Kiss Carlo by Adriana Trigiani
A Note from the Author
This novel is set in 1949 after World War II, a time of jubilation in America, following a victory won by the brave women and men in our families who courageously fought for democracy with our allies around the world. Attitudes regarding matters of personal freedom, work, art, family life, religion, and the role of government as described were of their time. Use of specific language to describe women, girls, citizens of color, and immigrants is now considered outdated and offensive. The words we use to describe one another have evolved. I hope.
Overture
May 1, 1949
Roseto Valfortore, Italy
A cool breeze shook the old wind chimes on the balcony outside the ambassador’s bedroom. The peal of the delicate glass bells sounded like the tings of crystal after a wedding toast.
The stone palazzo had been grand before the war, with its terra-cotta-tiled roof, marble floors, and carved monastery doors. Positioned on the highest peak in Roseto Valfortore, it was also imposing, like a bell tower, save the bell or the tower. It was named Palazzo Fico Regale because the hills that cascaded down to the road that led north to Rome were speckled with fig trees. In summer the trees were lush and green, loaded with purple fruit; in winter the barren branches, wrapped in turbans of burlap, looked like the raised fists of Mussolini’s blackshirts.
Inside, the official consort, Signora Elisabetta Guardinfante, packed her husband’s dress uniform with care. Elisabetta was small and dark, her eyes like thumbprints of black ink, more iris than whites. Her fine bones and lips were delicate, like those of her relatives of French descent from the north of Italy.
She rolled the red, white, and green sash tightly into the shape of a snail shell, so that when he unfurled it, the silk would lay flat across his chest without a crease. She pinned the chevalier ribbon and the gold satin braid across the breast of the royal-blue jacket before buttoning the beaded cuffs to the sleeves. She hung the jacket on a hanger padded with cotton batting and placed it in a soft muslin dress bag, as though she were laying an infant in his bunting. She turned her attention to the trousers, folding them over a wooden hanger and straightening the military stripes that ran down the outside of each pant leg before slipping them into a separate muslin sack.
The wife hung the garments in an open standing trunk, took inventory of its contents, and counted out six pairs of socks, including three she had mended before packing. She checked the black patent dress shoes, each in its own chamois bag, and pulled out the left one. Finding a smudge on the toe, she buffed it with the hem of her apron until it shone. She rolled a wooden shaving cup and brush, a small circle of soap, and a straight razor tightly in a linen towel, then tucked the bundle into the dress shoe before placing it inside the trunk.
Elisabetta examined the impeccable stitchwork on the hem of her husband’s undershirt, where she had used the silk trim of her own camisole to bind the frayed fabric. Satisfied that her husband had everything he needed for the journey ahead, she hung a small net pouch filled with fragrant lavender buds and cedar shavings inside the trunk, securing it tightly with two knots. The little things she did for her husband went unnoticed, but she did them anyway, because she knew they mattered.
She snapped the lids shut on a series of velvet jewelry cases containing regulation Italian Army gold cuff links, a matching tie bar, and two medals awarded to the ambassador’s father from World War I, al valor militare and merito di guerra. She left the solid gold aiutante medal from World War II on the nightstand. It had been a gift from the previous ambassador, who was eager to unload it, as it bore the profile of Benito Mussolini etched on one side, with the symbol indicating a rank of major in the Italian Army on the other.
The winter of 1949 had been the worst in memory. A mudslide caused by a flash flood of the Fortore River marooned the locals high in the hills for several months. The Italian Army had dispatched a rescue party to bring supplies and medicine up to them, but the burro and cart regiment failed to reach the town because Via Capella della Consolazione, the only road with access to the village, had been washed out. Instead of saving the Rosetani, the regiment nearly lost their own lives as they slid back down the steep incline in a gloppy trough of deep mud.
The people of the village had lost all hope until spring arrived. The sun, which had disappeared for most of the winter, suddenly exploded in white streams over the town like the rays of gold on the monstrance in the tabernacle inside the church of Santa Maria Assunta.
“It’s time, Bette.” Carlo Guardinfante stood in the doorway of their bedroom wearing the only other suit he owned, a brown wool custom cut with wide lapels, his best pale blue dress shirt, and a rose-and-cream-striped tie. His wife fixed the knot and slipped his round-trip ticket and the telegram confirming his arrival into the breast pocket of his jacket.
Carlo was a southern Italian, typical in temperament but not in appearance. He possessed the passionate disposition of his neighbors but did not share their dark Mediterranean coloring. He had the freckled face of a farmer to the north, the large hands of a man who could handle a plow, and the height that gave him, at six foot two, the stature of a general. His broad shoulders had earned him the nickname Spadone.
“Everything is ready for you.” Bette looked into her husband’s eyes. In the bright morning light, they were the color of the soft waves in the port of Genoa, more green than blue. His reddish brown hair had flecks of white, too soon on a man of thirty-eight, and a reminder of all he had been through. Carlo had spent the last few years worried about the citizens of his province, frustrated by the lack of progress on their behalf, and the anxiety had taken a toll on him. Carlo was so thin, Elisabetta had punched two extra holes in the leather of his belt and attached the grommets herself. She’d adhered a small brass bar to the long end of the loop, so it wouldn’t look as though she had made any adjustments.
“How’s the belt?” She tugged on the loop.
He patted the brass plate and smiled. Carlo’s front teeth had a space between them, known in the village as lucky teeth because, in theory, he could fit a coin between them, which meant good fortune would be his all his life. But Carlo didn’t feel lucky, and any hope of prosperity had washed away with the road to Rome.
So Carlo looked for luck wherever he could find it.
“Am I supposed to pass this off as a new Italian style?”
“Why not?”
Carlo kissed his wife on the cheek. He picked up his billfold, opened it, and counted the lire. “There’s more here. Did you club the priest?”
“The smart wife puts aside money and doesn’t tell her husband.”