A Dark Song of Blood (48 page)

“Excellent. Thank you. I need to see you there.”

Borromeo made a very strange face. “Colonel, you do not plan to...”

Bora understood, and blushed violently. “It’s best if you do not offend me by saying it, Cardinal.”

Another slice of tongue was transferred by the manicured hand of the prelate to his plate. “I’m relieved. About-faces greatly trouble me. But you are meeting me now, so it must be for someone else that you wish to see me.”

“Yes.”

“For the
sake
of someone else?”

“You could say so.”

“I’ll be there. Now, don’t run off. Stay seated, and give yourself ten minutes to think whether you really want to
meet me
at the Opera House.”

Bora would not argue. He sat back, resting his shoulders against the padded back of the chair. The music was very well known to him – Schubert’s unfinished Sonata in C major. He had played it beautifully once. Not just as an accomplished interpreter, but with beauty. With beauty. How does one draw such beauty back into oneself? He had unwisely used his time
in Rome, and as such he must be chased from it. The love proffered, Dollmann was right: it was the love
not
given that haunted him tonight. Across the tureens and cruets of the narrow table he looked at Borromeo, who remorselessly broke Church discipline by eating meat on Friday.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night after the end of the opera, Cardinal.”

Donna Maria had not really spoken to Bora since Sunday night. They’d been avoiding each other in the strange little ways people who are close elude real contact, through courteous superficiality. Tonight Bora found her in the dark parlor with the window open, a distant glare of fires visible over the crest of the roofs.

He undid his belt and laid down his gun. Like a lover he put his arms around her from behind, holding her. She rested her head against him. “Martin, it’s burning in the hills.” She stared out. “Look out there, look – what’s down that way?”

Bora looked where the sky tongued red, higher at times than others. “Either Castel Gandolfo or Albano.” And he felt her ache in the security of his hold, knowing it was not to last.

“Martin, when will you...?”

“Soon enough, Donna Maria.”

She tried hard not to cry at the words. She freed herself and went to sit on her sewing chair, still facing the window. Bora sat at her feet.

“Why don’t you go to The Seagull? You can stay there, just stay there until the Americans arrive, and then it’s going to be all right. No one need know. You can make your war end there.”

He stroked her knees. “Now, now, are you really telling me this, Donna Maria?”

She pulled a handkerchief from her cuff and blew her nose into it. “No, I’m not. I’m being a foolish old goose. But what else can women do to keep their men except weep?”

“I don’t think Dikta ever wept.”

“She didn’t keep you, either.” It was the opposite, but Bora kept silent. Donna Maria dabbed her eyes. “I know what you’re thinking, Martin. The truth is that until
you
let go, she’s still inside and won’t let others in.”

He didn’t want to talk about it. Pulling away, he tried to remove himself from her mind reaching out. “It’s not easy any more.”

“Why, what’s the matter? How are things different?” Against his will, she took his left wrist and placed it on her knees. “How are things different?”

“You’re holding the difference, Donna Maria.”

Her grasp around his wrist was unanticipated, hard, to the edge of pain. “Am I? Is
this
the difference? You are perfect
now.
”

The words raced at him. They opened an unexpected chasm, the caving in of a crust of pretense, under which his disbelief and need for the words were ravenous. “How can you say that? If ever there was hope for some perfection before...”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Perfection is sometimes achieved by subtraction, not addition. You’re perfect now, or you never understood perfection. A hand was well worth the prize of it.” She placed his right hand on his own wounded arm. “You had better listen to me, Martin Bora –
this is perfection.
”

That night, when he arrived home after the lonely drive to the Tiburtino district, Guidi found two men waiting at the top of the stairs. Dim light rained on them from the bulb hanging above, like yellow dust. Hand on the rail, without stopping he slowed down his climb.

“Inspector Guidi, we’re Francesca’s friends.”

Silently Guidi stepped up, took the key from his pocket. The men stood aside to let him pass, waiting until he opened and nodded his head toward the inside of his apartment. But they let him walk in first. By the bulges in their coats Guidi knew they were heavily armed. “To the kitchen,” he said. Here, he pulled a couple of chairs away from the table and the men sat
down, wide-kneed as swaggering farm boys, hands spread on their thighs.

Guidi stood before them, and because they looked the room over for exits, he casually removed the pistol from the holster under his arm. “I’m listening.”

No other explanations were given or asked. The younger of the two, so dark as to seem blue-haired, with a narrow and obstinate forehead, said, “Francesca talked about you.”

“And said...?”

“That you could be counted on in an emergency.”

Guidi said neither yes nor no. “What else did she tell you?”

“That you’re familiar with a German aide.”

So, it was all coming to a head, somehow. Guidi remained tense, even if no warning had been spoken and the men seemed altogether deferential. They were idealists, whom Francesca’s death filled with honest and daring rage. Ignorant, no doubt, of the source of the money that floated from her to their cause. Guidi had the impression that, had they known, they might have killed Francesca themselves. He said slowly, “It’s true, I know Colonel Bora. Now I’m familiar with you, too.”

The blue-haired youth clicked his tongue to dismiss the similarity. “You just met us. But the German – we know who he is. He fought the partisans up north. We tried to get him last month and another comrade paid with his life for it.”

“Rau?”

“You know how it went. This Bora, he hasn’t returned to his hotel in days. Where is he?”

Guidi’s attention ran from one man to the other – the older one was partly bald, pale, with deeply set, passionate eyes. Yes, that was true, Rau had paid with his life for it. And whoever had killed Francesca could have had reasons he, Guidi, could not and would not tell her two companions. Perhaps to protect Francesca’s memory, perhaps not to soil these men’s grief. Making them wait for an answer, Guidi knew he was facing the foot soldiers, those who risked their skin without fuss.
Those who did not indulge in double-dealing and could not be negotiated with or mollified. Finally, he said, “I have no idea of where he is.” And, “Why don’t you go after those who killed her like a dog?”

