Saffy nodded. She was making an effort not to laugh at him. ‘Then,’ she asked, ‘why did she leave after you spoke to her?’
‘Did she?’
Pallioti looked up. A family was rising from their chairs. Several waiters flew by. Conversation and laughter reached a crescendo and fell again as the departing couple and their children moved towards the coat rack. Across the litter of plates and discarded napkins, he saw the little table in the corner. It was empty. The half-full bottle of wine and two glasses stood abandoned beside an untouched plate.
The crime scene tape that had festooned the landing outside Giovanni Trantemento’s apartment had been taken down. The blood that had seeped under the door, meandering like a lost little river bearing the old man’s life along with it, was gone. Scrubbed away. Lozenges of pale afternoon sun fell from the high windows and danced on the wide polished boards. Standing on the top step of the stairs, Pallioti could smell lemon oil and beeswax hanging in the still, chilly air.
Marta Buonifaccio stood outside her apartment door. She’d heard him come in – in fact, had buzzed open the door when he rang her bell – and had sensed as much as seen him climb the stairs. She’d opened the door a crack, but hadn’t come out until he was well out of sight, on the second or even third landing. She hadn’t needed to check on him. She knew where he was going, and why. He’d come on a pilgrimage, like an explorer on a solitary voyage of discovery. And he’d come on Sunday, in the late afternoon, when the other occupants of the building were likely to be lingering over family lunches, or watching television, or asleep, because he wanted to be alone. Because he wanted to stand outside Giovanni Trante-mento’s door. To whisper the old man’s name. Because he wanted to stretch his hand into the still, cold air, and try to feel what had happened.
‘Dottore.’
He was wearing a suede jacket over a sweater and corduroy trousers. No tie with marzoccos. No gold cufflinks. Not that it mattered. Leopards didn’t change their spots.
‘Buona sera, Signora Buonifaccio.’
She had spoken as his foot hit the last step of the stairs. Now he gave a little bow. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you.’
That was another thing about men like this. They were unfailingly polite.
Pallioti stopped in the middle of the cavernous hallway. If it hadn’t been for the lamp on the table below the mailboxes, and the fact that she had coughed, he doubted he would have seen her.
Marta Buonifaccio stood exactly where she had stood before, on the far side of the empty hearth. For a moment Pallioti felt as if he were playing the childhood game of statues. As if she might not have moved since the day Giovanni Trantemento died. She still reminded him of a Russian doll, so solid and compact that several people might be squeezed into her body. She had dispensed with the headscarf. Wiry strands of grey hair framed her round face.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you on a Sunday evening,’ Pallioti said again as he stepped closer. ‘But since you are here, might I take just a moment of your time? There was something I wanted to ask you.’
Marta’s shoulders dipped and rose, a gesture that was almost half a curtsey. It reminded him of the maid in his parents’ house when he had been a child. She had been a silent, almost ghostly girl. Someone, to his shame now, that he had barely even been aware of. She had polished silver and made beds and swept the stairs and always been there, until she had left. Her name might have been Anna or Angela, or – the truth was, he had no idea. Marta gestured towards the door of her apartment.
‘Tea?’ she asked.
Marta reached for the teapot. Like the cups and saucers, it was covered in a pattern of pink rosebuds. Pallioti wondered when they had last been used. He reached for his cup and tipped a dead bug out of it. He had come more or less on a whim, feeling the need for a walk after lunch, and had planned to stop for a grappa at his favourite bar on his way home. The truth was, he wasn’t very keen on tea.
Marta’s small round eyes glittered.
‘Shouldn’t throw away protein, Dottore,’ she said, glancing at the bug. ‘You look like you could use it.’
She cackled at her own little joke. If she had ever been shocked by Giovanni Trantemento’s death, she’d obviously got over it. This evening, she seemed determinedly cheerful, as if she was trying very hard.
