The Captain telephoned at once to the Special Operations Group in Livorno. They were alarmed by the risk involved in such close timing but rose to the challenge with a suggestion: that the parachute regiment should create a noisy diversion by flying helicopters low over Salis’s nearby territory, under cover of which their own helicopter would go in over the area of operations, and at first light drop nine men with directional parachutes into the nearest clearing to the signal.
The Captain asked the Marshal no questions about the previous night’s business, confining himself to an expression of relief that he hadn’t been tempted to arrest the young feeder. The temptation to make an arrest when such an investigation went stale was considerable. Such a gesture might be made in the hope of gaining or regaining the confidence of the family but might just as easily make them nervous about the investigator’s priorities. It would keep the press busy for a day or two. The public might imagine that the feeder would talk, not knowing that such a minor player knew nothing other than that he left a bag of food in a given place each day and never saw who retrieved it or knew for whom it was intended. When their conversation was over it was tacitly assumed that it had never taken place.
The Marshal’s feelings, as he crossed the river to go back to Palazzo Pitti, were an incomprehensible muddle of apprehension about what he had done and irritation at having failed to live up to the Captain’s faith in him. After all, it might not have been necessary to do what they were doing if he had succeeded in keeping the trust of Leonardo Brunamonti. Some part of the blame must be attributed to the Captain himself, who overestimated the Marshal. Young Brunamonti was well bred, intelligent, and would surely have been more likely to trust the Captain himself than a dull-looking NCO. And yet, thinking back to their first long talk, Leonardo had been disarmingly open and trusting. Except, of course, that he hadn’t told the truth about his sister. Now there was the biggest source of irritation! There was his real failure. How could he have let himself be taken in when all along he had known something was wrong? He had listened to her endless compliments to herself and her endless criticisms of everybody else, especially her mother, and, if he hadn’t been wholly taken in, it wasn’t for want of trying. He’d been afraid to see what she really was.
How, then, could he blame her brother? The brother who had stroked her arm so softly once to restrain her with an almost painful gentleness, willing her not to become what their father had become. It would be unreasonable to expect him—in such traumatic circumstances, too—to see the necessity of overcoming his fear, his affection, his shame.
And yet, how many other people had rung alarm bells which the Marshal had failed to respond to? Signora Verdi, on that first day, with ‘her ladyship wouldn’t have it.’ Nesti with his disgusted remark about whether this was a case or a career opportunity, the maid’s sobs, and her all too justified fear, ‘What will happen to me now?’
Not to mention the alarm bells Caterina herself had set off. A lot of the time she lied, but what about when she told the truth? What about her avoidance of the word mother when she used the word father? Saying a model was nothing more than a coat hanger? So many things that had made him so uncomfortable that he had refused to think about them.
If he thought at all about the operation soon to take place on the hills it was with a deep-felt wish for a safe outcome but without any detailed thoughts about how it would be achieved. There, he felt on safe ground. The job was in the hands of experts now and was their responsibility. His only contribution had been to act as a connection between Bini—whose years of experience, goodwill, and carefully cultivated contacts made the operation possible—and the men capable of carrying it out. A bit part which he considered adapted to his station and capabilities and which would be ignored in case of scandalous failure, forgotten in glorious success.
But it would be a long time before he would stop being irritated with himself about ‘that poisonous bloody girl,’ as the Contessa Cavicchioli Zelli called her. Now there was a woman who called a spade a spade. There’d been no more fooling himself after meeting her. If only the others had been so explicit.
The Marshal climbed the sloping courtyard in front of the Pitti Palace and turned left to go under the stone archway. His idea, at this point, was to retreat into his own space and apply all his concentration to the little everyday tasks which were normally his lot. First he would have a talk with his second-in-command, Lorenzini, and get himself up to date on what was going on in his Quarter other than a kidnapping, then he would see anybody who was in the waiting room and give any time left after that to his backlog of paperwork. If he achieved nothing else, he would so fill his mind with details that there would be no crevice through which the thought of the Brunamonti girl could worm its way. It was this same quest after normality and sanity that inspired him to telephone his own quarters and ask Teresa, ‘Can we have pasta?’
She laughed at him. ‘You sound like Giovanni!’
‘I am like Giovanni—or, rather, he’s like me.’ He was offended. ‘It doesn’t matter, it was just a thought.’
‘You are a comic. I’ll put the water on. It’ll only be tomato sauce, I hadn’t planned—’
'That’s all right.’
This system worked until five o’clock. Then a twinge of anxiety twisted his stomach at the thought of what the sister might be up to that could in some way damage tonight’s operation. She had shocked him with the Patrick Hines business, surprised him with the closed doors, the sacked maid, the new porter, alarmed him with that newspaper interview. He couldn’t afford to seek his own comfort by forgetting her. He mustn’t talk to her, the Captain had agreed about that, but he had to keep a check on what she was doing.
Fifteen minutes later, he was holding on to the handle above his head as the jeep bounced violently up a rocky tractor path, Lorenzini at the wheel.
‘I didn’t believe you when you said we’d need the jeep to get to a place two minutes away from the city centre but—hell! You all right?’
