A Dark Song of Blood (18 page)

“Are you in love with her?”

“I don't know. By the way, she's pregnant.”

This time it took Bora a moment to react. “And you want to hear from me whether you should make love to her? I am obliged to you for deeming my opinion even relevant.”

“Well, you
have
a wife.”

“Guidi, my wife left me.” Bora said it kindly, as an urbane correction rather than a call for sympathy. “Your trust in my advice might be misplaced.”

Guidi was caught entirely unawares. Of a sudden, he was deeply ashamed for envying Bora in the past weeks. “Major, I had no idea.”

“It doesn't matter. I have to get used to the thought. But as for you, why don't you ask her? An aggressive woman will tell you exactly how she feels – that is, if you do want to hear it.” They were looking at each other in a very unpretentious way now – their differences for once smoothed over, worn small and flat and insignificant. Bora was the first to lower his eyes, to protect some private aching space of his own. Slowly he
drew a cigarette out of its case and laid it on the dashboard as if he had not decided what to do with it. Only when Guidi lit a match for him he placed it in his mouth and inhaled. “Next Thursday there's a reception at the Excelsior,” he said. “It's an official Party holiday, and you should come. General Westphal ought to meet the man who is directing the investigation of the Reiner case. It'll be good political leverage for you in the event Caruso decides to give you trouble.”

“I am embarrassed to say I may not have the required attire, Major.”

“I've seen odd combinations of clothing lately, but we can have a garment store open up – all you have to do is pick what you want and take it.”

“You say it as if one didn't have to pay.” Guidi smiled.

“You don't.” By contrast Bora was severe behind the faint barrier of smoke. “Christ knows those store owners no longer have use for money.”

9 MARCH 1944

In the next three days, daylight bombing of Berlin began. The first to be hit were the textile plants south-west of Greater Berlin, and by Monday (Westphal had flown to meet Hitler that day) a major raid of 1,400 aircraft reached the city. On Tuesday, the Roman marshaling yards were hit again, and the popular districts beyond the Tiber heavily damaged. Cardinal Hohmann called the Flora to complain about the lack of adequate air defense. Bora took the line.

“The Church of St Jerome's was demolished, not to speak of the agony of hundreds who have been thrown out in the streets. What will be done about it, Major?”

Bora said, “I don't know. What will be done about the Catacombs of Priscilla?” And his oblique reference to a location where people were in hiding cut the conversation short.

When ten hostages were shot on Wednesday in retaliation for the attack on a fuel depot, Hohmann called again. Again Bora told him he knew nothing about it, adding that the Gestapo were the people to contact.

By Thursday Guidi had managed to find a suit. Not in a Jewish store, as Bora had suggested, but in a second-hand hole in the wall. It was of gloomy black cloth, and the sleeves were so long, Signora Carmela had to stitch them at the cuffs. She told Guidi the suit made him look like a mortician, and that it'd bring no good to wear black at a party.

The Excelsior, with its turreted mass, stood at this hour like the much ornate prow of an enormous ship ready to be launched, so huge that its hull was lost in the dark. Cars were parked up and down Via Veneto and Via Boncompagni, a full display of diplomatic license plates and chauffeurs in liveries and army uniforms. Security was absolute. Bora, who met a dazzled Guidi at the entrance, was impressive in dress uniform and with an array of ribbons, medals and badges that had begun to spill onto the right breast of his tunic. Guidi remarked on the Knight's Cross, and the German laconically replied, “I should hope so. It's all I'm worth.”

In the hall up from the conciergerie, at one glance Bora judged the import of the reception, which he communicated to Guidi. Maelzer was here, and so were Westphal, Dollmann, Kappler, Sutor, Luftwaffe officers, SS officers, Fascists, diplomats, some prelates and many civilians. Borromeo stood out in a crowd of gowns like a Renaissance prince, chatting with women in his unrepentant old way of charm. Bora went to greet his superiors, and introduced Guidi. Maelzer paid little attention, but Westphal stared Guidi down. Guidi was stunned by the rank and beauty present. The women seemed to him unreachable and alien, a different race from the gray numbers of housewives one saw in the street, waiting for hours just to fill a jug with water from a fountain. Any of these outfits would make Francesca glow like a princess. Most of the die-hard
Italians present were in Party uniforms – those whom Bora knew, he was introduced to. Guidi was glad neither Caruso nor Merlo would attend.

