Liar Moon (21 page)

“I’m afraid so. And matters are complicated by the legal separation proceedings.”

“Hm. If bringing up the first wife was a ploy to threaten Clara’s eligibility to inherit, they went through a lot of trouble for nothing. I seem to understand the second spouse has no rights whatever, especially if she knew of the existence of the first marriage.”

“This is your assumption.”

“I am free to assume a great deal, Guidi, I’m not a policeman. What I’m wondering is, did Clara Lisi know about a first wife – and if she knew, did she pretend ignorance for motives of her own? Finally, I’m dying to know if she was the one who anonymously summoned Olga Masi to the funeral.”

Guidi forcibly laughed at the words. “What would she gain from that?”

“The complete invalidation of her marriage to Lisi. Even the Catholic Church would agree to annul such a contract, incidentally clearing the way for remarriage.”

“And what makes you think Claretta wanted to marry again?”

“The ex-boyfriend and the tearful phone call are suggestive.”

“You don’t know who made that call, nor if it really took place.”

“That’s fair.” Slowly, Bora rubbed his left knee. “But someone must be telling the truth in this mess. After all, the victim did as he pleased from the beginning of his married life. Why would Clara Lisi wait five years to ask for a separation, if she hated her lot? Now, if a former lover had recently appeared, or
reappeared
on the scene, separation might become attractive.”

“Well and good, Major. But with a legal separation Claretta would automatically cut herself off from any hope to inherit.”

“What does it matter? If she is not the murderess, there was no way for her to know Lisi would die so soon after they parted ways. His doctor says he’d have lasted a good long time, and she might have wanted to be free to remarry.”

It was the first sign of Bora’s willingness to doubt Claretta’s guilt. Guidi found that he accepted the hypothesis with admirable composure.

“And if Clara Lisi knew Vittorio had already been married,” Bora continued, “it made sense for her to wait until his death to expose the first marriage. Had
she dared do it while he lived, he’d have likely crushed her. All the same” – and here Bora changed tone, as if unwilling to let Guidi feel somehow vindicated – “she is the superficial, acquisitive type. She could have decided to get rid of him because he pulled the purse strings or suspected her of having a lover. Here.” Bora pushed the photographs toward Guidi. “Do you want to take a look at Lisi’s houses?”

“No. But before I go, Major, can you tell me who it was that bought a fine burial plot for the fugitive?”

Bora looked him straight in the face.

“I have no idea.”

It was nine o’clock when they parted ways. Bora had received intelligence of partisan activity north-east of the state route, and would lead a patrol before dawn. He did not speak a word about it, of course, but Guidi noticed the cases of ammunition piled in the hallway below.

 

At his return home Guidi found no supper – the second time it had happened in two days. He made himself an omelette sandwich and ate in the kitchen. The radio was on in the parlour, a religious programme. An exaggerated, crisp flipping of magazine pages also came through the open door. In order to avoid his mother, Guidi also avoided going to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He went directly to bed, and dreamed he was Claretta’s ex-boyfriend, back from the sea.

In the post at Lago, when it became obvious that he couldn’t relax enough to sleep, Bora sat in his office to reread his mother’s letter, studying every sentence written in her quick, minute hand. The letter was in English, as was all the correspondence they had ever exchanged.

Yes, Martin, she has received your mail. She will answer soon, give her time to adjust…
and:
My poor darling, how difficult it must be to become reconciled to such permanent injury
and also:
Try to understand
.

He understood, oh yes. He read through the pain of his mother’s mourning for Peter and for him, and through the diplomatic, self-conscious brevity of her words.

My dear Nina
was the only answer he wrote on the blank page,
ask Dikta if she still loves me
.

At eight in the morning, shafts of chaste light fingered through the windows. Framed by the kitchen door, Guidi saw his mother puttering around the wood stove in that oblique glare.

“Morning.”

He crossed the floor to make himself a cup of coffee, and during the operation she neither turned nor looked over, as she slowly stirred the soup. Guidi went as far as placing two teaspoons of ersatz mocha in the aluminium coffee-maker, and this on the stove. He even had time to put cup and saucer on the table. He knew perfectly well how sitting down to coffee in the kitchen was tantamount to surrendering, but he was sick of the tension.

His mother waited until he took the first sip before saying, “I know what it’s all about, Sandro, don’t you think otherwise. These silent bouts don’t work with me. Mysterious phone calls, trips at night, every other moment off to Verona when until now I had to drag you in chains to accompany me to a cinema or a department store. She’s a married woman, isn’t she? With children, maybe. One of those city women, those Verona tarts who have always had the reputation they have had.”

Guidi drank his coffee. Instead of anger, he felt an amused curiosity to hear what his mother had concocted in three days of silence. Just to provoke her, he answered, “She’s married, as a matter of fact. How did you know?”

His mother dropped the wooden spoon into the soup. “I knew it. I knew it. It’s all because of Verona and that cat-eyed German who has got on his conscience God only knows how many crimes.” She picked up the spoon, sending a tomato-red squirt across the air. “And to think you could have married the daughter of a Court of Appeal judge!”

Guidi managed to laugh. “Right. If only she’d wanted
me.
”

“She’d have accepted, had you been more insistent. Didn’t she end up marrying a schoolteacher? A pencil-neck with less career opportunities than yourself, who did go to university!”

“That’s the way it went. I guess I let the chance of a lifetime escape me. As far as my trips to Verona with Bora—”

The spoon dived into the soup again, and for good. “Your blessed father would turn in his grave if he knew you’re working with the Germans. He, who fought them in the Great War and was decorated with a silver medal.”

“Well, blame it on Mussolini and the King, who got in cahoots with the Germans.”

“Don’t you dare touch His Majesty.”

