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The Italian Party

Page 16

by Christina Lynch


  Scottie was furious. “But it’s not his fault who his parents were!”

  Carlo sighed, and she saw that there was a lot he wanted to say, but couldn’t. “Your family, who you come from … It’s not like in America. The Sienese are…” She remembered what he had said about not having friends in Siena. Instead of finishing the thought, he reached out and removed a twig from Scottie’s hair. His eyes landed on hers at last. “If you’re going to venture into the macchia, you should watch out for cinghiali.” Cinghiali, she knew, were the sharp-tusked local wild boar. Vicious. Ecco shifted in his arms and he broke their gaze, resumed the last of the quill pulling. “If you come face-to-face with the cinghiale you’ll be sorry.” But there was something more than that in his warning.

  “Carlo.” She was once again about to say, “I’m sorry for what I said the other day,” but a plume of dust appeared along the road, and they turned and saw a black Alfa racing toward them.

  “You didn’t find her,” Carlo said urgently. “I did.”

  Before she could protest, the cloud of dust enveloped them as the Alfa skidded to an unnecessarily dramatic stop.

  Tenente Pisano got out of the car, his black boots shining.

  “Signor Marchese,” he said with great deference, then frowned at her. “Signora Messina?”

  “Signora Messina is my tenant,” said Carlo. “She’s just come to talk about a problem with the apartment. She’s not involved in … this. Gina is in there. There are drugs.” He pointed to the tunnel in the macchia. “Any sign of Robertino in Siena?”

  Pisano shook his head and looked reluctantly at the opening in the macchia. Scottie could see he did not want to sully his crisp uniform.

  “Signor Tenente,” Scottie said. “I’d like to help find Robertino in any way I can.”

  “How could you possibly help?” he snapped.

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me. I was offering.”

  “It’s your fault we have drugs in Italy.”

  “My fault?”

  “Yes. The Americans freed all the Mafiosi, and now they are making heroin. It’s an abomination.”

  “Well, you can’t possibly blame me for that!”

  Attempting to maintain his dignity, Tenente Pisano crawled into the brush muttering an array of curses.

  Carlo took the reins of his horse and moved off down the road. Scottie pushed the scooter alongside him.

  “We grew up together,” said Carlo, nodding over his shoulder at where the tenente had diappeared. “He’s gotten very full of himself, but I believe he’s still a good man. I would offer you a cup of tea, but I think you said something the other day about never wanting to see me again.”

  She blushed, but when she looked at him, he was laughing.

  Oh God, she thought, feeling all her resolve start to disappear.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just…”

  “I understand,” he said quietly. “So I won’t invite you. Unless…” He pointed to a cluster of tall pines. “Castello delle Castagne.”

  “A castle?”

  “An exaggeration.”

  She very, very badly wanted to see Carlo’s house. But she knew it would not stop there. And so did he. Carlo was handsome, kind, charming, intelligent, funny, tragic … and very romantic.

  “I would love to, but I have to get back to Siena,” she said.

  Carlo gave a slight bow of acknowledgment. “Another time, then,” he said. “Enjoy the Palio.”

  “I’ll try, but I’m so worried about Robertino. If he knows who was giving her drugs…”

  Carlo nodded. “That is why you saw nothing. Better to stay out of it.”

  She put Ecco safely onto the scooter.

  “Thank you,” she said, trying to put as much meaning into it as possible.

  “Il piacere è stato tutto mio, gentile Signora Messina”—The pleasure was all mine—he said with grinning faux formality, then leaned down and picked up the largest of the quills, about eight inches long, striped in black and white like the town’s cathedral, with a vicious point.

  “Like the Sienese,” he said with a grim smile, handing it to her carefully.

