Then instead of giving a speech about how he appreciated being made senator, Tolomei introduced a thirty-two-point measure for the eradication of German culture in the Alto Adige. Before Tolomei had even finished, the theatre erupted into a thunderous ovation save for the drowned-out booing of Chiara and her progressive comrades planted about in the wings.
“I hope you’re happy now, Minister,” she had said to him, her arm long gone from his. “Tolomei is about to clear the path for you and the Colonel. The Grimanis will have a new street named after them in every major town.”
She had left with Susi, Peter, and Michael, and she still was not home. He pictured Michael. Dark, sullen, intelligent, and distant. A visual victim to an oppressive government with his frayed cuffs, his newspaper articles and notepads, his cigarettes and hazy smoke. A romantic hero in the making.
“Damn it,” he cursed, and two birds burst out of the oleander bush.
As if she were right there, Angelo suddenly heard Katharina’s voice teasing and shy.
“Damn it, Herr Grimani. Damn it. Die ganze Zeit nur, damn it.” Always with the damn it. Despite himself, he chuckled, surprised by the fondness. By the wrenching twist to his heart.
Why was he thinking of her now? He glanced at the breakfast table. Angelo’s copy of Popolo d’Italia was folded neatly next to the breakfast plate. He sat down, cracked his egg, cut off the top, then opened to the front page of the paper. Tolomei’s photo was right in the middle, with his grey handlebar moustache, the dark eyebrows over scholarly spectacles, daring someone to contradict him. It could be said that the former inspector general of schools and well-known nationalist had single-handedly obtained the Alto Adige for Rome, and now he was going to finish Italianising it. All the points from last night were listed on the next page. Trentino would become the capital of the Alto Adige. The Italian borders would be closed to those whose Italian citizenship had not been conferred. Chiara’s friends would officially have to register themselves as Italian if they wanted to travel to their relatives north of the border, because one of Tolomei’s points was that visitors from Germany and Austria would have Tolomei’s hurdles to jump in order to obtain visas.
Point seventeen decreed the removal of the statue of Walther von der Vogelweide from Walther Square in Bolzano. Angelo snorted. Tolomei was not missing a thing. How was that going to do anything other than make the Tyroleans feel degraded? Well, there was his answer. He kept reading and remembered how Michael had turned to him, giving him a curt nod: point nineteen introduced measures to facilitate the purchase of land, and immigration by Italians. Next, an extensive railroad infrastructure construction program connecting rails from the south with those of the north. Increased troop strength. Tolomei had finished by encouraging foreign countries to maintain a policy of noninvolvement in the Alto Adige.
“Tug of war, Michael, was it? And you’re losing indeed, but keep my wife out of it.” He put the paper down and closed his eyes.
Only after the sun had seeped over the veranda’s railing did he hear the sound of a motorcar. He leaned forward to watch the taxi pull away. Chiara was home. Finally. In the hallway, he heard Marco’s laugh and turned in time to see him running down the hallway towards the front door, his nurse right behind him.
Chiara came out onto the veranda sometime afterwards, redressed for the day in a soft beige and dove-grey skirt and tunic. The colours made her look paler despite the colour she’d put on her face, but her red hair had been freshly combed back. Even if she looked tired, she was far from finished.
“Why?”
“Why what, Chiara?”
“Why do you allow yourself to be a part of this? A part of the Fascist’s agenda? You can’t possibly back Tolomei’s measures.”
“I don’t. You know that.”
“Then why?”
“Because after spending time with them, it makes me feel like a better person.”
She laughed, a short, mirthless laugh, and took her seat at the breakfast table.
“Tea or coffee?” he asked her. “I’m afraid I have to ask for something fresh. They’re both cold.”
“No sleep?”
“Like you.”
She nodded and twisted her egg cup. “I don’t want anything.”
“You have to keep your strength up.”
“You have a meeting today, with our fathers, about all the appeals coming in on the projects.”
“Yes.”
“Solutions?”
He shook his head.
She pushed the egg to him. “Then it’s best you eat it.”
He reached for her hand, still on the egg cup, and managed to touch her before she slowly pulled away from him. Were you at Susi’s, Chiara? Or at Michael’s?
“You must be tired,” he said.
“Our anger kept us going.”
“I was worried. The whole night. You could have telephoned.” He waited for her to apologise.
She stifled a yawn. “Cristina and Francesca are coming with your father. We are shopping for a present for your mother. It’s her birthday tomorrow.”
He had forgotten. “Would you like me to make the excuses for you?”
She looked out on the garden below towards where his sisters would be coming. “I really see too little of them.”
Angelo sighed. “Family, Chiara. That’s all we have in the end. Just the family. The rest of it does not matter.” He eyed her and waited for her to look at him. When she did, he said, “Have you thought about it? Us having another child?”
She picked at something on her skirt, then looked over the veranda again. He
