by Alison Love
Antonio shrugged, as if to say, Yes, they’ll be hanged. Filomena gazed at her hands, brown creased competent hands, now useless and trembling in her lap.
“You will not tell them, will you, Antonino?” she whispered.
For a moment Antonio did not speak. His face was impassive. At last he said: “No, I will not tell them, Filomena. You are my sister, I do not want to cause you pain. But you have to give him up. How can I keep this secret, if you do not give him up?”
I love him, Filomena wanted to say, I cannot give him up, but the words would not come out.
“Think, Filomena,” Antonio said, more gently. “What will your life be like, if you marry this man? Papa will never forgive you, he will disown you as if you had never been born. And what of your husband’s family? They won’t like him marrying a foreigner. Everything that goes wrong will be your fault. They’ll complain about your cooking, they won’t let you speak Italian to your children. You will be an outsider in your own home.”
“It won’t be like that—” Filomena was saying when she had a vision of Stanley’s mother, her face just like his, a copper’s face, giving nothing away. And underneath it perhaps she would be hating Filomena. You never knew with English people. She remembered what she had said to Stan, the day he kissed her. I am crying because it is impossible.
Antonio came to sit beside her. His shirt smelled of the kiosk, a mixture of sugar and tobacco. “Mena, you must see that I am right. Promise me that you will give him up. Promise me that you will not see him again.”
His hand was upon her arm. It was warm but insistent. Filomena took a breath. “I promise,” she said, so low that he could scarcely hear her. Antonio got to his feet.
“I will speak to this man, this Stanley Harker. It is better if he knows this can never happen. It is better if he understands that from now on he has to leave you alone.”
—
The police station in Bow Street was a gray imposing building, ornate and watchful in the bustle of Covent Garden. Hundreds had passed through its doors. Some were famous—Oscar Wilde, Dr. Crippen, Emmeline Pankhurst; many were doomed, to hard labor or the gallows. Antonio felt a frisson of unease as he entered. Faced with bland implacable British justice he knew himself to be a foreigner. He decided to emulate Bernard Rodway, that consummate Englishman, and he sauntered toward the desk clerk as though he had a perfect right to be there.
The clerk was not to be hoodwinked. He cocked an eyebrow, scanning Antonio’s face as if to memorize it. Then, more genially, he said: “Well, you’re in luck. That’s Constable Harker over there. Stan! An Eyetie to see you.”
Stan Harker, on his way out to the street, turned. “Can I help you, sir?” he said.
“My name is Trombetta. I am Filomena’s brother: Antonio Trombetta.”
At the name a flicker of relief, hardly perceptible, crossed the policeman’s face. He was afraid I might be Valentino, thought Antonio. Filomena must have told him everything about us.
“Filomena is not ill, I hope?” said Stan Harker.
“No. My sister is perfectly well.”
There was a silence. Stan Harker glanced behind him at the desk clerk, who was watching them, unabashed.
“I’m on my way to Malet Street. I have to talk to the foreman at a building site there. Part of the university, as it happens, the new Senate House. They are finishing the interior and there have been reports of pilfering—tiles, lead piping, that kind of caper. If you like, you could walk with me.”
Antonio nodded. He had expected a rogue, a sly charmer who had bewitched his poor sister, and he was disconcerted by this pale solid young man.
Outside Stan pointed to the lamp above the stone steps. “Do you know, this is the only police station in the country that has a white lamp? Queen Victoria didn’t like blue, apparently. Prince Albert died in a blue room, and every time she came to the opera the station lamp reminded her of it.”
“And so they changed it?”
“Well,” said Stan Harker, “she was the queen. Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Empress of India.” They fell into step, crossing Long Acre, walking north along Endell Street. “So Filomena has told you about me?”
Antonio nodded. “She says that you have a friendship.”
“A friendship?” Stan’s mouth contracted for a moment. “Yes.”
“You must see that now she is to be married, my sister cannot continue such friendships. She was foolish to permit it in the first place. We are a close-knit community. Word gets about. If her fidanzato, Bruno, finds out, Filomena will be in disgrace.”
