She gazed imploringly at Vlado, who wanted to spare her feelings yet knew he couldn’t. He also had already given her an answer of sorts, because his eyes, too, were shimmering now. The woman had given him a tale of redemption that he hadn’t thought was possible, but all he could offer in return was the knowledge of a betrayal. He took a deep breath, her eyes still on him. Then he began—slowly, deliberately.
“There are three things you should know first. One is that Pero Matek is still alive, and may well be here. Right down the mountain, in Castellammare di Stabia.”
She took it without flinching, as if she’d expected no less.
“The second thing is that Josip Iskric lived until 1983. He reached Yugoslavia that year, probably after Matek gave him no choice but to return, and also to keep quiet about it. They crossed the Adriatic, and he became Enver Petric, and he settled near Sarajevo.
“The third thing . . .” Vlado paused, feeling short of breath, as if there was hardly enough air left in the room for the three of them. “The third thing is that I am Enver Petric’s son, his only child.”
Lia placed a hand on her heart, seeming to falter. But her eyes were again dry. She rose unsteadily from her chair, stepping toward Vlado, who realized that he had already stood to receive her. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she looked into his eyes, then slowly embraced him, tentatively at first, then tightly. Vlado hugged back, feeling an odd mix of emotions. She wasn’t his mother, but she was something almost like it, the only thing close to a relative he had left from his father’s side, except Aunt Melania. He felt her sob against him, a quiver that shook his breastbone, and he reacted as if that had been some sort of signal, finally letting go. A tight ball of heat seemed to melt in his chest, and his tears fell, released from the brimming pools in his eyes. Torello, still seated, wiped his mouth with a napkin and coughed, looking off toward the other end of the room. There was no sound now but Lia’s light gasping, like a weary swimmer who had just come up for air.
After a few moments she released him, backing away unsteadily. Vlado slowly dropped his arms to his sides, his shirtfront damp. She dipped a napkin into a glass of water and dabbed at her splotchy face, then at his, her wrinkled hands moving tenderly, almost in a caress.
“How much longer did you say he lived?” she asked, her voice steady now.
“Until 1983. I was nineteen when he died, the same age as you when you went to the camps.” She nodded. “I only found the picture a few days ago,” he said, gesturing toward the black-and-white photo on the table. “My father had given it to his sister a long time ago, when I was a boy. My mother, as far as I know, never saw it. She died a few years ago. But I didn’t really know who you were until now. This evening.”
She nodded again, either too upset or stupefied to say a word.
Torello cleared his throat. “I would assume,” he said in a low voice in English, “that the truth has come out about your father.”
“Yes. And now I suppose we need to somehow start asking the meat of the questions. Not that I’m inclined to do it.”
“Then we’ll use that method they have in the American cop movies,” he said softly. “Good cop, bad cop. I’ll ask the intrusive stuff, the prying questions. She’ll expect me to be that way, anyway. You can fill me in on what she’s told you, then rest awhile. You look like you need it as much as she does.”
“Okay,” Vlado said, sitting back down, drained, yet also transported by a new lightness. He looked at Lia, who smiled, and he smiled back.
Bad cop or not, Torello handled it well, Vlado thought, if one could judge such things merely by tone or pacing. But it was also clear that Lia DiFlorio—or should he think of her as Lea Breza now, or even Lea Iskric?—said few words in response to most of his questions, and ten minutes later Torello told him they knew little more than when they’d arrived, especially with regard to any crates that Matek or Vlado’s father might have brought with them to the town. They had traveled to Castellammare separately, she said, with Matek and Josip going a few days ahead of her, by truck. She had gone by train, a slow and halting journey that had taken days.
Neither Josip nor Pero—Vlado still couldn’t think of them as DiFlorio and Barzini—had ever mentioned anything they’d brought from Rome, or any hiding place where they might have stashed valuables, and she knew of no place Matek might go if he were to return. Matek’s wife, Gianna, had died years ago.
