The Dead Don't Get Out Much

by Mary Jane Maffini

  The room was full of people, again mostly elderly. Everyone nodded at me when I came in. The noise level was high, boisterous, happy. Or maybe just trying to drown out the large-screen television mounted in the corner and going full-blast. I'm not sure what gives with Italian television, and I don't want to find out.

  I began by greeting the burly woman, possibly Natalia, who was using her muscles to polish glasses that already gleamed in the low light. “Buona sera, signora.”

  Her eyes narrowed, her mouth turned down. Maybe that was deep suspicion. Maybe she'd just had a very bad day. I could sympathize.

  I smiled. This wasn't as easy as it sounds, since I had just crawled up miles of winding, foggy mountain roads on my way to a godforsaken place where no one would speak English. I had practiced my piece and managed to ask in my fractured Italian if she had seen my grandmother. I produced the photo of Mrs. Parnell and mentioned the silver Opel.

  I smiled again for good measure. She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head emphatically. New wrinkles sprouted at the downturned corners. I pointed at the picture again. “La nonna,” I said, soothingly.

  “No,” she said.

  “È malata.”

  She shook her head.

  I wanted to ask about the so-called son in the Mercedes. I gave it a shot with figlio and Mercedes. That merely caused her to turn her back on me. She half-turned her head when I ordered a glass of red wine and a plate of cannelloni. I was feeling ridiculously fatigued and hungry. Both of which I found irritating since I couldn't really enjoy a meal until I tracked down Mrs. Parnell. Then we could eat and drink happily together, and I could help her with whatever she was trying to do here in the remote mountains of Italy.

  The wine came immediately. Just because I wasn't an instant hit didn't mean I wouldn't have a drink in my hand. A basket of warm, rustic bread was plunked on my wooden table, along with a bottle of olive oil. The cannelloni arrived shortly after and was plunked down without a word from the burly signora..

  I sat alone, aware of the glances of the crowd in the bar. Who cared? It wasn't like I was looking for a new social group. I just needed information about Mrs. P. I ate in solitude and tried to figure out what to do next.

  A glance out the window told me that the fog had descended again. Every few minutes, another small car emerged from the fog just feet from the window. Not much chance I could drive down the mountain without killing myself or someone else.

  As far as I could tell, this bar was the only game in town. The proprietor had quite obviously taken an instant dislike to me. Not that I would care, as a rule. However, I needed cooperation.

  I asked about a room, and she hesitated. A short, round man I took to be her husband gave her a quick nudge in the ribs.

  “Si,” she said, citing a ridiculously large number of Euros.

  Five minutes later, I tossed my little backpack on a double bed with a puffy duvet that looked very inviting on this damp miserable day. The pillow-cases on all four pillows had obviously been ironed. The room was bright and comfortable, with a fine view of the fog. Better yet, it even had a small new-looking portable heater in the corner and a shining white wastepaper basket. The heater had already been turned on. I found the bathroom next door in a dark green hallway. There seemed to be no other guests. The towels were large, bright white and fluffy. Maybe the little round husband took charge of guest hospitality. I figured the signora was in charge of clean.

  I brushed my teeth, had an overdue shower, fixed my hair as well as I could, changed my T-shirt and put on the black pants and my sweater. I rinsed out my undies in the sink. I hung them to dry in the shower, picked up the photos again and headed back downstairs.

  The proprietor was replacing a freshly polished glass. She stopped mid-task, gripping the glass, and stared me down.

  I gave her a cheerful wave and started at the first table. A group of men paused in their card game.

  To do them credit, I got a “buona sera, signora,” from each of them. I passed around Mrs. Parnell's picture. They all took the time to look at it.

  No luck. Everyone shook their heads. No one looked sympathetic. No one said, “Oh, la nonna!”

  I thanked them, picked up the photo and moved on to the next table. I repeated this at every table in the bar. Something was wrong though. The atmosphere didn't feel normal.

  I'm not sure why it took so long, but eventually it dawned on me. The bar had become too quiet. Where were the competing voices? The raucous stories, the shouts of laughter? This was more like a morgue than a gathering of Italians.