‘I’m all right. I’ve been up here before. Stop here and turn round and then wait for me. I’ll not be long.’
The bank where the crocuses had flowered was now a forest of Florentine irises, some of which were opening their first pale blue frills. Nothing else had changed. Elettra, as the dogs yapped the news of the jeep’s arrival, burst out the door, accompanied by Caesar and surrounded by her chorus, wearing the ancient grey suit and running a hand through her unruly wisps of grey hair.
‘Oh, I’m so glad to see you! And so is Tessie—-just look how she’s greeting you! She knows the nice marshal is trying to help her mummy, doesn’t she? Yes she does, yes she does, the little sweetheart!’
They had sat in the February sun last time, but now, although the season was more advanced, they went indoors to escape impending rain. The drawing room was lit with small lamps. There were flowered sofas, a polished stone floor, and a wood fire burning in a large grate. They sat facing each other near the fire on a sofa each and, as the sofas filled up with dogs, the Marshal told her his fears.
It wasn’t easy. This was a very bright lady and he couldn’t expect to fob her off with an invented story, assuming he were capable of inventing one, which he doubted. He had to convince her with something that was less than a lie but not the whole truth. He didn’t know whether the partial ransom had been paid but he thought not. He had to convince her that, if not, it mustn’t on any account be paid now.
‘That article in the paper would become her death warrant. They would be sure no more was forthcoming. They would know that there are no powerful connections who might intervene. To release her for so much less than the requested sum would ruin their business. You do understand?’
‘Of course I understand. I also understand that you’re up to something that makes it suddenly so important not to pay up and that you’re not going to tell me what it is.’
He looked at the wall. ‘I can’t…I’m not—It’s a matter that my superiors—’
>
‘Virgilio Fusarri, the old fox. I like him. He can’t boss me around, wouldn’t dare try. So he sent you. Tell me. Does it look as if, because of the two photographs, the “spokesperson”—blast her—was really speaking for Leo and perhaps even Patrick as well?’
‘The message is all that matters. A small payment would confirm it. It doesn’t matter to them who the messenger is.’
‘It’s going to matter to Olivia! You don’t think they’d show it to her?’
‘They might well. If they intend to make her write another appeal they will. Don’t you think, though, that she’ll recognize her daughter’s handiwork, even the words she uses?’
‘Of course she will—Caesar, get down off the Marshal! You’re too big to sit on people’s knees! Sorry, he’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback, bred to hunt lions, but he doesn’t know. He thinks he’s as small as all the others. Get down, Caesar. All right, well sit next to him quietly.’
The dog subsided and fell into a deep sleep leaning heavily on the Marshal. He was a very powerful leaner.
‘She’ll recognize Caterina’s poisonous voice in that article—who wouldn’t? But Leo didn’t stop her, that’s the point. He let her do it. He knows she’s crazy. He should have kept her locked up till this was over.’
‘He could hardly—’
‘He should have warned the papers. And how come they printed such a thing if you say it’s so dangerous? Why didn’t you stop them?’
‘We can ask them to cooperate, but their job is to sell more newspapers, and we can’t stop them doing their job. The article contains nothing that infringes the law.’
‘There must be something you can do!’
‘We are doing what we can. We must prevent any payments being made.’
‘That’s what that detective fellow said. Do you have any real information about Olivia?’
It was risky but he needed her help.
Yes.’
You’re not going to make some futile gesture that will make you all look heroic and risk Olivia’s life?’
‘No, no…Her life is already at risk. We have a chance of saving it. It’s only a chance but if that incomplete payment is made we won’t have that.’
There was silence between them for a moment. The Marshal listened to the settling of the wood fire, a sound from his childhood. The many dogs on the other sofas snored quietly in the fire’s warmth.
‘All right!’ The Contessa announced her decision: ‘I’ll help you. That money won’t be paid.’
You’re sure you can prevent it?’
‘Damn sure. It’s my money.’
‘Anything I’ve told you, of course…’
You haven’t told me anything. Don’t worry. I know exactly what you mean. I’ll keep what you haven’t told me to myself.’
The Marshal could do no more. This whole venture depended on two people keeping their word. Two people, each in a hillside fastness, each with a strict code of honour. The Marshal trusted them both absolutely. His part was over.
Caesar escorted the jeep as far as the gates on the avenue below, then turned and bounded back up the hill.
It was raining.
Eleven
There must be thousands of people in the world who are suffering constant and terrible pain. You stare at me with those big, watchful eyes of yours and I know you must be wondering why I’m so calm, happy even. To tell you the truth, I was never very brave about pain. As a child I cried at the dentist’s, and vaccinations were a tragedy. And yet, the violent pain that pierced my ears and seemed to penetrate my brain and which terrified me so much at first because I thought I would lose my mind over it became a normal part of my life. I suppose if agony is prolonged and constant, our brains somehow adjust our threshold. The fixed pain becomes the norm and it takes a much greater or more acute attack to make any impression. I know I used to be afraid of pain and of illness, especially cancer, but I’m not anymore. I trust my body to deal with it now. If anything, I was more aware of the lacerations caused by the chain on my ankle and wrist, which worsened despite Woodcutter’s efforts. The chain was so very heavy, and every movement hurt and damaged me. What was even worse was the psychological pain because there was no reason to keep me chained up except cruelty. The cruelty of “the boss” I never saw.
