Liar Moon (5 page)

“Sorry, I have none.”

“Maybe you should try to recollect,” Guidi said.

“Sorry. I can’t pull them out of a hat, can I? I’ll see what I can do. I’ll ask around.”

Bora sensed Guidi’s anger at De Rosa’s reticence. He said, “And of course no one knows the source of Lisi’s monetary fortune. Am I right?”

“On the contrary, Major. We all knew Lisi invested wisely. Commodities and real estate, like the prudent man he was. Land, houses. He liked beautiful, fine things.” With these words, De Rosa hinted at a rigid bow in front of Bora, as if to demonstrate the flexibility of his back. “That’s all the time I can spare right now, Major. If you’ll excuse me, I have my work to attend to.”

At the city garage, where Bora and Guidi drove next, Guidi walked to and carefully busied himself around the dented left fender of Claretta’s blue Alfa Romeo. He touched and measured, standing and crouching, until he was satisfied. Yes, the damage could have been caused by striking full force an object anchored between cement posts. Pointing to the noticeable dent, he said, “No traces of varnish on the fender, but
Signora
Lisi did say the bicycle had a simple chrome finish.”

At first Bora did not comment. Even before leaving De Rosa’s office, he’d started to feel pain in his left arm, and knew it would jag up soon. He stood a few steps from Guidi to keep him from noticing. After a moment, he said, “Her husband’s wheelchair had a chrome finish, too.”

“You’re right.” Guidi was scribbling in a notebook. “And what do you think
really
happened to the wheelchair?”

“You heard what De Rosa said as we were leaving. Lisi’s inconsolable Party friends took it apart to make it into relics of The March on Rome. You’re Italian, you tell me if it’s likely or not.”

“All I know is that we won’t be able to compare its damage to the dent on the car. Let’s take a look inside the trunk.”

The trunk was unlocked and found to be empty. On the back seat of the car, however, lay a shopping bag from an expensive downtown store. Inside it were a pair of silk stockings. Guidi wrote down the name of the store in his notebook – an exclusive Verona branch of Milan’s
La Tessile
– and they called at that address next.

Only Guidi walked into the store. The dimpled salesgirl remembered that a blonde lady in furs had acquired the stockings the previous week.

“Late Friday morning, it was. I recall, because she was looking for a dozen pairs of pink stockings, but we were fresh out. So she only bought one pair of these. Is she sending them back for a refund? I did tell her I thought these were a bit too long. Would you care for a smaller size?”

Looking at the price, Guidi calculated the unlikelihood of impressing a woman like Clara Lisi. He said, “No, thank you,” and walked out with the sight of the girl’s hand caressing the silk still flashing in front of him.

Back in the car, where Bora had been waiting, he reported the conversation.

“It’s no alibi, but at least it tells us that she spoke the truth about shopping on Friday.”

Bora said nothing at all. While Guidi was in the store he had gulped three aspirin tablets to dam the rapidly worsening pain, and now his mouth felt dry and bitter. He drove a cigarette between his lips without lighting it, to chase away the medicinal taste and the nausea that accompanied pain. Paleness and the rigidity of his torso might give him away. “While waiting, I was thinking about that crazy convict of yours.” He sought to distract Guidi. “Have you any leads, other than his shoes?”

Guidi took his place behind the wheel. He was perfectly aware Bora was in pain, but chose not to remark on it. “No other leads, unfortunately. I wonder how he feeds himself. At this time of year there isn’t much left in the fields to dig up.”

“Well, now it depends. If your lunatic had military training, he ought to be able to survive on whatever he finds, whatever the time of year. This is nothing! I was in Stalingrad, in the dead of winter. I know how to find food in the garbage.”

Guidi started the car. “In any case, if he makes it to the hills and from there to the mountains, we’ll never find him.”

There might not have been an intended reference to partisan groups in his comment; even that, Bora could have taken in good part had he felt well. “The mountains?” he said instead, hearing the rancour in his own voice. “The damn mountains mean nothing. I know exactly how to search them.”

 

Lisi’s funeral was scheduled for 28 November, first Sunday of Advent. While Guidi resumed the search for the convict with the help of the German dogs, Bora put on his dress uniform and travelled to Verona for the ceremony. He’d spent a sleepless night retching in pain over the sink, but Habermehl wanted him to attend.

