a crime and not an accident,” he said. “But I can assure you that in a day or two, we will make our case known.”
“Surely you didn’t come all the way up here to speak in riddles,” said Franco. “There must be something more you can tell us.”
Peruzzi nodded. “Infatti, there is a question I’d like to ask all of you who knew him.”
We waited.
“If you would be so kind as to join me in the corridor, one at a time, to answer my question in private, I would be most grateful.”
Over the next five minutes, everyone, with the exception of Bernie and me, was invited to file out of the room and answer the inspector’s question. Not having known the dead man, we couldn’t possibly provide the answers he was seeking, and so we were excused.
The first to speak with the inspector was Lucio. He returned to the salone under orders not to discuss the question with anyone until Peruzzi had finished with the rest. Franco went next. Then Tato, Veronica, and finally Giuliana. Lucio asked Locanda why he wasn’t being questioned.
“I’ve already discussed the evidence with the inspector,” he said. “I answered his question last night on the telephone.”
While Giuliana—the last intervi
ewee—was out in the corridor, the others exchanged notes on their encounters with the cop.
Franco began. “Did he ask you about the wallet, too?”
They all agreed.
“What about the wallet?” I asked.
“He asked if we’d ever seen it.”
“And? Had you?”
“Not that I can recall,” said Lucio. The others professed ignorance as well.
“To tell the truth, I have seen his wallet many times,” said Veronica. “I live in his house, after all.”
“What did Peruzzi make of that?” asked Franco.
“Nothing. He just wanted me to describe it.”
Moments later, Giuliana returned to the salone with the inspector following close behind. He stopped in the middle of the room and—as usual with his eyeglasses perched halfway up his forehead—wrote some notes in his pad.
“Allora,” he said once he’d finished. He scanned the group and pointed to three of them, Franco, Tato, and Giuliana. “Voi tre, I’d like to know why you lied to the police about your activity on the day the professor died.”
The three exchanged terrified glances. Amazing how much adults resemble schoolchildren when called out by a policeman.
“Lied?” asked Franco in a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat and tried again. Same result.
“You told me you last saw Professor Bondinelli on Monday and only spoke to him by telephone on Tuesday, the day he died.”
“Did I say that?”
“Yes. Would you like to amend your statement now?”
Franco didn’t dare move. He just stood there, stooped, head immobile, his eyes large with fright, the way a dog freezes when terrified by his master.
“So where and when did you see Professor Bondinelli last Tuesday?”
“I remember now,” he said, convincing no one, least of all Peruzzi. “I was so upset when you told me the news about Alberto, I must have forgotten. I was at the university that morning. All morning. I saw Alberto in the office. He was talking to the secretary, Signora Vannucci.”
“Was that before or after noon?”
“A little after. I was thinking how hungry I was.”
“Bene. And you, Signor Lombardi,” said the inspector, turning to Tato. “You told my adjutant that you were with Signorina Pincherle in the university library for five hours Tuesday afternoon. That is not true. Will you please tell me where you were?”
Tato stammered his answer, claiming to have spent part of that day in the library with Giuliana. But he also visited the department offices and saw Bondinelli around 2:45.
“Was he alone?” asked the cop. I was sure he already knew the answer. Tato didn’t want to say it, but in the end he had no choice. “Professor Bondinelli was speaking to . . . Signorina Pincherle.”
“Bene,” said the inspector. “Now, Signorina, do you wish to give me a different account of your whereabouts last Tuesday?”
“No,” she said.
“No?” Peruzzi was as surprised as everyone else.
“I was in the library all afternoon and did not see the professor.” Peruzzi studied her, bemused by her stubbornness. A frown creased his face horizontally at the brow and the lips, creating the illusion of a wadded-up pillow. At length he spoke again.
“What do you say to Signor Lombardi’s claim that he saw you speaking with Bondinelli?”
“He’s lying,” she said.
Tato nearly erupted into tears. Surely he hadn’t meant to implicate his beloved Giuliana, but it was done. I thought he might fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness.
“And Signora Vannucci, the secretary? She also told me you met Professor Bondinelli in his office last Tuesday. And when you left he appeared quite distracted. Upset. Agitated. The word she used was . . .” he flipped open his notepad and read, “innervosito. Rattled.”
“She’s a liar. I wasn’t there.”
“Well,” said the cop, returning the pad to his breast pocket, “if you weren’t in the library with Signor Lombardi, and you weren’t in Professor Bondinelli’s office, where were you?”
She looked across the room to the person standing behind me. I reeled around to see who. It was Lucio.
“I was with Lucio Bevilacqua in his apartment. We meet there often for our appuntamenti.”
The collective gasp from the assembled nearly sucked me off my feet.
“Is this true?” Peruzzi asked Lucio.
“I-I’m not sure,” he said. “What day was this?”
