The Girl From Venice

by Martin Cruz Smith

  “Silber’s cell was raided. Were there any others?” Cenzo asked.

  “If there were, you would be the last person I would tell,” Giorgio said. “We’re getting off track.”

  “What is ‘on track’ according to you?” Cenzo asked.

  “I want you to leave Maria Paz alone. She is busy enough taking care of the consul without dealing with you.”

  The swallow circled the dome, and again Cenzo thought of Hugo. In Cenzo’s painting Hugo had hold of Giorgio’s foot and swam downward, apparently to escape being machine-gunned by the plane. But perhaps interpretation was in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps the truth had always been evident but unacceptable. Perhaps Hugo had deliberately been swimming down and taking Giorgio with him.

  But Hugo was the sweetest of the brothers. Why would he want to drown Giorgio and himself? As Nido would say, there was no reason unless there was a reason.

  “Leave Maria Paz alone?” Cenzo asked. “Did you leave Celestina alone?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Did you ever find yourself alone with Celestina in our mother’s house? Celestina worshipped you. So did Hugo.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What goes on at home when a fisherman is at sea.”

  “I think you’re insane.”

  “Maybe I’m just seeing clearly. Did you cuckold both of your brothers?”

  “This is outrageous. I try to help you and this is what I get.”

  “You think like Mussolini that you can have any woman you want.”

  “Did you say this to Maria?”

  “It only occurred to me now.” Cenzo turned to face Giorgio. “Why are you finding it so hard to say no? If I’m wrong, say so.”

  Giorgio stood. “I have to get back to Radio Salò. Otherwise, I would fill your mouth with your teeth.”

  “You can try.”

  Whatever Giorgio was going to say was overwhelmed by sirens that shook the crucifix where it hung. A sexton darted in the church doors and shouted, “Venice is being bombed! Those bastards. They finally did it!”

  Giorgio gave Cenzo a gesture of disgust and hurried out the side door.

  Cenzo pushed his way from the church into the piazza. People heard gossip and exaggerated it. St. Mark’s Cathedral was in flames, the square filled with casualties, the Grand Canal choked with sunken barges, gondolas, and fireboats. It was like the Rape of the Sabines, the Sack of Rome. Great monuments of civilization were going up in flames.

  25

  There had been no actual bombing of Venice, no casualties and no razing of civilization to the ground, but rather a raid on the docks carried out with such precision by the RAF that, while ships were sunk, the city was spared. The largest naval target was a German gunboat that had been towed from the lagoon; it didn’t have enough fuel to leave port anyway.

  Cenzo was spinning from lack of direction. Let the world seek Mussolini; he sought only Giulia. If she was in Salò, would she stay or try to get back to Venice? She might follow her father’s advice and meet the advancing American army. Or had DaCosta, the man who betrayed her father, caught up with her? Was she even alive?

  He turned when he heard his name called out across the piazza and saw Maria’s Alfa Romeo. But there was no sign of Maria. Vera was at the driver’s wheel, teary and distraught. Her mouth was dark with lipstick, her blond hair was loose, and the fur of a dead fox was wrapped around her neck. The fox had beady eyes that stared at Cenzo and teeth that looked ready to snap.

  “I can’t get Claretta to change her mind. She insists on going with him.”

  Cenzo did not have to ask who “he” was.

  “Going where?”

  “That’s it. Nowhere. He says ‘Good-bye’ to everybody and then he doesn’t go. Or he goes to Milan and talks to the archbishop. Everyone assumes it’s to surrender, but nothing happens. On the way back his car is strafed and men are killed. No matter. He’s like a sleepwalker. Now Venice is attacked and where is he? Going back and forth between Claretta and Rachele. Again. When will he make up his mind?”

  Probably never, he thought. “Why are you driving Maria’s car?”

  “She gave it to me. She said she wouldn’t need it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Something about diplomatic immunity.”

  “She doesn’t have it. Her husband is no longer a consul.”

  “Well, that’s what she told me. She was busy with passports. She said the Alfa Romeo would be good to barter with when the Americans came into town. I won’t need it either. I’ll be with Claretta and Il Duce.”

  “If I were you, I would settle for keeping your head. Any friend of Mussolini will not be treated gently.”

  “But I’m only Claretta’s friend.”

  “Tell that to the Committee of Liberation.”

  Vera winced. “Do you think they’re watching now?”

  “They’ve been watching for years.”

  “They wouldn’t hold anything against me. I’m a civilian. I never hurt anyone.”

  It was true. What had she done besides commiserate with her best friend, Claretta, and ease the homesickness of a few German officers? It wasn’t even as if Germany was an enemy at the start. Vera happened to be in the wrong place when the tide went out.

  “What about Otto?” Cenzo asked.

  “I hate to say this about such a dear friend. I don’t trust him.”

  “I know the feeling. Good luck.”

  Vera kissed him as if they were friends parting for the last time.

  • • •

  Outside the Garda Road Tunnel, Colonel Steiner and his demolition team had not heard about the RAF raid on Venice.

  “Radio reception in the tunnels is miserable,” the colonel said. “We can barely receive Wehrmacht orders, let alone broadcasts from the Vatican. Dare I ask, is there anything left of St. Mark’s or the Grand Canal?”

