‘They’re beautiful.’ She looked at him, her hands hovering above the blooms. ‘But why?’ she asked. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ Pallioti said. ‘I wanted to thank you.’
She shook her head.
‘I didn’t do much.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think you did.’
Signora Grandolo regarded him for a moment. Then she reached up. The shawl she was wearing had slipped. She pulled it tighter around her shoulders. The material shimmered in the light. There was a slithering sound. Apparently of its own volition, the satin ribbon spilled out of the white box. Slipping over the ivory petals, it uncoiled itself across the polished wood of the table.
‘Why have you come?’ she asked.
‘Because you asked me to,’ Pallioti replied. ‘When I decided if the story I was chasing was important, or when it was over – you asked me to come and tell you about it.’
‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘And is it?’
‘Important?’ Pallioti was pulling his gloves off. He folded them and put them into the pocket of his overcoat. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘At least to me. And over?’ He considered this for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said again finally. ‘Yes. I think now that the story is finally over.’
Signora Grandolo smiled. She picked up the heavy satin ribbon, coiled it and placed it next to the box of flowers. ‘In that case,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we had better sit down?’
In less sure hands, the room she led him into might have been intimidating, or worse, merely pretentious. It ran half the length of the front of the villa. There were three groupings of sofas and chairs, one at either end and one in the middle. The floor was scattered with carpets. Piles of books sat on long low tables between the tall shuttered windows whose lines had not been disturbed by curtains. A grand piano sat at the far end of the room, this one open, used as an instrument for music rather than a platform for the display of family photographs.
Those were present as well. Dotted about, most in plain silver frames, many black and white, they showed the Grandolos, and their daughters, and later sons-in-law, and grandchildren. Pallioti noticed several photographs that, by virtue of his height, or lack of it, and the distinctiveness of his features, which indeed were not handsome, had to be Cosimo Grandolo as a young man. There were no corresponding portraits of Signora Grandolo as a girl. The first in which she appeared was an engagement picture. She was sitting, so she would not tower over her husband-to-be. Cosimo Grandolo stood behind her chair, a protective hand on her shoulder. The date engraved on the frame was August 1948.
Pallioti leaned down. Her dark hair was parted on the side, as was fashionable at the time. Curled under, it fell to her shoulders. Her folded hands displayed the small engagement ring. A bracelet of some kind of deep-coloured stones, probably sapphires and doubtless a family piece that was rapidly returned to a safe in the bank, ringed her elegant wrist. She was smiling. But underneath, he thought he detected something else in her face. Sadness. Or perhaps just memory.
He straightened up and turned around. Signora Grandolo was standing beside the hearth, where a fire had been lit. Shadows caught the side of her face.
‘I didn’t realize it at first,’ he said. ‘But this story – it’s about what we see and what we believe we see. They’re two separate things, both real and not, at the same time. Don’t you find?’
When she didn’t answer, he shrugged.
‘It seems contradictory, but it isn’t – it’s something every cheap magician working in the piazzas, pulling rabbits out of hats and doves out of sleeves, understands. All too well. And yet, in the normal course of things we refuse to accept it, again and again. A friend of mine reminded me of that today.’
He had unbuttoned his overcoat. Now he shrugged out of it, folding the soft dark cashmere so the damp shoulders were turned inwards.
‘Please.’ She gestured towards the sofa.
Pallioti folded the coat across the arm. He had already turned down her offer of a drink. For a moment he watched the lick of the flames, the quick dance their shadows threw on the hearthstone. He opened his mouth and closed it, as if he did not know where to begin, or as if he were reluctant to speak the words. Finally, he said, ‘It all began a long time ago.’
Signora Grandolo smiled. ‘Like all the best stories.’
‘Like all the best stories,’ Pallioti agreed. Then he said, ‘Once there were two sisters.’
He waited for her to sit, but she shook her head.
‘I’ve been sitting all day. Desk, reading. But please—’ She gestured to the sofa.
He sat. This time the cushions were reassuringly firm. On the table in front of him a book lay open. The biography of a general. A pair of Signora Grandolo’s glasses were propped beside it.
