Ecco was waiting by the car, a large chunk of horse manure in his mouth.
PART FOUR
LE CONTRADE SOPPRESSE
The CIA’s covert operations were conducted “on an autonomous and freewheeling basis in highly critical areas involving the conduct of foreign relations,” said a follow-up report by the president’s intelligence board in January 1957. “In some quarters this leads to situations which are almost unbelievable.”
—Tim Weiner, Legacy of Ashes: The History of the CIA
EIGHTEEN
IL GALLO, THE ROOSTER
RED SHIELD, WHITE GATE WITH TWO ARCHES, TOPPED WITH A ROOSTER
1.
Scottie was staring up at frescoes of the Black Death in the Ospedale Santa Maria della Scala when Tenente Pisano’s face intruded into her field of vision.
“Buongiorno, signora,” he said with his usual formality.
“Leave her alone,” said Nonna Bea, who had been trying to spoon some horrible broth into Scottie’s mouth.
“No, no, va bene,” said Scottie. Nonna Bea reluctantly withdrew.
“About this matter with the marchesa.”
“She found Robertino, saved him,” said Scottie. “He thought you were after him for stealing the horse. He fell off, broke his leg. She wasn’t kidnapping him. She was healing him.” Scottie had driven Robertino down the mountain, brought him to the hospital. They insisted on examining Scottie, too, making sure she was all right as well, that the bump on her head was nothing more than a mild concussion.
The baby was fine.
“Yes, I have talked to Robertino,” he said.
“How is he?”
“He’s fine. The marchesa may be a little pazza, but she set the leg perfectly. He says she took very good care of him. He says he was there of his own free will. I have sent a truck for the horse.”
“So she won’t go to jail.”
“No. She has returned to live with her husband.”
It’s so different here, she thought. We haven’t fought a war on American soil since the Civil War. We who stayed at home have no idea. The Italians seem so childlike, with their love of style and wine and laughter. But that’s because they’ve been through hell, all of them, on all sides, who survived that. American tourists come here and they see only the happy, beautiful Italy they want to see, and that the Italians want them to see. The party. They don’t see the scars. The ongoing struggles. Why would they? They don’t see them at home, either.
“My husband,” she said. Had Pisano arrested Michael? Was he languishing in some jail somewhere?
“He was here earlier, while you were asleep. He will be back.”
“Oh,” she said, relieved.
“There is paperwork,” he said, dropping a file folder on her nightstand. “All of which must be properly stamped and signed.”
“Of course,” she said.
He turned to go, then said, “Grazie, signora.”
2.
Pisano did not tell the American woman that the night before, as she was driving up Monte Amiata, he had found her husband in the Ford office, a gun to his head. Pisano had begun talking softly as he pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the man, talking, talking, talking. Finally, the American put the gun down, and Pisano took it. Then they had continued talking.
The American began to cry, which was unpleasant, because it also made Pisano want to cry, which he could not do, except for a few very small, masculine tears that could be passed off as sweat.
“Did you kill the prostitute and Robertino Banchi?” Pisano demanded.
“No. But I think it’s all my fault.”
“I don’t think it is. I happen to know that the prostitute got her drugs from Brigante.”
Michael swiveled around to point in the direction of Brigante’s warehouse. “That guy?”
“Yes. He has Mafia ties. He helped establish a network of prostitutes here, and he was trying to introduce heroin as well. And you. Apparently no one is ‘only’ a tractor salesman around here.”
Michael looked at the gun Pisano had taken from him. “If you leave, I will end this here, right now.”
“No. I need you alive. I know you are Minaccia Rossa.”
Michael sighed. “I know you won’t believe me, but it’s a trick. To make the Communists look bad.”
Pisano frowned. “Of course I believe you. Do you think I am stupid? I also know you are CIA. And that you asked Robertino to steal papers for you from Communist Party headquarters.”
Michael nodded. “And then he disappeared. It is all my fault.”
“I don’t think so,” said Pisano. “I have infiltrated every group in Siena. I do not think his disappearance is political.”
“So where is he?”
“I don’t know.” He slapped his fist on the desk and made Michael jump. “And this makes me angry.”
Now Pisano knew the answers to these questions, and that was good. All was in order again. He thought of what the American man had said after that. How he had frowned, and rubbed his hand over his face, and said, “You said you needed me. How?”
“To keep using Minaccia Rossa to discredit the Communists.”
Michael had smiled then. “I have a plan,” he said. “But I could use some help.”
3.
Scottie dressed behind a screen while Michael waited with Ecco.
“We were both worried,” he said, nodding at the dog, who put his paws on Scottie’s knees and wagged his tail.
They walked home from the hospital in silence. When the heavy front door closed behind them, Michael told her he had rented a small apartment near the Ford warehouse.
“You and Ecco can stay here for as long as you like,” he said.
She did not ask him what came next.
“What can I get you?” he asked. “Cold drink? I could bring up a pizza.”
“Nothing,” she said. Michael sat down next to her on the sofa.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Perfectly fine. You can stop looking worried. I got a bump on the head is all.” He reached for her hand. He kept his eyes down.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “So, so sorry.”
