The Light Over Lake Como: A Novel by Roland Merullo

Author:Roland Merullo [Merullo, Roland]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2024-06-04T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Two

By nightfall, the lorries were loaded with papers, boxes, and certain personal items belonging to il Duce and his family. The offices were mostly bare except for the shelves of books that had been there when the Feltrinellis still lived in the house. The suitcases of money had been entrusted to Colonel Messina. Il Duce had asked Enzo to take another load of papers out into the lake, and Enzo had done so, not even glancing at them this time, just heaving them over the side, idling there for a few minutes to savor the long, watery view and consider his options, and then bringing the boat back to the dock.

There was a last meal—il Duce, Scavolini, Zarraona, Nazzacone, Rachele and their son Vittorio, Enzo, and a handful of lesser Republic of Salò functionaries. The two cooks, local women, had prepared pizzas in the Neapolitan style, ordinarily something il Duce enjoyed, but that evening Enzo noticed he ate very little. A few bites, half a glass of wine. Mussolini seemed pensive and withdrawn. Conversation went on in spurts around him, but he said nothing until he bade them good night.

Enzo retired to his room, a suitcase open on the floor, half-packed, and was glad when Angelina tapped on his door, quite late. In the feeble moonlight slanting in through the curtains, he watched her taking off her clothes, then felt her slide in beside him under the covers. They lay there on their backs at first, touching only at the shoulder and hip, Angelina rubbing her ankle up and down against his lower leg, as she liked to do. He reached over and with one finger traced small circles on her thigh, feeling the warmth emanating from her body. The night had a strange energy to it, almost an electric charge, but also a vast spaciousness, as if they were lying together in a room separate from their normal lives, set apart in a great black box of timelessness. For once, it was as if the conversation—hanging just above them in the air, like fruit ready to be picked—was a prologue to the lovemaking instead of an epilogue.

“My brother has a friend,” Angelina said at last, so quietly Enzo had to strain to hear her, “a friend from childhood. The first person I ever kissed.” She laughed. “Though nothing more than that ever happened.” Angelina turned onto her side, and he could feel her breasts against him, and feel her breath on the left side of his neck. “My brother’s friend is a good Fascist.” She laughed again, though there wasn’t much joy in the sound this time. “He can get us out of Italy, he says, and I believe him, Enzo. He can get us out and get us documents. We can go to Argentina. A lot of his friends are going there, a lot of Germans have gone there already. It’s supposed to be nice. No war, at least.”

Enzo couldn’t answer. He realized that one part of him

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