  * * *

  There was no time to change. With poor punctured Ecco on the seat in front of her like the figurehead on a ship, his ears pinned back in the wind, she buzzed back into Siena through Porta Tufi. She threaded her way through the narrow streets under festoons of laundry, and created a parking place by moving a trash bin in Piazza Mercato behind the Campo as the crowds came pouring out of the piazza. The evening prova was over, and the restaurants would be setting up as fast as magicians could make a rabbit appear. She pulled on gloves, rearranged her scarf and brushed the twigs out of her hair using the rearview mirror. She’d have to return the scooter tomorrow morning. There was nothing to do about the mud stains on the formerly crisp knees of her trousers. She sighed, snapped on Ecco’s leash and walked up the stairs and into the piazza under the disapproving gaze of the saints on the Torre del Mangia.

  I saw a dead body, she thought. I saw a dead body, but I can’t tell anyone. I mustn’t get involved.

  * * *

  As they crossed the piazza, Ecco stopped to be petted by an adoring trio of girls in white dresses and perfect little hats. She could feel the stares and hear the pointed chatter as she and Ecco arrived at Bar Nannini. Nothing in Siena went unnoticed by anyone. Would Tenente Pisano spread the word that La Straniera was hanging out roadside with il marchese? Che figura, she imagined they were whispering about her. She tried to stand tall. The scarf did a poor job of covering the dried mud, Ecco’s blood and dog hair. She felt ashamed and at the same time resentful that she was supposed to be perfectly pressed all the time. She wanted to bark at the people at the surrounding tables.

  Poor Michael was stepping out of the crowd to greet her, clearly alarmed. “What happened to you?”

  She wished she could tell him everything. Why couldn’t she? Because he would be even more worried than he already was. He would probably put her on the next ship back to America.

  “I … I rented a scooter to take a drive in the country and I skidded out,” she said.

  “Oh, Scottie. The baby … You need to be careful. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. And then Ecco ran off and came back with a faceful of porcupine quills. I’m sorry I’m late. It was kind of a terrible day.”

  The sad part was that she felt empowered by not telling him. Perhaps that was how he felt when describing his Rome trips simply as “boring.” He listened to her highly edited story as the waiter, Paolo, showed them to a coveted table outside, Michael sipping his gin martini, his eyes on the parade of people passing their table. There was something a little thrilling about not telling, she realized. The power of secrets. But this thought also depressed her, with all its implications for her marriage, and the rest of her life with this person.

  A pack of young contradaioli in Snail neckerchiefs marched past chanting. Their energy made her feel flat in comparison.

  “I brought you this,” he said, handing her a large black box. “I went to Nina Ricci. If you don’t like it, I’ll exchange it.”

  She opened the box. It was the most absurd, fabulous little hat she had ever seen, a little cap of white feathers that came up to a saucy question point curl on top.

  “It reminded me of Ecco’s tail,” said Michael.

  “I love it,” she said, thinking it was not something she would ever wear.

  4.

  Scottie was late and, when she arrived, a mess. She told him some crazy story about having rented a scooter and taken a drive outside the city. Not that he could blame her for wanting to escape—the drumming alone could drive a person to madness.

  He wished he could tell her about the bizarre meeting with Duncan—secrets were so corrosive, he thought.

  At least she seemed to like the hat.

  5.

  “I think I’d better have a vet look at Ecco,” she said, sippi
ng her Campari and soda, hoping it would change her mood. The dog was lying on the tufa-covered paving stones under their table, subdued at last, faint droplets of dried blood on his muzzle.

  “Where’s your bracelet?” Michael asked suddenly, staring at her wrist. “Oh, Scottie, you haven’t lost it?”

  “It must have fallen off when I crashed,” she said. She realized Pisano would find it when he removed Gina’s body. There would be questions. Would Carlo cover for her? She knew somehow that he would, that he would be her friend above all. That he was loyal.

  The waiter arrived with a plate of crostini, an appetizer of little toasts.

  Michael sighed and covered her hand with his. “I’ll buy you another one,” he said. “On the Ponte Vecchio. We’ll go up to Florence soon and have lunch. Make a day of it. We’ll get some baby things, too.”

  “How are tractor sales?” she asked as Paolo brought her another Campari and soda and another gin martini for Michael.

  He shook his head. “Not great.”

  6.