Pallioti wondered why. He had the impression it was an act. But perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she was like this because it was Sunday. Or because the rain had finally stopped and the sun had been shining. Not that you would have been able to tell. The single window in Marta’s sitting room looked out onto the alley. The opposite wall was so close you could probably reach between the iron bars of the grille and touch it. Even at high noon in the summer, light would barely penetrate. Originally these rooms had probably been used as storage, or possibly stables. And yet, although this was the least desirable apartment in the building by a long shot, tucked as it was behind the fireplace with a charming view of a wall, it would still be hard to come by at a reasonable price. In today’s market it was difficult to buy closet space in a palazzo like this.
‘This is delightful,’ he lied. ‘Have you been here for a long time?’
Marta paused, her teacup halfway to her lips. ‘Forty-five years,’ she said finally. ‘Next week.’
‘Ah.’
She regarded him over the rim of her cup, then answered the question he hadn’t asked.
‘It belonged to my husband’s aunt. She was the building’s caretaker.’ Pallioti nodded, feeling strangely chastened. He sipped his own tea. It tasted roughly the way he imagined rusty water might taste. He suspected it would make his teeth feel strange.
‘I was hoping,’ he said, ‘that you might be able to help me with something.’
The smile again.
Pallioti replaced his cup carefully on its saucer, reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a recent photograph of Roberto Roblino that Enzo had had copied. He laid it on the table.
‘I was wondering if you’d ever seen this man?’
Marta replaced her cup on its saucer, and leaned forward. She stared for a moment, then shook her head.
‘Are you quite certain?’
No smile. The glance she threw him suggested instead that it had been a stupid question.
‘I am certain, Dottore.’ She picked up her cup again. ‘I have a very good memory for faces.’
Pallioti believed her. Suddenly, he wished he had a picture of Eleanor Sachs.
‘Who is he?’ she asked.
‘Was. He’s dead.’
Marta did not look as if she found this particularly surprising.
‘He was a friend of Signor Trantemento’s,’ Pallioti added. ‘His name was Roberto Roblino. Does that sound familiar to you?’ he asked. ‘Did Signor Trantemento ever, perhaps, mention him? An old friend, from near Brindisi?’
Marta shook her head.
‘Signor Trantemento didn’t mention much. His shopping. Occasionally, the rain.’
‘Old friends?’
‘No.’
‘Roberto Roblino? Please try to remember. Did you ever see it on a letter? A return address? A postcard. From the south?’
Marta put her cup down.
‘Signor Trantemento did not get postcards.’ She studied him for a moment. Then she asked, ‘Does this have to do with the girl? The American?’
‘Doctor Eleanor Sachs?’
Marta shrugged. ‘Dark hair. Coat like a spy. In the movies. Casablanca.’
‘Yes, that would be right. Did you speak with her?’
She nodded. ‘The once. I told her he was dead. Questions, questions.’ She looked at him for a moment. ‘I told her to ask you.’
‘To ask me?’
‘I gave her your card.’
‘My card?’ So, that was how Eleanor Sachs had got his direct number.
‘Certo,’ Marta said. ‘That’s what it’s for, isn’t it? She was lost,’ she added.
‘Lost?’ Pallioti put his own cup down.
‘Not like that, Dottore.’ Marta smiled. ‘I didn’t tell her anything and I never saw her again,’ she said a moment later. ‘As for him—’ She pushed the photograph of Roberto Roblino back towards him, sliding it with the tip of her thumbnail as if the glossy paper might be toxic. ‘I’ve never seen this man. He never came here. If he put an address on an envelope?’ Marta shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see it. Signor Trantemento didn’t have friends, and I’ve never heard this name before.’
Pallioti took the picture and slid it back into his pocket. For the second time in a week he was being dismissed by an old lady. Grateful to abandon the tea, he got to his feet. She edged past him to open her apartment door, pulling the locks back.
Marta Buonifaccio’s hand was not as elegant as Signora Grandolo’s, but her grip was, if anything, stronger. As he dropped it Pallioti realized with a jolt that the two women, on first glance polar opposites, were in fact rather similar. It was something about their eyes, the directness of their gaze. The way they held themselves.
