He raised his glass to me to give the go-ahead.
A word about my story. I’ve related the tales offered by the others, endeavoring to imitate a pleasing narrative style befitting the themes. In the case of my own effort, such a style was far beyond the reaches of my Italian skills. Nevertheless, even if I struggled and simplified the language as I told it that night, here I present it with the appropriate fluency, ingratiating tone, and suitable vocabulary that I lacked at the time.
“Signore e signori,” I began. “I regret to burden you with a sorrowful story of betrayal and tragedy on this, our final night together. Still and all, I trust you will sympathize with the unfortunate characters of my narrative, taking to heart the lesson it imparts. And so, gentle friends, for your consideration and amusement, I offer you the following tale.
“There once lived in Salerno a good prince named Tancredi.”
Bernie eyed me from his seat on the divan, drink in one hand, a cigarette burning in the ashtray beside him. He nodded solemnly, recognizing the story I was about to tell. What he didn’t know was why.
“Having reached an advanced age,” I continued, “the good prince came to realize that he had for too long indulged his own selfish desires in preventing his only child, a beloved daughter named Ghismunda, from marrying. In fact, she was approaching her twenty-second birthday when Tancredi finally set his mind to arranging a suitable match for her.
“Although a rare beauty and still of a healthy young age by any natural standard, Ghismunda was, nevertheless, considered old to be a bride. For that reason, her father’s search proved to be a challenging one. Still, through determination and perseverance, he succeeded in arranging an alliance with the third son of a princeling in a far-off kingdom.
“In due course of time, the wedding, celebrated amid much pomp and merriment, took place at the palace in Salerno, and Ghismunda left her elderly father to embark on a new life with her husband.
“But, after little more than two years of marriage, death intervened and spoiled the happiness of the young couple. Ghismunda’s husband, whom she’d grown to love for his kindness and fairness, as well as for the carnal delights the two shared in their private congress, fell sick and succumbed to an illness that took his life. And though she’d been considered old to be a bride, Ghismunda was conversely looked upon as tragically young to be a widow.”
I paused to wet my lips with a sip of whisky. My audience seemed pleased with the progress of my story. I resumed.
“After the death of her beloved husband, Ghismunda returned to Salerno to provide companionship to her elderly father. She resolved to live with him for the rest of his days. This decision forfended any eventuality of her remarrying, despite her fortune and rare beauty. Months passed and, as the period of mourning expired, the healthy young widow emerged from her grief and began to think once more of the secular pastimes she’d enjoyed before the tragic events that led to her bereavement. And among the pastimes she’d found particularly diverting was the intimate communion she’d experienced with her husband in the seclusion of the bridal bower. And so, after suitable reflection, she set her mind to identifying a discreet man of good character and pleasant countenance with whom to share her garden of earthly delights.”
Lucio was grinning from ear to ear. He leaned forward in his chair as if afraid he might miss some salacious detail. Giuliana affected a bored expression, while Veronica blushed crimson.
“Now there was in Tancredi’s court, a young attendant named Guiscardo who was blessed with a physical comeliness that met with the satisfaction of all the women of the court. Indeed, more than mere satisfaction, his appearance was known to provoke longing sighs and impure ruminations on the catalogue of licentious adventures that might be pursued in his company. And so Ghismunda, having had occasion to enjoy his polite conversation as well as his becoming aspect, decided to win his affections and woo him to her bedchamber.”
“I thought you said this was a tragic story,” said Lucio. “It sounds rather happy to me.”
“Sta’which really wasn’t helpin;g zitto, Lucio,” I said. “I am the storyteller. That means I am the queen of the evening. You will listen without interruption.”
He stood and, acquiescing to my command, executed a histrionic bow. I continued once he’d retaken his seat.
“Ghismunda succeeded in passing a message to Guiscardo, proposing an assignation in her private apartment. In the note, she described a secret passage—long forgotten and in disuse—accessible through a grotto beneath the palace, leading to her bedchamber. In the course of dispatching his courtly duties, the handsome young attendant had fallen under the spell of the beautiful widowed princess and was, therefore, only too eager to do as she proposed.
