Antonio nods.
“Someone has to do something,” he says. “We can’t just do nothing. The communists won’t do it, they’ve sold out. The unions won’t do it. The Christian Democrats are rotten. They’re all rotten. No one stands up. No one fights.”
Angela doesn’t say anything. She closes her eyes and sees a field of flickering stars. She feels hot wax on her hand, and the warm stickiness on her fingers as she touches Piero’s forehead, his eyelids, his lips.
“We’re going to put him on trial,” Antonio says. “We’re going to make him answer for what’s happened. We’re finally going to make them listen.”
Angela thinks of Mario Sossi, of his white collar and prosecutor’s robes. She remembers his wife. The letters to the pope. The letters to the president. Aldo Moro was going to be president, all the papers agreed. She has not seen his wife. She doesn’t know if Signora Moro, too, is pleading and crying. But she has seen the police. The newspapers, the TV. The radio says there are fifty thousand police, carabinieri, army. There are roadblocks all around Rome. They are stopping cars on the highways. They are opening trunks, pointing machine guns. It is the biggest manhunt in Italy’s history. Maybe in Europe’s history.
She opens her eyes and meets Antonio’s. Black as wet stones.
“The police,” she whispers.
He shrugs.
“If no one says anything, they won’t find him.” He pulls out the other chair and sits down. “If someone does say anything, they’ll kill us. All of us. We know that. They’ll shoot us the way they shot Mara.”
Angela remembers this, how the night her father died, Barbara said something. Something about Professor Barelli insisting Mara Cagol had been shot in the back, like an animal, as she tried to crawl away after being wounded. Mara, il tuo assassinio non restera impunito. She looks at Antonio and shudders. She has just seen him covered in blood.
In the next moment, he has his arms around her.
“I’ll be all right,” he says. “We’ll all be all right. This will make things better. They’ll have to listen now. They’ll have to change. You’ll see. For the future. For our children’s future.” She pushes her face into his shoulder, into the warm, familiar soap smell of his shirt.
“I need your help, Angie.” He strokes her hair. He rests his chin on the top of her head. “It will all be all right. Nothing is going to happen to me. No one is going to talk. But I need your help. We don’t want to hurt him. We just want him to own up, admit what he’s done, and make them change. But if he won’t eat, if we can’t get him to eat, we can’t take care of him. Do you see? Will you help me?”
Angela nods. She keeps her eyes closed. But she nods.
* * *
The manicotti lasts two days, during which the trial of fifteen Brigate Rosse members begins in Turin. One of them is Renato Curcio, the husband of Mara Cagol. Now that she is gone, Angela thinks, he has no chance of disappearing. There is no one to arrive on visitor’s day with a box full of guns. If he is even allowed visitors, which she doubts. No matter what Antonio says, the police are not stupid.
Angela considers this as she cooks a chicken. Her father’s knives, along with some of his clothes, his cap and his slippers, his white coat with its frayed collar, and the old maroon blanket from the end of her parents’ bed, and a few other things—one of his cigar boxes she hides in the back of a cupboard and stores lire in, and a music box that is broken but belonged to her mother—have come with them to Trastevere.
Angela sharpens the knives herself, but only when Antonio is not there because he can’t stand the sound, the chalky scrape of the blade on the whetstone. He doesn’t like the points, either. He turns his face away when she tests the tips, bouncing them on the pad of her thumb. He winces when she runs the blade against her finger to make sure the cut will come clean.
It’s strange in him, she thinks, this squeamishness, this distaste for blood. Because it bothers her not at all. Angela brings the cleaver down with a cool smack, relieving the chicken of first one leg, then the next before she splits the breast wide open.
Antonio said no bones in the chicken. Angela doesn’t know if this is a precaution against choking, or in case one might be secreted away. Sharpened in the dark after they turn out the light in the little room, then used as a weapon.