“How long have you known you … preferred men?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes were down again. He looked like he wanted to disappear into thin air.
Scottie offered, “I had a crush on a tennis pro when I was five. I remember pressing up against the fence while he played, desperate for him to notice me.”
Michael sighed. “Five. That sounds about right.”
“You must have been frightened.”
“I don’t want to be this way,” he said quietly.
“Do you think you can change?”
He was silent for a moment, then shook his head. He began to tremble a little, and she reached over and took his hand.
“I’m sorry I thought you had done something to Robertino.”
“I would never hurt him.”
“I know that.” She thought of the Minaccia Rossa flyers in the cabinet. “Are you a Communist?”
“No.” He gave a short laugh, glanced around, then whispered, “That’s part of … an operation I’m involved with.
“Oh,” she said. “How are things … at work?”
He thought of Gordon, the polygraph, the way he had fucked everything up. “Okay,” he said. “I’m busy with the reports. The election is only a few weeks away.”
“You’re good at this, you know,” she said.
He looked up briefly, smiled. “I enjoy it, mostly.” He paused, then said, “I love you very much.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but he stopped her. “Don’t. I know you don’t love me back. It’s fine. But I want you to know that you are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met. You’re smart, you’re kind, you’re courageous in ways I can’t even fathom. I love you, and I will take care of you, no matter what.”
He was gone, and she was alone.
She put her hands on her
growing belly. Not alone for long, she thought. The baby would come at Christmastime. Before then she would have to decide what came next.
NINETEEN
IL LEONE, THE LION
WHITE SHIELD WITH A BLACK STRIPE
1.
All along Scottie had thought that finding Robertino would solve everything, but it had only uprooted her and left her with nothing to do. Her need to dig, to know, to unbury secrets had led her to discover that her husband was a spy and a homosexual. She could not erase these things, no matter how much she wanted to. He had promised to take care of her. What did that mean? What did one do in these cases? She had no one to ask. Besides, she couldn’t tell anyone—Michael’s job was at risk, and more.
She realized there was one person she could talk to.
“I quite enjoyed meeting you,” said Scottie on the telephone, “and I wondered if you’d like to come for a visit. My husband is away,” she added.
She and Ecco met Julie at the Siena train station. Despite being visibly pregnant, Julie was straight out of the pages of Vogue in a tailored yellow Hermès suit with a hobble skirt, plus a frilled hat. The skirt was so tight that Scottie wondered for a second how she was going to actually descend from the first-class train car.
Julie reminded her of Leona in many ways. They were cut from the same upper-crust slice of life, and the name-dropping began immediately, the “do you know so-and-so,” “my cousin at Hotchkiss,” “our place in Maine” … This was a way of establishing status that Scottie was perfectly familiar with, after her years at boarding school and Vassar. She could play this game, but she was in no mood to.
“I believe your husband and my husband have a special friendship,” said Scottie as they sat in the olive grove outside Sant’Antimo after hearing the monks intone Gregorian chants. Scottie had proposed a tour of Tuscan hill towns, Montalcino and Sant’Angelo in Colle and San Quirico, and this picnic in sight of the ancient abbey. It would give them time alone to talk, away from prying eyes and ears. She brought a loaf of bread, a half wheel of pecorino and a bottle of wine, remembering the way Carlo had packed these same items for her, the last time she saw him. There was no point in thinking of Carlo as the man she should have married. There would no doubt be other men who would seem equally perfect, she imagined. The problem was what to do with the man she was already married to.
For today’s picnic she had added a jar of olives and some slices of prosciutto, though the latter was attracting bees that had Julie swatting the air and emitting small shrieks.
“They’re lovers,” said Scottie, tossing a napkin over the prosciutto.
Julie stopped her frantic motions and looked away across the valley toward Monte Amiata. She lit a cigarette. “I’ve never said that out loud,” she said, the smoke drifting away on the breeze. “Lovers.”
Scottie waited.
“I’ve screamed at him about it,” resumed Julie at last, her voice steady. “Cried and yelled and threatened. Doesn’t do any good. He buys me things, but nothing changes.” She examined her hat and tossed it aside.
“Well,” said Scottie, “it’s almost romantic, when you think about it.”
Julie turned and looked at her sharply. “It is not. It is disgusting. How are you not angry? I’ve been furious for years.”
Scottie thought for a moment. “I’m not a perfect wife either.”
“But you’re not a … freak.”
“They can’t change.”
“How do you know that? They could try. They could at least restrain themselves. I was livid when Michael appeared in Rome. Livid. Stalking us.”
Scottie nodded. “Yes. I was upset, too, when I found out.”
“The occasional dalliance I could stand. That happens, no matter who the man is. One turns a blind eye to that sort of thing. But this sickness…”
“Love.”
“Stop calling it that.”
“But isn’t it better to think of it that way?”
“No. I mean, for God’s sake, we’re both pregnant. They have no respect.”
“Do you think that Duncan loves both of you, you and Michael?”
“What a disgusting question!” Julie got up, walked away into the olive trees. Scottie waited a few moments, then stood and followed her.