“So, at the appointed hour on the assigned day, Guiscardo entered the grotto and, following Ghismunda’s instructions to the letter, scaled the secret stairway and gained her bedchamber undetected. There, hidden from the scrutiny and judgment of society, sheltered from her doting father’s suspicions, they embarked on a series of forbidden trysts, during which they contravened with great zeal and regularity the Church’s interdictions against fornication.
“The months passed and, safe in their warm cocoon, Ghismunda and Guiscardo felt their lust bloom into tenderness, then devotion, and finally love. And, despite the frequency of their meetings, they avoided discovery and, cherishing each other, assumed the bearings of husband and wife whenever they were alone together. Their union provided both with bounties ofjoy and contentment and harmony they’d never thought possible between two hearts.
“Then one afternoon, Prince Tancredi purposed to visit his daughter in her apartment. Finding her absent, he thought he might tarry and await her return. Time passed with no sign of her, and, with no diversion to amuse him, the prince began to feel slumber’s call. As the room was quite chilly that day—it being December—the prince covered himself in a blanket and lay down on a hassock near the bed and promptly fell asleep.
“As fate willed it, that very day the two lovers had arranged to tryst in her bedchamber. Returning to make ready for the hours of merry coupling that loomed, Ghismunda never noticed her father fast asleep beneath the blanket. At the designated hour, she opened the secret door and welcomed her lover in a most generous and industrious fashion. So pleased was Guiscardo that his thews and sinews defied fatigue and responded to her entreaties with great endurance and stamina.
“At some point during the couple’s energetic communion, Tancredi awoke and found himself the reluctant witness to his own daughter’s wickedness. Consumed with rage, he nearly sprang from his blind to confront the two in the midst of their rutting, but he reined in his fury and devised a plan to punish them instead. Hours later, after reviving and quenching their passion a multitude of recurrences, the lovers parted company and left the chamber to the old prince who had remained undetected beneath the blanket.”
“Brava, Ellie,” said Lucio, unable to resist interrupting me again. “But can you pause one moment while I refill my drink? This story is so exciting my mouth has gone dry.”
I agreed on the condition that he also refresh my whisky. I was the one doing all the talking, after all. A short moment later, everyone, including Peruzzi and the doctor, had topped off their glasses and were ready for more. I obliged.
“Wasting little time, Prince Tancredi ordered the arrest of his attendant, Guiscardo, and locked him in the dungeon. Then he visited his daughter to confront her with his knowledge of her sin. She could not deny his account of the night before, since he’d been in the very room, not ten paces from her bed. He told her that he’d clapped the disloyal Guiscardo in irons and would decide his fate once he’d heard Ghismunda’s plea.
“The princess feared nothing she might say would quell her father’s ire. She was, after all, guilty of the offenses he’d witnessed, and she was too proud to beg for mercy for herself. With great sadness she resolved to accept the cruel truth that her lover was sure to die by her fath
er’s hand no matter her appeals.
“‘I confess to you this and this only, Father. I love Guiscardo with an ardor you will never comprehend. If you kill him, you slay me as well, for I shall not walk this earth bereft of his company.’
“Tancredi took leave of his daughter and, furious at her obstinacy and disobedience, he ordered his men to murder Guiscardo, tear his heart from his chest, and deliver it to the princess in a golden goblet. Once the deed had been done, and the severed heart had been dispatched to Ghismunda, Tancredi repaired to her chamber once more to see if the shock might open her eyes to the sins she’d committed with the lowly born Guiscardo and lead her to repent. What he found instead was his beautiful daughter lying on her bed, clutching her lover’s sundered heart to her breast.
“‘Are you prepared to beg my forgiveness?’ he asked her.
