Liar Moon (24 page)

It seemed suddenly absurd that he should find himself here. Bora wondered how he had arrived here, and why. He wondered where
here
was, certain for a moment that this was Russia and that never in his lifetime would he leave Russia again.

His hands trembled too much for him to pull the key out of the ignition. He struggled with it, grasping at it until he succeeded. Next, he opened the car door to get out, or perhaps it was the soldier on guard who did it for him.

Bora answered the salute. This he knew. He took the few steps that separated him from the entrance to the post, and said something. He had no idea what he said. The door was tall and black, astonishingly narrow, menacing, dangerous somehow. When Bora tried to enter, it slipped away from his field of vision, sinking deep under him.

 

Early in the morning Turco stuffed rolled-up newspapers into the wood stove, careful not to stain the cuffs
of his shirt. He had found some dry wood too, and crisp chestnut peels to start the fire.

Guidi found him crouching there.

“Good morning, Inspector.
Ossequi
.”

“Hello, Turco.”

“Have you by chance spoken to the major this morning?”

“Bora? No.” Guidi took off his greatcoat. “Why, has he called?”

Satisfied with the way the fire was going, Turco closed the stove door and regulated the valve. “
Nossignuri
. I thought that maybe he told you what happened next door.”

“At the army post? I didn’t notice anything as I drove by.” Guidi unrolled the scarf from around his neck, without removing it altogether. “Why, what do you think happened?”

“
Vah
, you know last night I was on duty. Since I know you don’t like it if I smoke inside, at two o’clock I stepped out for a moment to roll myself a cigarette. The door of the Germans’ place was wide open, and there was an ambulance parked near by.”

Bora woke up in a hospital room, with a nun praying at the foot of his bed.

“I must be worse off than I feel,” he told her.

“Oh, don’t worry about this.” The nun put away her rosary. “I do this every chance I have.”

Bora heard himself trying to laugh, though there was hardly a motive.

“Don’t move,” the nun added. “You just came out of surgery. Doctor Volpi took advantage of the fact that you couldn’t keep him from it, and cleaned up your knee once and for all. He worked on your arm, too.”

“How did I get here?”

“I don’t know exactly; I was in the chapel. It seems you were running a terrible fever. Your men urgently called the local physician, who gave you a shot of ephedrine and, fearing septicaemia had set in, sent you our way at once. You were unconscious when I first saw you, and the doctor says your blood pressure was down to nothing. You’ve been here two days already. I’ll shave you, if you wish.”

As his whole body began to wake, Bora was starting to feel pain, and it was rather more than he wished for just now. Nausea was setting in also.

“I can shave myself, Sister.”

The nun made a self-conscious, shunning little gesture, and walked to a metal table to fetch a basin with soap and water. “Stay down, be good. Give me a chance to earn Paradise.”

With deft, experienced gestures, she began to lather his face. Her hands were bony, lukewarm. Safe hands. Bora recalled the grasp they had offered him to escape the bite of death, and it seemed impossible they would have the strength. “I’m sorry I kicked you in September,” he said.

“Never mind September, Major. You should have seen how furious Doctor Volpi was this time. He started calling here and there like a madman until he found some military hospital where they had some penicillin. Taken from the Americans in Sicily, they say: the Lord knows how they got it all the way here.”

Bora had no desire to find out more about his health. He knew he should be asking if there were messages for him, but didn’t want to. He felt worse by the minute, and resigned himself to let the nun work on him. “What day is it, Sister?”

“Tuesday, 14 December.”

“Tuesday. And I’m here wasting time!”

The nun put the shaving kit away. She walked to adjust the wooden blinds of the drapeless window, dimming the harsh flow of daylight. She told him, as she prepared to leave the room, “You should try to love yourself a little, Major Bora.”

Unlike her, Doctor Volpi had no sympathy in voice or manner. He stepped in as soon as the nun left, with the untactful crankiness that revealed more than worry. “You
don’t even deserve to feel as good as you feel. I only had colloidal silver on hand, and that brings about fever in itself. If it wasn’t for the penicillin I scrounged… You owe your skin to a non-commissioned officer at the Padua military hospital, a Sicilian by birth. Thank goodness he kept in touch with those of his brothers who managed to avoid confinement – and not confinement for political reasons.”