She finds it hard to imagine. How many people could you stab with a chicken bone? And surely they have guns? At least the rest of them—not Antonio, he hates the things. Not that she would know what the others have or don’t have because so far she has been to the apartment on Via Montalcini only once and she didn’t see anyone. Except Antonio, and him. But she knew the others were there. She heard them, in another room, scuffling like mice while she lifted the baking dish out of the basket.
Angela has always been a quick learner, so she understands this already. She would have even if Antonio hadn’t told her. It isn’t exactly, as the Americans say, rocket science. But it is crucial. The key, you might say. The most important of what she already thinks of as the BR’s—she doesn’t like to use their whole name, even to herself—litany. Of the prayers from their private little Book of Hours.
Each shall see and hear according only to his need.
You cannot betray,
Or be betrayed,
By what you do not know.
The words cackle like a witch in a rhyme as she throws the tiny dice of green pepper and chunks of tomato into the burning oil.
* * *
This time he stands and makes a little bow as she comes in.
He’s been working at his desk. The pad is open. He flips it closed, but not before she sees the words running across the page. My Darling, I think of you. Kiss the children for me. There’s a book, too. Something about Marx. He picks it up and places it on the bed.
“My homework,” he says, smiling at her. And then, “Thank you for this. The last was delicious. Your mother taught you well.”
“Father.”
The word is out before she even realizes she’s said it. Angela feels the horrid familiar flush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. She glances over her shoulder. Antonio is outside the door again, but she can’t see him because this time, without thinking, she pulled it halfway closed behind her.
“Your father?” His voice is a whisper. He’s watching her as she puts the plate on the desk. “Your father taught you to cook?”
Angela nods. Without meaning to, her hand feels for the locket where there is now a tiny photo of him opposite her mother’s. She drops it, then takes the plastic fork and spoon rolled in a paper napkin out of her pocket.
“I have daughters.” The words are not much more than a breath. “I love them very much.”
Angela feels her hand hesitate. She places the implements beside the plate.
“I hope you enjoy the food,” she murmurs, then she turns and leaves.
Outside Antonio locks the door and drives the bolt home.
“What did he say to you?” he asks.
Angela shakes her head. She even manages to smile.
“That he liked my food.”
She brushes past him and picks up the basket, mutters something about not wanting to miss the bus. She has come by herself and is leaving alone this time. Antonio kisses her and smiles at her and lets her out of the apartment. She rides down in the elevator and walks across the lobby. When she gets to the street, she can’t stop shaking.
“Ciao, Carina,” he says when he comes home a few hours later.
Angela smiles.
“Da quando non ci si vede,” she replies.
Hey, Sweetheart, long time, no see. They sound like a bad American movie. The one they saw last month. Or maybe the month before that. Both of them love movies. They love sitting in the back, in the dark, watching the story loom over them. Antonio puts his arms around her, he pushes her toward the little kitchen. She’s wearing a skirt. When he lifts her onto the counter, she wraps her legs around him.
“I need you to do
something,” he says. He runs his finger across her lips and down to the top button of her blouse. “I need you because I know I can trust you.” He reaches for his belt buckle. Then he asks her to deliver the first letter.
* * *
The envelope is absolutely plain. There is nothing written on it at all. But it feels as if it’s made of lead, as if it’s going to fall through the bottom of her handbag.
You get off the bus. You walk three blocks. There’s a phone booth, on the corner. Go into it, but not until ten o’clock. Don’t be early, don’t be late. Lift up the receiver, look like you’re making a call. Then hang up and leave the envelope on the top of the telephone. Come out and walk away. Don’t look back.
Antonio’s voice throbs in her head. He’s with her while she rides the bus and gets off and walks alone through the dark streets.
When she sees the phone booth, she feels a pang of relief. She’s been here almost seven months now, but Rome is huge. She only knows her own little pockets of it, and although she followed his instructions exactly, she was afraid she might have made a mistake—got on the wrong bus, walked the wrong way without realizing it. Antonio has never been angry with her. Not once. He’s never even raised his voice. All he’s ever shown her is love. But there is a part of her, some tiny sliver, that knows what his anger would taste like. Earth on her tongue.
