The Italian Wife

by Kate Furnivall

  Manfredi, the designer, had drawn his inspiration from Greek and Roman architecture to create majestic external frontals. Isabella could see their appeal, but they annoyed her with their lack of modern perspectives. She hoped the minds inside were not as rooted in the past as the building itself. She had a theory that if you immersed yourself day after day in an environment that hankered after the past, your thoughts would get stuck there too. That’s why she loved Bellina so much. It opened up a whole new future, not just for Bellina and its inhabitants but for the whole of Italy. And for herself. She knew that the only way forward for her was to walk away from the past, to put what happened in Milan behind her. Yet still it held her in its iron grip.

  Luigi was part of the past. That’s where he belonged. So why was his shadow here today, striding up the steps beside her, laughing at her limp?

  ‘Va via!’ she said for the second time that day. ‘Go away.’

  Minister Pietro Luciani’s office was not as grand as she had expected, but was still a beautiful frescoed room for someone who was only a junior member of the government. With such high ceilings and elaborate oak panelling, it was no wonder that his opinion of himself had soared to fill the space.

  ‘Buongiorno, Signora Berotti.’ He pronounced his words ponderously, as if they were full of significance.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me today, Minister.’

  ‘Your husband Luigi Berotti was a fine young man, a member of the Fascisti, and he was committed to ridding Italy of its plague of Communists with their strikes and their pay demands, and Socialists who wanted to bring this country to its knees. I was proud to have him in my brigade.’

  Isabella nodded. She didn’t remind him that Mussolini had once been an ardent Socialist who had edited the Socialist magazine Avanti. She could tell that Luciani was the kind of man who would not take well to such comments, especially coming from a woman. He had spiky grey hair and a permanent tilt to his mouth that had frozen halfway between a sneer and a smile, but his eyes were large and warm, as if they belonged to someone else.

  ‘My belated commiserations to you, signora. Your husband’s death was a tragic loss to us all. What is it that you want from me?’

  This man wasn’t wasting time. Each minute of his day would be accounted for, she was sure. She wouldn’t have long.

  ‘I’m here because I want to know the real reason my husband was killed and why I was targeted too. Why shoot me? It doesn’t make sense. At the time I was told by the police that it was a political attack against the Blackshirts by an unknown —’

  ‘Whatever the police told you will be true. I know nothing more.’

  She let the words lie there, unchallenged, on the desk between them.

  ‘Was Luigi involved in something?’

  ‘The Blackshirts were always involved in something, Signora Berotti. Back then we were fighting against the corruption of those in power and against the treachery of the militant left-wing who would have brought Italy to its knees if it hadn’t been for Mussolini. Il Duce and his Fascist Party saved our nation.’

  ‘I know all this,’ Isabella pointed out demurely.

  She rested her damaged hand with its gleaming white bandages on the funereal black of the arm of her coat. To remind him. Of the cost she had paid. She lowered her lashes.

  ‘Can you help me, Minister? Per favore.’

  ‘I told you, I know nothing more. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Maybe a file you can look at? A memorandum that might tell —’

  Luciani stood up abruptly. ‘That’s all, signora. I’m sorry I can’t help you further.’

  ‘Can’t?’ she murmured. ‘Or won’t?’

  A silence shifted nervously around the room. Isabella looked pointedly at a portrait of Mussolini striking a magnificent pose and she smiled at it as if they were friends.

  ‘Minister,’ she turned a sceptical look on Luciani, ‘let me remind you who it was who gave me your name. It was Il Duce himself. He passed your name to me as someone he assured me would help. Do you want me to go back to him with a report that you did nothing? That you were too busy here in your fine office to remember a fallen comrade who marched at Mussolini’s side. Is that what you want?’

  Minister Luciani removed a cigar from the cedar box on his desk top and took his time lighting it. He eyed Isabella through the thick veil of smoke as though he hoped she would disappear.

  ‘There is someone,’ he said.

  ‘Someone?’

  ‘Who might know.’

  Isabella felt the blood pound in her damaged hand, a sharp unexpected warning. Suddenly the information was coming too easily.

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Giorgio Andretti.’

  Her eyes widened. It rang a dim bell. Luigi had spoken that name.

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  Luciani retreated into his cigar. His eyes narrowed against the lie he was about to say. ‘I know nothing more that can help you, but Andretti might.’

  ‘He was in the same Blackshirt brigade with my husband, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ He paced up and down, waving his cigar around like a fly swat, except it was Isabella he wanted to swat away. ‘He works in a warehouse now. A foreman, married with five children.’

  It struck her that this was a lot of information to know off the cuff like that, and she realised he had come well prepared for her questions. That’s why he was a minister and Andretti was only a foreman. But her sense of unease was growing with every puff of his cigar. Why was this respected minister so eager to slough off responsibility for passing on any information? What was he hiding behind his smokescreen?

