The Italian Party

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The Italian Party Page 25

by Christina Lynch

“I don’t want the money,” stuttered Banchi, tears in his eyes. “I just want my grandson back.”

  * * *

  Ital-Amer Hotel Corp. It was an address in Rome. Under the signature bar for the company was a name. Ben Lippincott, Representative.

  Michael would want to look into this himself, but he was in Rome. This couldn’t wait, she decided.

  Scottie climbed up the steep hill to Piazza del Duomo, sweating and out of breath. She raced across the piazza, past the enormous black and white cathedral, the still-beating heart of the ancient city. She pushed through the front door of the Questura and asked for Tenente Pisano.

  “We’re closed until four thirty,” said the officer at the desk.

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re a police station. You’re always open.”

  “Only for urgent matters. Otherwise we’re closed from one to four thirty.”

  “And what do you do during your three-and-a-half-hour lunch break?”

  The man stared at her, then smiled in a very disrespectful way.

  “It is an urgent matter. I need to speak to Tenente Pisano immediately.”

  “Pisano!” called the man. “Your mistress is here.”

  Pisano emerged, angry, from a small office. His expression did not soften when he saw Scottie.

  “Your car is stuck again?”

  “I need to find out where an American is staying.” He loomed over her, smelling of burned toast.

  “I am not here to help you complete your bridge foursome.”

  “It’s important that I find this man. I know you keep track of all of the foreigners. You know where they all sleep.”

  “Yes,” he said knowingly. “But this is police business, not yours.”

  “This is perhaps a matter of importance to both of us.”

  “How so? Who is this man you’re looking for?”

  “An American hotel developer. Ben Lippincott.”

  “And why is Signor Lippincott so important to you?”

  “Tell me where he is and I’ll tell you.”

  “This is Italy, Mrs. Messina. I do not need a reason to throw you in jail, and I do not need a reason to keep you there.”

  She sighed. “Carlo Chigi Piccolomini said you would help me.”

  He looked surprised. “What does the marchese have to do with this?”

  “It’s private,” she said. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “If it’s a favor for the marchese, of course,” said Pisano, opening a large book on his desk and scanning a list of entries. His manner had changed entirely upon hearing Carlo’s name. She remembered that Carlo had said Pisano wanted to see Italy return to being a monarchy. Of course he would hold Carlo, as a member of the outlawed nobility, in high regard.

  “Lippincott. Hotel Villa Scacciapensieri,” he said after a moment. “Three nights. Leaves tomorrow. Born 11 June 1928. Springfield, Missouri.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It is my pleasure,” he said, and gave a slight bow.

  “I heard your horse is missing,” she said, turning back from the door. “I’m so sorry.”

  A shadow darkened his face. He came around the counter, removed his hat and whispered to her, his voice croaking. “I must tell you something,” he said, placing a firm hand on her back and leading her outside.

  Pigeons roosted on the ledges of the Duomo. They walked together in silence up a few steps and through the front entrance of the enormous cathedral. The interior was cool and dark, as if blanketed by six hundred years of whispered prayers. She looked up and the X’s of the vaulting began to swim. On one wall hung hundreds of little tin arms and legs like cookie cutters, thank-yous to God for saving people’s limbs and hearts and babies. It was all too much. She looked down and gasped—she was standing on an image of a dead infant, one of a dozen or so scattered under the feet of a battling horde of men in armor with raised swords, about to stab unarmed women who were begging for mercy. The babies’ eyes were closed. She stepped away and shuddered.

  “Perhaps you know where Robertino is—” he said.

  “I don’t.”

  “But in case you can get word to him, I want to tell you this. I was never going to sell her to the butcher,” he said. “I said that in front of my father, when she threw me off, because he is my father and I cannot fare brutta figura in front of him, but I swear to you now here, in front of God”—here he turned toward the altar and made the sign of the cross—“I was going to give her to the boy. A surprise, for his fifteenth birthday. He’s the only one who can ride her. I’m afraid that I have made him disappear. That he thinks that he needed to steal her to save her life. And now he is himself in danger. It’s a tragedy,” he said. “And I am afraid it’s all my fault.”