““Martedì scorso.”
Lucio didn’t answer right away, and I doubted it was because he didn’t recall. Nevertheless, he stuck to that story, claiming Giuliana might well remember better than he.
Peruzzi stayed cool. He informed them that he would be interviewing other witnesses at the university who were sure to corroborate Signora Vannucci’s account.
“I urge you both to reconsider your statements. Lying to the police is a crime. And, a bit of friendly advice: you would be wise to take extreme care in your appuntamenti. Remember there is a rosolia quarantine. This is not the time to . . .fare un bambino.”
That was on the nose. But neither of the two could very well protest since they had volunteered this scandalous alibi themselves.
Peruzzi let his last warning hang in the air for a moment then explained that, in light of the quarantine, he could not take them into custody for more questioning. But he intended to return the next day, most certainly with new evidence to prove Giuliana had spoken to Bondinelli the previous Tuesday.
“Won’t you stay to dinner?” Max asked the inspector. His face was a stone, but after our time together, I was better able to read his moods. His blue eyes, I noticed, betrayed the slightest hint of a wicked smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Peruzzi declined Max’s kind invitation and was out the door moments later. At dinner, the conversation was slow to get off the ground. There were plenty of sullen looks from the four guests who’d been caught in lies by the police. And Giuliana’s sticky entanglement with Lucio had been exposed. She, for one, didn’t seem to mind, even if it had broken poor Tato’s heart.
Of course he was in love with her, but nothing I’d seen indicated that his feelings were reciprocated. Did she owe him fidelity if she wasn’t his girl? Clearly not. Still, the way she’d made the revelation—in front of everyone and with no warning or attempt to soften the blow—struck me as particularly cruel.
Finally, as the silence soured into a pall, Veronica piped up and addressed the situation everyone else had been avoiding.
“The inspector wanted to know if I’d ever seen Professor Bondinelli’s wallet,” she said, chewing on a healthy portion of lardo. It was one of the featured specialties of the antipasto Berenice had prepared, though, I confess I couldn’t stomach it.
“We already know that,” said Franco. “The question is why did he ask us about the wallet?”
Veronica had no answer for that. Max Locanda cleared his throat quite vigorously.
“We shall not discuss this at the table,” he said, his eyes indicating his niece ever so subtly. Everyone got the message, even the brick dropper Veronica and the petulant Franco Sannino.
A few minutes later, in an ill-advised attempt to kick-start the conversation, Franco inquired into Vicky’s whereabouts. Was she indisposed? I wanted to kick him under the table, but he was too far away. Max, however, seemed prepared for the question and, adopting his coolest tone, announced that she had run off.
“Run off?” asked Franco. “But what about the rosolia?”
“Clearly her departure is a violation of the quarantine,” said Max, and the subject was dropped.
Dinner continued in silence until I posed a question to break the ice.
“Those Vespas look like fun to drive. Can anyone tell me how you start one of them?”
As conversation openers go, it was a beauty. Most of the people around the table regarded me as if I’d asked if the Queen of England had any tattoos.
But Franco couldn’t resist showing off his expertise on the subject
“There are different Vespa models, of course,” he began. “Mine is the GS 150. Motore monocilindrico, two-stroke, with four gears. It rides like a dream.”
“Yes, but how do you start it?”
“Nothing easier. First you turn the key, then, if the engine is cold, pull the choke. Turn the fuel tap to the middle position and shift the gear to neutral. You’ll need to set the throttle to the slow running position, then lean the Vespa to the left to give yourself plenty of room to start the thing. Now you start it by kicking hard on the pedal on the right-hand side. And voilà, you’ve started it.”
Lucio interrupted. “You forgot to tell her not to flood the carburatore. And she has to close the choke once she’s started it. Don’t you have any idea how to start a motor?”
“I was going to tell her that,” said Franco, close to flinging his plate at Lucio in anger. “Stop interrupting me and listen.”
Despite the technical jargon, which Bernie translated for me after dinner, I figured I could manage it. My brother, Elijah, had shown me how to start and ride his motorcycle in the months before he was killed in a road accident. I pushed that memory to one side.
The lesson—and the bickering between the two men—continued, touching on the finer points of shifting gears, accelerating, and braking. The discussion lasted halfway through the second course. They were talking to each other more than to me.
After the dolci, fruit, and caffè, we wandered back into the salone for our nightly ritual: drinks and a story. Mariangela and I chatted for a few minutes about the new song she’d mentioned earlier.
“It’s called ‘She Loves You,’ and I think it’s even better than ‘Please
Please Me’ and ‘From Me to You.’ Don’t they play the Beatles on the radio in America?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ve never heard any of their songs.”
“I have the 45, but I haven’t seen a record player here. Maybe they’ll play it on the radio. We can listen for it tomorrow if the reception’s good.”
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