by Ben Pastor
Bora faced the wall. He said, “It’s worse than that, when one can’t give up.”
“Sometimes one must, Major, and it’s more heroic to do so.”
“I can never give up.”
“Then I am sorry for you.”
Bora shut his eyes, resting his forehead against the cold wall. “Why? We make our choices and fashion our enemies; unless we kill them, they kill us. And when they’re dead, we despise their corpses. We let someone else find them.”
“Sometimes.”
“No, always. Always. Unless we turn scavenger, we must let the dead be. I know that.”
And because he’d chosen pain, Bora’s pain grew and strained him. Leg, arm, shoulders, neck: he laboured to control his voice, but could do little more than breathe with inert animal patience, slow and hard.
“You seem extremely tired, Major. Are you unwell?”
Unwell? Bora was losing the battle. He could no longer keep from trembling, nor could he care that it showed. His teeth chattered in his mouth. “I am ill, Herr Moser. And I am in terrible pain.”
Bora said it with shame, as if exposing a tainted part of himself, from which filth would smear the room. Fearing it would do so. But the room stayed clean and unpolluted beneath the great painted vault as under a merciful indoor sky.
“What can I do to help you, poor man?”
Bora turned his face away until the tendons in his neck ached with the rest. Nothing would help, nothing.
Not unless you can give me back my dead brother, or give me back my hand, my wholeness, my wife’s love.
Bora was trembling not to cry out. In the dark behind him, the dark of shut eyes and an empty house, mornings flashed like lightning, quick visions sank into nothingness as soon as they rose to memory. His brother at the station, smiling their mother’s smile. The exquisite line of Dikta’s hands, cupped to hold his face when she kissed him. Russia. Russia. Russia. The car’s windshield bursting in. Groping in the blood for his wedding ring, and the shred of his hand still bound by it.
Can you give anything back? Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ.
It was the voice of the Silbermann, dangerously close, that answered him. Sharp, each sound a keen edge. Melancholy, unforgiving, cruel and innocent, unwilling or unable to lie.
If Valenki had at least told me when. If I knew when.
Anguish sliced through him, as if dammed blood from the inner wound were being lanced free to cleanse it, to wash over him and drain him of grief. Nothing would be given back to him. But the ancient music opened each vein of bitterness to bleed into streams, dark pools, so that Bora did not weep with tears. Because men do not outwardly weep.
The music said no.
It was a long time before Bora could move or speak again. The music had ended, and the house was deadly quiet. Pain was strong enough to stun him.
“Herr Moser, I am looking for someone I don’t want to find,” he said.
“But you will.”
“We found him,” Guidi informed Bora in the morning, calling from his house. “Not far from where we first saw the blood trail. If you have time in the noon hour, come and see.”
Bora only said, “I’ll come.”
Guidi put the receiver down. An insistent clatter of cups signalled that breakfast was ready in the kitchen. Pulling up his socks by the window, he saw a day clear like a washed mirror; all things stood minutely etched in it and even grains of dust cast shadows on a day like this. This was the morning he knew he would capitulate and tell his mother how the lipstick had come to be on his handkerchief. And why, which was in the end less wearisome than arguing with her or exchanging monosyllables across the table three times a day.
So he told her.
On her feet by the sink his mother accepted the truce, hands tight in a knot under her apron, not so gracious in victory as she was appeased in her righteousness. Guidi took a hefty bite of bread to keep from embellishing the confession. She poured him chicory coffee. Funnily enough, this morning his mother’s eyes appeared fixed and curiously round, like the eyes of a chicken that has watched the worm emerge from out of the soft earth, and by a steady glare hopes to further its inching out.
“So you were joking that she’s a street-walker.”
Guidi sent down a swig of coffee after the bread. “What would I give my handkerchief to a street-walker for, Ma? Let’s leave it as it is. She’s someone the authorities are working on.”
“Of course. I’m not curious about your job. I never ask.”
But there she stood, counting every bite he took.
“Her name would mean nothing to you, Ma. You don’t know her. You never even spoke to her. Besides, she’s in jail.”
