A Dark Song of Blood (17 page)

“Ours were not as good as Grotius’,” Bora replied. He doubted Borromeo had taken him aside just to separate him from Hohmann, and his forced geniality disturbed him.

“I must agree that your critical edition of Spinoza was much better.”

They began leafing through the venerable pages, with Bora less interested in the survey than in Borromeo’s reason for not speaking his mind. “So, the annulment has gone through,” he prompted at last.

“Yes, it has.”

Bora put away the book. “It’s amazing how five years are quickly disposed of.”

“The Church ties and loosens as it judges proper, Major.”

By the noon hour, the Roman sky was again thick with the roar of airplanes bombing the outskirts, likely the railyards to the east. Thundering from the western quarters indicated that
ammunition dumps might be the primary target. Flak artillery boomed now and then in response, as if unconvinced of its effectiveness. For all that, Bora was unruffled when Guidi met him in front of Magda Reiner’s house.

“Sorry for being late, Major. The street is blocked.”

“You’re not late, I’m early. Here are the keys to the vacant apartments. Should we go up?”

There was no power, so they had to climb the stairs. Because of Bora’s limp, Guidi preceded him to the first landing. He said, “We are at an impasse, Major. Merlo’s glasses surfaced from a requisitioned store only when I did not seem quick enough in pursuing the official lead. Is Caruso doing it to harm Merlo, or to protect someone else?”

When Bora joined him by the door, and leaned forward to fit the key into the lock, for the first time Guidi noticed a gray hair here and there in his dark crop. “When you find out, you’ll likely be relieved of the case. But is Caruso the only one who’d have an interest in muddying the waters?”

The door opened on an entirely dark, small waiting room. Guidi went in first, with his flashlight. “Well, Captain Sutor comes to mind. He drove her home that evening, and says he left her at the door no later than seven fifteen. But I did find a witness – an African police officer – who remembers seeing a car with a German license plate parked by the curb at least until seven forty. So, theoretically, Sutor might have been still around when Magda died.”

Except for the waiting room, each room in the apartment was packed with boxes nearly to the ceiling. Guidi heard Bora rummage around at the glare of his own flashlight, and say, “You assume that was Sutor’s car. Remember there was a party in the house that night, attended by Germans. And Sutor volunteered to talk to you. He
insisted
on it.”

“He knows I can’t check his alibi if I wanted to, Major. The fact remains that both he and Merlo were in the area. Evidence might have been removed by the SS as much as by Dr Caruso’s
office. Say, can you tell what’s in these boxes?” Guidi asked, and Bora showed blank ledgers, reams of typewriter paper, blank envelopes. “Is someone covering for Sutor or just protecting his innocence, and doing the opposite for Merlo? No tests for alcohol or other substances were run on the victim, so we don’t know whether Magda was drunk or drugged, let alone suicidal. I’d be reconciled to continuing to investigate and ask questions for which there are no answers, but I’m being pressured to conclude.”

“If you want, I’ll come down on Caruso.”

“And the SS, too, who may be behind him?”

Bora replaced the office supplies in their boxes without answering. They went from room to room, and from one uninhabited apartment to the next, and everywhere stacks of boxed, unused paper items, enough to serve a century of bureaucracy. In the last apartment – 7B – they found more of the same, but from the kitchen Bora called, “What’s this? Shine some more light in here, Guidi.”

Guidi complied. The combined beams of the flashlights revealed what Bora seemed to have stepped on: crumbs and crusts of bread, a desiccated and brown apple core. The floor space was small, no more than a six-by-four-feet clearing among boxes, which Guidi explored on his knees. They’d been careful not to open the windows, but now the inspector walked to the stacks obstructing the kitchen window, took them down and opened the shutters. Little more evidence appeared – ash residue bearing the imprint of a shoe’s tread, lint from a blanket – but Guidi studied it, then gathered everything according to its kind in the envelopes Bora held out to him.

Afterwards, they sat in Bora’s car to discuss matters.

