Pietro shifted in his chair and inclined his head.
“I didn’t realise Gasparo had gone to the Colonel,” Angelo continued, “until I heard screaming coming from the officers’ quarters. By the time I got there, the deed had been done. The Colonel”—Angelo cleared his throat—“punished him for insubordination. He cut out his tongue, like they do in Ethiopia. And called me a coward for sending Gasparo to him.”
Pietro was mercifully quiet. When Angelo could manage again, he said, “Gasparo lived. The rest of them, I deployed according to the Colonel’s orders, and the Austro-Hungarians had an easy hunting day. My men all died. I got a medal because I did not. My father had been right. I was a coward.”
“I don’t know if I would call you that.” Pietro’s voice was gentle.
“I won’t be that again. You said yourself I need to keep watch over him. I’m going to do more than that. I’m going to give the orders.”
His father-in-law turned to the window. “Perhaps we are much alike, you and me. We feel we must protect everyone, at a great cost to ourselves and sometimes to those we love most and are trying to protect in the first place.” Pietro studied him. “If you didn’t care about the projects from our department or their impacts, you would have already found your way out of this predicament of facing off against the Colonel again. Perhaps all is not lost. You will accept the nomination as the new minister, Angelo, and you will have my full support and my guidance, as promised.” He shrugged, “If you accept it.”
Someone knocked on the door, and a policeman led Mrs Sala in. “I did not reach the Colonel,” she said. “I was told he is in Rome on business.”
Angelo frowned. “In Rome? When will he be back?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t ask.”
“That’s fine, Mrs Sala. Thank you,” Pietro said.
When she left the room, he turned to Angelo. “You will begin learning how to get the things that you want and need. You tell your father that there are some conditions on which you will accept the nomination. You tell him that you want my detention to be kept quiet. Don’t allow the Fascists to sensationalize this as a victory of some kind. If they try to make a spectacle of me, you will refuse the nomination.”
Angelo ran a hand through his hair and stared at the ceiling.
Outside, coming from the square behind the building, was a great deal of noise and excited chatter.
“Angelo, look at me.” Pietro put a hand on his shoulder. “He will not only accept these terms, he will carry your message to the party gladly. I can assure you that.”
***
T hat afternoon, Angelo passed groups of people heading to the marketplace. Something was happening, but he had no time to find out about the latest commotion. When he reached the villa, the hallway was empty, but he heard voices coming from his apartments upstairs. At the parlour doors, Angelo recognised Michael Innerhofer’s voice. The thought that the reporter had discovered something about Pietro’s detention and beat Angelo home made him fling open the doors. Inside, scattered on the chaise longue and settees, were Chiara and Michael; Michael’s brother, Peter, the now out-of-work teacher who’d been shot during the Blackshirts’ raid the year before; and the countess Susi.
“Thank heavens you’re home.” Chiara sprang up. She rushed to Angelo, taking his hands. “Have you heard the news?”
“I was there, of course,” he stammered. “But don’t worry. I have everything under control. How—”
“You were in Rome?” Peter asked.
“Chiara never told us you were in Rome,” Michael said.
“Of course Angelo wasn’t in Rome,” Susi said. “There must be some misunderstanding.” She gathered the many layers of her golden gown and strode over to him, offering him her hand. “Hello, darling. So nice to see you.”
Dressed in a turban, dangling earrings, and a fur cape over her dress, she was more the Egyptian queen than a European aristocrat. Both antique now.
“What’s happened in Rome?” Angelo asked his wife.
The skin beneath Chiara’s freckles was bright pink. “Mussolini’s been made prime minister, and he’s been granted dictatorial powers for one year. Angelo, a year? Parliament says he will be able to heal the country. Mussolini, to heal the country!” Her laugh sounded unnatural.
“And here, as of Wednesday,” Michael said, “all correspondence with any officials are to be only in Italian. The German language is banned on all governmental levels.”
“I’m sorry to hear this.” Angelo referred to the latter part of the news.
Chiara pulled away from him. “Sorry to hear it? Is that all?”
What he really wanted to say was that since Mussolini’s march on Rome just weeks before, he’d expected nothing but victory for the Fascists. What he wanted to say was that after the miserably irresolute and ineffectual ministers, Mussolini might finally be the man to do the job. In this crowd—these Communists—however, he was not about to start a debate. Then he remembered the discussion his father had had with Luigi Barbarasso the day Angelo eavesdropped on them. Someone had made it into Rome. An insider. He’d believed then that it had something to do with the Reschen Valley or the Gleno Dam, but they must have been discussing Benito Mussolini and his fascisti.
“But what news do you have, Angelo?” Susi asked.
He looked blankly at her.
“You said you were there. Where is ‘there’?”
The countess never missed a thing. He turned to Chiara. “It’s nothing we can’t talk about later.”
“Nonsense.” His wife turned to the group, “We’re all friends here. Why don’t you all stay for lunch? Where is Father? I’ll go tell him and Mama to join us. There is a lot to discuss, and he will most definitely have more
