[C. MacP #5] The Dead Don't Get Out Much

by Mary Jane Maffini

  * * *

  I awoke with a start, fully clothed. I yanked open the heavy velvet curtains to face a grey day. It was just before seven in the morning, and I was ravenous. I wasn't sure when I'd last had a meal. I needed something so that I could at least think straight. The breakfast room would be opening in a half-hour. I showered, changed and tossed my notebook into my backpack.

  I pulled my wet hair into a ponytail, slipped my jean jacket over the sweater and headed to the pay phone down the street.

  * * *

  “Who is this again?” The Cape Breton accent was clear on the line. It would have been one in the morning there. I knew that was prime time for the Deveau girls.

  “Camilla MacPhee, your father's friend. We have met, Brittany, although you may not remember. And I spoke to your sister, Ashley, yesterday.”

  “Oh, yeah. She said that. Something about a hospital. Dad's not in the hospital today either.”

  “Can I speak to him?”

  “I don't know where he is.”

  “He seems to be on vacation from work.”

  “Yeah, that's right. He is on vacation from work.”

  “He's not home now?”

  “No, he's not.”

  “Do you know how I can reach him.”

  “I don't.”

  “All right. Any idea when he'll be back?”

  “No idea. My aunt might know.”

  “That's great. Can I speak to her?”

  “She's in bed.”

  “Should I call later?”

  “It's your money, Carla.”

  I thought hard. I needed to get something out of one of these pricy phone calls, besides another headache. I tried a variation on the theme.

  “Is your father in town?”

  “No, he isn't.”

  “Okay. You don't know where he went?”

  “He's on vacation somewhere. He was talking about like Costa Rica or Mexico and places like that. I didn't pay too much attention.”

  “But…”

  “Look, that's my boyfriend on the other line, I gotta go.”

  “Wait! Is there a number where I can reach him?”

  “I don't know. He went with a friend. Some lady.”

  I hung up with a sick feeling in my stomach. Ray had lost patience with me and gone off to a bird sanctuary in Costa Rica or a beach in Mexico with another woman. Who could blame him? It wasn't like I was much of a companion. On the other hand, what else could I have done? I'd had no choice but to try and find Mrs. Parnell. What kind of guy couldn't deal with that?

  * * *

  Okay, I asked myself, what would Mrs. P. do? She always says that an army marches on its stomach. Good advice.

  I headed back to the hotel and hit the breakfast buffet the minute the door opened. I managed to catch up on a day's worth of food and stockpiled a bit for the future rough spots. The breakfast room had even higher ceilings than the bedroom, fourteen foot ceilings or more with lovely faded frescos, ancient stained glass windows, and a smattering of other guests who minded their own business. I helped myself to rolls and butter, preserves, cheese and ham and salami. I even had a yogurt and juice. I considered cereal but settled for fruit.

  I avoided the coffee pot, where a dark mucky brew was boiling away in what was obviously considered to be American style, and headed for the smiling girl behind the bar counter. She was making cappuccinos.

  I was happily sipping one when the desk clerk fluttered in with a message for me. A signor Vittorio Ralli was asking to see me. It was urgent. signor Ralli was waiting in the lobby. Was I available? To hell with cappuccino.

  * * *

  Vittorio delivered big time. He'd coaxed the missing name out of Giuseppe's memory and secured an address in Stagno Toscano. He assured me that this man, Stefano Braccia, was a noted partisan, with all his marbles, and unlike poor Giuseppe, he was rumoured to speak some English as well.

  “Signora Camilla,” he said, running his fingers through his thick silvery waves, “I wish I could come with you. I have promised to help with the funeral arrangements for poor Luciano Falcone. He deserves proper respect, and signora Martello is too hysterical to do a good job. That boy Fabrizio is quite a brat, and who knows, they may even lose their home. Povera donna. Not everyone can be brava like you. Don't worry too much, because Giuseppe tells me his friend can speak pretty good English. Of course, Giuseppe's a bit off his nut. Let's hope it is the truth.”