Did Vlado believe her? He wasn’t sure. But he still felt, somehow, that she would help them, in her way, if she could.
After Torello brought Vlado up to speed on his last round of questions, everyone lapsed into an exhausted silence. The two men lit cigarettes, and Lia leaned over to pull one from Vlado’s pack.
“I quit years ago, but tonight I can’t help it,” she said.
“So, where is my father’s grave?” Vlado asked, figuring it might be worth a visit. Even knowing it was empty, it seemed a fitting memorial to the part of his father’s life he’d never known.
“Not far down the hillside. I still go there to think about things. To talk to him about what I’ve been doing. It’s very peaceful there. Or has been. But now . . .” She shrugged weakly, her voice trailing off. “If I’d had the money, I would have bought him a cappella, a big place I could really visit. But the money, there just wasn’t enough.”
“Excuse me,” Torello said, perking up. “Did she say something about a cappella?”
“Yes,” Vlado said. “It’s some kind of grave?”
“A vault, in fact. A family burial chapel. Which would make it a perfect hiding place. Did she say that Matek—or Barzini— bought one?”
“No. She’d wanted to buy one for my father, but she couldn’t afford one. All she could manage was just a plot and a headstone, and she didn’t buy them until after Matek and my father went missing, so the timing is all wrong.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’m getting too tired.” Torello frowned, the light gone out of his eyes.
“Was he asking about a cappella?” Lia said to Vlado, who was beginning to feel like an international mediator, all of this back-and-forth in two languages while the others spoke a third one between themselves.
“He thought if Matek had bought one for his family then he might have stored the crates there.”
“But he did buy one,” she said, with a sudden light in her eyes. “For his son.”
Vlado slowly put his cigarette down on the edge of his dinner plate, wondering if he’d heard her correctly. “Matek had a son?”
“Yes. But he died very young. Influenza. So Matek went out and bought him a big cappella. Way too big for any infant, but that was Matek. He liked to make big gestures, to show off. It’s in the same cemetery as Josip’s grave. So, do you really think that—”
“I don’t know,” Vlado said. “I don’t know if even Matek could actually do such a thing. Use his own boy’s tomb as some kind of hiding place?”
Lia nodded firmly. “Yes. The Pero Matek I knew would do it.” Vlado turned toward Torello to translate, but Lia stopped him. “No,” she said, holding up a hand, which only served to pique Torello’s interest. “I don’t want them knowing. Not the local authorities. Please.”
“What’s she upset about?” Torello asked. “What’s she saying?”
Vlado looked back at her, her eyes imploring, still moist, and he nodded slightly, as if to say “It’s okay.” Who knew why she was acting this way, but he’d go along with it for now. He owed her at least that much.
“She’s worried about Matek,” Vlado told Torello, trying to think fast. “She’s worried he’ll come up here. Try to hide here, or make her help him.”
“Not likely,” Torello said dismissively, “but I can have someone keep an eye on the place if it will make her feel better.”
“Tell her, then.”
Torello spoke, and Lia seemed to calm down, glancing toward Vlado with a return nod that said “Thank you.” Then, switching back to their native tongue, she hurriedly to
ld Vlado the directions to the cemetery. It was on the way back into town, she said, only a ten-minute drive, marked by a large stone arch at the entrance. But the better route—shorter, quicker, and more direct—was on foot, directly downhill through the trees on a narrow path that began just across the highway. Five minutes at the most.
She imparted the information without once using the word cappella, or any other obvious phrasing that might have alerted Torello. Then she told Vlado that Matek’s spot was in the northeast corner, only a few rows from the headstone marking the empty grave for Vlado’s father.
It was about then that Torello’s pager went off, and he excused himself to phone his office from the car.
“I’ll be right out,” Vlado told him. “I think we’re pretty much finished anyway.”
But once Torello had gone Vlado placed both his hands on Lia’s, grasping them as he rose to his feet. “I have to go,” he said. “But I hope to be back.”