  Scottie said something in Italian to the dog about bones. When had she learned to speak Italian so well? It was highly impressive, though the Agency would not approve. It would be good for her to meet some other English-speaking wives. This mixing with the locals was not the norm for Agency spouses, but then Scottie did not know she was an Agency spouse. He felt guilty about all the nights he left her alone. Always, but especially when he was coming back to Siena from Rome, the taste of Duncan on his lips, he was ashamed of what he was, and angry that he had to hide behind her.

  “Maybe you should invite Leona to come over, and you two could go down to Capri,” he said. “Get out of the heat for a couple of weeks.”

  Leona. Only a few months ago they were so close, and now she felt like her former best friend would hardly know her, and Scottie wouldn’t know what to say to her.

  “I can’t leave now. Not while we don’t know what’s happened to Robertino.”

  7.

  Michael was trying so hard to be nice. He was right, of course, that she should get out of Siena for a bit. She was trying hard to find the one person besides Carlo who could ruin her marriage. If Robertino told Michael—or anyone—what he had seen at San Galgano … and yet she couldn’t bear the idea that the boy might be in danger. He might not want to be her friend anymore, but she would continue to be his.

  “Look,” Michael said. “I know I’ve been away a lot, and you’ve been lonely. When we’re in Florence, we’ll sign you up for the American Women’s Club, okay?”

  She laughed a little, surprised. “Do you really see me as one of those corporate wives who lives in an English-only bubble and looks down on the ‘natives’? Bridge, shopping, tea, art history lectures, a barbecue on the Fourth of July and a turkey at Thanksgiving to keep the American spirit alive?”

  “Yes,” he said, looking confused. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing,” she said. Everything, she thought. “You’re right,” she said, lying.

  She watched two rival squads of chanting contradaioli meet in the center of the square. It had been a strange, discombobulated day, yet she didn’t want it to end.

  “Let’s get some dinner,” he said.

  “One more drink.” Without waiting for Michael to agree, she waved to the waiter and ordered another Campari. She had no taste for it, had barely touched the second one, but she ordered it anyway, to keep them there. She moved her chair around so that she and Michael were sitting side by side, the piazza spread out before them like a stage.

  The evening air felt good on her skin. She watched the passeggiata of people moving around the Campo, wishing she were one of them. She thought of Robertino, of Ugo, of Carlo, each so alive in his own way, and poor Gina, dead.

  “I’d like to ride in the Palio,” she said.

  Michael smiled at her, confused. “It’s not for women,” he said.

  The café lights were coming on, and the chairs around them were filling up with older people who preferred to sit and watch. Scottie could hear someone talking about Gaudenzia, a gray mare who had won three Palios in ’54, when besides the traditional July and August races, the town had added a September event as part of the Pope’s yearlong celebration of the Virgin.

  “I know,” she said. “But I want to do it anyway.”

  To her surprise, he didn’t protest or condescend. He nodded.

  Around a potted lemon came a waiter leading a petite woman in a pink dress, arm in arm with an older man with a short white beard who was wearing a pale blue plaid sports shirt tucked into olive green trousers. They were sharing a joke, the woman giggling. Michael, visibly surprised, said, “Julie?” The woman dropped the man’s arm and gave Michael a confused half smile, her cheeks flushing.

  “Nice to see you again,” she said.

  “This is my wife, Scottie.” Julie gave Scottie a longer look. Scottie offered her hand politely.

  Michael said, “Julie’s married to a friend of mine from Yale.”

  “Duncan sent me off to do some sightseeing,” Julie said, a little stiffly. “He’s always trying to get rid of me. Tuscany is so beautiful. We’ve come to see the Palio.” Michael looked at the older man, and Julie jumped in. “This is my guide, Signor Giannelli. Duncan said it wasn’t safe to travel alone.”

  “True,” said Michael. “He was absolutely right.”

  “Maybe we could have a table with a view of the tower,” said Signor Giannelli smoothly to the waiter, who led them away to a farther table as Michael and Scottie gave a polite wave.