“I hate you,” said Julie. “If you were a better wife, maybe your husband would leave Duncan alone.”
Scottie knew she shouldn’t, but she laughed. “I did think that, too,” she said.
“It’s not funny.”
“Oh God, Julie, I didn’t invite you here to torment you. You’re the only one who understands. The only one who knows what this is like.”
Julie nodded, brushed away a tear. “Us. Mrs. Cole Porter. Maybe the Duchess of Windsor. There are rumors.”
“The question is, why do you stay?” Scottie asked it in as kind a tone as she could.
Julie wandered back to the picnic blanket, poured herself another glass of Vernaccia. “My parents would never speak to me if I got a divorce.”
“Is that the only reason? He has a good job, you enjoy living abroad? He’s a good father, good to you in his own way?”
Julie shrugged.
“What I’m thinking,” Scottie said, her voice rising, “is that there are no rules for this. The rules are effectively off. They don’t live by them, and we don’t have to.”
“You mean lovers?” Julie said, finishing her glass of wine. “I’ve tried that. I thought it would make him jealous, make him pay more attention to me. He didn’t care at all.”
“So you’re trapped.”
“Yes.”
Scottie let it go at that, and drove Julie around the countryside, sticking to safe topics like where to find the best ceramics, lace and handmade shoes. Buying things seemed to calm Julie, to put her back at ease. Scottie doubted her own emotions could be tempered by a pair of gorgeous leather boots, though she bought a pair, just in case.
Scottie drove Julie back to the station and kissed her on the cheek, waving good-bye as the train pulled out of the station. She looked down at Ecco and sighed.
“We need some pasta,” she said.
TWENTY
LA VIPERA, THE VIPER
YELLOW SHIELD WITH RED AND GREEN STRIPES
1.
Michael found Sebastian at his usual table in the corner of the terrace at the Villa Scacciapensieri, reading a newspaper. He sat down and signaled the waiter for a Campari and soda.
“You never thanked me for my gift,” said Sebastian.
“What gift was that?”
“Physique Pictorial. They’re hard to come by.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “You sent that?”
“Discreetly wrapped in brown paper. I trust the boy didn’t open it.”
Michael sighed. “You didn’t even know me then.”
“No. But your reputation preceded you.”
“Do you know everything about everyone in Italy?”
Sebastian smiled. “Have you given any thought to my offer?”
“I can’t accept it.”
Sebastian tossed back his drink and called to Pippo to bring him another. “I will admit I am distressed. I can’t bear to see your wife in those old dresses. At least let me give her a discount at Schiaparelli.”
“She’ll need maternity clothes soon, not high fashion.”
“Is she terribly heartbroken over a certain tragic marchese’s return to his wife?”
Michael was silent. Pippo brought them a pinzimonio. Sebastian grabbed a large piece of celery and wielded it like a weapon.
“And your boyfriend Duncan? How is he?”
“Is that Moscow asking?”
“Just me. Scout’s honor.”
“Like I would trust you.”
“Oh, come on. It’s precisely because I am untrustworthy that you can trust me.”
Michael sighed. “He’s still in Rome. There’s nothing to say, really.”
Sebastian studied him with narrowed eyes while cr
unching on the celery. “You’re far and away his better in every sense, you know.”
Michael selected a red pepper slice and dunked it in the olive oil. “He’s just invited me to Capri after the election.” Michael had been surprised by the invitation. Duncan had waxed rhapsodic about what the trip would entail—azure water, a rowboat full of books, glasses of icy limoncello. Julie would be in Paris for the couture shows, Duncan said, and they would have two whole weeks alone.
“Yes, the election. A lot riding on that. Your friends’ investments in the city. My friends’ investment in the Italian market for foreign oil. Everyone but us is rich, it seems.”
“So it seems,” said Michael.
Sebastian dropped a sheaf of typewritten papers on the table.
“What’s this?”
“The membership rolls of Siena’s Communist Party.”
Michael did not pick them up. “How did you get them? From Robertino?”
Sebastian smiled enigmatically. “I bought them, of course. Hadn’t you noticed that everything in Italy is for sale these days? Let’s just say my delivering them to you is a gesture of goodwill. I thought we might work together now and then on frustrating both sides in the pursuit of chaotic stability.”
Michael did not say that he was one step ahead of him in that very mission.
Sebastian picked up the newspaper and frowned at the headline. “I thought Clare said she wasn’t coming to the Palio,” he said. “When is she going to let these poor people down?”
“She is coming after all,” said Michael. “I’ll be with her in the window at the Palazzo Comunale. It’s all in place.”
2.
It was the night of the prova di notte, when anyone could bring a horse to the piazza and test the Palio course. Scottie and Ecco were inside the apartment, watching boys and young men go rocketing around the curves on sturdy farm horses, shouting and hooting. She was envious. Finally, the last horse clattered out of the piazza and all was silent. She heard the clock strike midnight. She sighed and turned away from the window.
She was about to get into bed when she heard a knock at the door. Ecco whined instead of barked.
“It’s me,” called Michael. Surprised, she opened the door.
The Italian Party Page 29
