The Train to Orvieto

by Novelli, Rebecca J. ;

  Fiorelli took a sip of his drink. “So she’s married to this Signor Marcheschi?”

  “Yes.” Losine took out his cigarette case and offered Fiorelli a cigarette. Fiorelli nodded, took a cigarette, and accepted a light. Losine sat down in the other armchair across from him. “How much would that cost—your help, I mean?”

  “It all depends. Legally speaking, Signor Marcheschi has custody of the children, so he can prevent them from going. Most women don’t leave unless the husband is willing to let the children go. Is he?”

  “It will be a very difficult discussion, but I’m sure he will understand that things cannot go on as they are.” Losine lit his own cigarette.

  “In that case, I believe a half million should be enough to cover my fees and expenses,” Fiorelli said. “I will accompany you solely as a precaution.”

  “That includes the deliveries of his antiquities, too?” Fiorelli nodded and picked up his leather bag. “And there will be no questions or investigation into the matter of the fresco?”

  “That is correct. Absolutely none.”

  “Nor any investigation involving me. Is that right?”

  Fiorelli nodded. “None whatever. You have my word.” Losine took out his wallet and counted out the notes. Fiorelli stuffed them into the bottom of his bag and settled back to enjoy his drink and cigarette as if Losine and he were simply old friends. “It is a privilege for me to offer my services,” Fiorelli said. He poured himself another drink. Losine began to pack. “In my experience, when two people find each other as you and Signora Marcheschi have, then there is little one can do to stop them, except by using a weapon.”

  “A policeman deals with extremes,” Losine said, “and with criminals. This isn’t that sort of situation.”

  “You would think so, but to tell you the truth, from what I’ve seen of these situations, nothing surprises me. Mild, law-abiding men become murderers.”

  “I’m a very moderate man,” Losine said. “If I present the matter reasonably and clearly to Signor Marcheschi, I believe we’ll come to an understanding.”

  Fiorelli inhaled and then blew a perfect ring of smoke. “Yes, in your case, I could imagine it. Yet, I have seen cases of seemingly timid men kill their wives and their wives’ lovers without warning.”

  Losine paused in his packing and looked at Fiorelli. “In my business I’ve learned not to make predictions, but I appreciate your candid opinion.”

  Fiorelli stubbed his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. Both men turned their attention toward the pounding at the door. “Perhaps you will forgive my offering some unsolicited advice?” Fiorelli said.

  “Of course.”

  “Be careful.” Fiorelli walked across the room and opened the door. Outside stood Gabriele Marcheschi, his lips pursed, his expression ferocious. Though he was not particularly tall, he seemed to Losine large and muscular. He held the jacket of his black, wrinkled suit over his arm. His white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, looked slightly grey. He seemed overheated, despite the chilly day. He leaned forward on his toes, bouncing as if he were ready to lunge.

  “Which one of you is that bastardo di Losine?” he said to Fiorelli.

  Losine stepped forward between Gabriele Marcheschi and Fiorelli. Gabriele turned on him, his eyes flickering like disturbed embers. “You! They said I would find you here.” He strode into the center of the room and faced them, fists clenched. “I am Gabriele Marcheschi.” He seemed to Losine to grow larger. Mountainous. Gabriele gazed around the room, at the bouquets of roses, and then at Willa’s scarf on the table. He looked at Losine, took his measure.

  Losine lowered his eyes momentarily and then returned Gabriele’s gaze. Very well. The moment has come. We will settle things between us now, and then I will go for Willa and the children. Losine extended his hand. “Benvenuto.” Welcome. Gabriele Marcheschi ignored this gesture. He’s rough, unrefined, clearly unsuited to Willa, Losine thought.

  “You will return the antiquities and the money you stole from me now.” Gabriele’s voice was loud, imperious, uncompromising.

  “You’re mistaken. I’ve just paid for the return of the wine and the box that you and your wife decided not to sell,” Losine said. “You’re indebted to me for getting them back for you.”

  Gabriele Marcheschi turned to Fiorelli and laughed. “He wants credit for recovering what he stole. What about my fresco?”

  “You sold the fresco to me. You have the money.”

  “That was before I knew who you were. I don’t deal with criminals or adulterers. You will give it back,” Gabriele said. Losine had the momentary impression that Gabriele was full of poison.

