The Fallen (20 page)

She kissed him gently on the top of his head. “And before you know it, they will be gone and everything will be back to the way it was.”

“Do you think?”

“Yes, Augusto, I do.”

Parente sighed. “Ah, Luisa. I wish I could believe that was true.”

She spent the better part of the afternoon helping the colonel and his men get acquainted with the layout of the museum. She shepherded them about, like a guide steering a group of ill-mannered and wayward tourists. She had to continually remind them to stay together and not to touch anything. One of them had nearly knocked to the floor a blue glass drinking jug—a singular example, she’d explained to him, of the Pompeian glass-cameo technique.

Afterwards, when she returned to Augusto’s office, she saw him, his neck bandaged and the edge of his left ear burnt and scabbed over. She felt compelled to touch him, and he did not move away when she reached out and traced her finger along the edge of the gauze where it emerged from beneath his collar.

“Does it hurt very much?” she asked.

“Not so much,” Greaves said.

Augusto was standing by the window. “Thomas was just telling me what happened,” he said. He shook his head. “So terrible, so terrible. I tell you, I don’t know anymore what people are thinking. I don’t know why they do such horrible things to one another.”

“I should have known better,” Greaves said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“What were you to know?” Augusto said. “No sane person can expect to know such a thing could happen. It is an insane action.”

Luisa could see that he was agitated. He paced in shortened steps between the window and the nearby bookcase. He had left his cane by the sofa. The events of the day, it seemed, were proving too much for him.

She went to the field stove behind his desk. “Why don’t I make you some coffee? It might help to calm you some.”

“I don’t need coffee,” he snapped at her, and then was immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry, my darling. Perhaps you’re right.”

Luisa poured water from a jug into the
caffettiera
and lit the burner. Then she retrieved Augusto’s cane from where he’d left it and brought it to him. “Why don’t you sit down,” she said. “You don’t want to wear yourself out.”

She led him back to the sofa and helped him to sit. He took in a deep breath and slowly let it out again. Then he said, in a measured, straightforward manner that suggested his agitation was behind him: “That boy was already dead, Thomas. He was dead before you even arrived there.”

“I suppose you’re right,
professore
,” Greaves said. “I suppose there really wasn’t much I could do about it. It was coming one way or another.”

When Luisa looked over at him, she saw that he was watching her and she suddenly felt self-conscious. She turned away and began to prepare the cups. Over her shoulder she asked, “Was he very young?”

“Yes,” said Greaves. “He was.”

“And was he frightened?”

“I could feel him trembling when I held his arm.”

“And did he see the man who shot him?”

“No. It came from behind.”

“Well, at least there was that,” she said.

There was a knock at the door. One of Colonel Romney’s men came into the office. He needed some clarification on the contents of one of the smaller exhibits and wondered if the
professore
wouldn’t mind coming with him.

“I’ll go,” Luisa said.

“No,” Augusto said, struggling to his feet. “You stay here with Thomas. I will go.”

“Are you certain?” she asked.

“Yes, Luisa, you stay.” He began to hobble towards the door. “Besides, I want to make sure they aren’t making a mess of things.”

Luisa was glad of the chance to be alone with Greaves, even though, after Augusto had left, she could find nothing to say to him. They stood in silence until the
caffettiera
boiled. Then she set about pouring the coffee.

He came and stood beside her. “I’ve been given a short leave,” he said. “Two days. I think the major is worried that I’m going to crack up.”

“Why does he think that?”

He shrugged. “He has his reasons, I suppose.”

“What will you do?”

“It’s been arranged for me to go to Sorrento.”

“It is beautiful there.”

“You’ve been?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Would you like to go again?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Would you like to come to Sorrento with me?”

He was standing so close to her that she could smell the talcum he wore under his shirt.

“Why are you asking me this?” she said.

“I don’t want to be alone,” he said, then added quickly: “You would have your own room. And I thought maybe you would show me the ruins at Pompeii. I haven’t been yet, and the
professore
tells me that you know them as well as anyone.”

