Lunch with Mussolini

by Derek Hansen

  Cecilia smiled. She could see both mother and daughter were embarrassed but nonetheless determined. But so was she. She felt strangely excited by the prospect of reading to Guido Mila and was not about to be denied. She didn’t know why she felt so strongly about it, only that she did. She chose her words carefully, anxious not to reveal her inner feelings or offend.

  ‘Signora Mila, you know I take my instructions from you.’ It was a lie but entirely appropriate. ‘I will obey your bidding. I will attend your husband only if and when you wish.’

  ‘You are a good girl, Cecilia.’

  ‘However, Signora, the Count does not give instructions only for them to be ignored. His wishes must seem to be obeyed. Allow me to read to your husband occasionally. There will be times during the days ahead when you will be grateful for the break and your husband for the diversion.’

  The Signora hesitated. What Cecilia had said made sense, yet for some inexplicable reason she felt out-manoeuvred. She looked hard into the eyes of the girl before her as if trying to divine some secret intent. But there was nothing to read there, nothing at all to see. With a shock, the Signora realised that Cecilia’s face never so much as hinted at whatever went on behind it. But what reason did she have to distrust her?

  ‘Yes, Cecilia, you are quite right as always. The Count wants you to help so you should help. Besides, I think it’s a good idea that you read to my husband occasionally. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thank you, Signora. Goodnight. Goodnight, Carmela.’

  Neither replied but Cecilia didn’t notice.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A week passed before Signora Mila invited Cecilia to read to her husband. She chose her day well. The low mists and drizzle, which seemed to have settled over Lake Como for the duration of the war, had suddenly lifted and been burned away by a resolute sun. Birds which had lain low in whatever cover they could find, reappeared singing the joys of spring. Blossoms appeared on the branches of trees and in the gardens, and caterpillars began an orgy of feasting which would end only when they’d metamorphosed into butterflies. On such a day, it was a sin to remain indoors. Signora Mila had ordered Stefano to wheel her husband out onto the lawn overlooking the lake, and it was there that Cecilia found him, gazing dolefully towards distant Ravenna.

  ‘Buon giorno, Signor Mila, how are you today?’ Cecilia waited for a reply but it was clear that he was either lost in thought or hadn’t heard her. ‘Signora Mila has asked me to read to you.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Cecilia laughed and her laughter so free and innocent broke through Guido’s reveries and brought a smile to his face.

  ‘I am Cecilia. We met at your reception. May I sit down?’

  ‘Please …’

  Cecilia sat down on the same stone bench she’d sat upon the first day she’d come to the Villa Carosio, and once more her heart was pounding. Why? All Signor Mila had done was smile at her. Why did it matter whether he smiled at her? Why was it so important?

  ‘This is where I sat when I first read to the Count. He liked my reading so much he invited me to stay and live here.’

  ‘Yes, I have heard about your reading, Signorina.’

  Cecilia froze. She wondered exactly how much the Signora had told him. He gazed at her as if inspecting an expensive purchase and she felt herself wilting before his scrutiny. She turned away to hide her shame, pretending to choose from the books and newspapers on her lap. Her hands shook.

  ‘Che occhi belli!’

  He’d spoken softly. Cecilia looked up surprised to see if she’d heard correctly. He repeated his words.

  ‘What beautiful eyes!’

  Cecilia felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She knew she had beautiful eyes. Her mother had told her so, as had her father and friends at school. But nobody had ever told her quite like this before.

  ‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. To prove it I will not mention your beautiful brown hair. Why is it some women get all the gifts? I was merely stating what to me is plainly obvious. It must be this spring air. Today I see everything so clearly. I can even count the flowerpots on the windowsills of houses in Ravenna and Bellagio. I can see the trout rising on the lake.’

  Cecilia began to laugh at this absurdity. But a tension and bitterness crept into his voice and he seemed unable to curb his flood of words.