  We left the hotel lobby together and barely avoided a pair of police officers sauntering through the front door. Their uniforms looked like something out of a Gilbert and Sullivan production.

  “Don't worry about them,” Vittorio said. “They're just carabinieri.”

  I was still a bit skittish as a result of events earlier that fall, so I did worry about the police. I couldn't afford any delays if I wanted to meet this Stefano Braccia and be back before Mrs. Parnell showed up to pick up her new vehicle at one o'clock. So I was out of there as fast as I could.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was in the Ka, trying not to close my eyes. I gripped the wheel and prayed to avoid humans, vehicles and buildings on my way out of town. I should have prayed not to get lost, not to drive in circles, and definitely not to choose one-way streets, which inexplicably and heart-stoppingly changed direction mid-intersection.

  Never mind, I was rested, well-fed and glad to get out of Florence alive.

  * * *

  You have to get lucky sometime, and I got lucky with Stagno Toscano. The town seemed fairly modern and straightforward. I found the address easily by turning off Via Garibaldi and driving straight for two blocks. Vittorio had given good instructions.

  The house was a good-sized, two-storey stucco, with the same type of terra cotta roof tiles seen all over Italy. It had the ghost of a vegetable garden on the side. It sat in a line of newish residences and was surrounded by a fence and a locked gate. A minute after I rang the bell, a woman popped out onto the second floor balcony and waved.

  “I am Camilla MacPhee,” I shouted up. “I would like to speak with Stefano Braccia.”

  She waved both arms. “Momentino!”

  Seconds later, she flung open the front door. She clutched my hand and gave me a huge and unexpected hug. She ushered me up a set of narrow marble stairs and into a large kitchen. The kitchen was a surprise: dark cupboards, built-in huge gas oven and six-burner cook top, microwave, cappuccino maker, large fridge, freezer, double-sink and dishwasher. In the middle of the slate floor was a table that could seat a dozen people. On the far wall, a large-screen television flashed soundless images of half-dressed performers.

  The modern appliances stood in contrast to a sofa covered in a ratty quilt. An old man sat there, with another quilt covering his lap. His small dark face was criss-crossed with tiny lines, as if he'd shrunk. There was something lively, almost mischievous, in those faded eyes.

  She spoke rapidly to him. I couldn't really follow her staccato Italian, but I got the sense she was telling him to behave himself.

  “Signor Braccia,” I said.

  He nodded.

  I introduced myself again, mentioning Vittorio Ralli and Giuseppe, whose last name I'd never heard. I smiled.

  He spoke to the daughter in the same rapid-fire manner.

  “Si, si, papà! Un po’ di vino, signora?” she said.

  “No, grazie.” I had to be on top of my game to get back to Florence by one.

  “Grappa?”

  I shook my head and managed a gesture to indicate that grappa would make me dizzy.

  She said, with some anxiety. “Espresso? Caffè ristretto? Corretto?”

  I agreed to espresso, just to get things moving.

  “Please, sit down,” the old man said.

  “I'm so glad you speak English,” I said. “My Italian is quite limited.”

  “Let's see how much I remember. It's been a long time since I lived in Canada.”

  “You lived in Canada?”

  “For a couple of year
s in the early sixties, working in construction. Lotta people went over. Some stayed, some came back home.”

  “Great,” I said. “I bet you have a few cousins there.”

  “Out west. Can't stand that bunch. I got these teeth in Canada though, and I always liked them.” He tapped his large white incisors.

  “Great-looking teeth,” I said. “So, where did you live in Canada?”

  “Mostly Toronto. Had to move back to Italy to get some good food,” he said with a wicked chuckle. “I hear it's better over there now.”

  “Still can't measure up to Italy,” I said.

  That was well received.

  “Allora, signora. Vittorio tells me some tall tale about planes and missing women. He says these all have something to do with the death of my old friend, Luciano Falcone.”

