so Marco had told them that Aldo had been seeing a married girlfriend and had undoubtedly overslept there. Now both sons were in trouble, with their parents angry at them for lying, and at Aldo for having an affair with a married woman. Marco simmered at the utter hypocrisy of his father’s reaction, and resentment boiled within him.
He looked up from the counter, surprised to see his boss, Commendatore Buonacorso, entering the bar with his father. Marco wondered if he was getting a promotion, since things had been going so well at work. His father motioned him forward, so Marco asked Letizia to take over, left the counter, and saluted his boss.
“Commendatore Buonacorso, it’s good to see you.”
Buonacorso nodded, his expression unusually grim. “I’m here to speak with you and your parents.”
Marco followed his father and Buonacorso into the kitchen, which had a small hallway before the cooking area and oven in the back. His mother looked up from the stove and wiped her hands on her apron as she came forward.
“Commendatore,” she said, smiling, “I’m pleased to see you. May I get you something for breakfast?”
“No, thank you, signora.” Buonacorso took off his hat. “Marco, is there a seat, perhaps?”
“Yes, Commendatore.” Marco grabbed an old stool and pushed it toward his boss. “Sir, please, sit down.”
“No, the seat is intended for your mother.” Buonacorso motioned. “Signora, please. Sit down.”
“Thank you, how thoughtful.” His mother eased onto the seat, obviously impressed by the commendatore’s manners.
Buonacorso cleared his throat. “Beppe, Maria, Marco, I’m sorry, but I have terrible news. There is no way to mince words. I regret to inform you that your Aldo is dead. He was an anti-Fascist. He was killed while transporting pistols to Rome, presumably for his comrades.”
Marco gasped, horrified. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“No,” his father said hoarsely. “This can’t be. You must be mistaken.”
His mother’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening with horror, but she made no sound.
“The incident took place last night, outside Orvieto,” Buonacorso explained. “Aldo was stopped as he rode south to Rome. Five pistols were found in a package on his bicycle. He also had a pistol on his person. He resisted arrest and shot at the officers, almost killing one. Aldo was killed in self-defense.”
“This can’t be.” His father shook his head.
His mother covered her face with her hands.
Marco’s mind reeled. His lower lip trembled, but he found his voice. “Sir, there must be some mistake. Aldo was with his girlfriend last night. I’m sure he’s still there. I promise you, he’ll be home any minute.”
“Marco, there is no mistake. These facts are true.”
“But I know he’s with his girlfriend, he went there last night. He goes there at night when he’s supposed to be training, he’s in love—”
“That is not where he has been going, Marco.” Buonacorso frowned. “I cannot divulge further details, but OVRA has been surveilling the members of an anti-Fascist cell. The traitors have been meeting in the catacombs at night. Aldo has been identified as being there, routinely, among them.”
Marco opened his mouth, but uttered no words. Aldo was gone. Tears flooded his eyes. He could barely hear the commendatore, who kept speaking.
“Aldo’s body is in transit. He had his identity card on his person, and, Beppe, you will be asked to provide final identification of his body and sign the proper forms. My condolences.”
His father remained in emotional control, his expression rigid. “Commendatore Buonacorso, I assure you that my son Aldo is no traditore. Aldo loved Mussolini and our country. You know I am a Fascist of the First Hour. I raised my family in Fascism. Marco is loyal to our party, and Aldo is the same way.”
“Beppe, I understand this comes as a shock, so I won’t speak further on the matter. I take my leave of you now, so that you may mourn together.” Buonacorso put his hat back on. “As a matter of security, we will not report the details of this matter to the press. We will report instead that Aldo perished in a bicycle accident, and his body was found by police.”
* * *
—
Smoky incense thickened the air, and Marco sat in his stiff black suit, facing the altar. Aldo’s funeral Mass was almost over, though Marco hadn’t heard a word. The colorful icon that depicted Madonna and Child against lapis lazuli flickered in the soft light of white tapers, and the only sound was the droning Latin of Father Donato