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 and the occasional coughing of the congregation.
Marco, Emedio, and their mother had cried so much the past few days, but their father hadn’t shed a tear, even after identifying Aldo’s body, which had shown bullet wounds and signs of a beating, presumably the police venting their anger on his corpse. His father was deeply ashamed that Aldo had died as an anti-Fascist. It only stoked Marco’s resentment against his father, for he himself mourned Aldo regardless of politics, and his love for his brother would never go away.
Marco remembered playing ball with Aldo in the Piazza San Bartolomeo all’Isola, then cuddling with him at night, since they slept in the same bed when they were little. Aldo had taught him how to fix a tire and operate the coffee machine. It was impossible to imagine life without Aldo’s quiet, constant presence, for his brother had been as foundational as the cobblestones beneath Marco’s feet.
The funeral Mass ended, and Father Donato swung a silver thurible on a chain, leaving pungent trails of gray smoke. Marco left the pew, then lined up beside Aldo’s coffin with his father and the other pallbearers. They lifted the casket onto their shoulders with a whispered uno, due, tre and egressed slowly, moving into a shaft of sunlight in the middle of the aisle.
Marco bore his brother’s casket outside, then loaded it into the undertaker’s hearse. Mourners left the church, and he noticed Elisabetta among them, standing with Sandro and his parents. Her beautiful, dark eyes, flooded with tears, spoke to his heart. He stepped away to go to her, but heard his father’s voice booming through the air.
“Marco, no, get in the car!”
Marco turned around, shocked to see his father charging toward him through the mourners, red-faced.
“Get in the car!” His father clamped Marco on the shoulder and yanked him away from Elisabetta. “This is your brother’s funeral!”
“Papa, no—”
His father slapped him, and Marco’s hand flew to his cheek. Elisabetta gasped. Marco’s mother and Emedio recoiled, and the Simones edged away. His father grabbed Marco by the shoulder, but Marco broke his father’s grip, confronting him.
“You want to tell me what to do, but I know what you did! I know who you are! I know!”
Clearly stunned, his father punched Marco, connecting with his left cheek, and Marco staggered backward, dizzy with pain. His mother wailed, Emedio shouted, and the mourners broke into horrified comment.
Marco ignored them, and all of the anger and resentment that had been intensifying within him exploded. He swung hard at his father, punching him in the temple. His father stumbled backward, arms flailing.
Emedio, Massimo, and Sandro rushed to break them up, but Marco cocked his right arm.
He didn’t throw the punch.
His father looked him in the eye, realizing that Marco had pulled his punch, then lunged at him with the force of a freight train. The impact almost knocked Marco down, but Emedio, Sandro, Massimo, and other mourners surged forward and managed to tear father and son apart, yet both of them struggled against the restraint, torquing this way and that.
Even in the chaos, Marco knew that he was no longer under his father’s control. He was his own man now, and nothing between them would ever be the same.