himself with that bastard. March on Rome! He did not march on Rome. He caught an overnight sleeper from Milan!’
Mumbling, grumbling, rumbling to himself – Annabelle had heard it all before. For the first time she thought of her father as old. His words formed bubbles of condensation like word-bubbles in cartoons. She prayed they could not be read here. Even in the house now, they had to whisper. The servants in town could no longer be trusted and neither could the contadini on the farm. It was appropriate tomorrow was All Souls Day, her father continued. The Day of the Dead. There were already too many dead in Mussolini’s wake.
Now, as the cavalcade swept by, Achille sighed deeply. ‘Let us hope it is over quickly.’
Did he mean the visit or the war? Annabelle shivered and pulled her coat tighter. Only last year they had stood here beneath a blue, blue June sky, listening to Mussolini’s voice booming from the loudspeakers: ‘An hour marked by Destiny is striking in the sky of our country.’ They were officially at war. Today, the sky was pewter, steel, lead.
‘Let’s go,’ said Achille, taking her arm to steer her against the surging tide. His nose was also running, but he did not have another handkerchief. With the back of his glove, he wiped at tiny droplets on the hairs of his nostrils and moustache. His greatcoat was wet through. He was only there because, like her, he was frightened for Enrico. As the motorcade and its roaring motorcycles neared Piazza Signoria, the crowd congealed to a solid mass, a single entity, a heaving and tossing restive animal. The cheering rolled in waves. Annabelle was not cheering. Many around her were not cheering. The tannoys on every corner spewed recorded cheering for them. Over the top of it, the trumpets from the balcony of Palazzo Vecchio heralded Hitler’s arrival at the Town Hall. Annabelle plodded beside her father, eyes raking the swirl of people, ears straining for the sound of shots or confusion. Nothing. Deep in the pockets of her coat she curled her fingers tight. Her chest was tight too, but it seemed Enrico and his friends had done nothing stupid, for today.
‘Are you going back out or staying in town, Papà?’ she asked.
‘No, I have an appointment with Aldo,’ Achille replied. ‘Do you want to go back to the country? It will be hard to get there today with all this confusion.’
‘No. I’ll stay with you.’ That way she could search for Enrico.
Achille nodded. ‘Talk some sense into your cousin.’
The saturated wool of her stockings pooled in heavy rings at her ankles. She hated the itch and smell of wet wool. Her plaited hair, normally so fair, was dark with rain and her head itched as much her stockings. Her father’s hat was soaked. It would be ruined – the brim dripped like his nose. They turned down via Roma. At least here, he rambled, via Roma really did once lead to Rome … via Roma … via Roma … Annabelle’s mind strayed. As they stepped from the kerb, her father put out a restraining arm to stop her walking into the path of a sleek grey and black Lancia. In the rain, the powerful car purred and gleamed like a wet panther. As it slowed to turn, Annabelle saw a driver in peaked cap and uniform, and in the back, a young woman in a dark fur coat, soft and high about her throat. Long, pearl drop-earrings bobbed against the fur. Glossy dark curls, a pale, oval face. As she leaned forward to speak to the driver, one gloved hand on the back of the seat, she glanced out the window into Annabelle’s eyes and away again. Annabelle’s gaze followed the car as it glided off in a spray of dirty water. Her father gave a soft hrmmph and took her firmly by the elbow, turning her towards home. In answer to her unasked question, he muttered to her to get a move on because he did not have all day.
Annabelle squelched from foot to foot on the carpet before the fireplace in her father’s study.
Achille put his head around the door. ‘I shall be back for dinner. It will be better if you stay in today, Tesoro. The streets are no place to be. Take off those wet shoes.’
He said nothing about the soggy patches on his Persian rug.
Annabelle nodded. She was not going anywhere. She waved her father off. The streets were never any place to be. Certainly not in her lifetime. Right from the Renaissance, really, and before. Florence, City of Strife. Her father had taught Classics at the university until he took early retirement rather than wear a Fascist Party badge. He had not worked since Annabelle was seven or eight. She had little memory of him working. Neither had Zio Francesco ever held a job that she knew of. He devoted himself to the oversight of the family investments and factories in the north.
Things would not be the same after the war. Enrico said so. Fear of Communism and the Bolsheviks and their land and labour reforms had made the upper classes wilfully blind to the excesses of the Black Shirts these last twenty years. They despised the fascists but were willing to allow them to do the dirty work. Enrico said so. The world has to change, he said, often. And not ‘so that all could remain the same’. Nothing would be the same. Enrico said so. Annabelle was permanently afraid. Everyone of her age had grown up afraid. She was tired of being treated as a child, ready to revolt, to take a hand in changing things, like Enrico – whatever he was doing.
Rain tinkled at the mullioned windows. She loved her father’s study with its burnished bronzes and gleaming walnut furniture. The patina of age and permanence mantled everything in a glow of safety, but there was no comfort for her there today. In the mirror above the marble fireplace the air trembled with the rising steam of her damp clothes, but she did not want to go upstairs to change. Enrico really was too difficult! He was thoughtless and completely irresponsible. Her father said so and it was true. She ached to look for him but she did not know where to start. She waited with a clutch in her stomach for what seemed like hours – and then he was there, face flushed, eyes burning. His clothes and hair were soaked.
‘Where were you?’
His breathing galloped wildly. ‘I was there. I saw you and Zio but I had to go to a meeting as soon as the cavalcade passed. Did you see those two arrogant crazy bastards!’ It was not a question. ‘Papà says that’s what you get when you put two teetotallers together.’
He did not laugh and neither did Annabelle.
‘The crowd was so thick I could hardly move.’ Her hands balled into fists by her sides. ‘I was afraid for you.’
His hair was wet too. A darker blond than hers, more light brown really, it was fine and very thick, even if the high forehead and sharp widow’s peak did not bode well for his hairline in the future.
Enrico’s breath settled but he was still taut with excitement. ‘Italians! There they are, the heroes, on their way to sign away more lives for Hitler’s war. Italian lives are cheap to Benito anyway.’
They had taken to calling him Benito between themselves but the irreverence failed to lessen the fear.
Now Enrico was safe, however, Annabelle had other things on her mind. ‘Is it true you went with Clarice?’
Her chin jutted and her voice wobbled. The daughter of friends, Clarice was seventeen, the same age as Enrico. Annabelle overheard him getting a dressing-down from his father last night, for an escapade with Clarice.
‘Ficanaso. Stickybeak.’ Enrico smiled. He flicked the tip of her reddened nose with her damp plait. ‘Went with! Mind your own business, Ciccia. You have been spying on Papà and Zio again. Listening behind doors. My little worry wart.’ His indulgent grin made her want to spit at him.
He too smelled of steaming wool. She could smell his sweat, a sugary-smell.