  When I reached the last table and had received the last negative shake of the head, I glanced at the proprietor. She shot back a triumphant smirk.

  Great. I was fogged in on a mountain, with no clue about what had happened to Mrs. Parnell, trapped until the morning, wasting precious time. I turned back to the room full of strangely quiet people. I knew she had been there, and what's more, I knew that they'd seen her.

  I said in my fractured Italian: “That photo is my grandmother. She is more than eighty years old. She is sick, and the doctor says she may die if she doesn't get medicine. I know she came here. I think you should help save her life.” I searched my mind for the word for shame. It eluded me.

  The room remained silent.

  I gave up. Time to go back to my room and think of a new and improved plan. I turned. I stopped. “Vergogna,” I said. Shame on you.

  People turned away from me and reverted to nervous whispered conversations. I headed back up the stairs and kicked the white wastepaper basket.

  Five minutes later, I had a new plan. Probably a waste of time; still, better than staring at the ceiling until morning. I was warm and well fed, and although I was bone-tired, I didn't intend to repeat my mistake of falling asleep too early. I put on my grey wool socks and slipped my jean jacket over the sweater. I checked my phrase book for a few more useful tidbits. I wrapped the scarf around my neck, applied a bit of Graffiti Red in case and slipped down the stairs and out the side door, without bothering to make eye contact with the useless lumps in the bar.

  I pulled up my collar and made my way to the first house with a light on. I banged on the door and waited. When the door opened, I gave my best Italian greetings and started on my sick nonna story. I added my newest phrase: Una situazione disperata.

  I can't say I really blame people for the way they looked at me. I probably wouldn't have opened the door myself. Door after door, the results were the same. Still, it beat twiddling my thumbs. I came up empty on Via Garibaldi, the main street.

  What the hell. I had nothing to lose. The fog was getting thicker. While you couldn't see any distance, you could still avoid large obstacles, and you could tell by the lights if people were awake in a house. I made up my mind and headed down the Ruella Cavour. I thought I heard a scuttling behind me and off to a side. A dog? Too quiet for a dog. Dogs are not known for their subtlety. A rat? No point in giving in to the heebie-jeebies, I decided.

  Fog can have that effect on you. This might have been a foggy alley with five hundred-year-old dwellings tilting on either side, but it was also in a tiny close-knit village that probably had zero crime, I reminded myself.

  My self-pep talk didn't stop the hair on the back of my neck from standing up. Anyway, I had a job to do. There were two houses with lights still on. No one answered at the first door. I could hear a television or radio blaring irritating Italian pop songs from within. I banged a few more times, waited and then decided to cut my losses.

  Was I imagining the scurrying noise? I clutched my backpack in a way that might be useful for smacking a rat. I walked quickly to the last remaining house with lights on.

  After a lot of banging, a stooped woman with thin white hair in a bun answered. She stared at me. Listening in apparent astonishment to my bizarre Italian, she gaped at the photo of Mrs. Parnell and grabbed my hand.

  “La poverina,” she said.

  I couldn't imagine anyone e
ver referring to my Mrs. P. as a poor little thing. It was the first bit of sympathy I'd received here in Berli. To my horror, my eyes filled with tears. This was so not like me. Maybe it was the time difference, lack of sleep, the red wine, the fog, the worry. I hauled out a tissue, blew my nose, said “Scusate, signora,” and pulled myself together. Despite the promising start, after a few moments of my pathetic Italian, I realized she had not seen Mrs. Parnell, or the Opel, or the black Mercedes, which I tossed in to the conversation for good measure. She was pleasant and sympathetic. She offered me something to eat and, when I declined, suggested a little glass of something. I had to turn that down too, because the fog had thickened yet again, and it was going to be tough enough stumbling back up the hill.

  I thanked her profusely, and she squeezed my hand. I felt her good wishes and was damn glad to have them as I hit the fog.

  I made tracks, trying not to trip into potholes in the road. A burst of sound through the swirling mist caused me to step back and gasp. Five people, arms linked, chatting and laughing, emerged a few feet in front of me. I recognized one of the family groups from the bar. They clammed up immediately when they spotted me. The women shrank back. That didn't make sense. Why would anyone be afraid of me?

