A Dark Song of Blood (21 page)

“
Ma come
, Martin! You find flowers in Rome, when most people can't even find turnips!”

“Donna Maria, the day I do not bring you flowers you'll know something is very wrong.”

“It's been a long time since you've seen
my
flowerbeds at
The Seagull.
I'm afraid they've all gone wild the past season.”

“Do you still go there in the summer?”

The old woman shrugged. “Now and then, and not for two years. Country houses are made for young lovers who want to get away. Time was, Martin. The house still looks like a beautiful white bird, with D'Annunzio's verses on the halcyon days over the door. But he's dead and I'm old.” With her face in the flowers she looked up at him, coyly. “I want you to have the key to it.”

Guidi was putting his feet in his trousers when the main door lock clicked and Signora Carmela's squeaky voice came next,
complaining to her husband about something or other. Guidi froze. How had he not thought they would be back soon? For a moment he was totally unable to think of a way out.

“Just don't say anything,” Francesca said under her breath, and it seemed to him she had a commiserating irony in her tone. She slipped her house dress on and left the room, closing the door behind her; Guidi overheard her tell the Maiulis that the inspector had stopped by – she had to justify his briefcase on the kitchen table – and had left again. He would not be home for lunch, and not to worry about him. Back in the room, she wiped the sheet with a wet face cloth. “They may be stupid, but the maid isn't,” she whispered to Guidi, who stood by looking sheepish. “Now wait until they take their afternoon nap, and pretend to come in from the outside. They'll never know the difference.”

He sat on the small armchair in the corner, with nothing to say. The orgasm and the scene with Caruso had taken all he had in him, and he felt cheap in the measure Francesca seemed comfortable and even amused by the circumstances. Cross-legged on the dry side of the bed, she began reading from a
giallo
, without as much as looking at him.

So Guidi sat there, watching her read. Everything was different now and his grudge was useless. She
had
him. He'd let her do it, and it was now, hiding in her room, that he realized she had him, in more ways than one. He tried to feel righteous, but that too was a sham. He watched her flip the pages, wetting her finger with the tip of her tongue. The
giallo
was called
L'Inafferrabile
, a title that in another moment would seem laughably ironic. He needed to roll himself a cigarette, but she did not smoke, and he feared the Maiulis would smell it and grow suspicious. Francesca, who never helped with chores, seemed oblivious to the clatter Signora Carmela made by preparing lunch in the kitchen. Hating himself, Guidi watched her.

11 MARCH 1944

On Saturday morning, Pompilia Marasca was polishing the knocker of her door when Guidi left the apartment to buy a newspaper. “Not at work, Inspector?” she called over her shoulder.

Guidi didn't look up. “I'm taking the day off.”

“My, you all get time off in your house. Signorina Lippi hasn't been to work in ten days.”

Giving up, he decided to humor her. “How would you know she hasn't been to work?”

“I went to buy envelopes yesterday, and the hired help at the store told me.”

“Maybe she's taking a few days' vacation. Ask her.”

The woman rested her oily hand on the pear-shaped knocker, holding it in a fondling grasp. “I'm sure that's how it is.”

12 MARCH 1944

On a rainy Sunday afternoon, the fifth anniversary of the coronation of Pius XII was observed in St Peter's Square. Maelzer forbade all ranks to attend, and sentinels placed at the bridges ensured compliance. Bora, who'd have loved seeing Mrs Murphy again, listened to the Pope on the radio, translating for Westphal his speech as well as the occasional anti-German slogans yelled out in the crowd of three hundred thousand. When an orderly came to deliver one of the leaflets found in the Square, he translated that as well. It was signed by the communist group
Unione e Libertà.