Lisi’s body lay in state at the medieval castle, on the city side of the River Adige’s deep meander. The honour guard was composed of fez-capped volunteers in their M-Battalion outfits and a rabble of boys in Party shorts, undisciplined and red-kneed in the cold reception hall.

Colonel Habermehl loomed massive in the grey-blue of his Air Force uniform. Though it was barely eight in the morning, he’d poured himself a few
Fernet
drinks already; he reeked of liquor and looked flushed. Having caught sight of Bora, he came to sit at his side in the row reserved for military guests.

“So,” he whispered under his breath, “How’s the investigation going, Martin?”

“I’d rather not be involved in it,
Herr Oberst.
”

“Nonsense. You should. You need distractions. Always
having your nose up the partisans’ tail is no good. Makes a man melancholy.”

De Rosa, who’d led the honour guard with the colours, now took his seat in the row ahead of the Germans, whom he greeted with a dignified nod. Habermehl nodded back, and then leaned over to Bora’s ear. “He tattled to me that you didn’t reply to the Party salute. Bravo.”

Bora blushed. “Really? I must have forgotten.”

The ceremony lasted two interminable hours, during which the Party youngsters grew increasingly unruly. Those in the back started to squirm and make faces, while the adults in the room stood stock-still or sat glassy-eyed through the collection of eulogies.

Lisi had no close relatives, and Claretta had been kept away at De Rosa’s request. Crusty comrades bearing faded black pennants from the old days took the family’s place by the coffin. Grown plump with the years and the good food, their black-shirted backs pulled at the seams.

At one point Bora had to nudge Habermehl, who’d fallen asleep and was beginning to snore. Uninterested as he was, by habit he kept a wary eye on the crowd in the hall. Here a brutal-faced old-timer wiped a tear, there the few women present, wives of officers and Party officials, gathered into a mournful clot of black hats and veils. How many of the men had
loved
Lisi? How many of the women had got into bed with him? They all looked as if tedium would kill them. Bora even caught De Rosa yawning.

Finally, they did come to an end of it.

“Yes. Eh? What time is it?” Habermehl started up and gave a drowsy look at Bora. “Is it time to go?”

The coffin had already been lifted by six robust Republican Guards. Under escort of Beretta muskets and
paratrooper sidearms, they were advancing with a swinging heavy step toward the door, when a confusion of angry voices rose from the end of the hall. Rustling footfalls caused everyone to look: first of all De Rosa, who was responsible for the good order of the ceremony.

Above the indistinct hubbub a shrill woman’s voice cried out.

“Let me in, let me in! I must see him, let me in!”

Habermehl, who spoke no Italian, asked Bora what was up.

“I have no idea,” Bora said. Being far taller than the rest, however, he was able to see that the sentinels at the door had halted a black-clad woman and were pushing her back. He was certain it was Clara Lisi. “It must be the widow,” he told Habermehl, and started toward the exit. Quickly he elbowed his way through the crowd, brushing past the Guards, who, unable to turn the coffin around, were stuck with it on their six pairs of shoulders.

De Rosa wiggled ahead of Bora, shouting, “Everyone calm down! Back to your places, everyone. Calm down!”

Meanwhile the woman had been dragged back into the anteroom, and Bora pushed his way there past the mass of sentinels. De Rosa tried to do the same, but was too small to succeed.

“Major, is it Lisi’s widow?” he fretfully called from behind.

“Why, no,” Bora said. “It’s an older woman with a wedding photo in her hand.”

 

The dogs arrived in front of the Sagràte police station. Held on a long leash by a snub-nosed young soldier Guidi had sometimes seen with Bora, they pulled and growled. Fiercely they smelled Guidi’s shoes when he came out. He
tried in his minimal German to explain that the search would begin soon. Nodding, the soldier pointed to one of the dogs, and said, “Lola-Lola, and Blitz.”

Back in the office, Corporal Turco displayed the threatening scowl of his namesake ancestors, but was really only worried. “
Mara di mia
, Inspector, have we reached the point that we must work alongside
them
?”