“In jail? What for?”
“Murder.”
The worm had unfurled out of its burrow entirely, but the chicken was not sure it wanted it now. Complacently Guidi found himself reminding his mother this was the kind of profession he was in. “Your husband was in the same line of work all his life and paid the bills with it. You never seemed to mind that.”
“Sandro, do not!… I’d be grateful if you didn’t drag your father’s memory into this.”
“God forbid.” Guidi gathered the last of the bread in his mouth, drank the rest of his coffee and decided to leave her with something to pick on for the day. Hands spread on the table as he stood from his chair, “You know, Ma,” he said, “I do go to bed with women.”
At half-past noon, the temporary morgue in Sagràte was open, and reeked of phenol-disguised decay.
Bora stopped by the entrance to hand his greatcoat to Turco, who carefully draped it over his arm. “Is the inspector already in, Turco?”
Guidi heard the words from beyond the glass panel of the next door, and walked out to meet him. Bora said, “I told you my dogs would find him.”
They walked in, and faced the body on the table. At once Guidi caught Bora’s intent observation. “But your dogs were not the first,” he remarked. “Look at his feet. Some creature has been gnawing at them.”
Bora spoke, with his eyes on the body. “Where was he, exactly?”
“Not far from where we met on the hillside. Minus the dogs and with snow coming hard, we didn’t realize he had fallen behind a tangle of roots and branches. You were right in that he didn’t live long. He bled to death, and he’s starting to lose rigidity already.”
“How many bullets in him?”
“Three. See, two in his chest.”
“And no shoes on, obviously.”
“That’s the strangest thing. He had been wearing them when we tracked him.”
“So, he did not kill to secure footwear for himself. I thought so.”
Guidi shrugged. “It seems he removed his shoes before dying. A few feet away we found another pair, presumably those of the man who was shot in the ditch. He set his own like a cross beside himself, we’ll never know why.”
“Set in a cross, eh?” Bora drew closer to the table, so that his uniform touched the impure edge of it. “Had you shown an interest, I’d have told you the rest of Valenki’s story.”
“Does it matter?”
“It does.” Leaning forward, Bora examined the dead man. His head was shaven, a reddish stubble barely shadowing the pallor of skull and cheeks. His neck had arched back in the throes of agony but was losing rigidity, as Guidi said. Eyes and mouth gaped open. Much blood had flowed from his lungs up his throat and nose. Bora looked closely, and the survey struck Guidi as an excess of morbidity.
“What do you hope to read in his face, Major? He just looks dead.”
“Indeed.” Bora took a careless step back. “He does remind me of poor Valenki. Did I tell you how one day I asked Valenki how he could be sure about his predictions?”
“No.”
“Well, he answered that God had appeared to him in a blaze of clouds and granted him the gift of reading people’s destiny. ‘How?’ I asked. By seeing those about to die barefoot even though they might be wearing shoes. He said, ‘The
dead don’t wear shoes, uvazhaemiy Major, and so I see them wearing no shoes, as they will be soon.’ I can’t vouch for the civilians, Guidi, but those of my men whom he pointed out did die shortly afterward. Even though it didn’t take a prophet to anticipate disasters on that front. It’s neither here nor there, Guidi, but the example goes to prove that shoes may have meant something very peculiar to this poor man. And it isn’t out of the blue that I told you Valenki’s story: it suggests a possibility we ought to consider.” Bora took out a cigarette and put it between his lips. “Just as it isn’t clear to us what the madman meant by stealing his victims’ shoes, we don’t quite know what Lisi meant by scrawling a ‘C’ in the gravel. Perhaps, Guidi, we ought to learn a lesson from our defunct madman: whether we flatter ourselves that we understand them, whether they escape us altogether, things seldom are as they appear.”
“Yes, well. Whatever, Major. So, what happened to Valenki?” Guidi asked.
