A Harvest of Secrets(64)

It was very early. Her bedroom was lit only faintly; the sun had not yet risen above the hillside to the east. She forced herself out of bed, washed, dressed, brushed her hair, and then, instead of going downstairs to find something to eat, she sat at her desk and opened her mother’s journal again.



As I move closer to death, it seems that my worst sins, so far in the past now, are being brought into sharper relief. At the time, of course, they didn’t seem like sins, but actions that were natural and just, as if God had presented me, not with a temptation, but with a gift, a reward. There are many moments now, many many moments, when they still seem that way. A reward.

But for what? For my patience with Umberto, I suppose. I felt it was a chance to in some way reset the balance of our marriage. I had an abundance of evidence of his many betrayals—I can’t bear to list them here. Those things were perhaps not so unusual among Italian men, but they began so early in our married life, crushing the flower of my young dreams.

And then there was the group in Montepulciano, those thrilling afternoon gatherings, the talk and wine, the radical ideas being discussed. These were at Olivia’s home, a woman in our social circle, someone we knew from church. I’d gone there at first because I knew what Umberto was doing—the echoes of his lies followed me around the house—and I needed some escape from it. I knew, too, that he didn’t want me to go to those gatherings—his politics were far to the other side. So I went to find solace, and, perhaps, sinfully, to spite him. I think the ideas there took hold of me in the same way Mussolini’s ideas—so very different—had taken hold of my husband. That the peasants were human beings and should be treated as such. That women should have some of the same advantages and opportunities as men. In Italy at that time—even now—those were radical ideas, an impossible challenge to the social order.

I was young then, Umberto twelve years older. My body sought the ordinary pleasures, though perhaps not often enough for my husband. At times we enjoyed something of a physical connection, but it was rare and fleeting, and without any spiritual dimension. During the day, I rode the horses, spent time in my flower gardens and around the barn, made a point of talking with the people there, something members of a noble family almost never did. Umberto was often away on his business ventures, no doubt enjoying his illicit liaisons. I was young, angry, not averse to physical attraction. I walked the property alone at times, and God presented me with a certain opportunity. Conversation at first, with one man in particular, a kind, good, somewhat older man. I felt, perhaps we both felt, a strange, forbidden sense of connection, shadowed by guilt. It was I who pursued it, I confess to that freely. I indulged myself, both began and ultimately ended the physical aspect of it. Ended it too late, of course. And I’ve lived with the consequence—or, more accurately, the gift—all these years. The incredible gift. But then I watched the hope on that man’s face change to torment—his penance and mine—and then to resignation, and then to a stolid hopelessness, a peasant hopelessness.

He won’t be at my deathbed, I know that. It would never be allowed, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask for it. I wonder, though, if, after these silent decades, I might find the courage to speak with him, to humbly apologize. Would that tear the scab off a brutal old wound? I watch him now, with the horses, working the vines, speaking with Enrico. He never looks at me.

I wonder if Umberto knows, and whether I should tell Vittoria before I die. Enrico, of course, I would never tell.



The writing ended abruptly there, as if her mother had grown too sick to write, or as if her courage had deserted her. Vittoria paged hastily through the book all the way to the end, twice, but the remaining pages were empty.

She sat there, staring blankly out the window, her thoughts as still and heavy as stones.

No wonder, she thought. No wonder Old Paolo and Enrico enjoy each other’s company so much. She stood, reached for the pistol, and dropped it into the pocket of her dress.

Still dazed, but with other thoughts—dark, unformed—appearing like thin vines at the edges of the stones, she was drawn by hunger and habit to the breakfast table. So distracted was she by what she’d read that it dawned on her only when she saw Eleonora that the others were gone. Eleonora’s face was like a mirror of her own, washed in astonishment and worry. She brought coffee, pastry, one egg boiled hard, the way Vittoria liked them. Without speaking, the young woman set the cup and plate down, and then, from the pocket of her apron, she brought out a small sealed envelope with V. written in ink on the front.

“Your father asked me to give you this,” she said. “He woke me very early and handed this to me.” Then she fled to the kitchen.





Thirty-Six

Once it left Roma Termini, the train picked up speed and hurtled along at such a pace that people were continually falling against one another, being held upright by a neighbor, or by a hand pressed against a metal wall. From the deliveries he’d made, Carlo guessed it would be two or three more hours until they passed close to Montepulciano. That city was set too far up on a steep hill to be served by the main rail line—which ran through Orvieto, Città della Pieve, and Chiusi—so there was no chance the train would stop there. But, full as this boxcar was, others might not be full, and there was a chance the train might stop at Città della Pieve or Chiusi, not so far from home, and in the confusion and darkness, he might try to slip away.