  She put a hand on his crisp black sleeve. “We will find him,” she said.

  * * *

  The Villa Scacciapensieri was fancier than Scottie expected, and she was glad she was wearing her Balenciaga. It was now a little tight around the midsection, a hand-me-down from Leona from two seasons ago, but no one here would know that. She had pictured a sleepy country hotel, but the place was busy—shiny cars pulling up the semicircular gravel drive, bellmen running about, elegantly dressed guests gathering in the lobby by an enormous fireplace.

  She had planned on dining alone and making discreet inquiries about Ben Lippincott, but she saw the journalists Rodolfo and Fiammetta at a table outdoors on the terrace with another man. They waved her over.

  “We’ve only just ordered a Campari and soda,” Fiammetta said. She was wearing a red strapless cocktail dress with rhinestone buttons down the front. “Join us.” Scottie realized the man at the table with them was Ugo Rosini.

  “Signora Messina,” he said, standing up and kissing her hand. “How are you enjoying your stay in Siena?” She had forgotten how short he was, and how strong, and how very handsome. Had forgotten that behind his glasses were light brown eyes with absurdly long lashes. “I understand you have become friendly with the Chigi Piccolominis. Americans are always seduced by the idea of nobility.”

  “He’s a friend, not a title.” She felt a sharp spike of anger and a flush of embarrassment. “And aren’t titles illegal anyway?”

  “Yes—because of course all families are old families, aren’t they? Just that some people had ancestors who were better at exploiting others, and passing on their wealth.”

  “You sound like a jealous man,” parried Scottie.

  “I am,” said Ugo with a smile.

  Ugo launched into a lengthy and very scholarly discussion of the novels of Faulkner, Fitzgerald and Hemingway, which he admitted he had read in translation, but still hoped she would permit him to comment on. She would. She relaxed and sipped her drink as he talked about the American South, and the Montgomery bus boycott, and the steelworkers strike.

  “You know a lot about America,” said Scottie.

  Fiammetta laughed and said, “Ugo knows a lot about everything.” Rodolfo, too, seemed to know all about current affairs in America. Scottie was ashamed that she knew hardly anything about what was happening back home.

  “These amazing people have been holding out for seven months, walking everywhere, giving each other rides when they can,” said Rodolfo. “Never a sign of violence from them, but Dr. King’s house was firebombed with his wife and little daughter inside.”

  “Is that true?” said Scottie. “I didn’t read about that.”

  “There’s no newspaper in America that’s printing the truth,” said Ugo. “They said it was King’s own fault, that he’s an extremist, or worse”—and here Ugo dropped his voice and pretended to be frightened—“a Communist!” The others laughed, and Scottie felt her face redden.

  They were making her feel ashamed of herself and her country, which made her mad. “You don’t understand,” she said, frustrated. “You should go there. You’d see. It’s wonderful. In New York, you can buy anything. And everything is open all night. And you can hear any kind of music, eat a
ny kind of food. People are happy.”

  “Six hundred thousand steelworkers are not so happy,” Ugo said, and Rodolfo added, “Nat King Cole was attacked onstage in Alabama. Maybe everyone is not as happy as you think.”

  “Well, everyone’s not happy here either,” said Scottie. “It’s not like Italians get along with each other so well.”

  Fiammetta and Rodolfo laughed, breaking the tension. “True,” Ugo said. “It’s our national pastime to dislike and distrust each other. We always think other countries have gotten it right and we haven’t. The opposite of America. You have American exceptionalism, and we have an inferiority complex. We’re very vulnerable that way. And the U.S. is very arrogant.”

  Before Scottie could rise to this latest challenge, Ugo was leaning across the table and looking into her eyes. “You have come to Americanize us, so you may as well know what being an American really means. You love your country, but true love, remember, is the flower of knowledge. If you don’t really know something in its entirety, you can’t really know if you love it or not, can you?”