“If we knew who it was, we’d do it, make no mistake about it. So, about Bora – will he try to see you before he leaves Rome?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“We can’t get close to him at the Flora, Inspector. You, he met where you lived before, and elsewhere. We’re not asking what you did or said when you met, but now is the time to do your part.”

Guidi was tired. The words didn’t disturb him; he had thought of them before. “What are you asking me to do?”

“Bring the German to us.”

3 JUNE 1944

The voice that answered the phone was deep, and well known. “Bora here.”

Guidi had nearly lost hope of reaching him this morning. For a moment he seemed to forget what the call was about. Uneasily he presented Caruso’s plight to Bora, who listened.

“If the chief of police wanted to contact me, he should have done so personally. I have no time to see him today. Tomorrow morning, perhaps.”

“At what time?”

“Nine o’clock sharp. If he’s even two minutes late, the meeting is off.”

“I’ll tell him.” Neither man lowered the receiver, waiting for the other to add something.

Caruso swept the phone from Guidi’s hand and slammed it down. “Tomorrow morning?” He had an exasperated air about him and nearly as much arrogance as he’d shown Guidi before. “What does he think I am, a subordinate who is shelved
until he
has time
to deal with me? You should have insisted on a meeting today, this evening at the latest!”

Guidi kept his peace. He knew Caruso had packed overnight and was ready to go.

“Does this Kraut think I’ll go begging?” he was spouting off. “Does he think he can instruct me on punctuality? There’s still hierarchy in the German Army – he cannot do as he pleases!”

“It’s hard to tell at this point what the German can and cannot, or would not, do.”

“He’s trying to save himself, that’s what it is!” Wide-eyed with panic, Caruso paced the room. “He’s planning to sneak out of Rome and will not show up at all in the morning, making me waste time.” He stopped short of admitting he, too, was racing north, but it hardly needed spelling out. “The Germans are leaving like rats. Day and night, getting out. Whom does Bora think he’s fooling? But I’ll show
him.
I’ll go at once to his command and
demand
to be received. I’ll show him whose guests he and his are.”

Bora was so amused by Caruso’s presence at headquarters, his anger was lessened by it.

He came to meet him downstairs, in the lobby where he waited in a fury.

“I thought our appointment was for tomorrow morning.”

Caruso grew apoplectic at the words. “It’s hardly at a lieutenant colonel’s convenience that a general meets!”

“If the general is asking for a favor, he may wish to forego rank protocol.”

“I only expect what is
due
to me.”

“German escort out of Rome?”

Clearly Caruso did not expect to have the initiative taken from him. He mouthed like a fish pulled out of the bowl, searching for words. “My long collaboration with German authorities demands that I be ensured a safe passage to rejoin our forces in the north.”

Bora stared at him with a face in which Caruso read neither empathy nor involvement. A hard-eyed face whereby he knew the Germans would leave him behind and to himself, to be torn by the mob if need be as had been done elsewhere. Had Bora at least said something in the way of a refusal, he could argued argued the point, but Bora said nothing.

“Look here, Colonel,” he insisted. “You owe it to me!”

“We owe you nothing.”

Caruso seemed about to choke on saliva and spite. “I have...
How can you
? I have made it possible for the Germans to rule this city!”

“We didn’t need you to rule.”

“I...” As hopelessness yawned before him, words poured out of Caruso unrehearsed and fervid with reproach, tragic in their sincerity. “I have... Do you mean to say... After I prostituted my office to your authorities...”

“That’s your problem. Don’t come to us with scruples.”

“But I demand that you provide me with an escort! I demand, I
command
you to do so!”

“I am not at your orders.”

Caruso looked like one whom the measure of betrayal is engulfing. “You ungrateful whoresons!” he cried out in agony. “You goddamned filthy whoresons, you tricked me! I gave you all I had and you took advantage of me and now you think you can throw me away! But I won’t let you! I’ll go straight to Maelzer; I’ll show you who is in control!”

The shouting attracted soldiers to the lobby, but Bora dismissed them with a gesture.

“The door is there and Via Veneto is outside the door, Dr Caruso. Would you care for a glass of water before you go?”

Guidi hadn’t had time to finish saying what he wanted when Caruso had snatched the telephone from him. After returning to his office he dialed Bora’s number again, and Bora answered, unruffled even after meeting Caruso. “What is it, Guidi?”

“Colonel, I couldn’t get the head of police even remotely interested in the resolution of the Reiner case. I expect you’ll take care of prosecuting it.”

“You bet I will.”

“Also, I was thinking that we haven’t met in over two weeks, and maybe we should.” Guidi regretted the word.
Should? Is “should” the right word? Why will he think I said “should”?

Bora did not answer.

“I was thinking about noon. How’s noon for you?”

Bora stayed quiet. Whether he suspected something, or was taken aback by the invitation, he kept an obstinate silence that made things more difficult. Guidi was glad Danza was out of the office, as Danza was one to see through people. He continued, “We could meet at Villa Umberto. What about Goethe’s monument? We could meet there. It will be a matter of minutes.” Despite himself, he swallowed hard. “I do have to talk to you.” The only sign that Bora remained at the other end of the line was that the receiver had not been clicked down. “What do you say?”

“I’ll be there.”

At eleven, Kappler had just taken leave from General Maelzer when he met Bora coming up the stairs at the Excelsior, bound to report to the general about the Reiner case. They exchanged a salute. Bora had already gone several steps when the SS addressed him. He turned to where Kappler stood relaxed, hip against the banister.