—Benito Mussolini, April 22, 1922, Opera Omnia 18, 160–61
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Marco
March 1938
Marco pedaled away from Elisabetta’s house in a frenzy. Sweat poured from his body, and he accelerated past cars as if he had taken leave of his senses. It couldn’t be true that his father had been unfaithful with Elisabetta’s mother. Marco was riding north to the Borgo District, just outside the Vatican walls, where his brother Emedio lived. The oldest son, Emedio had always been his mother’s confidant, having the most mature and responsible temperament of the Terrizzi boys. They all thought that he had been born a priest, rather than called to it in later life, and Marco was betting that Emedio would know the truth.
His mind reeled, frantic for explanations. What Elisabetta’s father had said must have been a drunkard’s ravings. Delusions afflicted men who drank, Marco knew from the regulars at the bar. They consumed glass after glass, even in the morning, sometimes ordering two at a time. It had to be that Elisabetta’s father had an addled, wine-soaked brain, because Marco knew that his father was an honest man, a moral man, and his hero. He admired his father for so many reasons, for becoming one of the best cyclists in the country, serving so bravely on the Isonzo front, making a success of himself, and providing a business for their entire family.
Marco’s legs churned at top speed, and his thoughts raced. He knew that his parents had a loving relationship, he had seen as much. He would catch them stealing kisses or see his father squeeze his mother’s bottom. He could feel the earthy heat between them and he even heard them at night, making love. They worked as partners, his father in the front of the bar and his mother in the kitchen, supporting each other in every way. He had always thought that theirs was the kind of marriage he would have with Elisabetta.
Marco sped into Emedio’s neighborhood, which was lined with well-maintained houses and leafy trees. Priests in black cassocks and nuns in black or blue habits walked in groups along the pavement, for the district attracted Vatican employees and clergy. Twilight fell softly, bringing with it a quiet peace, though Marco felt anything but.
He zoomed down Via Bonifacio VIII and saw that the lights were on in Emedio’s front window. He tore through the intersection to Emedio’s apartment, where he jumped off his bike and hollered at the window. In the next moment, his brother stuck his head out, leaning on the sill with a smile.
“I’ll be right down,” Emedio called down. “I was just going out.”
“Hurry!” Marco tried to compose himself, but it was impossible, and as soon as Emedio appeared in the front door, he launched into a feverish account of the story, telling every detail before they’d even moved from the doorstep. Emedio listened, his expression typically attentive, and when Marco was finished, he looked directly into his brother’s large, dark eyes, which were so much like their father’s.
“Emedio, it can’t be true, can it?”
“Brother, you need to calm down.”
“You have to tell me it’s not true!”
“Relax.” Emedio tried to place his hands on Marco’s arms, but Marco broke his grasp.
“Emedio!”
“Let’s walk and talk, then. I need cigarettes, and I’d rather my neighbors not hear more than they already have.” Emedio started walking, and Marco fell in step beside him, rolling his bicycle at his side.
“Well?”
“It’s true.”
Marco felt it as a blow to the chest. He stopped in his tracks. “I don’t believe it. How do you know?”
“Mamma told me.”
Marco felt a wave of sympathy for his mother. “How did she find out?”
“She caught them in bed.”
“No!” Marco gasped, appalled. He had so many questions. “When did this happen? How did they even know each other?”
“Let’s walk, Marco.” Emedio resumed walking, his head down and his hands clasped behind his back. The hem of his black cassock popped forward with every footstep. “It happened when you were a baby, but I don’t know more. She didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t want to press her.”
“I can’t believe this.” Marco raked his hand through his hair. He walked beside his brother, but had never felt so alone. “Does Papa know that you know?”
“No, and we’ve never spoken of it. I’ve gone from being his son to his moral compass. She told me years ago, saying they had both put it behind them.”