“Who’d want to touch him?” Guidi walked to put cup and saucer in the sink. “As if your own father wasn’t a Republican, Ma.”

“Leave my father alone, too.
He
was not about to rub elbows with a killer of poor innocent folks.”

“The King did the same thing in Libya thirty-some years ago.”

“Not the same thing, Sandro. Those were Africans. You can’t compare.”

“Why, it makes it all right if you do it to Africans?”

“Say what you want, I would not be seen with him. I wouldn’t want people to think I agree with him. This is all going to come back to haunt him—”

“Him, him, him. Ma, he’s got a name. His name is Bora. And nothing’s going to ‘come back to haunt him’. You’re just doing what you always do, projecting your sense of punishment on God, or whatever it is you believe in. Get it straight once and for all. Nothing happened to those who killed your husband, nothing’s going to happen to Bora
just because
. If he gets it, he gets it. But not because you or God said so.”

“Go ahead, blaspheme in my face. I want to know about this woman of yours.”

“And I’m not telling you.” Guidi put his coat on, and his greatcoat over it. “Just hear this. When I fall in love, that’s when I’ll get married. And the sooner you let me off the leash, the sooner it’s going to be.” He opened the front door to a gust of wind that ruffled the wall calendar in the hallway. “If you keep badgering, I’ll ask for a transfer to Sardinia, where at least I’m rid of you.” Guidi slammed the door behind him, taking an unusually deep breath of winter air. From the doorstep he heard his mother recriminating alone in the kitchen.

“Married, and a murderess! Why didn’t I die when the blessed soul did, before all these tribulations?”

In Verona, only a dense echo of daylight filled the prison courtyard, and little of it entered the room.

Claretta had hoped the visitor would be Guidi. Bora knew it from her countenance when he stepped in and greeted her with a nod. He’d driven here directly from night patrol, nauseous and feverish, taking only the time to shave in the warden’s lavatory.

“I have come back for a few more questions,” he said. “It is of the utmost importance that you answer with perfect candour, since your innocence can only be proven by honesty and the facts.”

It was, admittedly, the opening expected of a German officer. Claretta’s sickened glance told him as much. She sat down, folding her arms. Her breasts rose with the motion, a quick heave under the cloth. Still, in her grey frock she looked dejected and common, displeasing to him in ways Bora could hardly justify.

“What do you want to hear this time, Major?”

“Only two things. Did you know, yes or no, that your husband had already entered into a marriage contract in Friuli, and, if so, was anyone blackmailing you or your husband?”

As Bora spoke, Claretta’s face went suddenly white. Her unretouched cheeks took on the appearance of fresh cheese. Far from feeling sorry for her, Bora wouldn’t forgive her even the folding of arms, seeing malice in it.

“What?” she stammered.

Her response was genuine, but could have many motives. Bora said, “I have reason to suspect that when we first met, you told an untruth concerning your marriage to Vittorio Lisi.”

“I don’t know what you mean. What other wife are you speaking of? Vittorio never told me he had another wife!”

“He may never have told you, but I’m not sure you knew nothing of it. Does the name Olga Masi sound familiar?”

“Never heard of her.”

“Do you know she is still in Verona as of this morning?”

Claretta wetted her lips. She said, looking elsewhere in the bare room. “How should I know, if I never heard of her?”

“Well, someone in Verona knew of Olga Masi’s existence. Not only that, someone informed her of the death of Vittorio Lisi, who had married her twenty-nine years ago in Friuli. Someone told her you were currently married to him. Someone directed her to the place where his funeral was held.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe I’m telling the truth, or that she is in Verona?”

“There is no other wife. You’re making it up to make me admit to something I have not committed, I know your type.”

“I doubt very much you know my type.” Bora showed her a piece of paper. “A civil marriage certificate. It just came in. See for yourself.”

Claretta clutched her elbows, as if she were cold. She made no effort to reach for the paper, or to look at it. “Put it away,” she said. “I don’t want to read anything. Put it away.”

Bora did. “Now tell me the truth, because I’ll find out on my own sooner or later.”

“I’d rather speak to Inspector Guidi. Why isn’t he here?”

“Because he has other things to attend to. Tell me if your husband was being blackmailed about his first marriage, and I promise I’ll send Guidi tomorrow.”

Claretta lowered her head. The rows of blond curls cascaded on her forehead with a girlish, perhaps studied effect, but she was really pale. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Major. I know nothing of my husband’s business. You’re wasting your time.”

“Wasting time is something I never do. If you don’t collaborate with me regarding Olga Masi, I assure you I will endeavour to prove your guilt, and at this point it wouldn’t take much.”

“Please leave me alone. I’m not feeling well.”

Bora stepped to the door, and opened it. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll leave.”

“You don’t understand!” Claretta bent over, locking her arms together. “I’m sick,” she moaned. “My head is spinning.”

“I’ll call you a physician.”

“Just leave me alone!”

Bora started out of the door, asking for the warden.

“Wait, wait.” She spoke with her head in her hands, swaying slightly from side to side. “I don’t want to see anyone else. Ask me again.”

Bora closed the door, and stood with his back to it. “I have two questions. Did you know about Olga Masi, and did anyone blackmail
you
?”

For a good minute there was no answer, then Claretta dug her hands into her hair, lifting the curls from her temples, a world-weary gesture Bora had seen actresses make in bad movies.

“Here’s all I know, Major. On the night of the day when Vittorio died, I found a typewritten note under the door of my flat. Four lines telling me Vittorio had another wife up north. If I wished to avoid a scandal, I’d have to deposit five thousand lire in a waste basket by the train station. At first I thought it was a very bad and cruel joke, because people knew Vittorio had money. I didn’t take the note seriously. When I found a second one in the mailbox the following day, I burned it in the fireplace as I’d done with the first. The third day I didn’t even bother to open the envelope.”