‘Their names, these sisters,’ he said, ‘were Isabella and Caterina. One was blonde and one was dark, and they lived here, in Florence, with an older brother and their parents. Their father was a university professor.’ He glanced at her. ‘A gentle, literate man who hated the Fascists. Quietly, the way most people did, if they wanted to stay alive and keep their jobs. Their mother,’ he went on, ‘had money, so they were comfortable. By the time the armistice came, the elder sister, Caterina, was a nurse. She was engaged to be married, to a naval officer, a doctor. The other sister was at the university. Their brother, Enrico, was in the army, a junior officer. Rather than be deported to a German labour camp, as so many were’ – he nodded towards a photograph of Cosimo Grandolo that sat on a side table – ‘Enrico and a friend of his, a young man called Carlo, deserted. They made their way back to Florence, where Enrico’s father put them in touch with a group in the university, part of the CLN for Tuscany that was organizing resistance. They went into the mountains. The family had been enthusiastic hikers, especially the youngest daughter, Isabella, and quite quickly she joined them. Before long, she and Carlo were running an escape route, from Fiesole up through the high passes, along the route of the Via degli Dei and down to Bologna. They took mostly POWs, Allied airmen, at first. Then, when the crackdown came, when the occupation started to turn ugly, Jews as well. Whole families sometimes. Children.’
Pallioti paused.
‘I’ve met some of them, the survivors,’ he said. ‘As I’m sure you have. Well, I’ve met at least one. A Signor Cavicalli. Perhaps you know him?’
Pallioti could sense as much as see her eyes on his face.
‘He and his son run a shop called Patria Memorabilia, in Santa Croce,’ he said. ‘I believe the sisters got their family out – the other sister, Caterina, was helping by this time, too, on the ground here in Florence. They saved their lives, the Cavicalli family. Got them to Switzerland. Signor Cavicalli has never forgotten it.’ He shook his head. ‘But then again, people don’t, do they? Not about things like that. Not about the war.’
Signora Grandolo was still standing by the fireplace, her back as straight and strong as a ballerina’s. Pallioti took a breath and went on.
‘By the winter of 1943 to ’44,’ he said, ‘as you know, things got difficult. The family became involved with Radio Juliet. In fact, they were running it. Caterina was still nursing – the influenza was very bad and people were dying. She used information she obtained at the hospital. They managed to keep transmitting, but it was dangerous. Isabella was working with GAP by this time. On Valentine’s Day 1944 she was caught up in an assassination attempt. She was wounded, but got away. The three men with her, whose code names were Il Corvo, Beppe, and Massimo, didn’t. They were arrested and taken to the Villa Triste.’
Pallioti leaned forward.
‘Three nights later,’ he said, ‘they escaped. Or rather, it looked as if they did. In fact, they had done a deal with Mario Carita. Effectively, they’d been “turned”. They were set loose, welcomed back to GAP as heroes for having saved Isabella then escaped themselves – but in fact they were traitors. They’d made a bargain with the devil. If GAP found out what they’d done, they’d have killed them. So they be
gan to pass information. The location of a safe house where weapons were stored. Names of people involved. And finally, The jewel in the crown, the thing Carita really wanted. Radio Juliet. But you know about that.’ He shrugged. ‘Everyone does. How the whole network was grabbed, all at once.’
Signora Grandolo nodded. It was only the faintest movement of her head.
‘That was their final act, the betrayal of Radio Juliet,’ Pallioti said. ‘Beppe, Il Corvo, and Massimo, and they extracted a price for it. They were all paid. Probably well.’
Pallioti smiled, his features suddenly sharp in the shadows from the fire.
‘And not in salt,’ he added. ‘That came later. Then, in June ’44, in addition to money, Beppe got safe passage into Spain. Il Corvo was given papers and travel passes to get his mother and sister, who were Jews, to Switzerland. Those two, I think,’ he said, ‘were probably trapped. Terrified of what GAP would do to them if they found out and more terrified of what Carita would do if they didn’t cooperate. They probably at least had a conscience. Even guilt. I like to think so, anyway. The third, Massimo.’ He looked up at Signora Grandolo. ‘I think he was the ringleader. I suspect the whole thing was his idea.’
