Chapter 16
Eventually, our path opens up into a small square.
The street lamps flicker to life, casting the cobblestone in a golden glow.
Faceless shop windows and empty doorways gawk at me in looming silence.
I have the strangest impression of being back in a cemetery.
Instead of decaying bodies hidden beneath the ground, it’s the lifeblood of Italy, rotting from the inside out before my eyes.
I know firsthand that Cec’s assertion that socializing is rooted deep in the Italian people is apt. And with Mussolini’s heavy hand, those roots of community and love are decaying with each passing day.
I fiddle with the scarf still tied around my head, the material scratching against the sensitive skin of my neck. “How much further?”
Bes’s gaze riffles around the square, less bothered by the emptiness than I am. “Not far, but we have to make a stop.”
“Another one?”
“A necessity, I’m afraid. We can’t get into where we’re going without a change of wardrobe.”
He nods in the direction of a storefront across the way, a place simply named Costumi. I think I can translate that one without Cec’s help. As much as I don’t want to involve more people in our plans, perhaps we’ll meet someone here who I can berate with questions.
“Let me guess: you know the owner of the costume shop too.”
Cec clicks his tongue at Bes. “And you said she’s not quick on the uptake.”
I smirk. “Well, unless you plan on dressing me up as a large pink bunny rabbit or a clown, I’m not sure how a place like this is going to help us.”
Cec chuckles. “Wouldn’t that be a sight.”
“Have a little faith, Miss Hawkins,” Bes asks of me, ignoring his cousin.
I step toward him. “But you’ve already taken so much of it, Bes. Soon, I’ll have none left to spare.”
He glances away, refusing to answer me as he continues on to Costumi.
“Are you trying to rile him up?” Cec whispers beside me.
I smirk. “He’s riling me up; why shouldn’t I do the same?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Are you sure we should be stopping here?” I wonder. “We’ve already been to one establishment this evening where anyone could’ve given us away to Mussolini’s men. Should this many people be aware of what we’re up to?”
“Unless you said something damning to Gino’s nephew,” he starts, a hint of jealousy in his tone that I find fascinating, “he has no idea why we’ve come here. And the owner of this shop is one of the—my uncle’s friends.”
“If it helps,” Cec interrupts, saving Bes from me questioning what he was about to say before he corrected himself, “I trust Francesca far more than Gino.”
I grin. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that he hates you, would it?”
“Why, Hawkins, the very idea.”
Like the pizza place, there’s nothing particularly special or ostentatious about the shop as we approach. I wonder if secret meetings happen here, too. A small sign on the door reads ‘Chiuso’. Closed.
I open my mouth to say something snide about it, when a short, round woman opens the door.
A long, flowing yellow dress with red flowers drapes loosely around her shoulders.
Stark-white hair sits atop her head in a messy bun, green cat eye glasses framing kind, light brown eyes, her lips painted a deep red.
“Bes! Cecilio!” she croons in a voice ravaged by cigarettes.
Her accent is softer than Gino’s, though.
In fact, the way she dresses, how she speaks, reminds me so much of my nonna that tears well up in my eyes.
“My boys, it’s good to see you. I had to see your faces for myself before I left the shop. ”
She steps back and waves us through.
Cec goes in first, followed by Bes. “E tu, Francesca. And this is—”
“Amelia Hawkins,” I interject once the door shuts behind me with a click. “But you can call me Mel.”
“Mel, good to meet you.” She smiles brightly, genuinely. “I have a few outfits back here to choose from. I’ll show you and then leave you to it.” She glances behind us, worry pinching her brow. “Quickly now; the Guardiani Notturni will be out patrolling the streets soon.”
She hurries us toward the back of the shop, where half a dozen candles illuminate the open changing area, leaving the front half of the store in increasing darkness.
“The Guardiani Notturni?” Concern corrupts Bes’s query. “I’ve never heard of them.”
She waves a hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry, only I call them that. The Blackshirts change their shifts right after sundown, and those particular men can—and do—get away with much more when only shadows fill these streets.”
Bes nods. “Then we should hurry.”
“As I said,” she mutters, regarding her rows of clothes. I scratch my nose to hide a grin.
With Francesca’s attention elsewhere, I’m able to case the shop.
Feathers and chiffon and sequins and colorful leathers pack its high, crimson-painted walls, along with masks and wigs and hats of all shapes and sizes.