  * * *

  Scottie stood up as if she were going to the restroom and asked the waiter quietly if he would point out Signor Lippincott, who was staying at the hotel. She handed him a thousand-lire bill.

  “The man at the corner table,” the waiter whispered. She looked over and saw Sebastian Gordon sitting with another man, younger. Gordon looked up as she approached their table.

  “My dear Mrs. Messina,” he said, kissing her hand. “And in Balenciaga, what a treat. You make even last year’s collection look good.”

  Scottie ignored the slight and turned to the other man. Sleek blond hair and a long face, somewhat blank eyes. If he were a horse, she’d put her spurs on and be ready for him to duck out before a fence and dump her on it.

  “This is Mr. Lippincott, from Boston,” said Gordon. “Sit down, won’t you?” he said as Scottie was already pulling out a chair.

  “Just for a moment,” said Scottie. “I’m dining with friends.”

  “Yes, I saw you with dear old Ugo,” said Gordon, with a raised eyebrow. “Tut-tut. What would Senator McCarthy say?”

  Scottie froze slightly. She hadn’t thought about the implications of being seen with a Communist Party leader in public. She smiled, all wide-eyed innocence.

  “Well, there’s no law against that here,” said Gordon. “Is there, Mr. Lippincott?”

  “I’m not a lawyer,” said Lippincott absently. Cold-blooded, she thought.

  “Are you here on pleasure, Mr. Lippincott?” Scottie asked him, reminding herself to appear to be just a silly woman.

  “Business,” he said.

  “Lippincott’s going to solve our hotel shortage,” said Gordon.

  “I asked you to keep that quiet,” snapped Lippincott.

  “There are no secrets in Siena,” said Gordon smoothly, pouring them all a glass of wine.

  “I’m waiting for a deal to close,” Lippincott said.

  “There are so many lovely old buildings to put a hotel in,” said Scottie.

  “The city needs something modern. Good plumbing, air-conditioning.” Lippincott was warming to his topic. “Lots of parking. The old stuff is nice, but come on. The water is a trickle, and it’s hot as hell. The rooms are small and smell like mold. When you’ve been out walking around old churches all day, don’t you want to come back to a room where things actually work?”

  “Like in America?”

  “Yes, exactly.” He looked down at the remains of his tepid cocktail. “Where the employees aren’t on strike at lunchtime, there’s an elevator you can turn around in, and you can get ice in your drink, for God’s sake.”

  “Boy’s a genius, isn’t he?” oozed Gordon.

  She wondered what Gordon’s agenda was. “I suppose you’re right,” she said to Lippincott. “That is what people want, isn’t it? They want to bring America with them when they travel. Italian scenery and food with American convenience and comfort.”

  “You got it. No one here gets it. But they will. Once you have those things, you don’t want to give them up.”

  “But you’re meeting resistance?”

  “Mostly from the town council. This city is a mess. They don’t know what they want. I’m waiting out the next election. Hoping they wise up and elect a business-friendly mayor, get that expansion plan approved.”

  “You want to buy Signor Banchi’s farm?”

  Lippincott looked surprised, and a little wary. Sebastian practically grinned, as if he had known all along why Scottie was at his table.

  “Yeah, he told you?” Lippincott said. “I wish that kid would reappear.”

  “We all do.”

  “He was the one who introduced me to his grandfather. Little operator, that one. Carried my bags into the hotel for me, and before we’d gotten to my room he had signed himself up as my guide, interpreter and representative agent.”

  “Robertino wanted his grandfather to sell?”

  “Yeah, of course. He wants to own his own horse operation. Racing. Supply horses for the Palio. Ambitious kid. He had a property in mind and everything. Without him, Grandpa’s not signing. I even asked the consulate in Florence today if they could help, but they said they can’t interfere in a local matter.”

  “Robertino’s disappearance seems to have inconvenienced many people,” said Gordon. “I’m not sure anyone would notice if I popped off.”

  “Some might even be relieved,” said Scottie.

  6.

  “Why didn’t you tell me your cousin is buying up property in Siena?” Michael asked Duncan. When Scottie had telephoned him at his hotel in Rome about having met Ben Lippincott, he was surprised. “Oh. I know him. From Yale.”