  “Nothing has been touched,” Cenzo said.

  “The Campanile?” Steiner asked. “Arsenale? Salute?”

  “Not a scratch.”

  “So the Allies did not lay waste to the most beautiful city in the world.”

  “Oddly enough.”

  Steiner’s troops followed the conversation from a distance. They were, as Steiner had said, a mix of veterans and boys. As a safety precaution no smoking was allowed. Orange flags marked the placement of antipersonnel mines, green flags marked antitank mines. The network of wires and high explosives that they had laid in the entrance of the tunnel appeared to be as elaborate as a spider’s web, and intact. Cenzo recognized land mines and barrel bombs sitting on trip wires.

  “There was practically no opposition in the air,” Cenzo said. “With these last ships sunk, there’s no movement of cargo or ammunition. The war would be over now if someone would just say so.”

  “It’s not so simple. We were closer to surrender a month ago. Then we were organized. Now we’re desperate.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” asked Cenzo.

  “A group,” said Steiner. “Officers, businessmen, acceptable politicians.”

  “Including Giorgio?”

  “Including a well-known patriot like Giorgio, yes. He always managed to keep Mussolini at arm’s distance. You may not like him but other people do.”

  “And a respected Jew who could come out of hiding to vouch for the group.”

  “Vittorio Silber, yes. At least he tried. There’s no more delicate military operation than a surrender. All you need to turn a surrender into a slaughter is take away trust.”

  Cenzo tried to ask without insinuation, “How did you survive?”

  “I’m not sure I have. I’m not an incompetent officer. If the Allies do try to force their way through the tunnels, my boys and I can mount a fair defense. We have a lake on one side and mountains on t
he other and tons of explosives in between. Once I’ve kept the peace, however, there’s no more need for me.”

  “What makes you think the Americans would come this way at all?”

  Steiner motioned Cenzo to follow and led him to a field where a car was standing among the oleanders. The backseat was covered by a tarpaulin. Steiner lifted it and raised a lantern so that Cenzo could better see a dead man in an American uniform and a knit cap. He showed no sign of a wound; it was if he had simply gone to sleep.

  “An American scout. He fell from up there and broke his neck.” Steiner pointed to the cliffs above the tunnel. “Just a boy. I doubt he’d ever fired a shot. He is the first raindrop of the storm to come.” The colonel let the tarpaulin drop.

  “And where will you be when the real fighting begins?”

  “Where a professional soldier always is: between the hammer and the anvil.” Steiner rethought the proposition. “It’s said that Napoleon’s retreat from Russia was a disaster because his army tried to carry home too much loot. They wouldn’t give up this candelabra or that set of silver. At least no one will be able to say that about us.”

  As he drove back to Salò, it seemed to Cenzo that time sped up and the German soldiers he passed all moved at a half trot. Clerks carrying records from German headquarters at the Grand Hotel tripped and fell, letting loose a flock of white paper. The military crematorium for limbs shut down and smoldered in its own wispy smoke.

  Giorgio had made it in to Radio Salò. He advised listeners to remain calm and stay at home. He then played classical music, the usual accompaniment to disaster.

  Cenzo caught only a glimpse of Il Duce’s cars as a glint in the twilight. Mussolini’s convoy rolled from Lake Garda to Lake Como. From there they would drive to Lake Maggiori and Lake Orto. At the start of the day rumor had it that legions of Blackshirts were massed at the Swiss border waiting for a signal from their leader. Stories dissolved into the mist. With every passing hour, Mussolini was defiant, he was abject, he was philosophical. Finally, it was said, he abandoned his wife for Claretta, who brought along her best friend, Vera.

  • • •

  There were occasional gunshots, the sound of old scores being settled and small-time looting, but nothing seemed amiss at the Argentine consulate. Cenzo found Maria Paz on her veranda flat out on a chaise longue, transported so far beyond inebriated, she seemed weightless. When she steered a whisky to him, the drink cart clattered, yet she poured him a glass and didn’t spill a drop.

  “So,” she said.

  He settled in a chair. “So?”

  “So why aren’t you leaving like everyone else? Don’t tell me. There’s always a good reason,” she said.

  “I’m sure there is.”

  “But you’re not sure what it is, are you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good. That’s more like the man I first met. Giorgio was actually proud that you passed yourself off as him.”

  Maria was a sensual display. Her color was red from her red dress to her red lipstick to her red nails. She opened another bottle of scotch.

  “What shall we celebrate?” she asked.

  “That the right side won.”

  “How can an Italian even talk about the right side?”

  “Very carefully.” He refilled the glasses. “Why did you give your car to Vera?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Besides, I can’t afford the petrol.”

  “So it’s practical consideration?”

  “That’s all,” she said.

  “Did you finish your passports?”

  “Yes, thank God.”

  “How did that make you feel, having their fate in your hands? Giving Nazis the stamp of approval?”

  “I saved many more Jews than Germans.”

  “Did the consul know what you were up to?”

  “No. For Don Rodriguez, food and medicine magically appear.”

  “And morphine?”