  ‘I can even see the Avanguardista parading through Menaggio. They are doing the Bersaglieri trot. Other soldiers march to victory, ours run to defeat.’ He waved his arm in the vague direction of the town hidden beneath them. ‘I can see that foolish man, your father, urging them on like lambs to the slaughter. Teach them to march. Teach them to look good in front of the ladies. Teach them to fire their pathetic carabinas. Then throw them up against the British tanks. God help them! Holy Mother have mercy on them! Did you know your father’s boot laces are undone? Look at them. See? It is a miracle he doesn’t trip. The only thing that can help us now is a miracle and we waste them on men like your father!’ Cecilia was stunned by the vehemence in his voice. Then to her astonishment, his voice began to tremble. ‘Dear God! We don’t even teach our men to tie their boot laces properly!’

  Cecilia sat immobile, not knowing what to do. This was not how she expected a war hero to talk. What would the Count think if he overheard them? What would Signor Calosci think? She didn’t know whether to caution him or comfort him. At any event, her indecisiveness spared her from possible embarrassment. A sudden shudder which began with a shake of his head flicked through his body. He gathered himself together and looked back up at Cecilia.

  ‘Forgive me. It’s just that the war is madness. Every Italian soldier who has been in action can see the future more clearly than Il Duce can see his own pee-pee when he’s taking a leak!’ Once more his hands came up to his face. ‘What am I saying? I forget myself. Please Signorina, forget I said such things.’

  Cecilia was bewildered. What was he saying? How could he say what he had about Mussolini? She had a thousand questions to ask. Nevertheless, there were manners to observe and a patient to tend. She simply smiled and took his hand. ‘Signor Mila, every day at school I hear ten times worse in the playground. There is nothing to apologise for. Tell me, you know my father?’

  ‘Signorina, everybody in Lombardia knows your father and his fascist rantings. He was the reason I stopped going to the café in Ravello. And, of course, I know your mother. Sometimes I drove her up the hill to Ravello when she’d finished work. A fine woman. Her tragedy is that she chose to marry your father.’

  ‘I still love my father, Signore, after all …’

  ‘After all he is your father. I must apologise once more. It is my fate to spend this glorious afternoon apologising to you. It is right that you love your father but, let me tell you Cecilia, the time will come soon enough when your love will be sorely tested. Tell me, are you also a fascist?’

  ‘No, not a fascist but a loyal Italian and I am loyal to Il Duce.’

  ‘And you are also loyal to the Count.’

  ‘As is the Signora and everyone else in the Villa Carosio.’

  ‘Then I must watch my tongue otherwise you will tell the Count and we will be thrown out.’

  ‘Signore, I would never …’ Cecilia hesitated. She was about to add the words ‘betray you’. ‘Signore … I promise I will never repeat conversations we have to the Count. You can trust me. Ask Signora Mila.’

  ‘Tell me, Cecilia, tell me truthfully, do you like the Count?’

  ‘Signor Mila, I believe you already know the answer to that question.’

  ‘So the old bastard still hasn’t changed his ways. Don’t worry, Cecilia, I won’t embarrass you any further. I asked the Signora but she told me nothing. In truth she didn’t need to. One look at her face and I could guess. I have been around this damned place too long for there to be any secrets. Tell me, is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Signor Mila, if there was something you could do, you would have done it. I will never forgi
ve him, neither will the Signora. One day he will pay for what he has done. The Signora has promised me. One day we will make him pay.’

  Guido Mila studied the young girl, surprised by the sudden hardness in her voice. He took his time appraising her, assessing her strength. She held his gaze this time and did not falter. His eyes bored into hers, then he allowed them to wander over the rest of her. She neither looked away nor flinched. Despite her school uniform he couldn’t help but notice she was no longer a girl but on the verge of womanhood. And she would be a beauty.

  ‘Justice. Retribution. We Italians have an infinite capacity to carry hatreds. But enough! This glorious day deserves better. It is time you read to me, young lady. It is time you took my mind off less pleasant matters. That is your job from today.’