“I cannot leave Augusto.”

“There’s nothing you can do here until the Americans are finished. I would think that this is probably the only time you could leave him.”

She felt the urge to touch his wound again.

“Just think about it, will you? That’s all I’m asking. If you decide not to, I’ll understand.”

“When will you go?”

“Tomorrow.”

Luisa nodded. “I will come with you.”

The American military police captain cut his spaghetti with a knife and pushed it onto his fork with a heel of bread. He lifted the fork slowly to his mouth, but still managed to spill sauce down his chin and spatter the napkin tucked into his shirt front. As he set about loading his fork again, Varone lit a cigarette.

“You are unhappy with our arrangement, maybe?” he said.

The captain shook his head. He spoke through a mouthful of pasta. “Arrangement’s fine. I got no problem with that. But what you’re asking now is a lot different than looking the other way when your trucks come into the port.”

“I think not so much.”

The American put his fork aside and wiped his mouth with the corner of his napkin. “I’m not your private errand boy, Sal. We do our business and that’s all well and good. We both benefit and everybody walks away happy. But this is a whole different ball game you’re talking about here.”

Varone shrugged. “I have decided nothing. We are only talking.”

“This kind of talk, I don’t like. And I’ll tell you right now, I’m not going near any security police. Neither should you. That kind of trouble you don’t need.”

“What about the other one?” Varone said.

“You can deal with that yourself,” said the captain.

“You do not understand.”

“Oh, I understand fine. You want someone else to do your dirty work for you. Well, it ain’t gonna be me.”

Varone reached across the table and stopped the American raising his fork to his mouth. “You
will
do this,” he said.

“Or what? You gonna send that ape of yours after me, are you?”

Varone stared at him. The captain turned his attention back to his pasta. He had no table manners. That he was a messy eater had always bothered Varone. If he was careless with his food, he could be careless with other things too.

“How much?” the captain asked.

“Four hundred thousand lire,” said Varone.

The captain shook his head. “Six hundred, no less. I’ll have to detail men to do the job, and they’re going to need to be paid too. And I figure, if it’s my ass that’s gonna be on the line here, then I say my ass is worth six.”

Varone nodded and stood up from the table. “Paolo will find you when I have decided.”

“That’s fine,” said the American, his mouth full again. “You just make sure he brings the money.”

Luisa had collected him from the section office early in the morning. Parente had given her the museum’s car for the trip. Greaves, with his duffle bag and a lunch packed for them in a wicker picnic basket he’d found in the pantry of the palazzo’s kitchen, waited for her outside in the square. On their way out of the city she pointed out to him the rocky beach where she used to swim as a child, but after that she didn’t say much and Greaves wondered if maybe she’d started to regret her decision to join him. A while later, as they passed
through Castellammare and the winding seaside road opened onto a magnificent view of the coastline—the chalky cliffs of the Sorrentine peninsula stretching into the distance, and the deep blue waters of the bay—he said that he couldn’t imagine anything bad happening in a place that was so beautiful.

“Bad things happen everywhere,” she said. “Especially in beautiful places.” And then she was quiet again.

When they reached the ruins, she parked the car alongside the empty platforms of the rail station. Over the roof of the station he could see the tarnished crucifix atop the bell tower of La Chiesa della Nostra Signora del Rosario. The steeple marked the new town of Pompeii, built on a bedrock of ancient volcanic ash a half mile to the east of the ruins.

While he collected the picnic basket out of the back seat, she raised the hood of the car and loosened the wires to the distributor cap. “Just to be safe,” she said.

Then they crossed the road to the ruins.

American military police sentries patrolled the buried walls of the ancient city. In the arched gateway of the Porta Marina, a makeshift visitors’ centre had been set up. It was also manned by MPs, who checked identity documents and warned visitors against attempting to remove any artifacts from the ruins, a crime punishable by court martial or military tribunal.

“Could you tell me where is Cosimo Moccia?” Luisa said to one of the MPs.

“Who?”