She nodded. “Matek’s cappella will be the only one without flowers,” she said. “I don’t think anyone has visited it since the boy’s mother died. She wanted nothing to do with me after the men disappeared. I don’t think her time with Pero was very happy. And remember, it will say ‘Barzini.’ ”
They were at the doorstep now. He could see Torello at the wheel, talking on the phone with the dome light on. As Vlado turned to say good-bye, Lia placed a hand on his face, pressing it lightly, almost as if she were a medium, trying to detect some remnant of his father’s soul or touch.
“I am tired,” she said. “Talking about those times always wears me out. But this time, more than ever.” Then, almost timidly, she asked, “Did you say that his name was Enver after he went back to Yugoslavia?”
“Yes. Enver Petric.”
She smiled, lowering her gaze, dropping her hand to her side. “He was definitely not an Enver. Only a Josip. A Giuseppe, even. But Enver? He must have felt ashamed every time he said it.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Vlado said, at a loss for words.
She looked up, reddening. “But maybe that changed when you were born. Having a son would have made being an Enver worth it, don’t you think?”
“I hope so,” he said, shrugging, smiling sheepishly.
“You’re a father, yes?”
“Yes. My daughter is nine.” And his smile broadened as he thought of Sonja, wondering what she’d make of all this.
“You wouldn’t care what she called you. Any name she chose would seem right, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. It would.”
“Good, then.”
That seemed to give her a measure of peace, and she again placed a hand on his cheek, leaving it for a few seconds. Vlado felt the roughness of the wrinkled skin, but also the warmth. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Torello, now standing in the open doorway of the car, raising his eyebrows as if to ask “Well?”
“I should go,” Vlado said.
“Let me know what you find,” she said. “Promise me that. And when you do, then I may have something more to tell you.”
It seemed to be all she wanted to say on the subject just now, so Vlado resisted the urge to ask for more. Then they said good-bye, and he and Torello climbed into the car for the long drive back down the hill, on the narrow road that disappeared into the clouds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
That was my dispatcher,” Torello said as Vlado got into the car. “There’s been a murder at a pension in town. They think the victim is Andric. Healthy male in his fifties carrying three different passports. Face matches the photo from Interpol. Not much to see down below, though. Two shots at close range, large caliber, probably with a silencer.”
So it was true, then, their whole theory about why Matek and Andric might both be drawn to the town. And now the younger and stronger competitor had fallen, leaving the way clear for Matek. Meaning Vlado had better get moving, even if he knew of only one place to look. He’d feel better having Torello with him, even if Lia had been insistent about not telling local police. He doubted she wanted him risking his neck.
But Torello apparently wasn’t available anyway. “I’m heading there now,” he said. “It’s down near the port, not far from the office.”
“It’s probably best if I don’t arrive at the scene with you,” Vlado said, making it up as he went along. “Considering as how I’m not even supposed to be here. But you should alert Pine. Have your dispatcher call him at the hotel. Then I can find out through him, and meet you at the scene.”
“Suit yourself. But I can’t waste time dropping you at the hotel. I’ll have to let you out on the way.”
“Good enough.”
A few minutes later they reached the outskirts of the town, sinking back into the clouds. In the bright blur of a streetlamp, Vlado saw a stone arch on the left, just as Lia had described it. “Drop me here. Just remember to tell Pine.”
“Farther along would be better, a lot closer.”
“Here is fine. I’ll get a cab.”
“Whatever you say.” Torello sounded puzzled, perhaps a little miffed. The streets here were empty, and it was obvious that finding a cab would take a while. But he was in too much of a hurry to ask anything more, so he let Vlado out the door with a frown and nod, roaring away after a quick “See you there.”
As the car’s red taillights disappeared around a curve with a squeal of tires, Vlado walked quickly toward the arch, hoping he wasn’t too late. The nearby shops were closed. The only sign of life was a small café, but even it was dimly lit, and the few customers had been chased indoors by the clammy weather.
