THE EVIL THAT MEN DO

PART 7

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Photo by Dmitry Ratushny on Unsplash

“Yes, of course he does,” signora Rabizzi said, pausing with her paintbrush hanging over the canvas, looking at Zia. “I’ve been telling myself the same thing—asking myself why, I mean? What were you thinking?” she added, still looking at Zia.

“You knew?” Benjamin Messenger asked.

“No. I wouldn’t say I knew, but I had my suspicions,” she said.

Zia sat in silence. I could see the laboured look in her eyes reflecting back at me with the mirror in front of her. I listened, waiting for her to say something—anything—as the tears came to my eyes; I wiped at them with my hands and had to fight back the urge to scream. It was a primal urge—almost visceral—and I stuffed the palms of my hands into my mouth, biting down on the soft flesh until the pain was too much for me to take. There were so many questions I wanted to ask her; so many answers I needed. I loved her, but I’d only known her as Zia. I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t want to tell me the truth. Why would she purposely not tell me she was my mother? And oh, how her heart must have broken as she stood off to the side and let me run to Momma whenever I fell and scraped my knee; I wanted to believe that much about her.

“And yet, that’s not all you did, is it?” signora Rabizzi went on. “You let Benjamin here, think you were me as you pretended to nurse him back to health,” she said, her attention focused on the painting more than anyone else. I wiped my tears again and held my breath, straining to hear what she had to say.

“You did what?” Benjamin Messenger asked. He sat up and looked at Zia.

“You thought it was me you fell in love with, didn’t you?” signora Rabizzi said with a slow shake of her head. “And who could blame you for thinking that, under the circumstances? She used my name. Remember when you showed up here that first day? When you asked me if I’d been the one who nursed you back to health? Do you remember? Lorenzo was still fighting your suitcase up the stairs and we were alone in the lift. Remember? What did I say at the time?”

“You told me no, but you knew who it was,” he said.

She was looking at her painting as she spoke, adding little smudges of paint before sitting back and dipping her brush into a small jar of turpentine. She looked at him as she wiped the brush on a small rag. “You thought I was your Agostina—”

“Who?”

“A nurse—like your Florence Nightingale. But it wasn’t me who nursed you back to health, was it Fatima? Why don’t you tell him?” she said. When Zia didn’t answer, signora Rabizzi went on. “She didn’t want you to know it was her, because at the time, she was trying to seduce Scaramucci. But you didn’t know enough to beguile him, did you?” she asked Zia. “Not like that; not then,” she added, as she dipped her brush into another mound of paint on her palette.

“That’s not to sat she didn’t eventually become his lover, but that was after the War—not long after the War—but still, after the War. It’s sad when you realize how far a woman will let herself fall before she’s forced to sell herself—in order to survive, I mean. Isn’t that right, Fatima? Because that’s what you did, didn’t you? You were willing to do anything to win him, and what better way of learning how to satisfy a man, than with a man who’s bedridden? And blind? Even if it’s temporary. All those handjobs you gave him. You even went as far as to climb on top of him and ride him like a common slut.”

“Please, Alma?” Zia said. I could see tears glistening in her eyes.

“What? You don’t think he has the right to know? Even after all these years—all these years he’s been led to believe it was me? Is that fair? Is it fair to him? Is it fair to me?” she added.

“I made mistakes,” Zia said. She paused, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“Mistakes? Scaramucci wasn’t a mistake, dear. No. You went after him. Deliberately. We wouldn’t sell ourselves to the Germans—we were above that we told ourselves—but you weren’t above selling yourself to Scaramucci, were you? Is that because Gabriella had already found herself with Lorenzo? Only that was different, wasn’t it? They’d made the mistake of falling in love with each other, didn’t they? Truly, madly, deeply in love. He even married her. But you,” she said, looking at Zia, “Scaramucci wouldn’t marry you, would he? I’ve often  wondered why.”

“Enough!” Zia said.

“Why? Have I said too much?” signora Rabizzi asked, turning her attention back to the painting in front of her. “Or do you want to tell him the rest? Is that it? I hear confession is good for the soul, not that I would know anything about it.” She dipped her brush into the paint on her palette and began touching up the painting again.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

“Like what?” Benjamin Messenger asked.

“I got pregnant,” Zia said.

“With Scaramucci’s child, no less,” signora Rabizzi said. “Don’t forget to tell him that part, in case he thinks Lorenzo is his son—in case you try to tell him Lorenzo is his son.”

“How does he not know? Scaramucci, I mean? How?” Benjamin Messenger asked, and I felt myself sinking deeper into despair. It felt as if my life was unraveling right in front of me. How could I face Momma, knowing she wasn’t my real mother? How did I expect her not to see the truth written all over me, like it was a disparaging lie I brought with me out of my childhood? I couldn’t. I knew that. I had to face the fact that they could never know that I knew the truth.