“Cosimo Moccia,” she repeated. “He is the site director. He is in charge of the digs.”

The MP held her papers out. “Why don’t you move along, little lady,” he said.

Greaves stepped forward. “She asked you a question.”

“Yeah, buddy, I heard her. But there ain’t no ginzoes in charge of this place.”

Greaves showed his security police identification and said: “Maybe you could ask someone who knows.”

“Is that supposed to impress me? Field Security ain’t in charge of this place either. But if you’re looking for the wop workers, they got a hut set up inside.”

They passed through the gate and began to climb the narrow stone roadway. Near the crest of the short rise they found the small hut that the MP had mentioned. It was built of mismatched lengths of planking. It stood across from what looked to Greaves to be a bomb site.

Before he could ask what it was, Luisa had pulled open the door of the hut.

“Hey you,” a voice called from farther up the road. “What are you doing there?”

A stocky middle-aged man wearing dusty trousers and a tattered cable-knit sweater came lumbering down the roadway towards them. His face glistened with sweat.

Luisa let go of the door and smiled. “Cosimo,” she shouted.

The man opened his arms, and when he reached her, he picked her up and swirled her about. “My darling Luisa. I haven’t seen you in so long. I thought you had forgotten about us out here.”

Greaves noticed the dirt caked behind the fellow’s ears. And his hands—which held firmly still to Luisa’s waist—were equally begrimed, the nail of each finger a filthy half moon.

“Stop that,” said Luisa. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“Embarrassing you?” he said, and let her go. “Since when have you ever been embarrassed?” He noticed Greaves then. “Ah, I see. And who is this, then?”

The man eyed him up and down, and Greaves wondered if he didn’t detect a hint of jealousy in his manner. The smile had gone from his face, and it seemed he had squared himself a bit, as if perhaps to display his potency. He had a powerful body, and Greaves was reminded of the photographs of a young Parente.

“Don’t worry,” Luisa said. “He is a friend.”

But there was something about the way she spoke that made Greaves suspect that his presence had suddenly made her self-conscious.

“Augusto trusts him,” she said.

Cosimo Moccia watched him a moment longer, and then his smile returned and he held out his hand. “What do they call you?” he said.

“Thomas,” Greaves replied.

“Well, Thomas, is it you that has been keeping this lovely woman away from me? Or is that Augusto’s doing?”

“Please, Cosimo,” Luisa said.

“I think you’ll have to blame the
professore
,” Greaves said.

“Why not?” Moccia said with a laugh. “I blame him for everything else.” He turned again to Luisa. “Now, tell me, what is it that finally brings you to see me after—how long has it been? Two months? More, I think.”

“Thomas has not seen the ruins.”

“Then you must allow me to introduce you to Pompeii, my friend.”

“I’d like that very much,” said Greaves. “But do you mind if I ask what happened here?” He pointed to the collapsed building across from the hut.

“That,” Moccia said. “That is what is left of the antiquarium, a repository for artifacts collected in the digs. Or at least, it was until our American friends made a visit with their B-24 bombers. Liberators, I believe they call them.”

“There was an air raid?” Greaves said.

“Oh, there have been many air raids. But all was not lost. Their bombs did uncover a lovely villa outside the city walls.” He put his arm around Greaves’s shoulder. “But enough about that. Come, let me show you around.”

The conference table in the second-floor reception room was strewn with ledgers, files, pieces taken from various display cases in various galleries, document boxes that had been brought up from the archives, and a scattering of photographs that Parente had not seen before: pictures of paintings and statues from the museum’s collection.

“I realize that it may seem a bit unorganized,
professore
,” Colonel Romney said, “but it really isn’t. In fact, we’re just about finished.”

Parente looked around the room at the colonel’s men, hard at work taking notes and sifting through the mess they’d made. He couldn’t believe that anything could get done in such chaos.

“We’ve gone through the inventory you prepared and checked it against what’s on the floor,” the colonel continued. “And then we compared that with the museum’s original catalogue. We’ve come across a few inconsistencies.”