A Dark Song of Blood (31 page)

That evening, though he'd heard about the deportation, Guidi did not raise the issue with Bora. It was best to say nothing, especially since Antonio Rau had mysteriously resurfaced for his Latin lessons, and Francesca's pregnancy was in the late stages. As for himself, he'd never even brought up with the Maiulis his intention to leave the apartment.

Just before sundown they met in Bora's car, parked in the green darkness of the Villa Umberto gardens. A waning moon sailed over the heads of the trees with a sheen of silver, and through the open window the scent of flowers came from the old beds of irises and roses. As darkness increased, even under the tree cover the blush of the embattled western sky flared bright at times. A low
voom-voom-voom
accompanied the brightness.

Bora was in pain, which was less apparent from his stiffness than from the attempt he made to counter it. He said, “I have
arranged for you to interview a second embassy employee who knew Magda Reiner. Hannah Kund is her name, now serving in Milan. Not a close friend, but she does speak serviceable Italian. She'd been gone from Rome since her furlough before Christmas, and it was a shock for her to hear of her colleague's end. I took the liberty of showing her the personal items still in her bedroom, and she was particularly surprised that Magda Reiner's keys are missing.”

“Why would she particularly notice that detail?”

“That's what I asked, Guidi. The Reiner girl had a silver key chain she made much of, a Greek meander motif her fiancé had sent her from Athens. Apparently she kept all her room keys on it. Now, although she had some clearance at the embassy, she was by no means privy to sensitive material —”

“
That we know of,
” Guidi intervened.

“True. But she would not carry around keys to relevant offices on her key chain.”

“So, the killer locked her doors to fake a suicide and took the keys.”

“He might have also wanted to delay the entrance of the authorities. And of course, the apartment was searched before we arrived. They could have taken the keys then.”

Guidi felt vindicated. “My point exactly, Major. Caruso and Sutor, in one way or another, had access to her place, and so probably Merlo. Surely the killer did. As for Magda's button – and Magda herself – she ended up in 7B. Was she forced in there? Not likely, since she somehow returned to her apartment and got ready for bed. But she did lose the button, the front, top button of her dress. Was there a struggle in 7B?”

“That, or sexual intercourse.” Bora said the words, recalling with acute melancholy the handful of torn silk at his wife's feet, the last time he'd made love hoping she still cared. “Whoever was in 7B could have followed her afterwards.”

“Whoever was in 7B was
hiding
, Major. Spy, deserter, whatever. The question is, was Magda hiding him? Was it she who made
a copy of the key to the vacant apartment?” And because Bora sighed, Guidi said, “I can see it troubles you.”

“The death of an embassy employee? It
should
trouble me.” But tonight it was the thought of Dikta, and pain, that troubled Bora most of all. “Well,” he spoke up, “let us say it was Magda Reiner who made a copy of the key to the vacant apartment, for whatever reason. Let us say she met someone there. Whoever it was, she did not wish to receive him in her room – for his sake, or her own.”

“Or both. Concealing a deserter, unless your policies have changed, carries the penalty of death.”

Again Bora sighed. The surgeon in Verona had warned him that pain would return. Aspirins and other painkillers no longer worked, but he had been resisting the temptation to ask for morphine so far. Fleeting and weary, the want came at times to have his whole arm taken off, and the pain with it.

“I'll check with the locksmiths in the area,” Guidi added.

“Fine. I can confirm that she first met Merlo and Sutor at the same party celebrating the March on Rome, on 28 October 1943. Fräulein Kund reports her friend ‘couldn't choose between the two, but seemed afraid of one in particular.' No word about which one. There had been this young Emilio, and also a no-better-identified Willi.”

“As in Wilfred?”

“We don't know. I plan to phone the Reiner family again.” Bora took his cap off to rest his neck against the seat, letting his shoulders slouch. Brighter flares blanched the sky, and the low
voom-voom-voom
intensified then. It was as good a time as any to bring up what else troubled him. “By the way, Guidi, what do you know about the Hohmann-Fonseca case?”

