A Dark Song of Blood (20 page)

Guidi half-kneeled between them, but it was uncomfortable, so he took her by the hips and moved her back and lay on her, too timid to use his hand and energetically, nervously trying to enter her by driving his belly against the lower bulge of her belly in the right direction. He did at last, soon enough, and it had been so long it seemed since he’d gone into a woman and yet it turned so familiar again, that sliding in by a little chafing force, now rubbing the sides of the narrow fleshy depth, now the top, until it was all in and the flat whiteness of his belly was against her entirely, and he could angle his arms and relax before starting to move on her.

Her arms were at ease in a circle over the head, her breasts large and dark-nippled. The angle of her face drew itself in the lavish, crisp darkness of her undone hair. Guidi took her breasts and felt their firmness, the shift of glands under the skin, with his thumb he followed the curve of the flesh until her armpits, where a tangle of hair in each was soft and had a thin wild odor of life in it. And he was already moving, his body had quickly begun to shake and vibrate on her, in her, he was saying soft words to her and tried to kiss her. She wouldn’t kiss him back, though her thighs tightened around him and made his motion more insistent, blood riding his veins in frantic jolts. Pleasure came in waves up from rubbing inside her, until he grew so rigid and hard he thought he could cry, and cried out, too, at frantic speed jerking over her, buttocks and thighs and the small of his back up and down driving him. Then a new rigidity, the need to cry out again, and he arched his spine then and drove his knees on the mattress when semen came out of him in a spurt that repeated itself and seemed to him a grand pouring out of thick discharge, after which what had been divine for a while left him, and he lay quite inert between her legs.

His desire was fast becoming an incomprehensible but no less strong need to weep, to accompany the emptying of his body with the emptying of the soul by tears. He conquered the
need, and already Francesca propped herself on her elbows with a smile neither mocking nor ecstatic – a pleased smile of the flesh. With a quick pat on his shoulder she let him know, nicely but without giving alternatives, “You can get off now.” Great shame came over Guidi then, Adam-like in the discovery of his nakedness, all divinity stripped from him, and only the white limpness of flesh left behind, which of its own accord slipped out and was his once again, unflatteringly attached as an appendix and that was all. He turned around to slowly put his shorts on again, on which moisture drew a stain right away, while Francesca sat up and was mopping between her legs with her blouse, which she then threw in a corner of the room, asking, “What time is it?”

Back from his useless errand at the
Questura Centrale
, Bora was on the phone when an orderly rushed in with the news that the Fascist parade had been attacked by partisans.

“Was Pizzirani hurt?” Bora put down the receiver.

“No, sir. It’s unclear what happened, but the parade was broken up. The PAI are there now, and the SS are on their way.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can add to that. I’ll inform General Westphal.”

Westphal had overheard from his office. “The fools, I knew it! I knew they would get in trouble. Just wait until General Maelzer hears this! Get in touch with Kappler, Bora, and get first-hand information from him.”

Bora dialed the Via Tasso number. “Just the man I was thinking of!” Kappler said. “You heard about Pizzirani. No, only his ego is bruised, but this is it for ceremonies.
We
knew that, didn’t we? Sure, the
republican guard
charged, but it was my boys who gathered a handful of suspects. I’m going to the site to take a look. Why don’t you meet me there?”

Via Tomacelli ran straight into the Cavour Bridge, past which Piazza Cavour sat under the gigantic, cake-like monstrosity of the Palace of Justice, set at an angle from it.

“Typical.” Kappler spoke to Bora with his foot on the runner of his car, as a hunter stepping on his kill. “Grenades and some gunfire, and they were gone. The Fascists panicked. It would have never happened to us.”

Bora took the dig personally. “Allow me to disagree. It can and does happen to us, with all that we don’t hold parades. How much do you expect to learn from those arrested?”

“Who knows. They probably had nothing to do with it. The trouble is that there’s open abetment of terrorism in the Roman upper class.”

“Well, then, we make things worse by going to dinner parties with them and toasting their health. All this catching the small fish amounts to little.”

“Why, thank you,” Kappler said acidly. “And here I was, thinking I was doing a good job. The biggest offenders are your skirted chums in the Vatican. The attackers could leisurely walk to Castle Saint Angelo from where we stand.”

“Some of the biggest offenders are our drinking partners and the women we take to bed.”

“Oh. In that case you and Colonel Dollmann are safe.”

Somehow, Bora showed no umbrage. “Pizzirani has already informed us there’s another ceremony planned hereabouts for the twenty-third. He wishes to celebrate the Founding Day of Fascism up the street, at the Teatro Adriano.”

“He must be crazy, there’s no security there.”

“Don’t let it trouble you, Colonel. We ought to worry about our own, and let the Fascists get themselves blown across the Tiber if they’re stupid enough to sit on bombs.”

Kappler laughed. “I can’t believe you’re the same man who’s got a soft spot for Foa.”

“I have no quarrel with Foa.”

“Other than he’s Jewish, I presume.”

Bora did not answer. He looked beyond the bridge, toward the squat statue of Cavour looming from its high pedestal in a forlorn oasis of meager palm trees.

Afterwards, skipping lunch for the day, he went instead to St Mary of the Orison and Death, a sinister church at the end of the old street that ran into Via Giulia. Bora stopped by it for no other reason than it was the anniversary of his father’s death. He had no intention to pray or to look over the relics of the old Brotherhood that had once made it its mission to bury the forsaken dead. He went in and out in the way visitors in Rome dip into churches and seek the outside again – just the time to whiff musty incense and plaster, feeling they’ve done their duty.

Next he stopped at Donna Maria’s on Via Monserrato. If there was any place he called home now, this was it, a
palazzetto
almost Spanish in its elaborate entryway and wrought-iron balcony, where a potted oleander had been sitting ever since Bora remembered. Donna Maria, with a cat on her shoulder, had seen him from the window of the dining room and rapped on the glass with the head of her cane for him to notice. Bora saluted her and went in.

“
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.”