A Harvest of Secrets(43)

As they plodded along, Paolo sensed for a moment that everything—the gray clouds, the drops of rain, the tufts of wet grass, the bunches of grapes turning purple on their stems, the wet skin of Enrico’s forehead and cheeks—everything was a piece of God, all of it soaked in mystery, its essence beyond the reach of the human mind. The professors in Bologna, the nobles in Milan, the generals in Rome, the nuns in the convent where Vittoria must be praying at this very minute, no one could understand it. No one. So why did a simple peasant like him even try?

The rain was easing. By the time he’d gone back to the barn and changed into dry clothes, it had stopped, but the sky was still dark with whirling, charcoal-streaked pillows of cloud. He met Enrico in the courtyard, and they set off. Using, at first, the footpath that ran through the forest, and then moving across nearby fields and pastures—instead of the muddy winding road the carriages and trucks followed—it was only eight kilometers from the Vineyard SanAntonio to Gracciano.

“We worked hard this week,” Enrico said, and Paolo hoped he’d forgotten, for the moment at least, about Antonina and the Nazi captain and the shirt.

“Yes, we did.”

“Bringing the wheat is hard work.”

“Yes, it is.”

“And it’s good to work hard, even if my father is rich and important.”

“Yes, very good, Rico.”

“And my father’s friend died. His car burned.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And the man in the barn killed Antonina.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Rico.”

They went on through rolling pastureland. Paolo glanced sideways at his companion. In the past year and a half, Enrico had grown in height and added muscle, and he was very strong, the size of a man now. It seemed to Paolo—perhaps he was wrong—that Rico had recently gained a bit in his understanding of life, too. He’d always had great patience for this boy and didn’t mind fielding the same questions day after day, or having conversations that doubled back over territory that had been covered a few minutes earlier. It seemed to him that Enrico was making a heroic effort to understand the situation in which he found himself, to be good and kind, to behave in a way that seemed proper. The people of the barn accepted him to a degree that seemed beyond the capacity of his own father. Enrico ate with them often, and sometimes slept there, spreading out an armful of straw not far from the horses and falling into a sleep so instantaneous and peaceful that the old man envied him.

“We’re going now to the church.”

“Sì, Rico.”

“Father Costantino works there.”

“Sì, sì.”

“We’re going to say our sins.”

“Exactly.”

They walked on for a bit, Enrico working his lips, furrowing his brow, reaching up and massaging his right ear as he did when something puzzled him. “A sin is doing something bad.”

“Yes.”

A few more steps, more puzzlement. “But I didn’t do anything bad.”

“You did something good, something very brave. You saved my life.”

Enrico pondered this for a moment and then said, “But today I went down there to touch Antonina when you told me not to. She was cold.”

“That’s not a sin, Rico. You loved her.”

“I loved her, Paolo . . . What do I say to Father Costantino?”

“When you kneel down you say, ‘Father, I have no sins. Please give me a blessing.’ Then you go up to the altar rail and say the prayers he tells you to say.”

“I will. But why doesn’t my father say his sins? Why doesn’t the soldier in the barn who, who . . .”

“Maybe your father goes to confession at the cathedral in Montepulciano, before Mass. Maybe he has no sins. About the soldier, I don’t know.”

“He hurt you. In the face.”

“Yes.”

There was a quick smattering of rain, the storm’s afterthought. The droplets, carried on a gust of wind, held the wet scent of sage. A rabbit dashed across the dirt in front of them.

“Have you done something bad, Paolo?”

“Many times.”

“Why?”

Paolo shrugged, allowed himself to remember the sight of the smoking metal and what remained of Brindisi’s body. The latest and worst, it seemed to him, in a long line of transgressions. “Because I thought, at the time, that I was doing something good.”

“Oh.”

Another shower.

“Paolo?”

“What?”

“Why did the soldier make Antonina dead with his gun? The blood came out of her mouth. Why did he?”

Paolo walked along for half a minute without answering. It seemed to him that he could feel Enrico working through the trauma in the barn, a subject he’d already raised many times that morning.

“There are things only God knows, Rico. We can’t know them until we die.”

Enrico nodded somberly. They were most of the way there before he spoke again. “Paolo?”

“Yes?”

“What do I say to Father Costantino?”

Paolo repeated the instructions. They stepped onto a paved road and climbed a last serpentine kilometer into the village.