‘The war,’ he said, stopping suddenly. ‘Were you here? In the city?’
Standing in her doorway, Marta looked down at her feet. Today she was wearing lace-up sneakers. They were pink and had small green dots on them. She considered them for a moment. Then she shrugged.
‘Where else was there to go?’
‘But you didn’t—’ The question suddenly seemed ridiculous. ‘You didn’t know Signor Trantemento, back then?’
There was a pause. Somewhere on a landing above a door closed. The smell of onions drifted down the stairs. Marta glanced up. Then she said, ‘No, Dottore. I did not know Signor Trantemento then. I never laid eyes on him until he moved into this building.’
‘But did he talk about it?’ Pallioti asked. ‘Did he ever say anything at all, to you? Or to anyone else you know of, about his experience in the war?’
Marta Buonifaccio looked at him for a long moment. She appeared to be studying his face. Finally she said, ‘No. No, Dot-tore. Even when he got his medal, Signor Trantemento never said a word.’
Chapter Nineteen
June 1944
The morning began with a silver sky. I left the house early, coasting on my bicycle down the hill, feeling my hair blow back and listening to the morning sounds of the city that seemed almost normal around me. The high cheeping of swallows, the clack of shutters being thrown back. The roll of wheels in the street. It is strange to say now, but I was happy. More than that, I felt almost a sort of elation, the kind of excitement that makes you feel as if fireworks are going off inside you – makes the world vivid and beautiful, every detail standing out clearer than you have ever seen it before.
Rome had been liberated. The Allies were coming. For the first time since September, I actually believed that the war was nearly over.
As I neared the old woman’s house, I slowed down. I turned and rode along the empty street, checking that the shutters were as I had left them the day before, that the overturned geranium pot was still on the doorstep, soil spilled as if by accident, so anyone coming to the front door, anyone standing on the step to open it, would have to leave footprints.
Nothing moved as I rode by, and nothing appeared to have changed. I went on nonetheless, careful not to pause – not to look as if I was looking – and left my bike two streets away as I had planned, then walked back, cut down the alley, and let myself in by the scullery door. For the next hour, I walked through the rooms. I had already cleared the dining-room table so we could lay maps out. I found a broom and swept the front step. I went up into the attic and checked the window again. When Papa arrived in mid morning, strolling, a newspaper tucked under his arm, I opened the front door to him with a little curtsey, as if the house were truly mine. The maps were rolled in his paper. We laid them out, smoothed them on the polished mahogany, so we would not get anything confused. When we were all assembled, there would be nine of us. Nine reports of roads, munition dumps, power lines, railway switching boxes. The city had been divided into sectors, as had the areas beyond, especially the roads running south and west that the Allies would use. We were each responsible for a different area, so it was important not to get muddled, not to get confused. The maps would be marked before the transmission so that when we finally made it, it could be kept as short as possible. Mama arrived next, carrying JULIET, bearing her along in a suitcase as if she were just another once-fashionable lady who had been bombed out and was dragging her belongings from place to place across the city.
The others came one by one over the next few hours, mostly through the scullery, which I had told Issa would be open. As each person arrived, Papa took their information, and marked it onto the maps. Issa appeared after lunch. I saw her out of the window, walking down the street in a skirt and blouse, her short chestnut hair glinting in the sun. She made a point of smiling, idling slowly, as if she were just another pretty girl on a summer day. Carlo was with her. She held his arm. They came to the front door, a young couple paying a call. As they reached the step, Carlo leaned down and said something to her and she laughed.
Enrico was last. Then we were ready. We all stood in the dining room, clustered around the table as if we were having an odd sort of party, checking that everything we had was marked – that nothing that might help ROMEO had been forgotten, that no mistakes had been made. JULIET had already been taken up into the attic. Finally, Rico and Papa went up to turn her on. It sometimes took a moment to tune her, for her to find a signal. I was listening to them, to the creak of the floorboards and the sound of their footsteps on the attic stairs, when I heard the growl of engines and the screech of brakes.