This, he realized, was seeing Bora in his environment. The major moved no differently than he did outside, with wariness but altogether a confident attitude. From one group to the next, before long they came to Dollmann, whose fine smile stretched his lips rather than parting them.

“It's good to meet you, Inspector,” the SS said in Italian, already looking away and toward Bora, who stood beside him. “I'm glad the major brought you as a guest. Don't let our brass intimidate you, we're quite friendly under the eagles and stripes.” With that, Dollmann began inquiring about his career, so personably that Guidi was tempted to believe he was interested.

Bora had meanwhile begun to circulate. He acknowledged by a nod the presence of Kappler, who was speaking to a colleague but waved a curt little gesture to detain him. “One word with you, Major Bora.” When Bora neared with a polished expression of neutrality, he said, “I understand you had scarce success with Foa.”

“I had no success at all.”

“I told you he's a troublemaker.” Coming close to provocation without stepping into it blatantly, Kappler looked past Bora at Guidi. “Who's the fellow you came with? Ah. I see. Sutor told me about him. Is he any good?”

“I think he's good, yes.”

And meanwhile Dollmann was telling Guidi, who looked as awkward as he felt, “It's an odd lot tonight. Do you realize there may be partisans and foreign agents among us, brazenly eating our cakes and eavesdropping?” He laughed a mean laugh. “Yes, they
would
dare. I keep an eye open for them, but who's to say, really? That's why I love Rome. The intrigue is splendid.”

In due time Bora faced Cardinal Borromeo, beside whom was the wife of an American diplomat, “presently out of Rome”. He
had already noticed from a distance how her dress was exquisite in its simplicity, an off-white set of sculpted lines. Now he saw she wore no jewels but a thin chain of worsted gold. Her face was that youthful Anglo–Saxon face, open and clean and attractive. In his bad English, Borromeo introduced her as
Signora Moorfi
, and Bora bowed to kiss her hand, unaware that Dollmann had meanwhile drifted from behind and was speaking to her.

“Major Martin-Heinz Douglas Freiherr von Bora, Mrs Murphy. Major, Mrs Murphy, née Carroll, of Baltimore, whose husband is attached to the Holy See. The major is a Russian Front hero, Mrs Murphy. He's a terror on the enemies of the Reich.”

Glancing up from her hand, Bora saw her expression grow cool, and it was no use being vexed at Dollmann for spoiling his chance of dialogue. Damage done, the colonel had already moved on. Mrs Murphy's hand drew back, and slackly hugged her left elbow as if to bar the space between them. “Well, Major, are there any redeeming qualities about you?”

He did not expect the question. The first answer that came to mind was, “Well, I like children.”

“Oh. In which sense?”

“In the good sense, Ma'am. I would like to have some.” And because of his wedding band, Bora felt he could say so and not sound forward. The fact that she was tempted to smile at the British form of his address made him relax. Moderately straddling the floor in front of her, he physically opened up to her, but without impudence.

“You speak English extremely well. Most Germans have a dreadful accent.”

Bora laughed at the comment. “Actually, I was born in Edinburgh. And I'm Scots on my grandmother's side.” She smiled this time, which he found seductive enough to feel his blood search the veins of his belly. “I'm often in the Vatican's neighborhood. I regret not having met you there.”

Wisely, her eyes stayed on the medals and ribbons across his chest. “It's unlikely that you would or will. I am not fond
of army get-togethers. The only reason I'm speaking to you at all is that Cardinal Borromeo thinks well of you. He told me of your generosity toward wounded prisoners – enemies of the Reich such as they are.”