“Even without racing to draw conclusions, Major, we have to admit it’s odd that someone might be picnicking in a German-owned untenanted apartment, and in the same building where a death occurred.”

Bora watched Guidi pull out a nearly empty box of Serraglio, and quickly offered his Chesterfields instead. “It took me some time to obtain the keys from the head of Supply Services, too. He made me sign for them, and told me none of the apartments had been opened since mid-October. Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that someone was squatting in 7B. Is there a connection to the death? And would a killer stalking his victim – in a
German-owned
building – leave evidence of his being there?”

“Not unless he had to leave in a hurry.” Having accepted the longer cigarette, Guidi placed it sideways in the box of Serraglio, for later use. “I’ll have these scraps analyzed, and see if we can make some sense of them. I might be able to tell you more later.”

Bora lit his Chesterfield. “It may have nothing to do with anything, but the fellow from the Greek Front, it turns out, did not exactly fall on the field of honor. And if he went missing, it’s because he deserted. I have it from unimpeachable sources in Berlin. Of course, no word on where he might have ended up, if he’s even alive. Which is more than I can say for him had he fallen into our hands after his exploit.”

On the sidewalk, over the precise spot where Magda Reiner had fallen, a well-dressed young woman went by, holding a bouquet of evergreens. Neither man turned to look at her, but their eyes followed her even as they spoke. For Guidi, who’d walked in a haze since Francesca’s kiss, all things were warped by his heightened interest in her. He glanced at Bora’s hand on the steering wheel, at the wedding ring on it and what it meant, and the question came quickly and unchecked. “May I have your opinion on a completely different matter, Major?”

“Certainly.”

“What – that is, how much restraint would you advocate in a relationship?”

Bora was not surprised, or else guarded his surprise well. He put out the half-smoked cigarette. “That depends on the people involved. Are you both free to pursue it?”

“Possibly. I met her recently, but I know she’s not married.”

“Well, the next question is, is she willing?”

“I think so.” Because Bora had an expression that Guidi read as mild curiosity at being chosen as an advisor, he felt he should add, “Knowing you’ve been married for years, Major...”

“I know how it is to grow up Catholic, too.”

“I assure you it’s less a religious issue than one of confidence. I’m a shy man, as you may have noticed.” Guidi blushed as he said it, but as Bora kept straight-faced, with his thumb slowly turning the gold band around his finger, he went on. “She’s aggressive but I can’t tell whether she truly cares. She’s fierce in some ways, and yet I know she has fragility also. We have spoken always superficially, but there’s another dialogue happening between us at all times. I believe you know – motions, a turn of the face. I feel it without being able to give a name to it.”

“Are you in love with her?”

“I don’t know. By the way, she’s pregnant.”

This time it took Bora a moment to react. “And you want to hear from me whether you should make love to her? I am obliged to you for deeming my opinion even relevant.”

“Well, you
have
a wife.”

“Guidi, my wife left me.” Bora said it kindly, as an urbane correction rather than a call for sympathy. “Your trust in my advice might be misplaced.”

Guidi was caught entirely unawares. Of a sudden, he was deeply ashamed for envying Bora in the past weeks. “Major, I had no idea.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have to get used to the thought. But as for you, why don’t you ask her? An aggressive woman will tell you exactly how she feels – that is, if you do want to hear it.” They were looking at each other in a very unpretentious way now – their differences for once smoothed over, worn small and flat and insignificant. Bora was the first to lower his eyes, to protect some private aching space of his own. Slowly he
drew a cigarette out of its case and laid it on the dashboard as if he had not decided what to do with it. Only when Guidi lit a match for him he placed it in his mouth and inhaled. “Next Thursday there’s a reception at the Excelsior,” he said. “It’s an official Party holiday, and you should come. General Westphal ought to meet the man who is directing the investigation of the Reiner case. It’ll be good political leverage for you in the event Caruso decides to give you trouble.”

“I am embarrassed to say I may not have the required attire, Major.”

“I’ve seen odd combinations of clothing lately, but we can have a garment store open up – all you have to do is pick what you want and take it.”