“I went to Florence as soon as I found out I was pregnant. What else was I going to do? One of the nurses we knew was from there. She’d made the trip to Rome looking for her husband, and when the War was over, she went back…without him. Gabriella came with me because there was a power struggle going on here in Rome. With the end of the War coming like it did, and the end of Mussolini’s Black Shirts, the mafiosa was rearing up its ugly head from whatever rock it was hiding under. A lot of Mussolini’s Black Shirts worked as enforcers for the mafiosa. They were killing anyone who stood against them. Lorenzo wanted us both out of Rome. He’d come up North to visit sometimes, but said it was still too dangerous for us to come back to Rome. When we finally did come back, Gabriella had baby Lorenzo, and no one knew any different.”

“Your brother-in-law never knew?” Benjamin Messenger asked.

“He naturally thought the boy was his.”

“And your sister agreed to it? Why?” he asked.

“Because she couldn’t have children. They’d tried, but she always miscarried. Three months, five months, eight months; she was never able to carry a child to term. The doctors told her if she had one more miscarriage, it would probably kill her.”

“And then Lorenzo died? How?”

“How else do you think someone like him dies? He was murdered.”

“By who?”

“Who do you think?” she said with a vicious hiss.

“Are you going to do something about it?” Signora Rabizzi said.

“I am,” Zia said.

“What?”

“I’m going to kill him,” Zia said plainly.

“Just like that? Do you think it’s easy killing someone? I mean, do you honestly think you can do something like that?” Benjamin Messenger said.

“To protect Lorenzo? I would do anything,” she said with a quick nod.

“You want to kill Scaramucci?” signora Rabizzi asked.

“Yes! Are you going to tell him?”

“Why would I? I might miss having him in my bed, but I’ll get over it,” she said.

“Have you ever killed a man before?” Benjamin Messenger asked.

Zia looked at him and shook her head.

“It’s not an easy thing to do.”

“Nothing worth doing is ever easy,” Zia said.

“I’ll do it,” Benjamin Messenger said.

“You?” Signora Rabizzi said. “Why?”

“It’s what I did in the War,” he said.

“That was different. The War’s been over for almost twenty years. Everyone killed everyone because it was a War. What she’s talking about is murder,” signora Rabizzi said.

“That’s true,” he said, “but not everyone in the War was sent behind enemy lines with the purpose of killing a specific target, were they?”

“And that’s what you did?”

  He nodded. “I was flown in to work with the Underground.”

“Here? In Rome?” signora Rabizzi asked. She stopped painting and looked at him.

He nodded again.

“When?” Zia asked.

“I think you know when,” he said with a smile.

“What happened?” signora Rabizzi asked.

“What do you mean what happened? What always happens? I was betrayed. I was lucky enough that one of them was already dead, but the other two got away. And then everything happened all at once. So I stole the third man’s uniform and put it on—”

“He was wearing a uniform?” Signora Rabizzi said in a low tone.

“I overheard them talking. He was shipping out in the morning.”

“You don’t speak Italian?” Zia reminded him.

“It’s come back since I’ve been here. I also speak French and German. It’s the language of music: Beethoven, Debussey, Rossini.”

“How long have you known?” signora Rabizzi asked.

“Known what?” Zia asked.

“That it was Scaramucci,” he said.

He shook his head as he sat up on the bed, picking up his violin and the bow. He tucked the violin under his chin and scratched the bow across the strings.

“It really is a Danse Macabre, isn’t it?” he said with a smile, releasing the violin.

“It was him, wasn’t it? He betrayed you? Who killed the soldier?” signora Rabizzi asked.

“He was dead when I got there.”

“Why did they kill him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was the one who betrayed the plan? They seemed to think he was. They said he was a patriot.”

“And then what happened?” Zia asked.

“The Germans showed up, and I woke up in the hospital. I think you know the rest.”

“The German’s brought you there because they thought you were an Italian soldier? An ally?” Zia said.

He nodded.

“And after you recovered?” signora Rabizzi asked.

“They told me I’d never walk again unless they operated. So they cut me open and took bones out of one place, put them in another, and I spent the rest of the War learning to walk again.”

“And nobody questioned your accent?” Zia asked.

“I told them I was from the North, in the Dolomites.”

“Of course, who’s going to question that?” signora Rabizzi laughed.

I put the plug back in the hole and sat back against the wall. I could still hear them through the thin wall, but I’d heard enough, I told myself. Maybe it was too much? Zia had been right about that, I told myself. I would’ve been better off not knowing.

I stood up and slipped out of the closet, making certain they didn’t hear me as I closed the door like a whispered confession. Only there was no priest and no promise of absolution. What I’d heard couldn’t be forgiven with three Hail Mary’s. I had to ask myself if I could ever forgive her, because at that moment, I didn’t know what the answer was.