The door of the phone booth is cold to the touch. Inside it smells of mold and old leaves. Angela lifts the receiver and feels the damp, slightly sticky plastic, the memory of other people’s words. She pretends to drop a token in and dial a number, her old one in Ferrara with two digits wrong, then waits and looks out the scratched Plexiglas window. There’s no one walking on the street, which is wide and quiet. Lights shine from the houses and apartment buildings. There are trees, not as big as the ones by the Angels’ Gate, and not with ruby leaves, but nice enough. This is an expensive neighborhood.
She finishes her make-believe call and puts the receiver back. Then she reaches into her bag and takes out the envelope and places it on top of the phone, making sure it is tucked in the little crack where the casing is bolted to the wall so it won’t fall onto the dirty floor. She spends a few moments on this, because it feels important.
Then she leaves and closes the door carefully. She can see the envelope quite clearly, an oblong of white, and for a second she’s gripped by panic. Antonio didn’t say anything about that, about whether she should try to hide it. But in a phone booth, where? Her watch says three minutes past ten. Angela looks at the letter one last time, then turns away and starts up the pavement, her footsteps sounding too loud as she passes under a streetlight. Half a block later, she checks her watch again. Four minutes past. Then, for a reason she can’t explain, she stops.
There’s a cluster of trees just here, and a gate pillar, and the edge of a wall. Angela steps into their shadow, then turns and looks back. The phone booth hangs on the edge of the street lamp’s halo. They will have put it there deliberately, she thinks, to make everyone feel safe. Her hands are cold. She shoves them into her pockets, and is suddenly aware of the hard pattering race of her heart. The wall is rough and snags her coat and hair. She has no idea why she is doing this. She knows she should go, should keep walking, do as she’s told. She knows Antonio would be angry, even furious, if he knew. She feels his breath on the back of her neck. Ti possiedo, per sempre. I own you, forever. Still she can’t help herself. She waits.
The woman comes from the opposite direction, her shape emerging out of the dark. Angela is too far away to see her face, but from the way she walks, from her build, she guesses they’re about the same age. Angela can tell, too, that she’s trying to walk slowly—trying to look normal, whatever normal is supposed to look like when your father has been made to disappear like smoke. She stops on the curb opposite the phone booth. Silhouetted in the streetlight, Angela sees the bulge of her stomach as she turns sideways and realizes she is pregnant. Unconsciously her hand goes to her own belly, which is flat and hard. There is no traffic. The girl looks both ways anyway before she crosses the street.
Her first steps are tentative. Then she can’t keep herself from running. Like an animal that’s broken loose, she dashes. Her dark coat and green scarf catch the light as she almost falls against the phone booth door, shoving it open with both hands. Even from this distance Angela can see her arm reaching out through the blur of the Plexiglas, snatching for her father’s letter, for the words he has sent from nowhere.
It’s very late when Angela finally gets home, almost midnight, and Antonio is waiting for her. He puts his arms around her. Runs his warm hands under her sweater and up her back.
“Did you deliver it?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says. She lays her head against his chest. “Yes.”
Later she lies in his arms and feels him holding her down, anchoring her into the world. On the way home on the bus, it had started to rain. In their cramped little bedroom, Angela closes her eyes and feels herself rocked on the muffled noise from the streets below. On the whoosh of tires and the stamp of the horses. And finally on the slow huff of Antonio’s sleeping breath and her waking one as they mingle, and rise, and fall.
I have daughters.
I have daughters.
I have daughters.
* * *
Aldo Moro’s interrogation has begun.
Its purpose is to clarify the imperialist and antiproletarian politics of the Christian Democratic Party and to ascertain the direct responsibility of Aldo Moro
The communiqué, which had been sent to newspapers in Genoa and Milan and Rome, flies like a banner across all the front pages. It ripples from kiosks and corner shops. And it isn’t alone. There are other headlines, too. Dozens of them, not dictated by the BR.