  I felt their eyes on my back as I negotiated the holes in the road and made my way back up the hill. As I got close to the bar, a silver-haired woman, who looked to be in her sixties, passed me, walking quickly and confidently. Her collar was pulled up around her neck. She stared hard at my face before turning her head and disappearing into the mist. I kept going toward the bar with its light, heat, red wine and much-needed public telephone.

  * * *

  “How may I direct your call?” Alvin said.

  “Very funny. What news do you have?” I said.

  “What is this craziness about Violet having a son? Lord thundering Jesus, I almost died of shock.”

  “You and me both. Definitely unlikely and baffling. There's someone making the claim, and he has a picture of her, so there's a definite connection. We have to follow up.”

  “Are you in Berli now?”

  “It's pretty small, and no one seems to have seen our grandmother or the guy who says he's the son. They are extremely unfriendly too. Everyone else I've met, since I've been in Italy, has tried to be very helpful.”

  I glanced around. I was on the public phone in the bar. Something about the body language of the remaining customers told me that they were paying attention to my call. That shouldn't have made a difference, since no one appeared to speak English. Even so, I was cautious. Everything about Berli seemed so strange and creepy. Maybe excessive fog just brings out the paranoiac in me.

  Alvin said, “Our grandmother? Oops, I get it. Is someone listening?”

  “Who knows?” I said. “She was supposed to come here. Perhaps she changed her mind and went somewhere else.”

  “Jeez, I hope not,” Alvin said. “What would you do then?”

  “Our uncle was also looking for her. Maybe he found her.”

  “Our uncle? Oh, you mean the guy who says he's Violet's son? That's weird and scary.”

  “It is.”

  “You're worried, right?”

  “Puzzled for sure.”

  I was petrified. I didn't want to tell Alvin that my biggest fear was that, in the morning, as I made my way down the mountain, I would catch a glimpse of a silver Opel, lying crumpled in a rock-strewn field, having slid off the foggy-bound mountain road, while a Mercedes sped off.

  I couldn't even let myself think about it. I promised myself I would creep down in the Ka and stop to check every possible site on the way down.

  “Now you got me all worked up,” Alvin said. “And I'm stuck over here. I can't do anything.”

  “What about the project, Alvin?” I said.

  “What project? Why are you changing the subject?”

  “Our joint project, the visitor project. Did you get the images yet?”

  “Not really.”

  “Does that mean no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, keep at it. It's important.”

  “I have plenty to do here, Camilla. Lester and Pierre are no piece of cake. And Gussie ate something that didn't agree with him, and the cat won't come out from under the bed, and your sisters keep phoning all the time because they can't get you on your cell.”

  “The damn thing doesn't work here. Tell them I'll call them when I get settled. Let them know I'm all right.”

  “They were upset you left without telling them, and they seem really steamed because they don't know if you took the right clothes.”

  “That's so far from anything I'm concerned about. Tell them I did. Make up something. Anything.”

  “I have to tell you I'm really getting frustrated trying to find someone who served with Mrs. Parnell. It's not easy when I'm stuck here being a pet sitter and receptionist.”

  “You're equal to the task, Alvin. I'm counting on you. Conn should be able to find out if there was a son. Call him right away.”

  “There couldn't have been a son. Violet would have told us. Wouldn't she?”

  “I think so too. I suppose there could have been a falling-out.

  “She would never lose contact with her son.” Alvin sounded on the verge of hysterics. “Her son. Family. Never.”

  “Take a deep breath, Alvin. I can't imagine it being true. We still have to pursue it. People have seen this guy. Remember, he has a picture of her.”

  “Do I have to call Conn? He's always rude to me.”

  I glanced around. Everyone in the room was watching. I made no effort to keep my voice low when I said, “And in the event you do not hear from me, I am currently at the Bar-Hotel Natalia in Berli for the night. I have found the locals to be uncooperative and unresponsive. As if they are hiding something. It may be worth it to ask him to contact the Italian authorities.”