“You say it as if one didn’t have to pay.” Guidi smiled.

“You don’t.” By contrast Bora was severe behind the faint barrier of smoke. “Christ knows those store owners no longer have use for money.”

9 MARCH 1944

In the next three days, daylight bombing of Berlin began. The first to be hit were the textile plants south-west of Greater Berlin, and by Monday (Westphal had flown to meet Hitler that day) a major raid of 1,400 aircraft reached the city. On Tuesday, the Roman marshaling yards were hit again, and the popular districts beyond the Tiber heavily damaged. Cardinal Hohmann called the Flora to complain about the lack of adequate air defense. Bora took the line.

“The Church of St Jerome’s was demolished, not to speak of the agony of hundreds who have been thrown out in the streets. What will be done about it, Major?”

Bora said, “I don’t know. What will be done about the Catacombs of Priscilla?” And his oblique reference to a location where people were in hiding cut the conversation short.

When ten hostages were shot on Wednesday in retaliation for the attack on a fuel depot, Hohmann called again. Again Bora told him he knew nothing about it, adding that the Gestapo were the people to contact.

By Thursday Guidi had managed to find a suit. Not in a Jewish store, as Bora had suggested, but in a second-hand hole in the wall. It was of gloomy black cloth, and the sleeves were so long, Signora Carmela had to stitch them at the cuffs. She told Guidi the suit made him look like a mortician, and that it’d bring no good to wear black at a party.

The Excelsior, with its turreted mass, stood at this hour like the much ornate prow of an enormous ship ready to be launched, so huge that its hull was lost in the dark. Cars were parked up and down Via Veneto and Via Boncompagni, a full display of diplomatic license plates and chauffeurs in liveries and army uniforms. Security was absolute. Bora, who met a dazzled Guidi at the entrance, was impressive in dress uniform and with an array of ribbons, medals and badges that had begun to spill onto the right breast of his tunic. Guidi remarked on the Knight’s Cross, and the German laconically replied, “I should hope so. It’s all I’m worth.”

In the hall up from the conciergerie, at one glance Bora judged the import of the reception, which he communicated to Guidi. Maelzer was here, and so were Westphal, Dollmann, Kappler, Sutor, Luftwaffe officers, SS officers, Fascists, diplomats, some prelates and many civilians. Borromeo stood out in a crowd of gowns like a Renaissance prince, chatting with women in his unrepentant old way of charm. Bora went to greet his superiors, and introduced Guidi. Maelzer paid little attention, but Westphal stared Guidi down. Guidi was stunned by the rank and beauty present. The women seemed to him unreachable and alien, a different race from the gray numbers of housewives one saw in the street, waiting for hours just to fill a jug with water from a fountain. Any of these outfits would make Francesca glow like a princess. Most of the die-hard
Italians present were in Party uniforms – those whom Bora knew, he was introduced to. Guidi was glad neither Caruso nor Merlo would attend.

This, he realized, was seeing Bora in his environment. The major moved no differently than he did outside, with wariness but altogether a confident attitude. From one group to the next, before long they came to Dollmann, whose fine smile stretched his lips rather than parting them.

“It’s good to meet you, Inspector,” the SS said in Italian, already looking away and toward Bora, who stood beside him. “I’m glad the major brought you as a guest. Don’t let our brass intimidate you, we’re quite friendly under the eagles and stripes.” With that, Dollmann began inquiring about his career, so personably that Guidi was tempted to believe he was interested.

Bora had meanwhile begun to circulate. He acknowledged by a nod the presence of Kappler, who was speaking to a colleague but waved a curt little gesture to detain him. “One word with you, Major Bora.” When Bora neared with a polished expression of neutrality, he said, “I understand you had scarce success with Foa.”

“I had no success at all.”

“I told you he’s a troublemaker.” Coming close to provocation without stepping into it blatantly, Kappler looked past Bora at Guidi. “Who’s the fellow you came with? Ah. I see. Sutor told me about him. Is he any good?”