Shout in the Dark

by Christopher Wright

  Chapter 40

  Rome

  RENATA BASTIANI had been drinking. She no longer felt old. How could she, when men were still turning their heads for her? The sudden and violent death of her two boys in Rome, and their funerals earlier this morning, had brought about a new birth. She had lived with terrible memories for sixty years, and now they were all gone. Wiped out.

  She stood in the ferramenta, the hardware store, examining the pans. She would cook a meal of celebration, making just the dishes she liked. With no one else to care for, she could pamper herself. Poor Bruno, he had never found the right girl.

  After buying the utensils she would go to the Via della Maddalena and choose her first colored clothing since the start of the war. Then she would go home and have another drink.

  A crowd of young men, laughing and shouting, pushed each other into the shop. They were Germans. Their noisy voices sounded like the soldiers in the house of torture in the Via Tasso. She tried to look inconspicuous. These Germans kept coming to Rome, and still they thought they owned the city.

  ALFREDO WAS SERVING alone. This was normally a quiet time, when most of the shops were getting ready to close for the afternoon. He wished he'd pulled the shutters down early today. One large German youth, the largest by far, pointed to the knives in the glass cabinet. His friends, all with shaved heads and clearly all part of the same gang, began to pick up goods in various parts of the shop. Alfredo realized he needed eyes like a spider.

  He did think twice before opening the knife cabinet, but he should be safe. Access to it was from behind the counter only. With some misgivings he removed the black handled knife the gang leader had his eye on. The blade was long and slender. It was a popular line. Many of his customers apparently bought them for use as paper knives, in spite of the top quality steel that was reflected in the high price tag.

  The German skinhead indicated that he wanted it. His friends were probably helping themselves to all sorts of attractive items. Alfredo realized that the sooner he made the sale, the sooner they would leave and he could attend to the old woman.

  "Identity?"

  The youth hesitated for a moment before producing a credit card.

  Alfredo read the name aloud. "Manfred Kessel. This is you?"

  The big skinhead nodded.

  "Passport?"

  The skinhead shook his head.

  The company insisted on name, age and address for the records with youths like this. But this would have to do. Only a fool would risk antagonizing this gang. The youth smirked as he retrieved the card and paid cash.

  RENATA LOOKED UP sharply from her deliberations. Time was confusing and she found the voices muddling. The noisy Germans intimidated her. That name. Who was this man using the name of Manfred Kessel?

  She knew she should have killed him that first night in the Via Tasso with the knife from his desk. Then Enzo would never have been born. Poor, unhappy Enzo. The carabinieri said her son Enzo was using the name of Manfred Kessel when he died at the Colosseum. In God's name, was her bastard son such a depraved being as to take his father's identity? Perhaps Bruno knew the reason, but it was no use asking Bruno. Bruno was dead.

  That knife looked familiar. Bruno had one like it at home, with the same ebony black handle. One of a pair, a birthday present a long time ago. Knives could be dangerous; you could kill someone with a knife. Bruno had been a bad boy. The carabinieri were keeping the knife he'd used in his foolish fight with Enzo. Nothing was safe with the Germans around. Now Sturmbannführer Kessel was back.

  She must find Bruno's knife and keep it in her bag in case the Germans came looking for her. The alcohol made her fearless. On an impulse she reached forward and snatched the long knife from the big German. She took the man by surprise and he leapt back.

  "I kill you, Sturmbannführer Kessel!" she screamed.

  The assistant caught hold of her wrist and the knife clattered across the wooden floor. "Not now, signora." He sounded sympathetic. "You should be home. Come back when you're sober."

  The young man sneered at her before walking out of the shop with the knife thrust down his belt, as if he expected to need it in a hurry. The others followed, laughing and exchanging wisecracks in their loud voices.

  "Stronzi!" Renata screamed, but the Germans took no notice.

  MARCO CALLED AT the hospital to visit Laura in the evening. She was already dressed, sitting in a chair while waiting for a final check-up. She let him take hold of her hand, but not with any detectable enthusiasm. It felt cold.

  Marco smiled at her. "The carabinieri held me for hours this morning, asking questions. They're not at all happy with what we did." He let go of her hand and walked to the table, picked up a handful of grapes and put some in his mouth. "These are good."

  "Have they caught the skinhead?"

  He shook his head before emptying his mouth. "Not yet, but at least the relic is safe with the Vatican."

  "Thanks to your pigheaded Monsignor Augusto Giorgio!"

  He recognized bitterness in Laura's voice. "Don't get worked up about that again."

  "It was mine more than the Vatican's. That parchment said the Vatican was giving it away. My grandfather and then my father had it once. We should have got out at Firenza and come to Rome on a local train."

  "We left too many clues behind in Paris," said Marco ruefully. "It was bound to go wrong for us when French gendarmes found our cases at the hotel, and contacted the civil authorities in Rome."

  "My producer is furious. He says the least we could have done was take a photograph."

  Marco shrugged. "Monsignor Giorgio was too quick. Anyway, there was nothing to see. The coating was more like plaster than paint. Perhaps the monks thought they were unworthy to see the face underneath it."

  Laura raised her voice. "That's foolish. Insensato. People need to see it. You did the worst thing possible, handing it over at the railway station."

  "I didn't have much option." The last of the grapes had gone. "The carabinieri had guns. Anyway, you told me there are fascist sympathizers on the staff at TV Roma."

  "I know." Laura let out a long sigh. The patch on her forehead looked as though it kept pulling at her skin. "I just don't know who's on my side." She sighed again, deeply. "I wonder if it was worth it, Marco. I once had other plans, but Riccardo Fermi and Bruno Bastiani are dead."

  He pulled a spare chair across the floor and sat close to Laura. "What sort of plans?"

  Laura looked down at the thin blanket covering her bed. "Terrible plans. Punishing the Nazis. Not that you'd understand."

  "What sort of punishing?" It seemed that Laura was keeping something back.

  "Forget it, Marco. It wouldn't interest you."

  He squeezed her cold hand gently. "Yes it would. The Vatican betrayed me. I wanted a parish, not violence. I could make changes to my life for you."

  Laura looked surprised. "For me?"

  "We're a good team, Laura. And I love you." The words came out quickly. "We can make it together. We're opposites in some ways, but your father was in the Church. I'm prepared to give up the priesthood."

  Why did he get the impression Laura was trying to pull away? On her own admission she had felt nothing for Riccardo, and even if she had, Riccardo was dead. So was Bruno. And two of the Germans. Father Josef Reinhardt had warned about a battle, but Marco knew he'd not been prepared for it.

  Laura picked up a magazine from the table and began to turn the pages. "You don't understand. We're finished, Marco. We've nothing in common. Nothing. I'm going back to work tomorrow. Please don't try to see me again."