  “As if,” Alvin said.

  Was it my imagination, or did some of the shoulders shift? Did eyes meet? Did the proprietor turn away to hide the expression on her stumpy face? A woman at a nearby table stood up and began pacing not far from where I sat. To make her point, she stared at her watch, then glanced up at the wall clock. The international gesture for get the hell off the phone.

  “Promise you'll do it, Alvin. I'll keep you posted. I have another call to make, and someone is waiting for the phone.”

  I turned my face away from the woman, hung up and dialled Canada Direct again. My next call was to Ray Deveau. Not that it made any difference.

  I got a busy signal at his home, most likely the result of having a teenager tying up both lines at once. Not the first time that had happened to me. There was no answer on his cell, so I tried his work number.

  His message was clear. “This is Sergeant Ray Deveau. I will be away from my desk for the next two weeks. If this is an emergency, contact the main number. Otherwise leave a message.”

  Well, thanks a lot. I slammed down the phone. Why the hell bother?

  21 Frank Street

  Chesterton, Ontario

  December 20, 1945

  Dear Vi,

  It's my birthday today. I am writing again in the hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me, especially since there's not much to celebrate here. Betty calls herself Elizabeth now, as it's more suitable for a teacher. She walks right by me with her nose in the air. Well, she has the right nose for it, and she wasn't the easiest person to get along with before. Even so, I feel bad.

  I miss you and wish you would answer my letters. We have been friends since we started school. I know that I betrayed your trust and our friendship just for idle chatter. I meant no harm. I was enjoying the idea of this officer pursuing you. I thought it would be fun if Harry was jealous. I will regret my foolish words all my life. Every single day I wish I could undo what has been done.

  Mother is not at all well. Her cough is very worrying. I am afraid she'll end up in the San like so many other people. I am sure you kn
ew that Harry's father's house burnt right to the ground. Mr. Jones was never the same after his wife died and Harry went overseas. He fell asleep with his pipe still lit. There's nothing left except the foundation. A lot of people turned out for the funeral. I wonder if people realize that the parents and families of those at home are also suffering and in some cases dying, perhaps of broken hearts. Even friends.

  Oh, don't mind me! I know it must be much harder for you, even though I imagine you living in a castle somewhere and sipping champagne with officers and aristocrats. At least I got to see “The Bells of St. Mary's” at the Vogue.

  Even though the war is over, perhaps you are not in a position to write yet. Whether you are or not, remember it is the Christmas season, a time for love and forgiveness. I hope you will find it in your heart to answer my letters.

  Love always,

  Hazel

  P.S. Some lovely velvet hats have arrived at Adams’ Ladies’ Wear. Just in time for Christmas services!

  Ten

  Fine.

  It takes more than that to get rid of a MacPhee. I pulled myself together and went back to Canada Direct. I ignored the waiting woman, who had been tapping her pointed leather shoes. I tried Ray's cellphone again. I decided that it must say something for our developing relationship that I knew all these numbers by heart.

  The customer I was trying to reach was not available.

  “Why aren't you available, Ray? I'd really like to be able to talk to you. For the record, I am stuck in the fog in the mountain village of Berli. I have learned some bizarre things, and I would like to talk to you, even if you have decided to take your vacation by yourself. If you get this tonight, I am staying at the Bar-Hotel Natalia in room Uno.” I read out the telephone number and added, “Don't forget the country code for Italy. It's about eight our time, if you get this within the next few hours, I'll still be up. Tell the proprietor you want to speak to me, and I'll call you right back. I wish you were here, and not just because it's so goddam creepy.”

  I surrendered the phone to the foot-tapper and looked for a table. Every shoulder in the place seemed to shift as I walked by. I found a spot in the corner, where I could observe things, and settled in to watch the locals and hope for the phone to ring. My competition didn't stay on it long. I figured she'd just wanted to annoy me, although I couldn't imagine why. I chose espresso rather than wine. Even so, my eyelids soon began to droop. By nine, which was only mid-afternoon Canadian time, I decided to leave the party.