We were still in the dining room. I was looking at Issa. She knew at once what it was. I saw it in her face before I understood it myself.
There was the sound of running feet on the pavement outside, and shouting. A shot was fired. Issa ran to the table. She grabbed the maps, darted to the window, and threw them out, while the men scrambled for the attic, or for the back stairs to the scullery.
Then they burst in, screaming.
Mama was magnificent. She demanded to know what they were doing breaking into our house. But it didn’t work. They pushed her aside without even looking at her. By this time, Issa was shouting, and I was shouting too. I don’t remember what I said – something stupid, something about private houses and thugs. None of which made any difference. It took them only moments to find the attic stairs.
I had unlatched all the windows, made sure the shutters would open, and although the attic window was very small, I think a couple of the boys almost got out and onto the roofs. But ‘almost’ doesn’t count.
They marched them down and past us. Papa’s glasses were crooked, falling off. He looked at me, and at Mama, who was holding Issa by the shoulders. Enrico was behind him, and then some of the others. Carlo was last. Until that moment, there had been hope in Issa’s eyes. As they marched Carlo through the dining room, he shouted her name, and they hit him.
The others, the ones who had run for the scullery door, they trapped like rats in the alley. Then they took us, me and Mama and Issa. Finally it was our turn to live the story we had heard repeated so often in the last months.
There were two guards with us. As I climbed into the truck one of them took my hand to help me up. I looked at his fingers, and the scrape on his knuckles, and then up into his face with the mad idea that it would be Dieter. That somehow I would be able to talk to him, tell him this was all a mistake, offer him something that would make him let us go. But of course it wasn’t Dieter. The boy was tall and skinny and a stranger. And despite his gun, despite his uniform, when I looked into his eyes they were as terrified as mine.
We drove through the city. The men were not with us, it was just Issa, Mama, and me. We said nothing. Just clung to the rough wooden planks, pressed our faces to them and saw people who looked up, or looked away, or hung their heads and hurried on, their bodies bowed with fear. Once, Issa looked at me.
‘Where will they take us?’ I whispered. I knew the answer, but I wanted her to say something, anything, else. To the train depot. To the women’s prison at San Verdiana. But she didn’t. Instead, she mouthed the two words, ‘Villa Triste.’
That first night, Issa and Mama and Papa and I were kept together in a room upstairs. We could hear noises, footsteps, all night long. From time to time, someone looked in on us, but no one would tell us what was happening. They didn’t seem to care about us, and for a few hours I thought they might just forget us, might open the door and let us go. I knew Mama was thinking the same thing, and Papa, too. The only person who was not thinking it was Issa, and so I tried not to look at her, not to read what I saw in her face. It was not cold, but we huddled very close together, as if we could make ourselves disappear, or somehow become one and never be separated. Then, in the morning, they took Papa away.
He was taller than both of the guards who came for him. In his rumpled summer jacket, still wearing his tie, he stopped and looked back. I saw his long face, the lock of greying hair he was not free to push away. Behind the lenses of his glasses, the blue of his eyes. He smiled at us. Then the door closed, and he was gone.
Issa and Mama and I were put in a cell in the basement. As soon as we got there, Issa changed. She was sure the others were close to us. She took off a shoe, and kept tapping on the wall with the heel. And for the whole day, and most of that night, and some of the next day, taps came back. Then they stopped. And that – that terrible silence – was more frightening than anything.
I thought Issa was going crazy. When the tapping stopped, she became like an animal, pacing and prowling. She screamed and banged on the door, demanding to know what was happening. But despite the fact that they had brought us down and locked us up, no one seemed very interested. They came in once or twice, and asked us some questions – stupid things we pretended not to know – then left. But they wouldn’t tell us anything, and I don’t think they cared what we said. They had already decided that we were just stupid women who did not matter.
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