  ‘How can I get in touch with him?’ she asked.

  ‘If you wish it I will arrange a meeting. Just you and Andretti. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning at Caffè Greco. You know it?’

  She nodded. Everyone knew Caffè Greco, it was one of the finest and certainly the oldest cafés in Rome. But he had said it too fast, too glib on the tip of his tongue, and it dawned on Isabella that he had already arranged the meeting with Andretti. It was all set up. He was that sure of her. He didn’t even ask if she could make it.

  ‘Thank you, Minister.’

  She heard the smallest sigh of relief escape him. If she caused trouble anywhere along the line, it wasn’t going to be his fault. He strutted over to the door and flung it open.

  ‘Good day, Signora Berotti. Again my commiserations to you.’

  His eyes and his mouth together managed a smile that was almost convincing. He could afford to be generous now. He’d washed his hands of her.

  A fine gritty dust crept between Isabella’s teeth and under her eyelids the moment she climbed down the steep steps into the stone quarry. The meeting with Luciani had left her jumpy. Wary. A feeling that she was being manipulated. But the second her foot touched the sunken floor gouged out of the solid rock of the quarry and her eyes feasted on the veins and pores within the rockface itself, she felt a sense of calm. It was always like that.

  Sound changed in a quarry. It had nowhere to go. So it reverberated off the sheer cliffs and rebounded right back at you, growing heavier in the process, as if weighed down by the dust. The sky seemed to draw closer, the thin white clouds forming a tight lid over the quarry, creating a barren world that was cut off from the green landscape above. Isabella could imagine how a person who worked here day after day, year after year, surrounded by a netherworld that was halfway to the bowels of the earth, could forget the reality of life in the city. Here, deep within this timeless arena of ancient rock, you could forget that there were rules. You might be tempted to make up your own.

  She made her way towards a long black shed that sat with its back against a wall of travertine but before she reached it a lorry piled with stone chippings ground its gears and slewed across her path. A man leapt out of the cab, indifferent to the storm of dust he had stirred up around them, but Isabella was still coughing when he greeted her with a wide grin
.

  ‘Bella signora, you brighten up this dirty old hole in the ground but,’ he wagged a thick finger at her, ‘you should not be here.’

  He was a middle-aged man with grizzled black hair and moustache embedded with rock dust and a belly that declared a serious penchant for pasta and parmesan.

  ‘I am Signora Berotti.’

  He scooped up her good hand in his grubby paw and kissed the back of it. ‘My pleasure, bella signora.’ He waved an expansive arm at the workmen drilling and hammering and at the ramp where lorries were struggling to ascend the slope with their loads, and flashed his tobacco-stained teeth at her. ‘This is no place for a beautiful woman. I am Gaetan Orrico, manager of this quarry.’

  ‘Well, Signor Orrico, I am an architect, so I am accustomed to quarries.’ She smiled pleasantly enough. ‘I’ve come from Bellina to speak to you.’

  It was as though she had snipped the strings that held up his broad smile. It collapsed instantly and the laughter drained from his eyes.

  ‘I said I’d pay up.’ He said the words harshly, and glanced around to ensure no one was within earshot. ‘I told him that. He can trust me.’

  Isabella blinked. ‘Scusi?’

  ‘You’re from Martino’s architectural office, right?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  He shook his head, his lower lip pouting like a child’s. ‘You didn’t need to come.’

  ‘Yes, I did. I have some serious questions to ask.’

  He glanced at her unbandaged hand, as if he would take back his kiss if he could, and stomped off to the shed that was his office.

  ‘So?’ Isabella shut the door firmly behind her. ‘What is going on?’

  She could sense his nerves. He stood in front of her, shoulders hunched, chewing on his moustache.

  ‘Tell him I said I’d pay up. He’ll get his share,’ Orrico stated, but now his tone was belligerent.

  The office and desk were orderly but something was clearly wrong. Isabella could smell it. She looked at the pile of paperwork on his desk and wondered what was being hidden under the columns of numbers. The fact that he’d mistaken her for the messenger of someone to whom he owed money depressed her because it stank of corruption. Someone was demanding his share of a payout from this man.

  A payout in return for what?

  ‘I see,’ she said.

  ‘Make sure you tell him.’

  She nodded. She needed a name. ‘The stone you’re supplying is substandard.’

  ‘You’re not here to complain about that, are you? Of course it’s bloody substandard. How else does he think he’ll get his rake-off?’

  ‘There have been cracks in the buildings.’ Isabella took a risk. ‘Dottore Architetto Martino isn’t happy.’

  His eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘How do I know you’re who you say you are? Since when has Martino employed a female architect?’ He stepped nearer, wary of her now. ‘You don’t look like an architect.’