“We need the dogs. Run by my house and fetch my heavy coat. And don’t start talking to my mother, or I’ll never see you again.”

Waiting for the Sicilian’s return, Guidi looked out of his ground-floor window at the trees across the street, shaking in a low, angry wind. On the pavement and at the street corners, dry leaves coiled up into funnels and spun like tops. The snub-nosed soldier, green like a lizard in his winter uniform, looked at the leaves too. How dense Turco was, Guidi thought, not to realize that he was more vexed than anyone at having to ask Bora for help.

As soon as the coat arrived, Guidi drove his arms into the sleeves Turco held out to him and, after carefully bundling up, he walked outside. Soon men and dogs were piled up in a small truck loaned by the town garage, a clattery piece of junk which brought them all toward the windy banks of the river.

It wanted to snow. Canals and ditches steamed like foundry sluices, while shallow water holes were already sealed by ice. On the hard terrain, Guidi, Turco and two policemen armed with rifles followed the soldier and his dogs past rows of gloomy trees and briars shiny with frost.

 

In Verona, despite the interruption, De Rosa had succeeded in bringing Lisi’s funeral to a close. As soon as
the hearse started down the battlement-thick, fortified bridge with its cortege of cars, he turned back to the castle’s courtyard, where Bora remained. So had the sentinels and, in their midst, the woman in black.

Bora paid no attention to De Rosa, as he was busy taking leave of Habermehl. Habermehl always gave advice. He now shook his hand and buffeted him hardily on the shoulder, in the friendly and informal Air Force way.

“Don’t let the Fascists get your balls, but do us proud.”

Bora was embarrassed by the familiarity, especially as there were Italians present. Soberly he said, “At your orders,
Herr Oberst
.” Then, because De Rosa had ordered a chair to be brought out, and had forced the woman to sit on it, he joined in to hear the latest.

“Who are you?” Pacing in front of her, De Rosa was shouting at the woman. “How do you dare cause an incident in the middle of a state funeral?”

Undaunted, the woman lifted the black veil of her hat to wipe her eyes. “Who am I? I’ll tell you who I am. I dare, and how. I have more of a right to dare than the lot of you.”

Bora stepped in. “De Rosa, you entrusted the investigation to me. Be so good as to let me handle this.”

“But, Major!”

“If you prefer, I’ll drop the case.”

De Rosa seemed to be chewing on something particularly bitter. “No, no,” he grumbled. “Go ahead, see if you can find out what this madwoman wants.”

Without asking directly for it, Bora stretched his right hand to receive the framed photograph.

The woman handed it over. Careworn and plain, she seemed sixty or so, but might be a few years younger.
She wore a narrow-shouldered black dress buttoned to her chin, and an outmoded black velvet toque, which in the confusion had been knocked sideways on her head. Under her left eye, a fresh bruise bore witness to the roughness of her treatment.

Bora looked at the photograph. “When was this taken?”

“1914,” she said. “One year before the last war. You can see Vittorio was already in his
bersaglieri
uniform.”

Craning his neck to look, De Rosa cried out. “What? What? Was Lisi already married?”

The woman slumped in the chair. “I had my daughter three months after the picture was taken. Can’t you tell? I didn’t make her all by myself.”

“
What
daughter?”

Bora silenced De Rosa. “We can’t continue this conversation here. Centurion, do me the courtesy of having her accompanied to a private room inside. Also, send me a stenographer.”

 

After smelling the convict’s shoes, the German shepherds grew restless. Blitz was a young male, long and lean, while Lola-Lola, a stouter, older female, seemed more intelligent and domineering. Both pulled at the leash, and the soldier kept them in check with short, throaty sentences.

Guidi watched the animals, thinking that either of them could snap in one bite the hairy little neck of Claretta’s lapdog. Blitz was more easily distracted. The female kept to the appointed task, pulling and jerking the soldier her way. The sudden passage of a dozen loud crows didn’t cause her to so much as look up, nor did the friction of dry branches in the wind. She led the group toward the
east, in the direction of the nearby town of Lago, only to make a sudden about-face when Blitz started barking.

“She’s heading for the mulberry tree,” Turco whispered to Guidi. One after the other, even though no danger was apparent, the policemen clasped their weapons.