  “You accepted payment. There is no reason I should return it,” Losine replied. “However, if you agree to return my money upon delivery, I will return it to you. That should satisfy your claim.” He gestured toward Fiorelli. “May I present Capitano Fiorelli,” Losine said. “He will deliver the items to you as soon as they are ready.”

  “Hummph,” Gabriele looked around at the room again and then pointed at Willa’s scarf. “What are you doing with my wife’s scarf?” He reached for it. Losine grabbed the scarf and held it behind him. “So, you’ve stolen that too!”

  “She left it here,” Losine said, unsure of why he felt the need to answer.

  Gabriele looked around the room again, glanced at the open closet, the unmade bed, the roses. He glared at Losine, came closer. Losine stepped back. Gabriele moved closer still. Losine felt the warmth of Gabriele’s breath, the heat of his body, the smell of smoke and wine.

  “What have you been doing with my wife?” Gabriele said.

  “I love Willa....” Losine had intended to take more time, to explain, perhaps talk about other things before confronting Gabriele with the truth.

  “Hah! Well, you’re not the first. Nor the last, either.”

  Losine was surprised. I’m handling this badly, he thought. Now I’ve made him say preposterous things about Willa. He put Willa’s scarf in his suitcase, closed it, and shut the latches. He turned back to Gabriele. “Forgive my abruptness. Under the circumstances, I believe it’s best if we speak directly. I’m going to Orvieto to bring Willa and the children back to Milano with me.”

  Gabriele snorted. Losine hesitated, wished that he had sounded more convincing. “First, my antiquities and my money. Now, my wife and children. Do you plan to carry off my vineyards, too?” He turned to Fiorelli. “Have you ever heard of anything so ludicrous?” He looked at Losine again and shouted at him, “They keep people like you at the asylum in Lucca!” He examined his large, rough hands, opened and closed his fists as if to test them. “Let me tell you something, Michel Losine.” He made a fist with his right hand and slammed it into the palm of his left hand. “My wife is a delightful woman. She is beautiful. Very desirable.” He rubbed the fist on the palm of his left hand. Losine had the impression that Gabriele restrained his fist only with the greatest effort. “Perhaps these qualities in her have led you to believe that she wishes to go to away with you.” He pointed his index finger at Losine. “You are mistaken. It is you who wish to go away with her. My wife has a husband and a family in Orvieto.” He slammed his fist down on the table. Losine started. “That is where she intends to stay and that is where she will stay. And so will our children.”

  Losine took a deep breath and then spoke slowly, evenly. “I suggest we go to Orvieto and let Willa speak for herself.”

  “I am her husband. Therefore, I know what her wishes are. She wishes only that you go back to wherever you come from and leave her— us—in peace.”

  “She didn’t say that. She only just left here.”

  Gabriele went over to Losine’s suitcase, opened it and took out Willa’s scarf. He shook his head and waved the scarf at Losine. “You stole her scarf because you wanted to keep something of her to remind yourself of what it’s like to feel something. Because you are a man who feels nothing, isn’t that right?”

  “That’s mine!” Losine snatched t
he scarf away.

  Gabriele drew a folded paper from his pocket. “I have a letter for you. Willa asked me to give it to you. Read it yourself.” He held the note out to Losine. Clutching Willa’s scarf, Losine took the wrinkled paper from Gabriele. He turned away so that Gabriele wouldn’t see his hands tremble as he unfolded it. The light in the room seemed dimmed to him. He couldn’t see clearly. Losine turned on the lamp and held the note under the light.

  Dear Signor Losine: I have assured my husband that you intend to return our antiquities and our money immediately. Please tell him how you will do that and confirm the arrangements with him. Thank you.

  She had signed it, “Very truly yours, Willa Marcheschi.” Losine read the note again, saw the blurred ink. The note had gotten wet. Had Willa cried when she wrote it? He crumpled it and tossed it at Gabriele’s feet. “This says nothing about us.”

  Gabriele advanced toward him, fists raised like a prizefighter’s. “I tell you she will never go anywhere with you!”

  Losine heard the rasping of Gabriele’s breath and moved aside, tried to keep his balance. “Your shouting and bullying are unnecessary,” he said. “We both have an interest in discussing this rationally. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll order more drinks.”