No one was in sight as he entered, which Vlado took as a good sign. Scanning the ground quickly, he saw no tire marks. He doubted you’d be able to haul much out of here without a truck. Or maybe he was at the wrong place altogether. There were hundreds of likely hiding places, from ancient Roman catacombs to caves higher in the hills. Then there was always the possibility that Matek had simply dug his own hole, a place where no one but him would know to look. Although something about the rocky soil made that seem unlikely. Matek struck him as the type who’d cut a corner whenever possible. And what easier way to do so than stealing your son’s tomb?
Just inside the cemetery walls was a small stone house, probably the caretaker’s. But as Vlado approached the door he again confronted the language barrier. If the man didn’t speak English, Vlado would only arouse suspicion, arriving with frantic gestures and no escort. No one seemed to be home anyway. The windows were dark, and the place was silent. Vlado checked his watch. It was just after nine. Too early to be home for the night if you lived in a cemetery. Vlado crept along quietly nonetheless, heading for what seemed to be a wooden maintenance shed just to the rear. It was surrounded by a high chain-link fence, padlocked at the front, but the fencing was old and loose enough that Vlado could pull back the gate just enough to squeeze inside.
Opening the door, he flicked his cigarette lighter. Two push mowers were parked cheek to jowl with a jumble of shovels, rakes, and hoes. On a rough wooden shelf were more tools. One was a long, heavy crowbar. Vlado took it. There were also two battered flashlights. He tried the first, finding the batteries were dead, but the second one worked. Slipping back outside, he paused to make sure the house was still quiet before continuing. No sound but a few passing cars out on the street. The northeast corner, Lia had said. Vlado oriented himself by facing downhill, toward the Bay of Naples, which was to the north. He angled off to the front and right, waiting about thirty yards before turning on the flashlight, his pants already wet from the dewy grass, the crowbar cold and heavy in his left hand.
He would have felt better with some backup, and for a moment he thought of heading back to the street, trying to reach Pine before Torello did. But it was probably already too late for that, and his curiosity was stronger. Besides, all was quiet. Anyone loading up crates or gold bars would be making one hell of a racket.
He made his way downhill past a long white aisle of tombstones t
oward the far side of the lot. There, off to his right and about a hundred yards from the entrance, was a wall of the cappelle, sloping downward like a miniature block of apartments, abutting a crease in the hill. Each was like a tiny chapel of granite or marble, with names and dates chiseled in slabs next to the door. The newer ones had smoked-glass doors, and as the flashlight winked past, he glimpsed bouquets of flowers and the greenery of plants. There were also flowers out front in brass vases. These were little temples of the dead, where the bereaved could step inside, sheltered from the noise and the elements.
Lia was right. There were flowers outside every cappella but one, which was about twenty yards down the row. Vlado swung the flashlight to see the name BARZINI engraved in stone. This one had a steel door, heavy-looking and rusty at the edges. The boy’s name had been Carlo. The dates said 1951–1952. A year old at the most.
The lock looked substantial, hardly a surprise. But there was just enough room to poke the teeth of the crowbar between the door and the jamb, and five minutes of prying and grunting, the metal groaning, finally brought the door free with a metallic shriek and a loud snap, like a small gunshot.
Vlado checked behind him before entering, swinging the beam of the flashlight across the tombstones but seeing nothing. There was still only the noise of traffic, fainter from here, a few cars and trucks grinding their way up the rolling streets.
Pulling back the door, he shined the light through the opening, then stepped inside, amazed at the spaciousness. His footsteps resonated as if he’d entered a cave. No flowers in here, either. Nothing, in fact, but a damp smell like wet concrete. Somehow it all felt familiar, and Vlado remembered the Fahrerbunker from his last day on the job in Berlin. The thought made him a little weak in the knees, then a breeze outside began to shut the door behind him, and for a few panicky seconds he envisioned being locked inside. But with the lock sprung that was impossible, of course, and he chided himself, smiling, trying to relax. The door was so fouled by his jimmying that it merely tapped and bounced in the frame before finally coming to rest, a few inches ajar.
The Small Boat of Great Sorrows Page 32