  ‘Would you like me to read the newspaper?’

  ‘No! Heaven forbid! How can I forget the war if you sit there and remind me?’

  ‘But the news is good. The German General Rommel has taken charge of our troops and driven the Allies from Cyrenaica. They’re in full flight back across the desert to Egypt. We’ve captured half the British armour. The papers say we’ll reach the canal in a few weeks. The Count—’

  ‘Cecilia, dear Cecilia, I beg you. Help me forget.’ He took both of her hands in his and stared earnestly into her eyes. She could see his fears and his desperation. Once more her heart pounded. Was it because his eyes were so like her mother’s? No it was something else. ‘You realise once my legs have healed they’ll send me back. They’ll send me back, Cecilia. God help me! And if He won’t, you must. The Germans will use us as cannon fodder and the British as target practice. Help me forget, Cecilia. For an hour, for a minute, for a second. Please. Help me forget.’

  Cecilia nodded, transfixed. She’d help him forget. She’d do anything for him. Anything, anything. She didn’t want to usurp Signora Mila’s claims, or to replace Carmela. She wanted only his affection and trust and to take away his pain; to give him affection and loyalty in return. He confused her and unsettled her and set loose emotions she didn’t begin to understand. He was the Signora’s husband. He was Carmela’s father. But did that mean he couldn’t also be her friend? She could be his companion, like she was with the Count. Yes! She felt a tremor course through her body. Like she was with the Count.

  Lucio sat back, finished for the day, and waited for comments. He felt good. For once he felt he’d controlled his story well. He’d shaken off his earlier doubts and finished strongly.

  ‘Is that it?’ Once more Ramon had turned in his chair to face him.

  ‘Yes. It is enough for today.’

  ‘No, Lucio, it is not enough. Only an optimist would think it was.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lucio tried to sound indignant but had a sinking feeling that he knew where Ramon was heading.

  ‘We’re waiting to hear more about Colombina. Isn’t that correct?’

  ‘Ramon’s right.’ Milos looked steadily at Lucio. ‘You began with Colombina and you have studiously avoided her ever since. That’s not how it is done, Lucio. After all, a story has to be about someone and this one is about Colombina. You can’t throw a bone and then hold back the dog.’

  ‘What Milos is saying, Lucio, is if you want to tell grown up stories you have to abide by grown up rules.’ Neil motioned to Gancio who’d begun to stand. ‘There’ll be no coffee and no grappa until you finish your story for today. Now, tell us more about Colombina.’

  Lucio sat silently, desperately trying to collect his thoughts. It was a mistake, he realised, to have begun with Colombina. What could he tell them now without advancing his story too far? He had no choice but to continue.

  ‘I thought we had an agreement,’ he said, stalling. He turned to Milos for support.

  ‘Yes, we have an agreement.’ Milos spoke gently, but Lucio could tell instantly that it was a lost cause. ‘We’ve agreed not to anticipate your story. We haven’t. We are merely asking for what we believe is our due. I think you should round the day off by telling us more about Colombina. You ignored her entirely last week and barely touched on her this week. Yet it is her story. By all means drip-feed her story, but even drips come regularly. We need more to sustain our interest and give us something to think about over the coming week. I don’t think we’re being unreasonable.’

  ‘Okay … where did we get to?’ Lucio suddenly felt tired and his tiredness made him careless. ‘What do you want me to tell you? There are developments, but they should wait till next week when I will tell them better. But you want more so I’ll give you more. Colombina is now convinced she needs the rabbit poison to kill the Oberstleutnant.’

  ‘Is now convinced? Present tense, Lucio?’

  Lucio’s mouth went dry. What had he said? What had Ramon picked up on? ‘Present tense, past tense, what does it matter? I was thinking in Italian and mentally translating into English. In Italian it would be present tense.’ Lucio felt sick. He’d blundered and blundered badly.

  ‘What are you trying to do to us, Lucio?’ Ramon’s voice was soft and reasonable, but Lucio had no doubt that his mind was considering the implications.