18 MARCH 1944

Despite the unusually severe pain in his left arm, Bora had been at work five hours when the air raid siren sounded before noon.
Westphal was at Soratte, and on the desk lay stacks of reports from the crumbling line at Cassino. As usual, Bora planned not to leave his office, though he urged his secretary to join others in the shelter. Through the doorway, she looked up from her typewriter and said she would stay also. The bombs fell very close this time. The roar of motors and din of explosions made it difficult to identify where they came from. Bora assumed the eastern rails were being targeted, but the charges seemed to be exploding even outside that perimeter, no more than six hundred yards away. There was nothing to do about it. After Aprilia he had a more than fatalistic view of air raids. He lit himself a cigarette and continued to work.

At one point the whole German Command seemed about to sink into its foundations. Open city or not, Bora thought the Flora may very well be next in the bomber's sight. His secretary came in, paler than she was cool-faced, and simply sat across the desk from him. Bora handed her a cigarette; when he saw she was not steady enough to light it, he did it for her. So they sat for an hour, and then – it was half past noon – Bora climbed to the roof terrace to see which neighborhood had been hit. When he returned, Dollmann was in the office, looking no worse for wear. Blandly removing his overcoat, he asked, “What did you see from above?”

“There's a billow of black smoke due west, outside Porta Pia. It seems they struck Via Nomentana and the university hospitals. We must organize some help.”

Dollmann stared at him. “The only thing we can do for the Romans is getting out of Rome, and we can't do that just now. Actually, Via Messina has been hit, and so has Via Nomentana, Piazza Galeno and at least one entire wing of the Policlinico Hospital on Via Regina Margherita. It's a mess of broken glass and masonry, water mains are gushing all over. Whole lines of people queuing for groceries were blown to shreds. I don't know how many people wounded. It's the worst I've seen in Rome. We'll be seeing migrations through the streets in the
next few days.” With his foot, gently Dollmann pushed the office door shut. “I'm actually here on my own mission of mercy. I'll get your old friend Foa out of Kappler's hands. Even Caruso's hands are better in this case.” He winked without friendliness. “Now you owe me one, Major Bora.”

20 MARCH 1944

On Monday, when the head of police least expected it, Bora walked into his office unannounced, with a copy of Guidi's report in hand.

“It has come to General Westphal's attention how attentively the investigation on the death of our compatriot Magda Reiner is being pursued by your office. I am here to express the general's appreciation to Inspector Guidi for a job well done.”

Caruso seemed to be gulping a distasteful lump of food. “This unexpected visit, Major...” he began, but Bora's attitude dissuaded him from continuing on that tone. “I regret not to be able to share your commander's opinion,” he said then. “I assigned someone else to the Reiner case. Inspector Guidi missed some of the important clues. Egregious oversights were committed. I'm sure you want to see justice done. Justice will be done.”

Bora took Sciaba's written deposition out of his briefcase. Without handing it over, he held it before Caruso's face. “We fully concur. Naturally any wrongdoing within the ranks of the Italian police makes it unlikely for us to trust anyone in it. I am under orders to take a more active role in the investigation at once. Accordingly, I am here to collect all pertinent evidence and paperwork.”

Caruso was still reading. “What is this?” he then blurted out in anger. “Has Guidi been begging at your door?”

“Hardly.” Bora put the document back in his briefcase. “I haven't seen the inspector in over a week. Can you tell me where he is?”

“At home, I expect. He's been suspended.”

“I see. We expect him to be reinstated, of course.”

With his usual bluster, Caruso slapped his hand on the desk. “Look here, Major, I hold general rank, and I'm reminding you of your place!”

“My place is to represent
both
General Westphal and Field Marshal Kesselring, whose wishes I have expressed. If you prefer a direct order, I can do that as well. Kindly telephone Inspector Guidi with the news of his reinstatement, while I secure the Reiner material.”

Caruso jumped to his feet. “This is an outrage! You would not dare get into our files!”

“No. I have two men outside doing it for me.”

Moments later, Signora Carmela called Guidi to the phone. “It's for you.”

The last voice Guidi expected to hear was Caruso's.