‘Yet, the tiniest joys could obliterate it all. The fresh sun touching my forehead as I sat at the opening of the tent. Sat waiting contentedly for cool water and crunchy bread but perhaps receiving instead a rare cup of wonderful coffee, the smell of it mixed with sweet wood smoke on the pure morning air. I will always appreciate coffee more now than I used to, but never as much as I did then.
‘I had begged Woodcutter for, and obtained through good behaviour, the few privileges I needed, the most important of these being the use of the bedpan outdoors in the mornings. I had also been given a change of clothing, a bag full of very cheap-feeling cotton underwear, and a green tracksuit. I also had plastic slippers instead of my boots because it was getting warmer. The bag of underwear was sometimes taken away and washed. Was it Woodcutter’s wife who did this? I tried to imagine what she knew, what she thought. I remembered Woodcutter’s words about how you could never get out. Perhaps she didn’t think anything, ask anything, just did as she was told out of fear.
‘I organized my day around their arrivals and departures, their changes of shift, the serving of my meals. I divided up the interim periods and developed one train of thought at a time—my children, my work, my lover, my parents, and the past. Friends, too. I allotted them each a space and thought about them. You know, when you live in another country, your friends assume the importance of family. I learned that I had to be careful in organizing this timetable of contemplation, avoiding any pathway that might upset me just before it was time to sleep. Sadness becomes overwhelming in the lonely night. It didn’t keep me awake—the rhythm of my days was too regular to allow my old insomnia to plague me—but it could cause distressing dreams, even nightmares.
‘So, after each meal, I placed my tray carefully on the ground, retreated into the tent, pulling my chain in with me, and settled down to think. In a way, I’ve been privileged to have this quietness, this thoughtfulness, forced upon me, though I don’t expect anybody to believe that. They won’t envy me for it either, will they? I’ll probably never tell anyone.
‘I feel the need to tell you things, though, as if this is the one stop, the halfway house where two worlds meet and you’re the keeper of it, the only person who knows and understands both. I’m sure that nobody out there will understand where I’ve been. For them I’ve only been absent. I believe that once I’m back in my own world I’ll never talk easily about this again.’
The Marshal, well aware of it, sat still and silent, memorizing what he needed, not daring to make a note.
‘My mother seemed all right after my father’s death. She appeared to be going along as usual, but it was only a facade. I felt such anguish when I was in the house that I hated going home and spent all the time I could at the homes of my friends. I was thirteen and didn’t understand what was wrong until she was taken away to a clinic to dry out. I remember my aunt opening the wash-house door and finding all the bottles. I think she was the one who said, either then or later, “Remember you’ll have to stand on your own feet from now on. It’s a hard world and you’re alone in it. Nobody will help you.” I spent a few years in a boarding school, passing the vacations with one relation or another, and then went to college, against my aunt’s wishes.
“‘Nobody will help you.” Do you know that my whole life has turned on that one cruel phrase uttered at my most vulnerable moment. What the hell did she mean by it? I was thirteen years old and a virtual orphan. Why couldn’t I be helped? From that day I saw life as a battle I had to fight alone. I became tough, at least I managed to appear so, but before this happened, I had reached such a point of inner exhaustion that I knew there was no way forward for me. At night I sweated with years of accumulated fear, by day I
tried to reason it out. Should I give up the business because it was too stressful, leave it all to Leo? Should I marry Patrick, dear man, who did understand and tried to help me. “Nobody will help you.” That was the rule I lived by. Patrick would cradle my aching head on his chest when I was reduced to tears by anxiety and exhaustion and say, “Listen to this poor turnip of yours pounding away. Give it a rest. Lay down your sword, I’m here now.” And I did. With him I rested. Then next day I’d grab my sword again. Years of habit, you see. Besides, apart from Patrick, who saw through me, everyone believed I was invincible, tough as nails. “Olivia will sort it out somehow. Olivia always knows what to do. Olivia’s a fighter.”
‘The only way I could alleviate my orphan’s distress was by offering comfort to others. When my husband went, I became a father as well as a mother to the children. They would never hear the words “Nobody will help you” just because their father was dead. I found it odd, thinking of all this, that the one person I ever allowed to do anything for me was my son, Leo. Perhaps because I recognized myself in him, perhaps because he was the one person I knew had a mother who loved him and would always be there for him, the one person I didn’t need to be afraid for. Leo was always my early evening thought, before Patrick, my father, and sleep. It was such a joy to scan his life. I loved his deeply solemn gaze as he sucked with quiet determination at the breast. Such concentration he had as a small child! At three he made careful wobbly drawings—almost always of insects. He wasn’t old enough to know how to scale a larger object down to the size of his paper. Later, at seven, he painted delicate watercolours out on the loggia. The palaces and trees down in the piazza, bats and swallows in a red sky at sunset, painting for two or three hours at a stretch until the fading light forced him to stop.
Property of Blood Page 19
