“Your mother taught you well.”
“Not my mother.” Bette smiled. “Yours.”
Carlo patted his wife on the fanny. “Pack the Il Duce.”
“Oh, Carlo. Americans hated him.”
“I’ll show the symbol side. His faccia will face my heart. Maybe the brute bastard will finally do some good for us.”
“He’ll do better melted down and sold.”
“The more gold I wear, the more important I seem. My chest should rattle like a tambourine.” Carlo snapped the case shut and handed it to his wife. “La bella figura.”
“Va bene.” Elisabetta picked up the medal from the nightstand and placed it in with the others, locking them into the safe box of the trunk.
Carlo pulled his wife close. “When I come home, we paint the villa.”
“It needs more than paint.” Elisabetta looked around the suite. As the lady of the house, she saw the failure to meet her obligations. There were the cracks in the plaster, rusty streaks where the ceiling leaked, frayed hems on the damask drapes, and most disturbing to her, squares of plywood covered the windows to replace the glass that had shattered in the heavy winds. Elisabetta sighed. The windows had been the most dazzling aspect of their residence, their rippled glass carted from Venice, but now the missing panes looked like teeth long gone from a lovely smile. “Our home needs a miracle.”
“Put it on the list, Bette.” Carlo embraced her.
“We won’t live long enough to fix everything that needs repair.”
Carlo did not take his appointment as Ambasciatore da Provincia di Foggia e Provincia di Capitanata da Apulia lightly, nor did he see his role simply as a figurehead. He wanted to do some good, but there were no funds attached to the honor and few favors. All across Italy, from the Mediterranean to the Adriatic and from north to south, reparations went to replace waterlines, restore electrical plants, and rebuild essential factories.
There was little concern for Roseto Valfortore and small villages like it. Stranded during the winter months, Carlo had not been able to go to Rome and plead for help. The letters that had made it through had been met with the curt response that there was greater need elsewhere.
The Holy Roman Church advised him to rally the townspeople to do the work themselves, but Roseto Valfortore had been deserted by the young; some had died in the war, and the rest migrated to Naples to find jobs along the Amalfi coast or east to the Adriatic to work on the trade ships. Most Rosetani, however, emigrated to America, where there were plenty of jobs in steel mills, factories, and construction. The families that stayed behind were too poor to take a risk, and too old to want to. Everywhere Carlo looked, life was bleak. He had hoped for a sign that their luck would change, and when none appeared, he hatched one final scheme to save his village.
The sun bathed the town in white light as Carlo, in his suit and fedora, and Elisabetta, who had put on a straw hat, linen coat, and her best black leather shoes, emerged from their home. The polished couple inspired confidence against the backdrop of the ravaged village where the tile roof tops had been mended hastily with mismatched planks of wood, ancient stone walls had crumbled to rubble, and deep potholes pitted the stone streets.
As the old houseman followed them out, he kept his head down and chewed on snuff, balancing Carlo’s trunk on his back with ease as though it were light and he were still young.
The townspeople filled the winding streets for the ambassador’s send-off, waving long green cypress branches high in the air like flags. Carlo tipped his hat and bowed to the people, taking in their cheers and affection like sips of cool water for his parched soul. Women rushed forward holding letters in sealed envelopes, which Elisabetta collected for her husband, promising them he would deliver them in person once he arrived at his destination.
The houseman placed the trunk in the cart, freshly painted in bright yellow partly to draw attention away from the decrepit donkey hitched to the carriage. The animal, too, was decorated in honor of the important passenger, his bridle festooned with colorful ribbons in pink and green. Carlo smiled, reflecting that the decorations on the donkey were a lot like a new hat on an old woman, a temporary distraction from a permanent problem.
The ambassador hoisted himself up into the open bench of the carriage. A cheer of great jubilation echoed through the streets as Elisabetta handed her husband the stack of letters, which he held high in the air. Carlo leaned down to kiss his wife good-bye.
The crowd parted as the cart lumbered down the street followed by Elisabetta on foot. The Rosetani fell into place behind her as the cart moved through the village. A small contingent of girls threw rose petals chanting “Kiss Carlo!” as their mothers ran alongside the cart, reaching for him. The women were thrilled when Carlo chose them, took their hands, and kissed them.
Father DeNisco, wearing a black cassock, stood on the white marble steps of the church and made the sign of the cross as the carriage passed. The driver and Carlo bowed their heads and blessed themselves.
As they reached the entrance of the town, a new mother stepped forward and lifted her baby up to the carriage. Carlo reached for the infant and gently cradled the bundle swaddled in white in his arms. He pulled the baby close and kissed his cheek.
Elisabetta brushed away a tear at the sight of her husband holding the baby. It was the picture of her highest dream.
There was a time in Roseto Valfortore when the streets had been filled with prams. There were a hundred babies in the village before the war; now, they were as rare as this one infant. The thought of that galvanized Carlo to move forward with his plan.
As the carriage went through the gated entrance of the town, the throng stopped and cheered.
“The people love you,” the driver said.
“They love you when they need you.”
“And when they don’t?”
“They find someone new.” The ambassador pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes. “How’s the road?”
“If we are careful, we’ll make it.”
“On time?”
“I think so. The car is waiting for you in Foggia.”
“Does it have enough petrol?” Carlo asked wryly.
“Depends on his gratuity.”
“And yours.” Carlo smiled.
“I don’t work for fun, Ambasciatore.”
“No one does.”
“Italy forgot about us. All the money goes to Roma. Milano. Even Bologna took a slice of the reparations.”
“For railways.” Carlo was not interested in talking politics with the driver; he knew all too well that his people had been forgotten. “The station in Bologna is important.”
“Of course. But so are we. The farmers feed the people, but they starve us. They forget the villages and save the cities.”
“Can you pick up speed?”
“Not if I want to keep the wheels on the carriage. Your road is the worst I’ve seen.”
“I appreciate your assessment,” Carlo said, and checked his pocket watch. “I can’t miss the boat in Naples.”