  “Is this Duncan a close friend of yours?” asked Scottie when they were out of earshot. Michael never talked about friends.

  “He works at the embassy in Rome.”

  “Oh. She seems nice.”

  “Yes, well,” said Michael, preoccupied, “I don’t know her well. Look,” he added. “You’ve had a long day and probably want a bath. Let’s get a quick dinner and make it an early night.”

  As they stood up and left, Scottie could feel Julie’s eyes on her.

  8.

  The sight of Julie was a shock. What was she of all people doing in Siena? Who was that Italian she was with? Could snooty little Julie have a lover? An older man, no less? He wondered if he should tell Duncan he had seen her, or let her tell him. It felt good to know something Duncan didn’t.

  If Duncan had sent Julie away now, why hadn’t he invited Michael to stay longer? Why was he sitting here in Siena when they could have been dining now in a little place in Piazza del Popolo? Heading back for a night together, perhaps pulling the bed out onto the huge terrace with the potted lemon trees. Was Duncan lying there now, looking over the lights of the city? Was he alone? A flame of jealousy rose in him.

  “She and her husband are terrible snobs,” he told Scottie.

  “I could tell,” she said, and he loved her for it.

  9.

  They moved over to Ristorante Il Campo, where Signor Tommaso had saved a table for them with an excellent view of the milling crowds. Again she sat side by side with Michael rather than across from him, so that she could people-watch. At the table next to her, an older couple were also sitting side by side, arguing in a friendly way. She tried to eavesdrop, only to practice her Italian, she told herself. Barbaresco, quattordici anni. Rapinato. They were talking about Robertino, she realized in amazement. She tried to remember what rapinato meant—kidnapped?

  She leaned closer, as if she were just resting on an arm of her chair. The couple did not seem to notice her listening. The man was owlish-looking, with sandy hair, thick glasses and a light plaid sport jacket. The woman had dark hair in a swinging bob and was dressed stylishly in what looked like Balmain.

  “Scottie,” said Michael.

  She looked at him.

  “Don’t,” he whispered.

  She covered her mouth with her hand. “They’re talking about Robertino.”

  “I heard they received one of his ears in the mail,” said the wo
man to the man.

  Scottie gasped. The couple turned and looked at her in surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in Italian. “It’s just that I hadn’t heard that. Did that happen today?”

  She could see that Michael was tongue-tied and embarrassed by her eavesdropping. How did he hope to succeed as a salesman if he was so shy?

  The couple nodded at Scottie, visibly adjusting their expectations of the woman they had assumed was a tourist. “You speak Italian,” they said approvingly. “But you are not Italian?”

  “Siamo americani,” she said, with a sigh. “I’m learning Italian from the missing boy, Robertino Banchi.”

  “Oh!” they said.

  The waiter brought plates of velvety pappardelle col sugo di lepre. Ecco sat up, his nose twitching.

  “You said rapinato,” Scottie said. “What makes you think he was kidnapped?”

  “I heard that there was a ransom note,” said the man, “but it may be a false rumor.”

  “Is that really true about the ear?” Scottie asked.

  “Well…,” said the woman, her earrings dangling in the candlelight. “It’s something I heard.”

  “He’s not just my teacher, he’s my friend. I went to the stable where he worked. I can’t seem to get any information at all. I heard his mother … died.”

  Michael looked at her sharply.

  “Drugs,” she added.

  Michael again shot her a look.

  “Oh,” said the woman. “Very sad.”

  “Probably a client gave them to her,” said Scottie. “Or a pimp. Out there on the Cassia. Apparently the Mafia is making heroin.” Michael’s eyes widened.

  The Italian man went on as Scottie listened, leaning forward in her chair.

  “There have been other kidnappings,” he said. “Sardi.” He was referring to the new crop of immigrants from Sardinia who had moved in to fill positions as shepherds when local Tuscans like Ecco’s previous owner fled to factory jobs in the northern cities of Milan and Turin. The Sienese looked with mistrust on the newcomers, and suspected them of every crime.

 

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