Pallioti leaned back on the sofa.
‘As I said the other night,’ he continued, ‘Massimo was the kind of man we fought the war to get rid of. But they don’t go so easily, do they? In the end, they had to hunt Mario Carita down and shoot him like vermin. He was hiding in the Val d’Aosta, more or less in plain sight, unrepentant. Massimo was the same kind. Cruel. Sly. So much so, that he – or perhaps Carita, but I suspect Massimo himself, came up with the perfect alibi for all of them. And he used Isabella to do it. He had particular reason to hate her. He was jealous. I think he’d been in love with her. He made her believe they were all dead, the three traitors. She was shown bodies she expected to be theirs. So that’s what she saw. The men on the top of the pile were her father, and her brother, and Carlo, her lover, whose child she was carrying at the time. It broke her heart.’
Pallioti paused. ‘But this is where it gets interesting,’ he said a moment later. ‘Because it taught her something, too. About being dead.’
He leaned forward, picked up the book on the general and put it down.
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘Isabella was an extraordinary woman.’ He glanced up and smiled. ‘Although Caterina was equally extraordinary in her own way. Ordinary people who did extraordinary things. They escaped, by the way,’ he added, ‘the sisters. They got to Milan, where GAP gave them new identities. They kept on fighting. But at the same time, they both kept on thinking about what had happened to Radio Juliet. And how it had happened. Neither of them could let it go. Neither of them could forget. Isabella had her baby, a little boy. And then, in March 1945, Caterina had a chance to take him and go to Naples. Her fiancé, it turned out, was still alive, and he’d arranged to get her out. This part, I admit,’ Pallioti said, ‘I’m not too certain about. I don’t know the details. All I know is that Isabella convinced Caterina to take the baby, and planned to join them later. But something went wrong. I don’t know what. By April 1945, they were both dead. Within days of the liberation they’d fought so hard for. Caterina in a field hospital in Bologna, and Isabella just west of the city, hit by an Allied bomb.’ He looked up at her. ‘Or that’s what everyone believed, anyway.’
Firelight flickered against Signora Grandolo’s face, and rippled the fine soft wool of the shawl. She stood as still as a statue, one hand resting on the mantel.
‘You see, I don’t know which one of them it was,’ Pallioti said. ‘I’m not sure. But one of them survived. She got back here to Florence, somehow, and when she got here, she realized that everyone thought she was dead, and also that being dead might have its advantages. I think she learnt that from what happened to Radio Juliet. So she took another woman’s name, and built a life for herself. But all the while, she remembered.’
He ran his finger along the edge of the book, feeling the sharp edge of its dust jacket.
‘She remembered everything she had talked about with her sister,’ he said. ‘In the prison they were thrown into, and later in the apartment they shared in Milan, about what had happened. About who it could have been who betrayed them. Who was responsible for the deaths of their father and brother, mother and comrades, and the death of the man Isabella loved.’ Pallioti shook his head. ‘I suspect she looked. I suspect she did everything she could to try to work it out. Went through records, searched out people like the Cavicallis – did you know, by the way,’ Pallioti asked, looking up at her, ‘that Signor Cavicalli had a twin? A twin brother. And a little sister. The little girl was just a tot, not more than three or four, when they escaped. It must have been an extraordinary walk. At night. In the snow. In any case’ – he shook his head – ‘she was never able to find anything. The records said all the men from Radio Juliet had been executed. Everyone who had known anything was accounted for. So, although she never forgot, I suspect she might have given up looking. Until one night almost two years ago. During the celebrations for the sixtieth anniversary, when she turned on the television, and saw three dead men. Can you imagine? Right there in front of her, with medals on their chests. Il Corvo, and Beppe, and Massimo.’
The names fell into the room, smooth and fast as stones falling through water. Pallioti was sure he could feel the ripples lapping outwards, into the silence and the night and the snow.
‘After that,’ he said, ‘it was easy.’