Bora understood. The Mafia gave information to the Americans in exchange for precious medicines, and sold them for high prices elsewhere. He’d have protested were he not facing Volpi, who said, “The non-com owed me a favour, and as a
man of honour
, he would not default. Have I injected penicillin into you these past forty-eight hours! You’ll have a hard time sitting for a while, but it’s nothing compared to what could have happened.”

Bora was beginning to recognize the room. Off-white nuances, details. Blinds, the veined marble window sill, small cracks in the plaster of the wall beneath it, like a horse’s head. Nausea. The smell of disinfectant. Even the mutilation of his left wrist was bandaged as on that day in September. He said, as an apology, “I can’t imagine what happened.”

“You
can’t imagine
? A streptococcal infection strong enough to catapult you to your Maker, with a collapsed pulse we failed to detect three times in a row. My father was right when he said that you Germans are like animals: you’re hard to kill. I told Sister Elisabetta you’re not to leave the bed for any reason. And as for you, remember I’m laying the responsibility on her. It falls on you not to make her transgress my orders.”

Frustrated that lying motionless did not lessen the pain, Bora turned on his side. “You will at least let me go to the lavatory.”

“Absolutely not. Sister Elisabetta, come back with a bedpan. Well, I’m off to my other patients, Major. By the way, a police inspector has already called twice, and a German colonel came to enquire about you. I sent both of them to hell.”

The nun came as requested. Bora knew she was there only by the rustle of her skirt, because he would not look at her. Weakness and pain made everything insufferable, even the little things. He said, with his eyes to the window, “Sister, I am ashamed. Can you accompany me to the lavatory?”

“I can’t. If you prefer, I’ll wait outside.”

“I’d rather not do it here.”

The nun laughed a little. “Why? You’re a married man!”

“But I certainly don’t empty my bladder in front of my wife, or in bed.”

“The doctor said you’re not to get up. Be patient. These too are trials.”

Her words made him wretched. Bora fought not to give in, not so well. “If you knew, dear Sister. I have done nothing but face trials for the past year.”

“That means God loves you.”

 

In Sagràte, Guidi read the mail Turco had brought him.

“No, Turco, I don’t think he’s dead, because Wenzel would be more frantic than he is. But there’s no telling what happened to Bora. Since they won’t tell me a thing about him by phone, I’m going to Verona, and that’s that. Just what we needed, Bora walking off the scene the
moment we nabbed the witness. Now God knows what the SS are doing to
him
.” Guidi set aside the important letters, tossing the rest in the waste basket. “Use them to light the stove tomorrow. If De Rosa calls back, tell him I don’t know where Bora ended up. And since he speaks fluent German, he can find out for himself. I don’t feel like talking to him.”

Because Turco did not move from the side of his desk, Guidi looked up. “Well, what else is there?”

“A farmer found a pair of shoes laid in a cross behind his barn by the river. They were buried in snow, so they must have been there a few days.
Diu nni scanza e liberi
, Inspector: maybe the convict managed to kill other victims we never did find.” Turco went to stoke the fire. “But it does seem like a thousand years since we were running after him, doesn’t it?”

Guidi gathered coat, gloves, scarf and hat. “I’m on my way. Oh, and listen closely. If my mother insists on knowing where I went, you’re to say you don’t know. If she keeps on pestering, tell her I asked for transfer to Sardinia.”

The truth was, Guidi did not like hospitals. He avoided them whenever he could, and this trip was a chore made worse by icy pavement, roadblocks and his resentment for Bora, whose fault it all was.

Sister Elisabetta was the one who greeted him, leading him down an impeccably tiled hallway with high vaults. Guidi held his breath against the medicinal stench wafting from the half-open doors left and right.

Bora’s room was at the end of the hallway. The chatter of German voices could be heard from here. Colonel Habermehl was in fact leaving now, encumbering the
threshold with his blue-grey mass. “
Sorge dich nicht
, Martin!” He was smiling.