“I'm indebted to the cardinal,” Bora said, meaning it. He was not often taken by a woman's presence as he was now. He'd quite forgotten Dollmann and Guidi and the party around him. Standing here was wonderful. It was wonderful. He'd thought himself unable to revert to an elemental stage of delight in someone else's nearness. “How do you find yourself in Rome?”

“I don't. I live within the Vatican City.
You
have Rome. And do you have an idea of how many children – since you say you like them – would enjoy the delicacies on the tables here tonight?”

“We all give according to our kind, Ma'am. It isn't exactly candy your compatriots are bombing them with, either.”

She observed him, and it seemed to him that she could see right through the knot of insecurity and grief he had inside. He returned the scrutiny in his frank way, but with some effort. She appreciated the glance, he could tell. Without tenderness her lips questioned him, small thoughtful questions carefully answered. And Bora felt tenderness instead, and an impulsive need to be liked by her. “So then, Major, what else do you think of my countrymen?”

“I find your men superficial, but I admire American women.”

“And I dislike German men.”

“Ma'am, it's most assuredly my loss.”

It was only because Borromeo resumed his place by her and overtook the conversation that Bora had to ask for leave, with regret continuing his rounds of the hall.

Dollmann placed a buttered canapé in his mouth as he said casually, “You're aroused,” and at the startled look he received, “It doesn't
show.
I can tell.” His eyes trailed up Bora's uniform in an innocent, candid way. “Do you like her?”

“Very much.”

The colonel's attention wandered to where Mrs Murphy stood, speaking to other women of the diplomatic corps. “She's inexpugnable.”

Bora took a long sip from a glass of mineral water. “I honor that, too.”

“Why, what a good man you are!”

“Or stupid.”

“No, no. True-souled, that's the word.”

“Some good it does me, Colonel. It gets old when virtues are their own reward.”

“Did she accept your offer to drive her home?”

“How did you know I asked?”

“I thought you might.”

“She did not accept.”

“Pity. At the end of the party I'll give a lift to your secretary, if you're not interested. Poor girl, she has eyes only for you, but I fear she may be getting ready to settle for less.” And since Bora was discreetly looking for Guidi and how he was faring, “I like this associate of yours, this Guidi,” Dollmann continued. “A decent chap. Do you get along?”

“Yes and no. We're very different.”

“That's your fault, if you think of it. It's dangerous looking for a brother.”

Bora took the blow, but not well. He'd lowered his defenses while speaking to Mrs Murphy, and now precipitously tried to rebuild them around himself, not quickly enough to answer Dollmann. By the time he'd regained his composure, an already drunk Egon Sutor came ambling his way with another SS officer by the name of Priebke.

“Are you having fun, Major, or do you still keep your tail tucked between your legs?”

Bora smirked at the equivocal joke. “It's a hard, cold world, Captain Sutor.”

“So, you just let it hang?”

“The alternative is to let it stand. And a wagging tail gives the dog away.”

“He's a good sport, isn't he?” Sutor turned to Priebke. “He doesn't swear, doesn't get plastered, is faithful to his estranged wife. He'd be awfully boring were he not such a bastard in the field, with all that he goes to Mass on Sunday.”

Priebke grinned widely. “I see you brought along your police dog, Major. Is it for company or security?”

“I had an extra invitation.”

“He's Magda's investigator,” Sutor explained. “Asked
me
questions about her. As if I'd talk to a greasy Italian about the women I fuck. How's the inquiry going, Major Bora?”

“You'll have to ask the dog.”

In his corner of the hall, Guidi was wondering if his eyes deceived him. Better dressed than usual, with his unruly black hair slicked back and his attractive profile cast against the blank space of a drawn curtain, Antonio Rau stood chatting by the refreshments table. Racing thoughts clogged Guidi's mind. The only one he salvaged from the garble was that Francesca ran a deadly risk if Rau worked for the Germans. Quickly he discarded the idea of asking Bora about him. Because Dollmann was within earshot and fussily looking at the sweets on a tray, he turned to him and resumed the conversation. Before long, he managed to approach the subject sideways. “Who is the officer that dark-haired man is talking to? I seem to have seen his photo somewhere.”