  Gabriele Marcheschi remained standing. “What is there to discuss with you? You imagine you love my wife. That she loves you. You are wrong. If you truly love Willa, you’ll leave her alone.”

  Losine took out a cigarette and lit it. The smoke drifted toward Gabriele. “I do not imagine it. Your marriage to Willa is over.”

  “Would my wife leave me for a cripple? A tourist? A criminal with warrants out for his arrest?”

  Losine coughed. “If you’re so certain, then you shouldn’t object to our going to ask Willa what she wants to do,” he said recovering. He flicked an ash into the glass ashtray on the table.

  “Legally, Willa is still my wife. I will never give her a divorce. Legally, the children belong to me. I will never let them be taken from me. Legally, my land belongs to me. I would never let anyone take it away from me. The law is on my side. Surely you know that?”

  Losine stubbed out the cigarette. “Do you intend to imprison Willa?”

  “I am her husband. Understand: she will never go anywhere with you. As long as I am alive, you can be absolutely certain of that.”

  “You don’t know her wishes,” Losine said, “or if you do, you don’t care what they are.”

  “Who would know them better than I? Besides, you are a wanted man. If you go near my wife, I will tell the authorities where you are. You will never escape me.” Gabriele waved his hand toward Fiorelli. “Which one of us do you think the authorities would believe?”

  Fiorelli glanced at his watch and stepped between the two men. “Signor Marcheschi, it’s time to end this unpleasant conversation. Please, won’t you join me outside?” Fiorelli linked his arm in Gabriele’s and, with a smile, moved with him toward the door. Gabriele looked back at Losine, then at Fiorelli.

  “He’s paid you off!” Gabriele shouted.

  “I understand what you are thinking, Signor Marcheschi,” Fiorelli said as he guided Gabriele out into the corridor. “I’m told that your antiquities won’t be ready for delivery until tomorrow,” Losine heard Fiorelli say. “You can wait in my office, if you like, and perhaps I could assist you in completing this important business. First, I’ll need to see your permits.” Losine heard Gabriele gasp.

  “Permits?”

  “The antiquities were sold, and you know, of course, that you must have a permit before you sell antiquities,” Fiorelli said.

  “But they belong to me.”

  “That is the point. It’s is an unusual situation, I admit—unique in my experience, in fact—but the law is quite clear: you must have a permit merely to possess antiquities of this sort. Of course, we normally wouldn’t prosecute in a case like yours when it is apparently a matter of inheritance, but, stolen or inherited, you must have permits. Without a permit, the antiquities cannot be returned to you.”

  “How long would that take?” Gabriele asked.

  “Not long,” said Fiorelli. “In fact, I could arrange it quite quickly, if you wish.”

  “Arrange?”

  “It won’t be too expensive,” Losine heard Fiorelli as he closed the door. The latch clicked. He looked down at Willa’s scarf still clamped in his damp hand. He spread the silk out on the table, smoothed the wrinkles, and folded it before locking it inside his suitcase. It was time to go. She was waiting for him. He drew a rose from one of the vases and inhaled its fragrance. Petals fell at his feet.

  III. FINA

  1

  ORVIETO, AUGUST 1968

  I took my examinations in July of 1968 right after I finished secondary school and did very well. I wanted to go to university and become a history teacher. As soon as I received my test results, I decided to enroll at Università Cattolicà del Sacro Cuore – Cattolicà, as it’s called—in Milano, where my teachers had encouraged me to study. Cattolicà had a fine reputation, they said, and it would be a good place for a studious girl like me. Papà refused to discuss my plans, but it wasn’t until later that I understood his real reasons. At that time—August—papà could not have imagined that I would very soon discover all that he and mamma had taken such pains to conceal from me and from each other or that all of our lives would change forever before the end of that same year.

  The unraveling of their secrets began on an ordinary day. Papà came home early and went into the salotto, just as he usually did. He sat down in his faded armchair, which was covered in a prickly, plush material the color of putty. The chair had formed to the contours of his body, become one with his needs. Although the late afternoon sun was still bright, he adjusted his reading lamp to the highest setting, put on his glasses, and opened his newspaper. When he read the newspaper, he demanded absolute silence.

