"Tea or coffee? What do you drink?" he asked as they entered the library.
"Whatever you do will be fine; I'm starving; bring a pack of Grissini too."
When he returned, they sat down at the reception desk and sipped the tea he had brought.
"As of this moment, what do we have? The name of a fascist and an innocent letter of affection to Clara. We're not even sure it's the same Marco, but because the man in the picture was wearing the black brigade uniform, we suspect it's him."
"Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot could not have articulated the state of affairs better than you," Beatrice said as she stung him with a sly smile.
"Maybe you should call your aunt and ask her who the man in the picture is? And does she know this fascist?"
"I want to go through all the material that I have; perhaps I will find something else to fill in the puzzle," she said. "There's always time to call her later."
"I would not bet on that; after all, she is an eighty-year-old woman."
"And I remind you that she's as healthy as an ox."
Beatrice got stuck in a traffic jam on the way home, so she called Graziella, her best friend, for many years. After Beatrice had postponed their meeting several times in the past, she swore to Graziella that this time she would come. Finally, they agreed to get together that evening at their favorite bar. After crawling in traffic for about an hour, she finally arrived home. She took from the car all the stuff she had brought from Aunt Clara.
She looked at the faded oil painting she had placed on the buffet and noticed that the frame seemed relatively new compared to the painting, which was scratched and battered. She looked at it and thought to herself, "Who knows who the girl in the painting is? I probably will never know."
After she had eaten and showered, she sat down in her bathrobe in the kitchen. She took out a few more pictures that Romeo had tied up with a string after classifying them as "interesting" In one of the photos, probably taken near Bagni Pancardi di Acquaviva with the sea visible in the background, a group of four could be seen standing in bathing suits. They looked wet, and Beatrice assumed that they had been swimming in the sea. Since the picture was small, she needed a magnifying glass to see their faces well. On the right, she saw her grandparents hugging, while on the left stood Aunt Clara and the same guy she had seen in the family photo, which she thought was Marco.
"Maybe he's alive, and I can talk to him," she thought to herself while she held the phone in her hand. She called the information center for Livorno and asked for the telephone number of Marco Pellegrini.
"I have three Marco Pellegrini; which one do you want?"
"Please give me all three."
After she wrote down the numbers, she called the first one.
"Good evening, did I reach the Pellegrini family"?
"Yes, who are you, and what do you want?" It was the hoarse voice of an older woman.
"I'm looking for Marco; my name is Beatrice Palumbo from Livorno."
"Marco was my husband. He passed away more than ten years ago."
"Can you tell me if he served in the Black Brigade?"
Beatrice was left with the phone in her hand as the lady hung up on her.
She then tried the second number.
"Good evening, can I talk to Mr. Marco Pellegrini?" she asked gently.
"Who wants him?"
"Clara Palumbo," she replied.
There was a long pause, but the phone was not disconnected. She was able to hear the man who answered the phone breathing heavily.
Finally, he said, "I know a Clara Palumbo, but this is not her voice."
"Right, I'm her niece, Beatrice Palumbo, daughter of Michele, Clara's brother."
"Sure I know him; how's Michele? I haven't seen Clara in over twenty years or more; how is she?"
"Michele passed away, but Clara is still at her best, doing well despite her eighty years."
"Oh, how I am sorry to hear that your father passed away. I am no longer a child either; in three months, I will be eighty-three years old."
"I am so glad that I found you. Would you like to meet Clara?"
"Certainly, please, give me her phone number."
"I have another question if you will allow me."
"Sure, ask whatever you want, and if I can, I will help you."
"Did you serve in the black brigades?"
There was silence on the other side. She could hear his breathing getting heavier again and could only imagine him sweating, trying to think of an answer.
"I will just tell you that I do not want to think about that period anymore, it was a long time ago, and everybody must forget."
"Thank you; I hope to meet you sometime," she replied.
He hung up without saying another word.
The thought that a few minutes ago she was talking to the man from the black brigade sent chills through her body. She immediately called Romeo and passed along the details of the conversation.
"Did he admit that he was the man in the picture?" he asked.
"He admitted in silence that he was in the brigades and knew Clara; what more does it take to complete the picture? Of course, it is him."
"Yes, I understand, but I did not think to look for him; it was a brilliant idea that you had."
Although she had stopped smoking for several months, she felt an urge for a cigarette. She searched the kitchen cupboards and found a pack with some cigarettes left in it. She lit a cigarette, opened the kitchen window, and sat down to study the letters. After opening several of them and reading Christmas greetings and letters sent from Capri from her parents' vacation, a faded light blue envelope caught her attention. She took it into her hands and pulled out a half-folded document. It was the birth certificate of her father, Michele Palumbo.
While looking at the birth certificate, the cigarette in her hand began to tremble, and ash scattered on the floor. She looked at it again and again before putting it back. She put the envelope in her handbag, grabbed her coat, and left her apartment.
She decided to take the tram because she was too excited to drive. The tram ride allowed her to study the certificate she was holding.
After 15-minutes, she arrived at the library. Romeo was sitting behind the counter and fighting to take the cellophane wrapper off a sandwich he was holding.
"I can already imagine what you have to tell me," he said before Beatrice had time to sit down.
"You have no idea what I found out," she replied while taking out the envelope. "Look at it yourself."
Romeo put the sandwich down on the counter and took out the certificate.
"What's wrong with it?" he asked innocently.
"Look at the names of my father's parents, whom I did not know because they died before I was born."
"What's wrong with his parents' names?" he asked again.
"Don't you see that his father's last name is not Palumbo but rather Lazzaro Levite? Palumbo is the last name of his mother, Sara."
"Strange, really strange, I do not know what to say."
"Is that the only strange thing? Do you know what the family name Levite means?"
"No, I've never come across a last name like that."
"It's a Jewish surname... It's Levi, like Rita Levi Montalcini, Nobel laureate, Jewish Senator."
"Yes, I know who she is, but why did he take his wife's last name?"
"We'll leave that for Clara to explain."