Bora lit the cigarette. “Poor Valenki. This story of the shoes and the dead went on for a while, until one day I saw him crouching away from the fence, with his face in his hands. It was not like him to cry, so I called out to him. I asked what was wrong, which made him even more miserable. He said, ‘Ah, esteemed Major, I’ve seen my own two feet bare, and I know too well what it means. May the Mother of God have mercy on me.’ I felt sorry for him. I handed him a cigarette through the fence – he loved to smoke – and scolded him, ‘Come, Valenki, these are all tales. Put them out of your head.’ But he wouldn’t take the cigarette. He looked at me with eyes starting out of his head. ‘I see your mother and my mother weeping, esteemed Major, but my mother is not weeping as hard as yours.’ Cigarette?”
“No, thanks, Major.” But when Bora showed the pack of Chesterfields, Guidi took one, and gently placed it in his chest pocket to keep it from breaking.
Bora took a draught, and slowly let the smoke out of his mouth. “I tried to take it in good part, you know. ‘Don’t be silly, Valenki, you don’t even know my mother,’ but I must confess that his words hit home. My younger brother had just volunteered for the Eastern Front, and I worried about him enough, even without predictions. As for Valenki, he just shook his big shaven head. ‘Gospodi pomilui, Gospodi pomilui,’ he wept, crossing himself as he asked God and the Virgin Mary for mercy.” Bora looked straight ahead, but Guidi saw him blink. “All the same, he tried to escape that night, and the guards shot him dead.”
“Were your men responsible for it?”
Bora seemed genuinely surprised. “My men? Do I seem to you the kind of officer who would be assigned to a prison camp? My regiment was stationed near by, that’s all. But God knows I’ve been thinking more than once of poor Valenki and his shoes. We chatted almost every morning. He’d look over as we prepared to move out and call, ‘It’s no good today, esteemed Major. Watch out this morning.’ And without telling my men, if Valenki said to watch out, I would surely watch out.”
Guidi smiled just enough not to offend the German. “But you did not believe him.”
“Why not? Why shouldn’t I believe him? Couldn’t the Lord God have spoken to Valenki? He was as good as any of us, except that he was Russian. He was crazy, too, which likely made him better than most of us. You see, Guidi, ‘The dead don’t wear shoes.’ Being barefoot equals being dead. Half a world away, poor Valenki would agree. Anyway, good for you. You must be pleased you solved this case at least. By the way, could you tell whether anyone else had come across the body before you?”
“You mean partisans.”
“It’s exactly what I mean.”
“We saw no other footprints.”
Cigarette in his mouth, Bora placed his fingers on the dead man’s lids, and held them closed. “That’s a good piece of information. Now I would like to collect this fellow’s carbine and the ammunition.”
“They are at the police station.”
“Kindly send your corporal to retrieve them. You know, this poor fellow does look like Valenki. All the same, you’re rid of him.”
“Yes, while Lisi’s killer is still at large.”
Bora spoke back with sudden irritation. “It amazes me that you’re so sure, because I’m not. The difference of course is that whoever killed Lisi is not a random murderer.”
Guidi’s own hostility had been stored overnight, and the words fuelled it beyond their import. He tasted anger, and for once liked the taste. “And you, what did you do to Clara Lisi last night? She was in hysterics by the time I saw her.”
“How gullible you are. I did nothing to her.”
“But you saw fit to inform her about the abortion of the Zanella girl.”
“I also asked her if she has a lover. You wouldn’t ask such a question, and I think it’s relevant.”
Guidi felt blood go to his head. “Why don’t you just lynch her while you’re at it?”
“On the contrary, I plan to stay clear-minded about her. And about everybody else. The flaw of you Latins is that you confuse firmness with cruelty.”
“Sure, the same firmness that made you cart off a load of innocent people!”
Bora reacted as though he’d been struck. “Don’t you dare, Guidi. Don’t you ever discuss military operations with me.”
It was all he replied, but Guidi saw a change go through Bora so complete as to make him wonder. He started to add something, and angrily Bora kept him from it. “No. No.” The silence between them was flimsy and unstable, threatening on Bora’s part as it was insecure on Guidi’s, a moment when things could go either way.