“‘Nay, Father. Only moments before your arrival, I poured a powerful poison into this goblet, over my lover’s heart, and gladly drank it down. I have but moments to live and I shall not waste them seeking your forgiveness. Instead, I pray you grant me one last mercy: leave me in death that which you denied me in life. Permit me to be with my love, the worthy man of humble birth whose heart rests here atop of mine. I beg you to bury me together with Guiscardo.’
“And having thus spoken, she drew her last breath and surrendered her soul to the Almighty. Realizing too late the error of his cruel actions, Tancredi wept bitter tears of regret. His stony heart softened and he granted his daughter her final wish. He decreed that the two lovers be entombed in the same coffin, together for all eternity in their love.”
I paused. “The end.”
If my audience had intended to applaud my tale, they never got the chance. At the very moment I announced finis, a bat flew into the room from the open terrazza door, sending everyone diving to the floor. He was a medium as bats go, not rat-sized but larger than a flying mouse. He frightened even the hardiest souls in the room as he circled, dipped, and wheeled just above our heads. It occurred to me as I lay flat on the stone floor, covering my curly hair with my hands, that a bat’s flight does not resemble that of a bird, at least not when indoors. The bat flies more heavily, bobbing up and down as if tethered to a great rubber band from above.
Veronica screamed, “Pipistrello! Pipistrello!” which really wasn’t helping the situation.
Achille arrived at a gallop, wielding a broom, and set about chasing the bat from one end of the room to the other. I judged by his preparedness and graceful form that he’d either herded flying mammals many times before or he’d once been a fine tennis player. Cutting off the bat’s escape route via the corridor, he gradually waltzed the animal toward the door from which he—the bat—had entered the house. And then—poof—the intruder found the opening and disappeared into the night.
The crisis over, we all pushed up off the floor and glanced about the room. The only person among us retaining more than a shred of dignity was Achille, who, though winded after his chase, smiled and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The rest of us were cowards and useless, and we knew it.
“That was an interesting story, Ellie,” said Bernie for the benefit of the others. “Boccaccio, again. If I remember correctly, it’s the first story of the fourth day. Tell us why you chose it.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I was ready to play my cards, inform the inspector that he’d bagged the wrong man, and I had a good idea of what had actually happened to Professor Bondinelli exactly one week earlier.
“Before I answer your question, Bernie, I’d like to invite the inspector to reconsider the arrest of Leopoldo Migliorini.”
Peruzzi chuckled, dismissing my effrontery out of hand. “Why would I do that? The man murdered Bondinelli. He was carrying his wallet.”
“He did not kill the professor,” I said as forcefully as I dared.
“Tell us why, signorina, I pray,” he said, his words dripping with sarcasm.
“Can you remind us of the time of death you established for Professor Bondinelli?”
“Between five twenty and five thirty on the evening of Tuesday, September twenty-fourth.”
“Later or earlier would not be possible?”
“Assolutamente no.”
“Thank you, inspector. It’s a universally accepted scientific opinion that a body cannot occupy two different spaces at the same time, and Signor Migliorini is subject to the laws of the universe, as are we all.”
Peruzzi’s sarcasm turned to impatience in a trice. “Ma che cavolo sta dicendo?” he barked at me, demanding to know what the heck I was trying to say.
“Migliorini couldn’t have robbed, beaten, or murdered Alberto Bondinelli at that hour, because he was making a lewd proposition to me on the Ponte Vecchio. Furthermore, he pinched a part of my anatomy I’d rather not name publicly, leaving a small, tender, bluish bruise.”
“What is this farce? How do you know it was at the same time or that it was Migliorini who gave you a pizzicotto sul sedere?”
“Inspector, I didn’t say where on my person he’d pinched me. But now that you’ve named the spot—my sedere—yes, I do know for sure. I’d just arrived in Florence last Tuesday and had stepped out to snap some photos of the sun setting on the Arno. And I checked my watch after I’d run back to my hotel. It was five thirty-five.”
“It could have been anyone. We have lots of perverts here in Florence.”