  She laughed in his face. ‘What does an architect look like?’

  He eyed her up and down, enjoying the moment. ‘Merda, not like you, that’s certain.’

  From her shoulder bag, careful not to jar her hand, Isabella extracted a verification card that stated she was employed as an architect by Dottore Martino. It wasn’t the first time she’d been asked to produce it.

  ‘Here.’ She handed it to him.

  He raised it close to his face and peered at it intently. ‘Isabella.’ He looked sideways at her and gave her a sour smile. ‘Not a nice business you’re in, Isabella, not nice at all.’

  ‘I am in the business of building houses.’

  He tossed her card back at her. ‘Houses with faulty stone and cheap mortar with too much sand and foundations that are not dug deep enough. That kind of business.’ He gave a grunt of scornful laughter. ‘That kind of house.’

  ‘Let’s settle this,’ she said sharply. ‘Payment is expected.’

  ‘Tell him I don’t like dealing with his messenger. How do I know I can trust you? Make sure that next time he comes himself.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  He turned away with a shrug to his desk drawer and pulled out a manilla envelope. He opened it up and removed a thick handful of lira banknotes from inside, tucking them with satisfaction back into the drawer and leaving only a small number of them in the envelope. He sealed it and held it stiffly across his desk to Isabella.

  ‘If he wants the rest of it, he’ll damn well have to come and get it in person. I don’t deal with messengers.’ He treated her to an openly lecherous smile. ‘Not even pretty ones.’

  Isabella snatched the envelope from his hand and walked out of the shed – she could stand no more. It was only when she was fighting her way up the steep climb of the quarry steps that she allowed herself to glance down at the front of the envelope. In large unruly handwriting was scrawled the single name: Francolini.

  Francolini?

  No, Davide, no. How could you do this? This betrayal. How could you knife Bellina in the back like a filthy assassin?

  When she emerged from the quarry into the green world above, her eyes were still fixed with fury on the name, willing it to transform into a different one that she didn’t know. Which is why she dropped her guard. She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her, didn’t notice the shadow until too late. By then a hand had clamped over her mouth and a hiss sounded in her ear.

  She whirled around to see a man’s face framed by a thatch of ginger hair that Titian would have been proud of.

  33

  She will come.

  Patience. She will come.

  But each time Roberto breathed in, it felt as though the air had to drag itself through wet muslin to reach his lungs.

  She will come because she promised. And Isabella is a woman of her word. Unless…

  He refused to contemplate ‘unless’. But he didn’t trust Grassi and knew that the chairman’s reach was long and stealthy. If Grassi had decided to tighten his grip, Isabella could already be on her knees in some stinking prison cell that Roberto could not prise her out of so easily this time.

  The sound of a prayer drifted to him. The scent of candles and wet raincoats. They mingled in the sombre light within the circular and ornate body of the church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. He stood in deep shadow in one of the niches and waited.

  And waited.

  She came. Limping badly. Her black coat was buttoned up to the neck, her beret rolled into a tube and sticking out of her pocket.

  Roberto didn’t move. He remained in shadow, waiting to see whether anyone had hurried off the Piazza del Popolo and followed her into the church. But he could make out no one shifting uneasily between the side chapels or lighting votive candles with a hand that was unsteady and unaccustomed to the task.

  Isabella looked around the church, her gaze flicking over the few figures sitting silently in the pews who in the dim light looked like statues themselves. She glanced up at the richly decorated cupola above and then took a seat on one of the front benches, cradling her hand to her chest. Roberto was surprised that she turned her back on the door. It made her vulnerable. It was as if she were shutting herself away from whatever was on the other side of it. Her face was solemn and seemed to be focused on gazing straight ahead at the ornate altar with its black marble pillars and gold-framed image of the Virgin Mary. There was something fragile about Isabella, in the way she sat. In the set of her shoulders, something he hadn’t seen in her before, and it pained him to see it now.

  In the hushed atmosphere he moved quietly. He sat in the pew behind her in silence, letting her rest in peace, guarding her back. He sat there so long that it was growing dark outside and only then did Isabella tip her head back slightly, looking up at the powerful gold cross that soared above the altar.

  ‘Did you think,’ she murmured in a low voice meant for Roberto’s ears alone, ‘that I didn’t know you were there?’

  Roberto smiled softly. ‘Of course you knew.’

 
; She could hear his heartbeat as clearly as he heard hers.

  Picking their way through the darker streets of Rome, they headed for the Tiber river, the Fiume Tèvere, and Roberto felt a rush of relief. The centre of Rome was left behind. They crossed on the Garibaldi bridge, its lights glittering in the swirling black depths of the river like stars that had slipped down from the night sky by mistake.