Just as quickly, though, Bora regained his aplomb. “Let’s hold to the business at hand. You asked me to come here. I came. Is it Clara Lisi you wanted to discuss – what I did to her? Or you wanted to show me what remarkable shots my men are? I will be visiting the Zanella woman tonight. You can come if you want to, or I’ll wrap this thing up on my own and give my recommendations to the Fascists in Verona.”
“What recommendations? You haven’t figured this out any more than I have!”
“No, but I have no bias, and that’s why I will. Did our precious Clara Lisi tell you what I managed to get out of her?”
Guidi spoke through gritted teeth. “I can’t wait to hear it.”
“She was engaged to be married when she met Lisi.”
“So?”
“So I looked into this suitor of hers, and I’ve already found out his first name is Carlo.”
Guidi clammed up. They left the death room together, and because it was sunny, Bora chose not to wear his greatcoat again.
“What about you, Inspector?” Turco enquired.
“I’m not German. Give me my damn coat.”
Outside the small building, the crust of intact snow alongside the cemetery path allowed the slender, graceful shadows of the cypress trees to draw a phantom fence on the white ground.
Bora went to walk in the snow. “I love this,” he said, crushing the bright crust under his boots.
As if there had been no tension between them a moment ago, he was trying to abstract himself, to pretend the investigation and the people in it were nothing to him. Guidi knew, and would not let Bora get away with it. Keeping to the sunny side of the path, he smugly said, “Well, what have you discovered, other than that the name of Claretta’s ex-boyfriend starts with a ‘C’?”
Bora looked over. “I thought you’d never ask. The fellow was from Vicenza, and as of last report he served on a submarine. The Ministry of the Navy informs me he began his career aboard the mine layer Pietro Micca. Presumably he did his duty then. I have already phoned the police in Vicenza to find out more, and was promised an answer by this afternoon. Clara Lisi swooned when I asked her, so I’m still curious to know how this boyfriend took it when Lisi wheeled onto the scene, and whether or not he kept in touch with her.” It seemed the right time to remind Guidi of what Enrica Salviati had told him at the café – the call Claretta received and cried over – but Bora did not. Unaffectedly he walked among the graves, ankle-deep
in the snow.
“Aren’t we grasping at straws?” Guidi chose to say. “You assume the boyfriend was jilted, but we don’t know that.”
Bora’s answer was casual, almost easy-going. “We’ll see.” Stopping in front of this or that headstone, like a curious museum-goer, he looked at and read the inscriptions. Leisurely, for Bora’s impatient nature, he observed the wilted flowers in gilded tin vases, the snowy wreaths resembling sugar-dusted buns. “We’ll see.”
“In any case, five years seem like an awfully long time to keep up with a woman who’s no longer interested.”
Bora halted. “On the contrary. It is not a long time.”
At the far end of the cemetery, in a shady remote corner, were the pauper graves. Seeing that Bora was headed in that direction, Guidi made a point of remaining in the sun.
“What are you looking for, Major?”
“Nothing.”
The Vicenza police called at three in the afternoon, while Bora sat in his office, reading a letter newly arrived from his mother.
According to the police, Carlo Gardini’s family had not objected to the breaking of the engagement, all the more since Claretta had no money. “All the same, Major, Gardini didn’t take it well. He went to her house a couple of times and, according to the neighbours, in both instances he made a scene. We also have a 1937 report about a public altercation between the parties. Some slaps flew back and forth, it says here, ‘on account of her incipient use of peroxide for cosmetic purposes’.”
Bora found it difficult to pay attention while his eyes were still on the letter from home, so he laid it face down on his desk.
“Any recent reports of Gardini’s activities?”
“We enquired of his father. The family received occasional news through the military post, but after the navy disaster at Cape Matapan there were no letters, and no official communiqués. He is not listed as a prisoner of war, nor as missing, nor as killed in action. After the confusion of 8 September, who knows. Two months ago an acquaintance told the family she was sure she had seen him in Vicenza, but more likely than not it’s a case of mistaken identity.”