  “Seems like every American in Italy went to Yale,” she said.

  Lippincott was a cousin of Duncan’s. Michael had met him once at a party. He had the supercilious, heavy-lidded ease of the very wealthy, and didn’t seem particularly bright. Michael remembered talk of Nantucket, and sailboats, and a cousin who had drowned while out on the water with him. It was odd that Duncan hadn’t told him Ben was in Siena. But then he hadn’t told him Julie was parading around Tuscany, either. There seemed to be a lot that Duncan wasn’t telling him.

  He had walked from his hotel down the Via Veneto to the embassy in Palazzo Margherita, a giant pink monstrosity, growing ever more angry. Duncan’s office was on the top floor in the back. He showed his passport to the guard at the gate, was waved through. In the lobby was a crush of Italians applying for visas. Though the great swell of people leaving Italy had slowed somewhat since the war, there were still thousands wanting to start a new life somewhere else. France and Germany were now popular destinations, allowing better economic opportunity and more trips home to see family left behind. Michael thought of his parents, eager and anxious in a similar crush of their compatriots forty years ago, leaving what they knew to start over in a place where they knew no one, and didn’t speak the language. What must their lives have been like to take such a risk?

  Duncan had been on his feet when Michael came through the door, shuffling papers and looking distracted. “I have a meeting with the ambassador in five minutes. You shouldn’t have come,” he said, glancing toward the secretary and closing the office door.

  “I’m an American businessman. I can come to the embassy. Can we meet later? The bar at the Excelsior?”

  “Julie and I are dining with the Colonnas and the Brandolinis.” Michael recognized the names of Italian nobility.

  “So what about Lippincott?”

  “What about him? I am not my cousin’s keeper.” Duncan went on, “Did you place some more articles in the papers about Luce’s visit? I didn’t see any new ones mentioned in your last report.”

  “I’ve put feelers out.”

  “Put Scottie on it.”

  “I’m keeping her in the office.”

  “Are you? Who is this boy she’s looking for?” Duncan asked.


  “No one,” he said quickly. “A kid she met. He’s disappeared. Why was your cousin with Gordon?”

  “Gordon knows everyone.” It was an accusation.

  Thank God Duncan hated confrontation. He would continue to kick him if Michael stayed down, but would back off if Michael fought back, so he snapped, “Am I getting a Catholic candidate elected to stop communism or to help your cousin open a chain of hotels?”

  Except Duncan didn’t back down, just stopped moving papers around and looked coolly across the desk at Michael. “I’m beginning to think you’re too emotional for this job.”

  “Emotional? Half of what you tell me is lies. I’m living in a goddamn hall of mirrors.”

  “Scottie seems to be meeting everyone. She had drinks with Ugo Rosini, too.”

  “What?” Scottie hadn’t mentioned that part.

  “I like it. It’s bold,” said Duncan, shifting again, keeping Michael off balance. “Get the information right from the horse’s mouth. Have her find out if Rosini is sympathetic to NATO. He could be a valuable back channel to national party leadership. If we can get some of these local guys to contradict the party line on getting American missile bases out of Italy, we might get the Socialists to split with the Commies on that issue. Then they can ally with the Catholics and form a center-left coalition. The ambassador thinks any kind of alliance with the left is anathema, but I think that’s a better plan than trying to form a government with the Fascists and the Monarchists.”

  What was anathema, Michael thought, was the fact that they were plotting the future of another country’s government. At least Duncan was now talking to him, sharing. “That makes sense,” he said. “But splitting the Socialists and the Communists—how is that going to happen?”

  “I know. Not easy. Right now they both want better working conditions, higher wages, and they think of the Soviet system as a good model for that. We had hoped that the Polish uprising would show them what getting in bed with the Soviets really means.”

  Michael nodded. “It was on the front pages, but now it’s blown over.”

  “We need the Soviets to show their hand. Maybe it will happen in Hungary.”

  “What do you mean?”

 

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