They were approaching the Senate House. It was a grandly designed structure with its looming tower of pure white stone; across the London skyscape only St. Paul’s Cathedral was taller.
“A handsome building,” Antonio said, without enthusiasm. “It reminds me of Littoria, the new city Mussolini is constructing upon the Pontine marshes. I saw it on my last trip home to Italy.”
“Yes,” said Stan Harker, “it is a very handsome building. Much of the work has been done by your countrymen, Signor Trombetta. The marble tiles and so forth. All to a very high standard.”
Antonio stiffened. “Tile makers come from Friuli, they could almost be described as Austrians. We are from Lazio, my family and I. Do not laugh, Constable Harker. You live in Bermondsey, I believe. I do not think that you would like it if I confused you with a man from Liverpool, or even from Islington.”
Stan Harker’s smile broadened. “Fair point,” he said, and he turned once more to the Senate House, studying its clean cold lines, its blind windows. “I have heard that if the fascists come to power in Britain they will hold their parliament here. That is what Sir Oswald Mosley, the fascist leader, says.”
The two men exchanged a look. Stan’s eyes were blue and opaque. For an instant Antonio felt sorry that he would never have him as a brother-in-law.
“I suppose you have encountered Sir Oswald Mosley’s men in the course of your work,” he said.
“I was on duty at the battle of Cable Street, yes. I know what Mosley’s fellows can do.” Stan paused. “My intentions toward your sister are entirely serious. I wish to marry her. And I think—I am sure—that she wishes to marry me. I have good prospects, I’m in line for promotion. I can provide for your sister, just as I’ve provided for my parents these last years.”
Antonio lifted his shoulders. “It is not possible. Filomena has known Bruno all her life, they were betrothed when she was fourteen. It is how we do things in my country.”
“But we are not in your country,” Stan said mildly.
“We might as well be, as far as Filomena is concerned. Everything has been arranged according to our customs. And our father has set his heart upon the match. It would be a kind of violence to break it off.” Antonio sensed that by explaining this to Stan he was being drawn into a quagmire of disloyalty. I have to stop this conversation, he thought: firmly, crisply, now. “It is no use, Constable Harker. You must end your friendship with my sister. If it continues—if you try to see her again—you will do her great harm. That is what I came to tell you.”
Stan was silent, gazing at the white tower of the Senate House. Then he put out his hand to shake Antonio’s.
“I would never willingly harm Filomena. But I will not forget her, Antonio. It is only fair to tell you that.”
Antonio did not answer. What in the world could he say? Touching his hat he nodded good-bye to Stan and he turned aside, along the dust-blown street toward Tottenham Court Road.
Bruno came back in April, and the Trombettas welcomed him with a celebratory dinner. After all, said Valentino, they were the closest to family that he had in London: he would soon be a son, a brother, as well as Danila’s cousin. Their upstairs neighbor Mauro had agreed to take him in, shifting Renata to a camp bed in the kitchen so that the returning soldier could sleep in comfort.
It was Danila who took charge of preparing the dinner. Filomena did as she was to
ld, stirring the bubbling pan of milk and semolina, dipping finely sliced lamb’s liver in seasoned flour, folding candied fruit into snowy, grainy heaps of ricotta. Bruno’s favorites, Danila said knowingly, and Filomena nodded, without attempting to contradict her. It gave Antonio a pang to see his sister so downtrodden, but there was no help for it. She will be happier once Bruno is home, he thought, as he went upstairs to change. She will have the status of a bride, she will have a new life to plan, this business with the Englishman will seem a moment of madness.
Antonio was feeling cheerful. His singing lessons were opening for him a gilded new world of possibilities. His teacher, Herr Fischer, was rather formal, and at first Antonio had found him sternly persnickety. Little by little, though, he had come to learn the deep pleasure of self-improvement, hearing his own voice grow stronger and more supple. A week ago Mr. Rodway’s uncle Dickie had been enraptured by his singing. He had offered to mention Antonio to one of his friends who ran a nightclub in Piccadilly. It would be a far more profitable engagement than La Rondine, and more prestigious too. As Dickie himself said, wafting smoke from his green cigarette holder, who knows where it might lead?
