“Tell me. I really want to know. How do you propose to get this story through the censors?”
“Did you not hear? We are being pulled into the river. It won’t be long now.”
Angelo did not understand.
“Tug of war,” Michael said. “The last two Tyrolean papers will go under, Der Bozner and Der Tiroler. Tolomei is making sure of that. We are losing. I am free to work for whom I want.”
“Around here, Michael, that too will be limited.” His tone was regretful enough.
“You mean to say you are sorry to hear it. You notice, Herr Minister, how you always apologise for the things that are too late to change?”
***
A ngelo was reading an opinion piece about the German Worker’s Party when Chiara walked into the salon. He wanted to address the visit with Michael, reprimand her for convincing him to do the interview, but she had Marco in her arms, and as soon as the boy saw him, he squirmed to get down. Angelo placed the paper aside and lifted his son onto his lap.
“He wanted to say good night to you since we missed you at dinner,” Chiara said.
Angelo kissed Marco on both cheeks, and his son snuggled into him. “Let him stay.” He turned back to his newspaper to finish the last lines, then asked Chiara, “What do you think of the situation in Germany?”
She was sitting on the settee across from him, her eyes on their son. “You mean the growing anti-Semitism? The blaming of all the wrong people for the treaty’s unfairness? I read that article, calling on Hitler to march on Munich like Mussolini did on Rome.”
Someday he would learn to stop having these discussions with her.
“He’s tired,” she said.
“Hitler?”
“Your son.” Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “They ought to be watched carefully. Hitler seems to follow Mussolini’s path, like a little brother imitating his big brother.”
“Uh-huh.” He reached for his Journal of Civil Engineering, careful not to disturb Marco.
“Edmond believes his party’s nationalistic fight is the right one, but Susi sees through it,” Chiara said. “She says she doesn’t like the smell of it.”
“Really? How quickly the leaf turns. The great divide between the count and countess has grown more than just geographically, I see.”
Marco’s head jerked, and Angelo lowered the journal to look into his son’s face. The boy’s eyes were closed.
“I’ll put him to bed.” Chiara stood and hovered over them.
Angelo touched her wrist before she could take Marco from him. “Michael came to see me today.”
“He said he had.”
So she’d seen him afterwards.
As she scooped up Marco, he put a hand out to her, but she kept her arms around his son. He picked up the newspaper from the table and held it up, the anger rising so quickly it came out in his voice. “Tell me how we can keep the outside world away from us, from my family.”
Chiara’s face read surprise, and she pressed Marco to her. “Obviously you’re as interested as I am in the way things are progressing. Neither of us is in a position where we can keep these things out, Angelo.”
“Chiara, it isn’t who we are. We did not come together as man and wife because we wanted to change the world. I want peace in my house. I want peace between us. I want my wife back.”
“I have always been here. I never went away. I have not changed.”
A bright, sharp sliver raced from the back of his head, over his scar, and pricked his breastbone. He had to look away from her.
“Funny how little peace we have now that the battles are over,” she said. “The war was just the start, wasn’t it? You have served your country to come this far. You serve it now too, I suppose. You’re right, Angelo. We did not come together as man and wife to change the world. We came together despite the fact that we have been involved in changing it. This is me, Angelo. I have always taken an interest in justice and in people’s rights. If I remember correctly, it was what fascinated you about me in the first place. And you. Well, do you know what side you are on? Do you know what you really want?”
He watched her jawline move as she waited for an impossible explanation. She wanted a black or white answer, right or wrong. In all her experience with politics, with people, did she not realise that she would never get that kind of answer from him? Or anyone?
She sighed and straightened with the boy in her arms. “I see no difference between living with a wolf in sheep’s clothing and a lamb dressed up as a wolf. None at all.”
***
W ednesdays were market day, and the air was saturated with jasmine. On the way home to lunch, Angelo walked through the square, when he passed Signora Conti at one of the flower stands. She was wearing a close-fitting blue hat or he would have recognised her sooner. He looked around. Neither General Conti nor any of the four children were to be seen. Her tunic-shaped dress was the colour of crushed pomegranates and only hinted at the curves beneath. He had seen her often, heard her speeches often enough, but he knew little about her save for what others said, or from the rumours that swirled around the general’s wife. Her many male admirers in the party had not gone unnoticed by Angelo, yet she appeared to be loyal to the one castoff amongst that crowd: General Conti. Perhaps the rumours were just indecent fantasies.
The florist was putting together a bouquet of roses and gardenias for her when Angelo stopped next to her and pretended to admire the flowers. After she paid, she turned and recognised him.
“Minister Grimani, what a pleasure.”
“Signora Conti.” He raised his hat and kissed the hand she offered him.
“It’s a fine