Terrorists’ Demands Rejected. Parties Agree, No Negotiations. Moro Letter Appeals to Government.
The words dog Angela as she walks from the dry cleaners to the florist’s, where she has recently picked up a third job. And then from the florist’s to the trattoria.
The letter to the government, which was addressed Caro Francesco and signed Most Affectionate Greetings, Aldo Moro, confused her at first. She knew it hadn’t been the one she delivered because the papers said it had been in the same package as the communiqué, which had appeared in all three cities at 8 p.m. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but for the first time it occurred to her that she wasn’t the only one taking buses, walking in the dark, pulling envelopes out of her bag. She wondered how many there were, and felt strange thinking of herself as part of a secret army, a brigade that acted and worked in concert but never saw one another or even knew for sure that they existed. That the other soldiers were not more than mice in a neighboring room.
You cannot betray,
Or be betrayed,
By what you do not know.
Then she reminded herself that she was not one of them. That all she did was cook meals. Walk to a phone booth. Deliver the words kiss the children for me. And then only because Antonio asked her to. Only because he beat inside her like a second heart.
Surrounded by large tin buckets, and piles of stripped leaves and the sweet fecund smell of two-day-old lilies, Angela opens the books and adds up numbers and sees that the florist is going, probably sooner rather than later, the same way as her father’s shop. Without really meaning to, she finds herself trying to think up ways to stave off yet another mushroom cloud. Could they have specials on day-old carnations? Or overgrown pots of African violets? Could they offer two-for-one deals the way the supermarkets do, but on dying lilies instead?
She likes the florist’s, but of her three jobs, the one at the trattoria is her favorite. Usually she is there alone except for the owner, a tall man with stooped shoulders who hums as he lays the tables and argues with the greengrocer about the menu. In the dark back office where she sits with the TV turned off, she can pretend the world really is about the availability of asparagus. Or the supply of the first small,
pungent melons. Or about arguments over the price of green beans and the firmness of tomatoes.
Outside, on the streets, walking to and fro, or even at her other jobs, or at home when the television is on, it’s not so easy. The bodyguards bother her most.
Oreste Leonardi. Domenico Ricci. Giulio Rivera. Raffaele Iozzino. Francesco Zizzi.
Their names appeared in the papers and on posters, in boxes lined in black. On the day of their funerals, both the dry cleaners and trattoria closed out of respect.
“They were just men doing their jobs. And for that, they’re dead. They had wives. Children. Those bastards can keep their revolution.”
The dry cleaner shook his head, pulling the shutter down over his shop.
At the florist’s they sold more flowers than in the whole week before. Bouquets were tied to railings, and left by fountains and on the steps of churches even though they had not been frequented, or perhaps ever even visited, by any of the five men. And that was nothing, nothing at all, compared to the drifts of blossoms and ribbons and gifts that were left on Via Fani.
Angela sees it on television—a tide of flowers surging across the pavement, spilling down to the bus stop and climbing the iron railings opposite the intersection where Aldo Moro’s car stopped and the shooting began.
His driver, the papers say, kept driving even after he was shot. Had been trying to maneuver, twisting the wheel and stamping on the pedals, when the fatal bullet hit him. The guard beside him had thrown himself over the seat and onto Moro. Had shoved him down, covering Aldo Moro with his own body as he died. The three men in the following car never had a chance. They were hit by a barrage of bullets, semiautomatic fire. Two had been killed instantly. The third died moments after arriving at the hospital.
A cross has been set up, a worn beret tied to it, medals pinned to the brim. Two students from Foggia stand hand in hand and tell the television reporter that they have come to Rome specially, to see the spot where the five policemen died. Where they were murdered for doing their duty. A woman calls them heroes. Another woman stands with her child, who is fingering the big bows on the bouquets, pulling petals off the occasional flower and shifting from foot to foot as his mother tells the reporter that she has brought him here “because we have to learn something.”
The Lost Daughter Page 34