  ‘What are you going on about, Ramon?’

  ‘Work it out, Neil. You, too, Milos.’

  ‘You’ve lost me, Ramon. Please explain.’

  ‘There is a suggestion here that the story Lucio’s telling is still awaiting its conclusion. I haven’t lost you, have I, Lucio?’

  ‘Yes, Ramon, you have. Let me rephrase my sentence and you’ll find you have no issue with me. I’m just tired and a little careless with tenses.’

  ‘When did you start thinking in Italian again? Your English is as good as anyone’s and your repartee as quick. There are no translation delays then.’

  ‘When I’m tired, Ramon. Only when I’m tired. That’s when I think in Italian and I’m tired now. What’s more, you’ve asked me to tell a part of my story I haven’t prepared and didn’t expect to tell until next week. Now are you going to let me get on with it?’

  ‘So long as it was a genuine mistake.’

  ‘Mother of God, Ramon! You try my patience. All I’m trying to do is honour an obligation and tell more of my story. A story which just minutes ago you all claimed you wanted to hear. Now give me a chance!’

  ‘Do I have your word?’

  ‘Yes Ramon. If that’s what it takes to continue with my story then I give you my word.’

  ‘I’m very relieved to hear that, Lucio.’

  ‘What the va fanculo is he going on about?’

  ‘Neil, it’s enough that I’m fucking up in Italian. Don’t you start fucking up in English and Italian. Now! With your kind permission—and at your insistence—I will continue with my story. I will back-track a little. You’re all so obviously fascinated by Colombina I’d hate you to miss a single thing.’ Lucio prepared to continue his story but he knew that from now on Ramon would hang on his every word. He was not a man who let go of suspicions easily. He cursed his stupidity for thinking aloud, for being drawn into telling a part of his story he wasn’t ready to tell, and for throwing his timing into jeopardy. And he’d had to lie to his friend. That was unforgivable. How could a day that had begun so promisingly end so badly?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Colombina drove down to the Dwyers’ farm near Cowra with the intention of staying for a full week. It wasn’t until she’d adjusted to the gentle pace of country life and its never-changing routine that she realised how tense she’d become. Duplicity no longer came as easily to her as it had when she was younger, when she was allied with both friend and enemy. She needed to relax. Heinrich was alert enough to notice any change in her and she’d already learned how quickly his caution could be aroused. Yet she knew she couldn’t begin to relax until she had her hands on the sodium cyanide, if that’s what they still used to kill rabbits. She decided that the sooner she told her little tale the better.

  Colombina repaid the Dwyers for the hospitality by cooking dinner for them. It was som
ething she enjoyed doing and the Dwyers lapped up the change to Italian cooking. Possibly for the first time in their lives they sat down to meals where the focus wasn’t meat. Indeed, many of the dishes she served, like the beetroot ravioli in warm pea puree, had no meat in them at all. Still the Dwyers were happy to forgo their evening protein infusion, perhaps knowing they could always compensate for the deficiency with a breakfast of chops and eggs. But good food needs no explanation nor justification and the Dwyers were appreciative of Colombina’s efforts. Very appreciative, in fact, as Colombina intended they should be. She made her move as the Dwyers pushed their chairs back from the table, replete and content. Fortunately they had a cat so they’d understand.

  ‘Do you have any problems with feral cats out here?’ Colombina asked innocently.

  Country people never rush in with an answer, preferring to think the question through before answering. Stan Dwyer, like his father Charlie before him, was no exception. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘they don’t come around here because of the dogs. And out there, well we’ve got our share of foxes. Further out they’re a bit of a problem. According to the parks and wildlife people they’re a real menace to native birds and the small marsupials. If we see them we’re supposed to shoot them, but we never see them. They’re no trouble to us.’

  ‘Wish I could say the same.’ Colombina spoke with just the right amount of resignation so that the Dwyers could see that she had a problem, but not so much that she’d appear to be soliciting their help.