Dozens of mirrors, both large and small, short and wide, reflect everything around us.
It makes the area appear bigger than it actually is.
Francesca flips through the vibrant fabrics on the rack before her with manicured hands, the wooden hangers clunking against each other.
“Here we are,” she murmurs to herself as she sorts through the silks.
I’m already not keen on what she’s picked out for me to wear to this club, no matter her taste. If the idea is to blend in, she’s likely to hand me a gown, and I deplore gowns. I only begrudgingly agreed to the dress I’m currently wearing because I knew I would stand out too much if I didn’t.
Nonna tried to put me in long dresses on Sundays for church when I was young, but I managed to wriggle my way out of it every single time before we even made it to the car. I would then skip down the street half-naked for all the neighbors to see.
When she recognized I wouldn’t stop no matter how old I got, she gave up.
I shut my eyes and hold my breath to brace myself for disappointment, opening them reluctantly.
“Oh.” I say foolishly. It’s not at all what I was expecting.
The color of the fabric—which I’d wager to be silk—boasts a deep mauve.
Short sleeves flutter away from the shoulders in loose ruffles, and while the neckline pulls in around the collarbone, it also plunges deep.
The waist possesses the ability to be tightened with sink ties in the back.
Beneath that, though, it’s no longer a dress.
In fact, it looks more like wide-legged pants.
I could swear I’ve seen this fashion before. Perhaps in a couture magazine when I was bored at the doctor’s office for my recent yearly checkup? I’ve never seen it in real life, though.
“Is this a jumpsuit?”
She smiles gently. “Corretta. It looks like a dress, but will fit like pants.”
Taking a step back, she eyes my feet. “And the length should be perfect to cover your boots without dragging on the floor. You don’t want to draw attention to them, but I also understand it would not be wise to wear heels.”
At least I won’t have to wear impractical footwear.
Unable to keep my thoughts to myself and be grateful for once, I ask, “How did you know I wouldn’t want to wear a dress?”
“I can see you are not that kind of girl, eh?”
I smile, then lower my voice. “Do you know anything about the God Men?”
At first, I could swear something like recognition sparks in her eyes. It’s gone just as quickly. She cocks her head to the side and furrows her brow.
“God Men? Do you mean holy men? Like priests?”
I press my lips together in disappointment. “Never mind.”
Francesca moves on quickly, glancing at my scarf. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take your hair down. Otherwise, they might get a good look at your face and realize you’re not Italian.”
Except that I am. At least, half of me is. I don’t think she meant it that way, but it still stings.
I pat the scarf still attached to my head. “What about the color of my hair? Won’t that draw more attention?”
“It’s not uncommon for young women these days to change their hair color.”
Not this young woman. I’m still glad I wore the scarf, though—especially when the police were walking the streets and checking people’s identification cards.
I sigh. “Thank you, signora. I’ll take it from here.”
Before I do, I search for Bes and Cec, who are obliviously perusing a rack of boisterous button-ups, speaking softly to one another.
Francesca follows my line of sight. “Ragazzi, andate. Some privacy, please.” She snaps her fingers. “I left your suits in my office—go put them on.”
Though Cec clearly isn’t the one she’s speaking to, he bows his head and obeys without question. He heads for the very back of the shop, keeping to the textured walls and using his cane for the first time since leaving the boat.
Bes, however, finds and holds my gaze. I can’t say why; perhaps he doesn’t want to leave me alone in the shop with Francesca, or maybe he’s concerned I’ll cut and run at the first opportunity, even after I assured him I wouldn’t.
No matter the reason, I find I can’t look away either, despite knowing we don’t have the time to waste.
Even after all our bickering, I recall how I had him pressed up against the wall of the dead-end alleyway, his proximity far too intoxicating. My cheeks warm.
He must remember it too, his gaze deepening. His lips part slightly…
“You can make eyes at each other later,” Francesca barks, and I try not to flinch at the intrusion.
Bes breaks eye contact first, bowing his head like his cousin. “Thank you, Francesca. We are in your debt.”
“Non è niente, child. But be careful. There is more to fear in the dark than Mussolini’s henchmen.”
A moment later, the door to the office shuts, with Bes and Cec safely inside.
Francesca regards me again. “For your undergarments, I’ve left out some… opzioni.” She surprises me by placing a hand on my cheek. “Buona fortuna, Mel.”
With that, she leaves out the front door.