  I heard him grunt. “What, papà?”

  “Al diavolo! Strikes in Milano and Torino! Femministe rioting in Rome! Workers don’t know when they’re well off! Women are forgetting their place!”

  “What place is that, papà?”

  He glanced up from his paper and frowned. “I hope you’re not planning to join those puttane.” The word means “whores,” but papà meant women who did something to compromise themselves and their reputations, something that wasn’t customary or approved, something he didn’t like.

  “I only want to go to Cattolicà so I can become a history teacher,” I said. “That doesn’t make me a puttana.”

  “Girls from good families get married and have babies and take care of their husbands, and their husbands take care of them,” he said from behind his newspaper. “That’s the way God wants it to be.” He put the newspaper down on his lap and looked at me. “You should be thinking about your future, not about history.”

  “I am, papà. That’s why I want to go to university.”

  “Maybe you’ll listen to your mother. Where is Willa?”

  “In bed. She’s feeling worse today.”

  “Hummph!” He shook his head and returned to his paper. Just then, Grazia came in with her broom. “Grazia, has the mail come?”

  “I’ll check,” I said before Grazia could answer.

  In the mailbox I found several envelopes addressed to papà and a magazine for mamma. Then I saw it, the envelope from Cattolicà with the information about enrollment. I tore it open. Welcome to Cattolicà…, the letter said. There was a list of enrollment dates. I would be leaving in two months. At that time, I was excited and anxious about going away from home for the first time, and I couldn’t have imagined what the real cost of my intentions would turn out to be. I heard papà’s footsteps and slipped the letter inside the magazine and folded the magazine under my arm.

  “What’s that you’re holding, cara?”

  “It’s just mamma’s subscription from America.” I handed him his mail.

  “I want to see all of the mail immediate
ly.” He tore open one of the envelopes.

  “Papà, going to university is the only way I can become a history teacher, and I can enroll in October….”

  He looked at the address on another envelope and opened it. “There’s plenty of work for you here at Vino Marcheschi.”

  “I just got a letter from Cattolicà. Can I show it to you now?”

  He waved his hand as if he were trying to get rid of a fly. “Basta! Come with me.” I followed him into the salotto. He handed me his newspaper and pointed to an editorial. “Read this. It’s the only history you need to know.” He went out, leaving me to read the article myself:

  We Orvietani believe that mistakes result from hasty or thoughtless actions. What is correct is already known: the time of the vendemmia, the best families, what is a proper marriage. If an untested action seems needed, we take time to consult the priest and to wait for agreement among our city’s leaders on what is to be done. We recall that the Orsini and Marcheschi families underwrote the cost of the great bronze doors of our Duomo. Everyone agreed that their generous gift has bought a sense of solidity to the shimmering façade of our famous cathedral. More importantly, this change occurred only after several generations had considered the matter, and, thus, it reflects the collective history and wisdom of our own community.

  Recently, ridiculous rumors circulated that Orvieto was endangered, perhaps doomed. Even people who knew better told this story beyond the city walls with the result that tourists were afraid to visit and our merchants lost money. Perhaps people told this false story because they found it exciting. Even though the correct story appeared in this newspaper and others, by the time it was published, it was already too late. Damage was inevitable. Even today, some people believe that Orvieto is still in danger.

  Here is the truth: The porous tufa beneath our city is riddled with ancient caves and grottoes, some natural, some manmade. From time to time these structures give way. Such occurrences are so common that they are rarely publicized. In this instance, after several cars fell into sinkholes and a few homes sustained damage, our wisest leaders debated whether these were acts of God or of man and, thus, whether the matter demanded prayer or science. Once again, two of our distinguished citizens, Pietro Orsini and Gabriele Marcheschi, urged that we consult with leading experts. The latter advised inserting a network of piles and pipes into the tufa to prevent further deterioration. When our esteemed Monsignor Enrico also examined the evidence, he agreed that our actions were correct and blessed them. Workmen are now placing scaffolding base-to-summit around the perimeter of the outcropping and have begun the difficult work of reinforcement. This exceptional project will keep Orvieto secure for generations to come and once again demonstrates to everyone that by God’s grace we are led to success through correct actions.