As soon as Guidi walked in, Bora said, “I must speak to you.”

“How do you feel?”

“I’ve been better. It’s the matter of Gardini. Colonel Habermehl tells me not to worry, but I have good reason to worry. Today is the third day since he was taken into custody by the Security Service. It is imperative that we gain access to him. I asked the colonel to pull strings on my behalf. De Rosa will keep you informed.”

There was a chair at the side of the bed, but Guidi chose not to sit down.
The matter of Gardini.
It was Bora who’d turned him in to the SS. If there were strings that were being pulled right now, they were Gardini’s. “Well, Major, I came to talk about that very thing. Since I’m here, I also plan to go by the prison. What are we to tell Claretta?”

“You might as well tell her the truth. Try to find out if she and Gardini saw each other, if he went to see her at night. Tell her that, if the details are right, his alibi can support hers, and the crime of adultery is in her case preferable to that of premeditated murder.”

Guidi did not react to the words, though they galled him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking straight at Bora. Freshly shaven, Bora had his usual sternness. He was wearing no prosthesis, and from his left sleeve only a heavily bandaged wrist was visible.
Wenzel must have packed his pyjamas
, Guidi thought,
because these aren’t hospital issue. I bet his wife gave them to him, or his mother. And I bet Claretta thinks he’s good-looking. He
is
good-looking,
after all.
“So,” he said, “you don’t suspect Gardini of killing her husband.”

Bora adjusted the pillow under his head. “I never know anything until I have the facts. I merely suppose a great deal. We still have to wrap up all interrogation, including that of the Zanella woman. I intend to leave here the day after tomorrow, if I have to step over the dead body of my physician to do so. You’ll go see Clara Lisi, of course.” Bora reached for a book on his bedside table, where bandages and medicines waited for use. He opened the book – it was in German, a biography of Mozart judging by the title on its spine – and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “When you return to Sagràte, do me the courtesy of giving this note to Lieutenant Wenzel. Poor Wenzel, I have given him a good scare.”

 

Guidi left. The day had turned clear, with a blinding winter sun that made the interior of the Verona prison seem cavernous and dingy.

Minutes later Claretta was sobbing in front of him, her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry for the bad news,” Guidi said. But he was jealous of her reaction, and helpless before her unrestrained show of grief. “Come, come. Don’t be so upset, he’s only been arrested.” He watched her round shoulders shake with weeping. How fragile and pink she was, even in this grey room. It’d be easy to give in, and embrace her so that she would no longer cry. He limited himself to touching her elbow. “Come now, they haven’t done anything to him.”

What a lie.
Claretta was not taken in. “It’s all my fault, because I gave you his name!”

“No, no. We’d have found out anyway. You needn’t cry.”

She let Guidi lift her head, dab her face with his handkerchief. “Why didn’t
you
come the other day? I don’t want to see the major any more.”

“You won’t. You won’t, Clara. He’s in the hospital.”

“Good!” Angry-eyed, she grabbed his hand in a wet grasp. “I hope he dies, I hope he dies this very minute!”

The moist warmth of her clasp travelled through him with blissful pain. Guidi was aroused and moved by the touch, anxious not to let go. “Tell
me
at least, Claretta. Were you meeting Carlo Gardini at night?”

She stood from the chair, and impulsively hung from his neck.

 

As the surgeon entered Bora’s room, Sister Elisabetta was saying, “What a beautiful girl. Write to her, write to her. The poor thing, do not let her be in anguish for you.” Bora was showing her a photograph of his wife, which he now removed from his wallet and placed as a marker in the biography of Mozart.

“Time for another penicillin, Sister,” the surgeon interrupted. “Inject it higher up, we’ve punctured the muscle enough.”

The shot burned like hell. Bora held on to the book, trying to give himself a countenance by keeping his eyes on
Travels Through Italy
, but he couldn’t even see the words. Fire seemed to grow out of the small of his back, and for a minute or so afterward the pain down his leg was crippling. After dismissing the nun, the surgeon sat at the bedside and handed him a thermometer.