Danila was standing at the wardrobe, wearing a faded pink petticoat of rayon. Since the baby’s birth there was a trim solidity to her, in the curve of her thighs, the weight of her breasts. She would never again be fragile as glass, as she had been on their wedding day. In his crib beside their bed, the baby was sleeping, his eyes closed beneath his fringe of black hair. Antonio felt an impulse to embrace him: his son, the flesh of his flesh.
“Don’t,” said Danila, as he touched the white honeycombed blanket. “He’s only been asleep for five minutes.”
Antonio looked at his son’s skin with its pure delicious bloom. Once, surely, his father Enrico’s skin had been just as unspoiled, just as flowerlike, and now it was leathery with the long years of hard labor. That will never happen to my child, thought Antonio, I swear it. I will succeed, I will prosper, I will shield him from the demons of poverty.
From the wardrobe Danila pulled a cherry-colored dress with a full skirt. “I am so proud of my cousin Bruno. I am surprised Filomena does not boast about him more. She will be marrying a war hero, after all.”
“You know Filomena.” Antonio was still gazing at his son. “She does not wear her heart upon her sleeve.”
“That’s not true, Antonio. In many ways your sister can be extremely emotional. But she does not show much enthusiasm for our victory in Africa, or so it seems to me.”
“Filomena is not alone. There are many people—Italians as well as British—who believe the duce has done our country no good by invading Abyssinia.”
“But we have the right to an empire. We were cheated by Britain and France after the war. We were on the winning side, and they did not treat us with the honor our nation deserves. They kept all the spoils for themselves.”
Antonio looked up, surprised. His wife did not generally mention politics. “Have you been talking to Valentino?”
“No. Well, yes, but only a little. I have been reading L’Italia Nostra. Women should read the newspaper, Antonio. We should have the knowledge to challenge the propaganda against us, especially here in Britain, where Italy has so many enemies.”
There was something so undigested about this speech that Antonio could not help smiling. At once tears sprang to Danila’s eyes.
“You do not take me seriously, Antonio. You think I am not capable of understanding these things. Now I am a mother I have to know about the world we live in, I have to know the dangers that my son will face.” Danila clutched at the bright red wool of her dress. “Yes, I do talk to Valentino, but that is because Valentino explains it to me: how we must put Italy first, or we will lose a part of our soul. And how we should not trust the British, they want only to humiliate us. Nobody understands the art of humiliating foreigners better than the British, Valentino says.”
“Oh, Danila,” said Antonio, sitting down on the bed, “it is not so simple. You shouldn’t swallow everything my brother tells you as if it were gospel truth.”
Danila slipped the cherry-colored dress over her head. “Valentino told me that you would not like it,” she said, patting the skirt where it draped her hips. “He told me that you would try to change my mind. It is because you mix with outsiders, he says, Englishmen and Jews, not your fellow countrymen.”
“Well,” said Antonio drily, “if my behavior troubles Valentino perhaps he should be addressing his remarks to me instead of you.”
Danila did not answer. She was studying her reflection in the glass, a faint self-absorbed smile on her lips. Antonio watched her scoop up the mass of her hair, ready to wind it into a knot. The nape of her neck was tender and beautiful. Rising to his feet he pressed his lips just below the downy lobe of her ear.
“Don’t let’s argue, Danila,” he whispered, and he slid both his hands about her waist. Danila, her eyes still on the mirror, gave a discouraging flick of her haunches.
“Not now, Antonio.”
“But the baby’s asleep.” Antonio’s hands tightened into the yielding warmth of her stomach. Her dress smelled of rose cologne and tantalizingly of her own sweat. “I’ll be quiet, I promise, I won’t wake him. And I’m sure Filomena can do without you in the kitchen for half an hour.”
For a moment Danila stiffened, and he thought she was going to whisk herself from his grasp. Then she relented, turning in his arms to face him.
“Oh, Antonio,” she said. Her expression was sweet and rather shy, but there was something coquettish about it, which reminded Antonio of the first blissful days—and nights—of his marriage. It filled him with delight as he bent to kiss her peony mouth.