“I know it happened.” Guidi had not expected Bora's mention of the murder. He'd heard about it, but it was both out of his district and perhaps of his league, given the rank of the victims. “Why, did you know either of them?”

Except for what Gemma had said about destroying some
of the letters, Bora decided to report all he knew, aware that Guidi would have access to all the police had gathered to date. “I'm asking the favor of a professional consultation on a matter of handwriting,” he concluded. “I disbelieve the facts because of my affection for the dead. I realize that everything else, including this, points to a murder-suicide.”

As daylight had nearly gone, Guidi took out his flashlight to glance at the envelope addressed to Gemma Fonseca and read the note inside it.

“Here is another letter from her,” Bora said, “written one day earlier.”

Once more Guidi read. “It's the same hand,” he remarked then. “The suicide note is less steady, but given the circumstances, it is to be expected. You realize you're to turn this evidence in, Major Bora.”

Bora did not reply, slowly massaging his neck. “Marina Fonseca had dismissed the household staff for the day,” he volunteered. “And as for the cardinal's secretary, he's a young Austrian Jesuit, unlikely to question anything or anybody connected to the cardinal. He's in shock at Santo Spirito even as we speak. The handgun, which Baron Caggiano used in the Great War, had been taken from a cache of antique weapons in the Fonseca's principal residence at Sant'Onofrio.”

“Clearly the baroness had not abided by the rules.”

By closing his eyes, Bora was more keenly aware of his pain, the scent of blooming shrubs, and the distant battle. “Of turning in usable weapons? No. But unless she'd kept the pistol handy for the last several months, I also wonder how she fetched it from a remote villa in the environs, served neither by tramway nor public cars. I assure you, it's remote. All roads at Sant'Onofrio lead to the mental hospital, and her place overlooking the Valle di Rimessola was made unreachable by bombs during the winter.”

“Didn't the cardinal have his own transportation and chauffeur?”

“He did. But on that day he asked to be driven to the Pantheon Square well ahead of the one o'clock Fonseca appointment. From here we lose his traces until the time of his death.”

Guidi gave back the envelopes. “The household staff might be worth talking to again, on the side. What about the bodies? You must have had a chance to observe some details.”

“Other than the obvious wounds? You perceive it was a challenge for me even to look at them.”

Only because you knew one of them
, Guidi couldn't help thinking. “Were there noticeable bruises, abrasions? Signs of a struggle?”

“Nothing I could see without moving the bodies.”

“Was there sperm?”

Bora felt a rise of nausea – it was the physical pain, most likely – and managed to keep it down. “I don't know. There was such a mess of blood in the sheets. What puzzles me is why the cardinal would set up an afternoon appointment he didn't intend to keep.”

“Perhaps he forgot about it. Or couldn't keep it.”
Voom-voom-voom.
In the dusk, the sky beyond the trees flared and grew dim. Guidi said, turned to the window, “They must be grinding Aprilia to dust.”

“They must.”

Still, how sweet the evening air was. Guidi fished into his pocket for cigarette paper, then for tobacco. Slowly. “Major, how could you
stand
what happened at the caves?”

“I had no choice in the matter.”

“That's what you say, but for three weeks I've been asking myself why you did what you did for me. You were under no obligation.”

No reaction came from Bora. Only after Guidi had finished rolling himself a cigarette did he break his silence. Reluctantly, as it seemed.

“In Russia, when my brother's plane crashed near our camp, my men did not know who he was from his documents. We have different surnames. It took the discovery by Sergeant Nagel
of the photo of Peter and myself in the flight log for them to know. Even before my regimental staff knew, it was the non-coms who came and stood there and offered me their regrets.”

“I'm sorry, Major.”