“I took a photo of him,” I said, producing the picture from my purse. “See for yourself.”
He took the photo from me and, once he’d aimed his right eye at it and recognized the pervert in the dark glasses, he huffed and asked sheepishly if he could keep the print.
“Of course. Now, back to Bernie’s question about my tale. I came across it this afternoon as I was reading in the gazebo behind the house. It struck me as an apt parallel to an important event in Professor Bondinelli’s life. You’ve all shared with me various anecdotes, histories, and opinions of him and his character. Some of you loved and respected the man, while others despised and reviled him for his associations with the worst elements of the fascist regime. Some of you knew that he turned coat and fought with the partisans to expel the Germans at the end of the war. He was even arrested and held for months on suspicion of anti-German activities.”
“How lucky for him that he wasn’t executed like so many others,” said Giuliana. “Could it be that he was a spy for the OVRA and their Nazi puppeteers?”
“Giuliana poses an interesting question. It’s one I’m afraid I cannot answer with certainty. I simply don’t know. But her very suggestion that Bondinelli may have been working with the secret police when he was with the partisans leads me to a piece of evidence some of you are familiar with.”
I reached into my purse and retrieved the photo I’d borrowed from Mariangela, the one of the four people in the café.
“This photograph was taken during the war. April twenty-first, 1944, to be precise. You can barely see the post office in the background, which places this in Piazza della Repubblica. I doubt that detail is important, but it does help tell the story.
“Now, we know three of the people in this photograph. There’s Alberto Bondinelli; his future wife, Silvana, née Locanda; her father, Rodolfo, and this fourth person, seemingly identified on the back of the photograph as P. Sasso.”
I held up the picture for all to see the date and names.
“We can also see that someone has scratched out a fourth name. The handwriting, by the way, belongs to Professor Bondinelli, and this photo was taken from his office by his daughter, Mariangela, upon her return to Florence Saturday.”
“May I have a closer look?” asked Lucio.
I took a few steps toward him and held out the frame. He studied it, turned it over twice, then handed it back to me.
“P. Sasso? Is that the third man’s name?” he asked.
“First of all, no, the third man is not P. Sasso. His name is the one scratched out here.” I indicated a
gain the blotch on the back of the frame.
“Then who is P. Sasso?” asked Franco.
It was not lost on me that neither Giuliana nor Max had spoken up about the photograph or the missing name. They both knew, I was sure.
“Although it may be impossible to prove from this sample,” I said, ignoring Franco’s question for the moment, “I am, nevertheless, certain that the scratched-out name beneath the ink here is Gabriele Levi.”
“Who?” asked Franco.
I looked to Giuliana, giving her the chance to answer if she wanted to. She declined.
“Gabriele Levi was a young partisan combatant,” I said. “A comrade of Professor Bondinelli’s. He was Silvana’s . . .” I paused and turned to Max. “Was he her fiancé? Or just her lover?”
As had Giuliana, Max said nothing. But his eyes remained intently focused on me.
“Let’s say the two were in love, Silvana and Gabriele. I’m sorry. Did I mention that Gabriele was Giuliana Pincherle’s cousin?”
The inspector, for one, wanted to know where this was heading. Giuliana and Max, for their part, surely had a good idea.
“How does this all tie in with your story of Ghismunda and Guiscardo?” asked Franco.one last glance at Max before he would hate me forever. Or perhaps he wouldn’t care at all. I couldn’t know for sure with a man like him. I forged ahead.
“As you’ve just heard, Ghismunda’s lover, Guiscardo, was murdered by her father. Gabriele Levi suffered the same fate. In fact, the very day this photograph was taken—April twenty-first, 1944—Gabriele was picked up by the Italian secret police on the orders of Rodolfo Locanda, and summarily executed by the Germans an hour later.”
Max held his tongue, even as the entire room turned to see how he’d react. I’d just accused his father of murder, after all. Yet he suffered it in silence, in his own home, as I drank his whisky and savored the memory of the delicious dinner he’d just served.
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