A log shifted on the fire, sending up a small shower of sparks. Both of them looked at it. Then Signora Grandolo reached for the poker, bent and pushed the charred piece of wood back into the flames.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘Well.’ Pallioti shrugged. ‘Finding them wasn’t difficult, once she knew they were alive. There are records everywhere. Organizations like Remember The Fallen, more than willing to help.’
Pallioti watched her back, supple and strong for a woman of her age, as she replaced the poker carefully in the brass bracket, straightened up, and looked at him.
‘What I did wonder, though,’ he said, ‘was why she waited so long. A year and a half. But I think I know.’
He leaned back on the sofa again and looked up at her.
‘You see,’ he said, ‘these sisters, they were terribly brave, rash even, when it came to themselves. But where lives were at stake, other people’s lives, they were very, very careful. In all those ambulance runs, all those trips in 1943 and 1944, they never lost a parcel. They were known for it, among the partisans. So, it was a point of pride. Being careful, not making mistakes. And given her history,’ he went on, ‘I imagine she understood that this one last job had to be perfect, or she wouldn’t be able to finish it. And she wanted that, very badly. After all, she’d been waiting a long time. Decades. So she planned extremely carefully. And that takes time. My guess is that she’d had the gun for some years,’ he added. ‘Sixty, possibly. It was probably a souvenir. As for the salt,’ he said, ‘well, I suspect she’d thought about that for a long time, too. Don’t you think?’
The question hung in the room, unanswered.
‘In that warehouse in Verona, when she lay down on the floor with those women dying around her, I wonder,’ Pallioti said, ‘if that was what she dreamed of? That someday she’d find whoever betrayed Radio Juliet, whoever killed all the people she loved, and get them on their knees, and make them eat their reward?’
He took a deep breath, suddenly confronted with the vision of Giovanni Trantemento’s face, and forced himself on.
‘Roblino, Beppe,’ Pallioti said. ‘I think he was the easiest. The stupidest, the most gullible. A windbag. All she had to do was ring him up and pretend she was the widow of some partisan, or even just interested in his collection of memorabilia. Possibly she just turned up at the door. Women are almost never threatening. No offence, Signora, but especially when they reach a certain age.’
He was not sure, but he th
ought he saw her smile.
‘Now Trantemento,’ he continued. ‘He was a bit more tricky. He was shy, and very clever. But still, I doubt it was too difficult. The building isn’t hard to get into. Of course,’ he added, ‘he had to be killed first. As I’ve said, Giovanni Trantemento was clever and quite wary, so Roblino’s death might have alerted him. And Roblino needed to be killed quite quickly afterwards, just in case he became alarmed. Strike hard and fast. Use the advantage of surprise.’ Pallioti smiled. ‘That’s how she did it. Il Corvo first, and then Beppe. Which only left Massimo.’
Pallioti waited for a moment. Then he said, ‘He was the most difficult, wasn’t he? Massimo. He had security. The maid was always in the house. No.’ Pallioti shook his head. ‘Massimo certainly wasn’t as easy as the other two. But,’ he added, ‘not insurmountable, either. No problem is insurmountable for someone so determined. And clever. And by that time, of course,’ he added, ‘you had help. Because you had me.’
Pallioti could feel as much as see her eyes on his face, feel the beautiful, deep, cerulean blue of them.
Silence pulsed through the room. Finally, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
‘It was the only mistake you made,’ he said. ‘Lying to me. Telling me that you didn’t have the complete records for the Villa Triste because they had been destroyed. I can see that you were in a spot – that you were afraid, once I saw those records, from 12 June and 15 June – who had been arrested and who had supposedly been executed – that once I saw that, I would understand, and get to Massimo before you could. So, it was a gamble, wasn’t it? Either you showed me, and potentially deprived yourself of Massimo. Or you lied to me, and hoped I wouldn’t find them. But,’ he smiled, ‘of course I did. As you knew I would. It wasn’t even very difficult. It was just too late. You’d made sure of that, too.’
Signora Grandolo didn’t move. In the light from the fire her shawl, an iridescent blue-green the colour of a peacock’s tail or a dragonfly’s wing, shimmered like water. Pallioti couldn’t read the expression on her face.
The Villa Triste Page 47