“Ah, Guidi... I did so well, as expected of a man who leads a regiment. I told them I valued their sentiments, thanked them and dismissed them. Inside my tent the radio was on and I sat by it. That's all. But you could have shot me and I don't think a drop of blood would have spilled out of me. I was as dead as a man can get without dying. Could I keep him from being killed? Yes, I could have talked him out of volunteering for Russia, but I encouraged him instead. I was guilty. I stayed guilty and know I am guilty, and that's why I could not let you die at the caves. Your life had nothing to do with it.” He flicked his lighter and lit the cigarette in Guidi's mouth. “Here, you see? My brother's lighter.”

“You could not have prevented your brother's death.”

“I only told you so you know what was on my mind in March.”

Guidi accepted Bora's refusal of gratitude because it dispensed him from having to feel any. And he dreaded the idea, but the great difference between Bora and himself was how much suffering each of them had seen so far. Not even his agonizing closeness to execution equated the sum of risks and choices and losses Bora had faced. It dismayed Guidi that he might
have
to suffer in order to gain punctilious mastery of himself: Bora was bound in it but as wounds are in their dressings, ready to bleed if these are removed. It was fitting, Guidi thought, that Bora should be outwardly scarred, because he was no less so inside.

When Bora entered his hotel room later that night, he felt a peculiar sense of intrusion that had nothing to do with housekeeping, his change laid out, or fresh towels in the bathroom.
No
, he thought.
Someone has been here, looked things over and left.

Still, he kept nothing of value in the drawers, and nobody steals books. He checked wardrobe, bed stand, medicine
cabinet, and as he did so the feeling dissolved, exorcized by his touch until things were familiar again.
Perhaps not. Everything is here.
He struggled to remove his boots, but the rest of the uniform came off quickly. He readied a shirt for the morning by hooking the link on the right cuff.

18 APRIL 1944

Traveling with Dollmann was new to Bora, who had many times driven to Soratte in a different car from General Westphal's, but never with an SS.

The mountains growing in size before them had rounded slopes like tired waves of limestone, purple in color; when the car speeded along maple-flanked stretches, green shadows trembled on the windshield. Small farmhouses, islands in a sea of vineyards, seemed friendly, but Bora looked at them knowing it was in such places that guerrilla activity was planned, and from them that it was carried out. An old want to fight took him – the
want
he had told Guidi about, which was nearly as good as love. The carefully weighed risk, and freedom to take it.

“Do you know what
Edom
means?”

Dollmann's question took him aback. “No.”

“It's Hebrew, and stands for ‘Rome' in apocalyptic texts. You should know these things.”

“Should I?”

“There's been a marked increase in the forced exodus from Edom in the past two weeks, which is about as long as our Hohmann has been dead.”

Bora let some saliva gather in his mouth before swallowing. He was tempted to ask the question, but wouldn't in the presence of the colonel's Italian driver. Dollmann understood and said, “Feel free to speak. He's a good boy.”

They say Dollmann fucks his chauffeur.
Bora thought of the gossip, trying not to look at the young man in the front seat.
“Well, Colonel, how active was Cardinal Hohmann in opposing Kappler's
relocation
plans?”

“Plenty.” Dollmann seemed amused by Bora's intent listening. “In his own intellectual way he was an old ass, Hohmann was. For one thing, either he cared for one or he didn't. You, he liked, which didn't keep him from giving you the runaround more than once. He didn't like me – which is all right, and reciprocated. He had been an early supporter of National Socialism, which says much for you as his student, but then you were young and no doubt soaked in the maudlin revanchism and anti-Bolshevism of our blessed 1930s. The Spanish Civil War didn't cure you, but cured
him.
It wasn't your old philosophy teacher you confronted these past months. It was an embittered elder whose nationalism tottered under the agony of choices. He wasn't as unscrupulous as Borromeo, bless his heart, who's a man for the times – he was
making amends
, something neither you nor I have to do or wish to do. Am I correct?”