A Dark Song of Blood (21 page)

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.”

Guidi looked around significantly. “Major, people might hear...”

“So? We have to think of possibilities. I’m sure the Americans do the same. I
know
the partisans do.”

5

22 MARCH 1944

On Wednesday the first issue of
Il Messaggero
was withdrawn after Bora translated for Westphal the editorial titled “Why Rome Is Bombed”, indirectly suggesting removal by the Germans of targets for further Allied bombing. The second issue was published without the article, but Francesca had already secured several copies.

The day went by slowly. It was overcast and cool, though greatcoats were no longer necessary and women had started wearing brighter colors. Guidi once more made himself at home in his office on Via Del Boccaccio, at the foot of Via Rasella.

Bora had a working lunch with Dollmann, and took the chance to mention that General Foa had not yet been transferred to the Italian jail.

Dollmann groaned. “Why are you obsessed with the old man? Forget about getting him out of the
Shambles.
He’s done for.”

“You assured me, Colonel. I can’t stand seeing him abused for doing what you or I would do under the same circumstances – protecting our brother officers. He’s as old as my father.”

“Oh, stop it. Your father was a famous orchestra conductor, and he’s dead. As for your foolhardy stepfather, you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t land you in trouble, which is just like those Prussian monarchists who began keeping spinsterish diaries at eighteen in Lichterfeld and never quit.”

“I keep a diary,” Bora said. “And mostly in English besides.”

“Anything political in it?”

“No. I’m afraid it’s a spinsterish list of impressions of people and places.”

“That, too, can be political.” Dollmann played derisive, but pleasantly. “Am I in it?”

“Yes. Will you speak to Himmler about Foa?”

“Absolutely not. What do you say about me?”

Bora took a sip of water. “That you are a man with the threefold soul.”

“I am, am I? And which one dominates, the intellectual or the irascible?”

“Actually I was thinking of the concupiscent, though I didn’t put it on paper.”

Dollmann drew back on the chair, and if there was annoyance in him, he disguised it as one who puts a trim on plain metal. “I do like my comfort. Don’t you?”

“No. My wife thinks I’ll self-destruct.”

There was an icy, cautious offer of alliance in Dollmann’s next words. “Just be grateful that you have the aide’s guardian saints –
die hochheilige Lampassen.
” By which he meant the crimson stripes on Bora’s breeches.

“I pray to them often.”

“Well, keep a big white page in your diary for tomorrow – we’re both invited to the Fascist celebrations, are we not? Your entry will be a regular bestiary.”

Bora poured wine for the SS. “General Wolff would be sympathetic if you introduced Foa’s case to the Reich Commissar. He’s liaison to Himmler, but you’re Himmler’s friend.”

“I do think you’re doing this just to spite Kappler. If that were the reason, and
nothing else
, I might consider it.”

“Well, what else could it be?”

Dollmann laughed. “Hohmann taught you right. We’ll see. But here’s a word of advice, Major. If you don’t do so already, keep your diary under lock and key, and be kinder to me in it.”

23 MARCH 1944

Long before dawn, Bora awoke in a sweat.

It was still pitch dark outside, and the room was an unintelligible void for him to stare into. The nightmare had been much the same, but details had been so vivid he could smell the burning metal, and feel the resistance of the cracked, blood-lined cockpit under his fists as he tried to open it. Yet he could not see his brother in it. And then the spiral staircase, the animal bounding behind, gaining on him, with no hope of escape.

The phosphorescent hand on his watch marked five o’clock when he sat up.
A wolf
, he thought,
that’s what the animal is.
He shaved under the shower (the water was nearly cold, and not much of it), dressed and went downstairs to have a cup of coffee.
And it’s a she-wolf.

No one was at the bar at this hour except the woman who made him an espresso, and she looked like she had had a bad night.

His schedule for the day was long and busy. He scanned it while the hiss of the espresso machine seemed to be the only thing to keep the woman from falling asleep again. The entries began at six, when he was to be at the office; by seven-fifteen, briefing General Westphal on new business; at seven thirty he was to meet General Maelzer at the Excelsior; between eight forty-five and nine he was expected at Centocelle where the Air Force was assessing damage caused to the airport by the latest air raids. At noon a quick lunch with Westphal before the general left for Soratte, and critical reading of the Roman press. Before two, he was to attend the celebrations either at the Ministry of Corporation, where the Germans had convinced the Fascists to congregate instead of Teatro Adriano, or at the Palace of Exhibitions. These over with, he’d leave for Soratte to join Westphal there and wait for Kesselring to be back from Anzio.

He drank the coffee and was met by his driver in front of the hotel. As they left in the pre-dawn gray light, Bora glanced down Via Rasella, where cobblestones like fish scales ran down to the police station and the offices of
Il Messaggero.

By the time Bora was done briefing Westphal, Guidi arrived at Via Del Boccaccio, around the corner from Via Rasella, and began to work. At the Excelsior, the
King of Rome
was not yet out of bed at seven thirty, so Bora waited with an eye on the people who populated the hotel in the morning. He recognized the Minister of Interior among others, several officials who cropped up every time there was free food, and at least two movie stars, who he’d heard took drugs, and looked accordingly glassy-eyed. General Maelzer received him at seven fifty in the unfriendly mood of a hangover.

And while Bora was getting a flat tire on his way to Centocelle Airport, Guidi called Signora Carmela to find out if Francesca had come home.

“No, she hasn’t. But she phoned just a few minutes ago and I’m worried sick. Said she couldn’t say where she was calling from, and not to expect her any time soon. It’s not the first time she has done it, but she sounded so
strange.
”

Guidi put the receiver down with a bitter taste in his mouth. Before him were the sketchy notes he had gathered on Antonio Rau. Born at Arbatax on the coast of Sardinia, single, officially unemployed. His father had been a miner in Austria, where he had married, which explained Rau’s facility with German. He’d never attended the university and his parents lived nowhere near St Lawrence’s. Was Francesca with him today, and what for?

“How’s security at the Palace of Guilds?” he asked Danza.

“Tight as a fist, Inspector. There’s also to be a Mass at St Mary of Mercy’s. The Fascist Republican Guard is keeping watch there. On Via Nazionale they have something else going on, and there’s PAI blocking all entrances to the street.”