The second last was Bora's, who called less than half an hour later to invite him to lunch.

Guidi found the coincidence unlikely. “Major,” he said irritably, “I was just reinstated after being dismissed from the case. Did you have anything to do with it?”

“God forbid. I've been minding my own business. And I'm only calling because I don't like eating alone.”

In the end, Guidi was grateful for the invitation. At the Hotel d'Italia, every other table was occupied by men in uniform. Bora good-naturedly remarked on it. “I hope you don't mind my staying in the family, so to speak. These are unfriendly days, and we have one disadvantage over the Romans – we get bombed from the ground, too.”

Guidi sat, glancing round to see if by any chance Rau was here. True to Francesca's words, he had not shown up since the tenth, which was the day of the attempt in Via Tomacelli. He'd rather not draw conclusions from that. Across the table, Bora appeared sedate and fresh, but when the waiter brought
drinks, he took three aspirins with a glass of water. “I must tell you, Guidi, you look different.”

“I do?” Guidi cringed at the words, thinking that Bora would ironize about sexual relief. “I can't imagine why.”

“I don't know, you seem preoccupied. Caruso must have really chewed your backside.”

Guidi nodded eagerly. “I didn't mean to sound rude on the phone, Major. The thing is, as of tomorrow I'll be back at Via Del Boccaccio. I thought you might have a hand in that.”

Bora repeated that he didn't. But his friendliness turned inwards and became guarded. They ate speaking of trivial matters, until Bora returned to the subject. “Well, will you keep your resolution to pursue Magda's case to the end?”

“Not only. Relieved of duties as I was, I checked on the receipts from Roman stores found in the Reiner apartment. One is from a shoe store at Via del Lavatore, and the other from a clothing store named Vernati.”

“So?”

“Well, the first establishment, whose motto is
From death – to strong and hardy life
, referring I expect to the leather they use, makes shoes for men and women. There she bought a pair of men's rubber-soled shoes. Vernati – there are three stores with this name, and she went to the biggest one, Alla Primavera! on Via Nazionale – is a men's clothing store. She bought trousers, a shirt, and a sports coat on 15 December. Good quality stuff.”

Bora looked intrigued. “Really? What size?”

“Not Merlo's and not Sutor's, from what I can judge. Closer to yours, I'd say.” And because this time Bora seemed half-amused, half-vexed, Guidi added quickly, “That is, taller than most. And I found ample proof that for all of his private flaws, Merlo has been a regular terror on party graft in Rome. It explains things, doesn't it?”

Bora, who had difficulty using fork and knife, impatiently let go of both. He sat for a moment with frustration on his face. “Only if we can connect with her death the mysterious
recipient of the clothes, who may or may not be the secret tenant,” he said afterwards. “You can't expect much collaboration from us if you start exploring the Sutor lead, or another German lead.”

“I know. And we have no reason to assume she knew there was anyone hiding in 7B.”

At that very moment, as they sat across from one another, Guidi had the bizarre temptation to tell Bora the real motive for his preoccupation – that he loathed lying to the Maiulis, that Francesca had been as indifferent to him as before, and that last night he'd managed what amounted to masturbating in her, smothering every sound, fearful that Signora Carmela might walk in on them. Even had they been friends, it was hardly what he could tell Bora over lunch. He watched the hard shaven faces of the Germans at their tables, hair shorn to expose pink napes and bony temples. Would Rau go after them? Sitting here suddenly repelled him. Bora's trust especially made him sick with guilt but with enmity, too. He saw the fragility of human life in that relaxation, and the impossible task of alerting him, because he did not want to. What if, he thought, what if... What would he do were Francesca to tell him that Bora was to be killed next?

“You know, I thought things over.” Bora's calm voice came to him. “I reached at least one conclusion for myself, if it comes to it. To the Americans, I will surrender. To the English, I might. To the Russians or the partisans, never. The only way they will get me is with a fresh hole through my head, which I won't mind putting there.”