  “Morphine he needs most of all. Giorgio gets that from his German connections. Giorgio is a miracle worker. We owe him everything.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  Maria took a second. “That’s a complicated question.”

  Cenzo remembered the breezy first day when Maria drove him around Salò. Her casual waves and kisses to the troops, even if they were German.

  Maria took out a silver cigarette lighter with a Japanese willow pattern embossed on the front. Cenzo took the lighter away as she leaned forward.

  “Did Giorgio give this lighter to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he show you how to use it?” He flipped open the lighter and revealed a barrel and trigger good for one bullet.

  “I wouldn’t have shot you.”

  “I didn’t think you would. Does Giorgio love you?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Do you think he loved Gina?”

  “She was a onetime affair, a beautiful girl, nothing more.”

  “You don’t think the fact that she was his brother’s wife added a certain twist?”

  “We’ve been all through this. It was pure chance you were brothers.”

  “Actually, there were three Vianello brothers,” said Cenzo. “You can see us on the sail of our boat, putti di mare. Giorgio was the oldest, I was in the middle, and the youngest was Hugo. We were attacked by an Allied fighter plane. I did a painting of it. I am on deck, bleeding and praying to the Virgin, and Giorgio is in the water trying to save Hugo. The problem is I never prayed to the Virgin and Hugo and Giorgio were reversed. It wasn’t Giorgio trying to save Hugo, it was Hugo trying to drown Giorgio and himself. You have to ask yourself: Why would Hugo do that? He idolized Giorgio. We both did. So did my wife, Gina, and Hugo’s wife, Celestina, who is a pretty enough girl. Totally smitten around a film star. Why would Hugo do that?”

  She resisted the insinuation, as Cenzo knew she would. She would turn and twist like an eel to deny a second betrayal. “Do you have a copy of this painting?” she asked. “Do you have sworn statements by the police? A photograph of the body? The death was caused by enemy gunfire. What proof do you need?”

  “I’m trying to explain why a young fisherman would try to drown himself and his hero.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “So you will know what was happening on that boat. It was a propaganda event and you know how important that is. Otherwise we would not have gone out in such foul weather. The photographers wanted pictures of Giorgio with his family and he was supposed to play a sailor home on leave who was helping his brothers in the family trade. I knew from the start there would be trouble. Both Giorgio and Hugo barely said a word, and rather than staying near the dock, where the cameramen were, Hugo sailed to the deepest water he could find. He didn’t even pretend to fish.

  “Then the Mustang came out of the sky. I don’t know what the pilot thought he was doing—maybe getting target practice. There was nothing to be gained by strafing a fishing boat. He made two runs and went on his way. I doubt the pilot even reported seeing us. Anyway, I was on deck and Giorgio and Hugo were in the water in a cloud of blood. When I dived in to help, I saw that Hugo was trying to pull Giorgio down. I thought he had to be disoriented. It happens in flying all the time. I didn’t believe my eyes and then there was too much blood for me to see. But why would Hugo do it?”

  “You tell me,” Maria said.

  “Because Hugo loved Celestina like I loved Gina. The idea that Giorgio had seduced Celestina casually, simply because she was willing and available, was more than Hugo could bear.”

  He saw it in her eyes, a reflection of men struggling in the water. There you have it, Cenzo thought, an eel neatly speared.

  26

  Cenzo drove back to his hotel as spent as a racehorse staggering through mud, and he didn’t have the energy to
be outraged at finding the Black Brigade leader Orsini in his room again. There was something gruesomely intimate about Orsini’s visits.

  “Can you smell it?” Orsini asked. “Pigs. This area is famous for its ham.”

  “I know.”

  “The farmers let their pigs run free. They’re highly intelligent animals, you know. The world isn’t all fish.” Was that why the brigade leader was visiting? Cenzo wondered. This piece of gustatory information?

  “I suppose they lead happy lives,” he said.

  “Up to the butcher’s block, yes, like you. I could arrest you now,” Orsini said. “Arrest you or worse. In the meantime, I give you every possible way out. Your boat, the Fatima, was the only fishing boat in that area of the lagoon that night. You had an encounter with a German officer of the SS. Now you’re alive and he is not.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Let me remind you that the war is not over.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Don’t worry. From what I hear, Hoff will be missed by no one. Frankly, I find the Germans are overrated. They call us quitters. Who’s quitting now? We could go to the Alps and hold out for ten years. Il Duce himself told me so.”

  Cenzo said, “If you want to help me, you can tell me what happened to my friend Eusebio Russo. I’m told you had him in your car outside police headquarters.”

  Orsini frowned. “Russo?”

  “The fishmonger. There was some confusion about a stolen bicycle.”

  “Oh, I let him go. He had just fallen in with bad company and I believe in giving a man a second chance.”

  “A gift, of sorts?”

  “You could say so.”

  “You wouldn’t know where Russo is now?” Cenzo asked.

  “I can’t keep track of every criminal wandering the streets.”

  Then what was the source of such a gruesome photograph? Cenzo wondered. Steiner might have lied simply to enlist Cenzo’s help in finding Giulia.

  “Vianello, did I ever tell you what I did before the war?”

  “No.”