—
“They are not a bad people.” Bruno waved his glass of prosecco in the air. “Some rotten apples, of course, but you find that in any society, even our own. No, the Abyssinians are not a bad people. They are a more primitive race than ours, that is all. They need a civilizing influence to guide them.”
Valentino’s eyes glittered with hero worship. He and Bruno had gone to the fascio before dinner, so that Bruno could see the Casa d’Italia. Afterward two of Bruno’s friends had accompanied them back to Frith Street, confident young Blackshirts with neatly oiled hair. They were squeezed around the makeshift trestle in the Trombettas’ kitchen while the women—Danila, Filomena, Renata—hovered about them, clearing plates, refilling glasses.
Antonio spooned up a portion of gnocchi, smeared with tomato sauce. Danila had poured the thick yellow porridge onto the tabletop, just as they did in Lazio, and the men were now helping themselves. He had remembered Bruno, in his absence, as a wiry attractive fellow, and he had been disconcerted to see the real man step through the door. Bruno was short—an inch or so taller than Filomena, no more—and his sunburned skin gave him a wizened look. If Filomena was disappointed by the sight of her fidanzato she did not show it but stepped demurely forward to greet him.
“And how were you injured, Bruno? Was it in a battle?” That was their neighbor Mauro, peering eagerly from the end of the table. Bruno took a gulp of wine.
“They do not fight battles, the Abyssinians. They are too cowardly. They lie in wait by the roadside, hidden by the vegetation, taking aim at braver men. That is what happened to me.” He slapped his chest on the right, below his collarbone. “The bullet went clean through. I was fortunate; otherwise Filomena here would have no father for her unborn children.”
The men all turned toward Filomena, who was carrying the dirty semolina pot into the scullery.
“But the wound is healed now?” Antonio said.
“Oh, yes, it is healed.” Bruno raised his empty glass, and Danila ran smiling to fill it, the prosecco foaming from the dark green bottle. “I am not as quick as I should be with my rifle, though, and that is why my commanding officer chose to discharge me. With honor, of course.”
“Of course,” said one of the Blackshirts. He tried to rise and give the fasc
ist salute, but his chair had no room to budge, and by the time his neighbors had scraped their own chairs sideways the moment had passed; Renata in her best yellow dress was bustling about, clearing the table for the next course.
“I hear that you have joined us in the Fascist Party, Enrico?” Bruno glanced courteously toward the older man. “Valentino tells me that you were inspired by Count Dino Grandi on the night the Casa d’Italia was opened. What a magnificent building that is. A testament to the patriotism of our community here in London.”
“Indeed,” said Enrico, who still looked sheepish whenever his membership in the party was mentioned. “There is so much happening there. I would go more often, only it is so expensive for poorer members. Last month Beniamino Gigli, the duce’s favorite singer, gave a recital in the Sala dell’Impero. Even Antonio was persuaded to come and hear him.”
“Ah, yes,” said Bruno. “Are you still singing in your spare time, Antonino?”
“It is more than that, Bruno. I am making good money from my singing engagements. And I have a patron, an Englishman, who has great hopes for the future…”
Bruno was not paying attention. “Well, perhaps you will give us a song later? I would love to hear you sing the ‘Giovinezza.’ ”
At the name of the fascist anthem Filomena, who was carrying a dish of fried liver from the stove, put down the plate with a bang. Valentino opened his mouth to rebuke his sister, but thought better of it, and gestured to Renata for more prosecco.
“I have brought you a gift, Filomena,” Bruno said, swallowing the last of his wine. “I bought it in Egypt, on my journey home. It is in my kit bag, in the hall. Fetch it for me, will you, Danila?”
The parcel was a soft oblong, wrapped in tissue paper. Filomena took it as though it might burn her. She was standing in the doorway to the scullery, all eyes upon her.
“Don’t you want to see what’s inside?” said Bruno. For the first time Antonio saw him look shy. He was eager to please Filomena, he just did not want it to show here, in front of the other men. It will be all right, thought Antonio, watching his sister as slowly she undid the string. They will manage well enough, once they are on their own.