  I took a deep breath. “I am very sorry about your friend.”

  “Forget about it. At my age, everyone's dying. You get used to it. Luciano was a bit younger than me, only eighty-even. He was still enjoying life, not being kept in prison by his family.” He flashed a look at the daughter.

  “It all sounds crazy, and maybe I'm wrong, but I believe there is a connection between signor Falcone's death and my missing grandmother. I hope you can help.”

  “We'll see about that. I am glad you came. It's boring here. There's not much for an old man with no legs to do, except watch my daughter cook, and watch the porcheria on the television.”

  “You'll find this interesting, at the least,” I said.

  The daughter had produced a feast on the table. In addition to the three kinds of cheese, bread, ham and prosciutto appeared by slight of hand. I couldn't identify everything. I thought I saw fresh ricotta cheese and homemade fig preserves. She gestured toward them with a shy smile.

  “Please, you eat,” she said.

  “My daughter doesn't remember much from our time in Canada. At least she retains the right words.”

  I filled him in while his daughter helped him from the couch to the table. She filled a large tumbler of homemade wine for him.

  “Salute,” he said, raising his glass.

  The daughter said something in that staccato manner I was getting used to.

  “Mariella wants you to know that our family makes this wine. She hopes that you will try just a lil’ bit.”

  “Only a splash,” I said. I didn't bother to say because it isn't even noon yet. That kind of thinking gets you nowhere in Italy.

  “Not this wine,” he said. “No headache, very pure.”

  “They tell me you were a partisan during the war,” I said, wanting to get back on topic.

  “I was. Garibaldi brigade.”

  “What I need to know is if you can recall meeting an airman who escaped from a bomber that went down in Berli back in 1944.”

  “Sure. I met a lot of downed airmen,” he said.

  “A lot?”

  “Sure. There were all kinds of people hiding in the hills in 1944. Allies who had become separated from the units, pilots who had bailed out, infiltrators, spies, English, American, Russians, you name it. I even met an Indian from India. He was a mule driver.”

  “Really? And Canadians?”

  “Canadians too, of course. Canadians were big in Italy during the war. That's one of the reasons I went over in the fifties. I knew some guys.”

  “You don't remember meeting any specific Canadian airman in that area?”

  “Well, sure, I do.”

  I got it. I was the most fun he'd had in years. He was trapped in the kitchen of his daughter's house. He couldn't walk without assistance. Then I show up, wanting to talk about what was probably the most exciting time of his life. Who wouldn't want to drag that out? I understood, but I still had to get back to Florence by one.

  I smiled conspiratorially. “What do you remember?”

  “I remember that everyone died on that plane, except the one guy.”

  “Were you surprised that anyone could get out of a plane like that?”

  “We had learned not to be surprised by nothing. The world had been crazy for years. You could be happy one of the good guys beat the odds, that was it. One day at a time.”

  “I hadn't thought of that. I had wondered if there was some controversy about the crash.”

  He shrugged. “Never heard nothing about a controversy. The villagers hid it, couldn't blame them. Didn't want the SS snooping around.”

  “So you didn't think there was anything suspicious about him?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “For sure, we didn't.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because if we did, we would have killed him on the spot.”

  “Killed him?”

  “You surprised, signora?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shouldn't be. It was war. People killed each other all over the place. For a pair of earrings, a dirty look, a rumour. We were partisans. We risked our lives and the lives of our families every day. We all seen people murdered, friends, family, innocent people. Shot in front of us back in our villages. My next-door neighbour was Fascist, he watched while my father got killed in 1936. You know why? Because my father believed in socialism. So a man he knew all his life watch an innocent man get kicked to death. That's why we were in those mountains fighting. We knew the kinds of tricks the Nazis played. And the fascisti.”

  “Right.”

  He said, “It was a dangerous time. For everybody. Most of us did things we lived to regret.”

  I knew he was speaking from experience. I decided not to inquire about what happened to the Fascist neighbour after the war.

