“Ci costerà una barca di soldi!”
Wasn’t it just typical that the old count should be thinking of how much this would cost—whatever ‘this’ was—while his son was on the edge of a nervous breakdown? Marie was amazed at how clearly she was thinking.
“Una morte misera! . . . questo è colpa nostra!” Franco shouted again. He had to be standing right by the door. His voice was loud and clear and, to her horror, she found she understood every word. “I curse the day I ever agreed to all this! How often did I beg you to make an end of it? Money, money, money! You would take any risk for money, however great. And now twelve men have met their deaths!”
Marie put a hand to her mouth automatically. Her head was buzzing, and she knew now with a terrible certainty that men had been shipped with the cargo of wine and that they had died on the crossing.
“Siamo assassini!” Franco shouted. We are murderers . . .
The door was thrown open—and Franco walked right into Marie.
“Marie!” He stared at her in horror.
He was as pale as could be, and his eyes were rimmed with red. His hair was plastered to his forehead by sweat.
At the sight of him, fear tightened its grip around Marie’s heart. Wanda’s letter fell to the floor as she wrapped her arms around her body and hoped that this sudden pain would not devour her. Smuggling people . . .
“I . . . was . . . looking for you,” she said, staring into Franco’s eyes, horrified, reading the guilt there. We are murderers! “I don’t understand . . . Franco . . . Who has died? And what do you have to do with . . . smuggling people? Franco!” She clung to his arm. This can’t be true, she thought in a panic. It’s a nightmare, I’ll wake up soon.
Franco looked down at the floor, his eyes wet with tears. He couldn’t bring himself to answer. Behind him, the shadowy shape of his father drew closer.
“Have you been spying on us?” the count asked, his voice deadly quiet.
Marie glanced from one man to the other.
“I demand to know what is going on here!” Her voice was so shrill that she feared it might have startled the child in her womb.
“There’s been an accident . . . but I’ll take care of it . . . I’ll make everything all right again and . . .” The words came out slurred, as though Franco had been drinking. “I can . . . explain everything . . .”
“You will explain nothing, not to her!” his father interrupted. Then he spoke to Marie. “What we were discussing has nothing to do with you. Aren’t you ashamed to be listening at keyholes like a tattletale? Is that how you do things in Germany? Go to your room this instant! Franco and I are not done here. And don’t you dare breathe a word about whatever you imagine you heard here.” He put his hand roughly on her shoulder and was about to shove her away when Marie broke loose.
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed. “If you think you can intimidate me, you’re wrong! I’ve done nothing wrong, unlike you people!” She looked her father-in-law in the eye and saw how startled he was—the old man hadn’t expected her to put up a fight. Disgusted, she looked away and turned to Franco. Why did he let his father treat her like this?
“So? How many more lies are you going to tell? Have you any more fine stories about your vineyards?” she asked coldly.
“Marie . . . I . . .” he stammered.
Her heartbeat was hammering all the way down to her womb. She was so furious that she was nearly ready to hit him. To beat her fists against his chest. To do anything she could to shake him out of his numb and helpless state. But she had to think of the child. She tried to take a deep breath. Her throat hurt.
“If you do not tell me the truth this instant, I will go to the police. They, and the emigration authorities, will certainly be very interested in whatever I imagined I heard. Especially since I can tell them the name of the ship that you used to . . .” She didn’t need to finish the sentence.
It was a long night. Franco bolted the door of their bedroom so that the count could not disturb them, and then he confessed everything. He stuttered and stammered over the first two sentences, and then the whole story came pouring out.
It had all started five years ago when one of their neighbors had come with an unusual request: his son was involved in illegal gambling and had caught the eye of the police, so he had to hide out somewhere. Could Signor de Lucca perhaps help by getting the boy out of the country? It would be a shame for his whole life to be destroyed by one stupid, youthful mistake. And of course he would pay for their help. Times were hard and the winemakers from Venice, Friuli, and Tuscany were snapping at their heels; the Italian restaurant owners in New York could pick and choose from plenty of suppliers. Why not boost their difficult export trade with a little extra source of income? Franco’s father agreed. The old count had told Franco that fate had smiled upon them, that it was a gift from Heaven.