  “Where did this airman go after he left you?”

  “He didn't go anywhere for a long time. He was hurt bad, burned a bit too. It took a while for him to get well enough to leave.”

  “Did your group look after him?”

  “Well, a bit, I guess. We gave him shelter and a bit of food. Someone set his broken arm. One of the girls nursed him. We didn't have medicine or painkillers, except if one of us managed to get some grappa.”

  “Ah,” I said, “grappa.”

  “Makes a pretty good disinfectant as well as a painkiller,” he said with a chuckle.

  “And emergency fuel for a vehicle, I imagine. Did he recover?”

  “Yeah, sure. I seen a lot worse than him.”

  I resisted the urge to drum my fingers. “When did he leave your group?”

  “When it was okay to. We were on the move, too. The area was crawling with Germans in 1944. They were heading back to Germany, marching prisoners and forced labourers with them. We were doing our best to blow up their transport.”

  “Did he stay on with your group until the Germans troops were gone?”

  “We were a brigade.”

  “Your brigade then. Did he stay with you for the rest of the war?”

  “No, no. He left as soon as he could.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Back to one of the Canadian units, I suppose.”

  “How would he do that?”

  “Probably we gave some names of contacts to help him get back to the Canadians. They been fighting their way north, breaking through the German defensive lines. In ’44, they been moving up toward the Gothic Line.”

  “Were there any Canadians around where you were?”

  “They been east of here. Not far, by Canadian distances. It's different when you're on foot in winter.”

  “People knew where the Canadians were? I thought they would be trying to be, I don't know, inconspicuous.”

  He laughed out loud at that, showing the Canadian teeth. “They had a big army. You could not miss them.”

  “So he could have made it alive?”

  “This guy? Well, sure. He spoke pretty good Italian, he had nerve, for sure. Lotsa charm. The women were crazy for him. Tall blond guy like that. They been fighting over who got to look after him.”

  “I don't suppose by any chance you remember his name
?”

  He smiled. “Maybe.”

  I waited in silence. Two can play these games. He was certainly enjoying it more than I was.

  “Some more wine, signora? Mariella! Vino per la signora.”

  The daughter rushed forward with the bottle.

  I covered my glass with my hand and shook my head at Mariella. “No, grazie. Just the name would be good for me, please.”

  “I am an old man. I like to have fun,” he said.

  “Can't blame you for that,” I said. “Still, I need to know the answer.”

  “Forgive my little jokes,” he said. “At my age, things come and go. The name is gone. I hope it will come back.”

  “Oh, boy. I hope so.”

  “He was RCAF. I remember the symbol.”

  “While you are trying to remember, I need to tell you something. You have been very kind to me. Your friend Luciano was almost certainly killed by someone who wanted this information. Can your daughter make sure you are in a safe place? Can you go visit friends?”

  “I'm not going nowhere,” he said, making two fists. “Let them try.”

  I turned to the daughter and attempted, in my fractured Italian, to tell her that her father might be in danger.

  “Madonna santa!” she said, making the sign of the cross. She had picked up the phone before I'd finished talking.

  He said, “Now you've done it. Now I gotta go visit my son. I can't stand his wife. She's a stupid bitch and a lousy cook, not like Mariella here. She can work miracles with food.”

  Mariella, hearing her name, turned away from the phone and stared anxiously at her father.

  He lowered his voice and muttered, “Don't tell her I said that. I don't like a conceited woman.”

  Mariella's mental health was not my immediate concern, although I did get the urge to boot Stefano Braccia's mean old butt.

  “You should spend a few days there anyway. It's a dangerous situation, because we don't really know why your friend was killed.”

  “I'm gonna take the risk.”

  “It won't take long. It's just to sort things out. A day or so won't hurt, I'm sure.”

  “You get to my age, every meal counts.” He barked something at Mariella.

  She said, “No papà, no papà, no papà.” Finally, she put her hands over her ears. Papà was quite a handful. He must have really been something back in the war.