Glass Souls

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Ricciardi waved his hand vaguely in the air.

  “Don’t thank me. I assure you that, at this particular moment, it’s a great help for me to have something to focus on. One last question: is your husband left-handed?”

  A stunned expression appeared on Bianca’s face.

  “No, Commissario. He uses his right hand. Why?”

  Ricciardi shrugged his shoulders.

  “You never know what evidence may turn out to be important in an investigation. Best to gather all the available evidence in the meantime.”

  When they were at the front door, the contessa turned to look at him.

  She chose her words carefully and uttered them in a low voice.

  “I need to break free of this thing, Commissario. And I won’t be free until I know the reason why. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Ricciardi nodded and left, in a hurry.

  XII

  Major Manfred Kaspar von Brauchitsch raised his eyes to the sky and took in a deep breath of air.

  His eyes and nose, involved in that operation, gave him surprising reports. The eyes saw no stars, in spite of the fact that it was evening, because of the nearby illumination cast by the street lamps along either side of the narrow street; the nose, instead of a whiff of the sweet-smelling air so characteristic of this phase of transition between summer and fall, brought him a gust of distinctive aroma, a blend of garlic, onion, and cooked greens that came from a small trattoria on the street corner. For that matter, his ears, if they had been questioned on the matter, would have confirmed that he was close to a place that offered dining, because they would have conveyed to him the sounds of music and drunken singing from the diners standing outside of the little restaurant, smoking and laughing.

  The major shook his head in amusement, thinking for the hundredth time in two days just how different that strange, disorderly, carefree city was from his hometown of Prien. And yet, he thought, they were each part of the south. Bavaria and southern Italy, though they were both as different from each other as were Germany and this strong and hopeful nation he had come to visit.

  How many things had happened since July, when he had come here for the thermal spa where he spent time every summer. And how many things were bound to happen still, in just a short time to come. Life can reserve enormous surprises, and it can pack together in just a few days events that are sufficient to change not one but two lives.

  Manfred headed off, whistling a tune, and climbed Via dei Mille until he reached the Ascensione church, near the pensione where he was staying. If someone had told him, as recently as that spring, that his life would change so radically, he would have replied with a bitter laugh.

  He thought back to himself, to the way he was just a few months ago. A wounded, anguished soldier, without prospects, whose heart had been chilled by loneliness and time, on the threshold of middle age. What’s worse, a soldier in a country that was practically without an army, paying for a long-ago defeat, a decade and a half old, turned in upon itself with fear and uncertainty. A weary man of thirty-eight years, who had lost any hope of being able to fill the void left after the death of his wife, more than ten years ago; but he still wished for a family, children to whom he could bequeath the future he had dreamed of but which, for the moment, he had been unable to create.

  Then, suddenly, two meetings had changed everything.

  One of those meetings had been innocuous at first glance, a political speech delivered to an assembly by a little Austrian, an event he had attended at the urging of a fellow veteran who had heard the man speak. He had gone because he trusted his friend, a man motivated by sincere love of country who was every bit as heartbroken as was Manfred at the condition to which the enduring economic depression had reduced that country.

  The little Austrian had a way of speaking that emptied your heart of all uncertainties and filled it with furious hope. He had a strong, decisive voice, that could also be sentimental and delicate. He dispensed dreams and concrete instructions on how to escape that terrible moment and reaffirm the role that Germany had always played, a role of leadership for the entire continent, first among nations. It was God who wanted this, the minuscule condottiere had said, and God’s will always wins.

  He hadn’t been surprised to learn that the Austrian was a veteran of the Great War, just as he was. Only a soldier could know what words other soldiers needed to hear. At the end of the assembly they had met and had gone off to have a couple of beers together. He had had many opportunities to notice that those who spoke in public were often quite different in private, but such was not the case with Adolf. With less drama, but with the same degree of determination, he had repeated at the table in the smoky beer hall the concepts that he had expressed onstage, before the adoring audience of his followers. He had a gift, Adolf did, of entering into immediate empathy with those who listened to him, like some perfectly tuned instrument that suddenly insinuates itself into the melody being played by a small-town combo and magically transforms it into a great orchestra.

  Manfred had joined first the movement and later the party with joy and conviction. He wasn’t capable of doing things halfway. Either he was an activist or he limited himself to ignoring the topic. He wasn’t cut out for the role of sympathizer.

  He crossed paths with two young women who exchanged a few whispered comments and smiled brightly at him. He replied with a gallant bow, lifting his cap in greeting, but continued on his way without slowing even slightly, to the unmistakable disappointment of the two girls. He knew women liked him. His tall, athletic physique, his thick blond hair, his blue eyes, and, of course, his uniform unfailingly drew stares, and in the past he had taken advantage of the fact to strike up pleasurable and amusing affairs that never lasted long.

  But now, he could no longer pursue those stares, because he was engaged.

  To tell the truth, it wasn’t official, at least not yet.

  But he was going to be officially engaged very soon, he felt sure.

  It was one of the two reasons he was now in that city. The other reason was far more confidential, and for two days it had kept him occupied at the German consulate without being able to inform Enrica that he had already arrived: she would be disappointed that he hadn’t already rushed to be at her side.

  Major von Brauchitsch had in fact been appointed cultural attaché to the diplomatic corps. It had all come to pass in early August, when he had gone to Berlin to see Hitler in person in order to congratulate him on his resounding victory in the federal elections. Hitler had given him a quick hug, and then he had locked arms with him and led him away from the festive group of veterans that surrounded him.

  The conversation had been rapid and intense. Adolf had asked him whether he would be willing to reenlist, and he, of course, had expressed his enthusiastic willingness; the pain in his shoulder was diminishing, in part due to the assiduous treatment and the training to which he subjected himself, and he now felt ready. The other man, however, had explained that it wasn’t military service in the field he was talking about, but another kind of military activity, one that was far more important to the German state.

  Manfred had turned serious, had looked the little Austrian right in the eyes, and had recognized an exceedingly pure determination in him.

  That man was going to make Germany great again. And he, Manfred, wanted to take part in that project. With all his strength, he wanted to.

  Adolf had put him in touch with a commander of the German navy, and they had had a lengthy conversation. He had been chosen for his perfect service record, the commander had told him, because of the fact that he’d joined the movement in the earliest days, and because he spoke perfect Italian. Then he had explained that a campaign of information-gathering was under way, and that Italy was a friendly nation. It was the Party’s intention, he went on, that Italy would and should become a model and an ally. It is from models that
we learn, and in some cases there is knowledge that cannot be obtained easily and quickly through official channels, but that was exactly what Germany needed in order to grow quickly and once again take its place of leadership, as it ought to. In other words, he would need to go to places where there were military installations and take a discreet and well-trained look around. And report back in detail.

  Manfred was no fool, and he had understood instantly: the commander, a young and ambitious officer who had immediately understood which way the wind was blowing, was asking him to work as a spy. But then, he wasn’t a headstrong, starry-eyed raw recruit, he was a major in the cavalry of the Reichswehr, he had been in combat and he had killed men in the name of his country. He understood that there were many ways to serve the nation, and that every man was called upon to give his contribution according to what was asked of him. He thought it over quickly, and agreed without hesitation.

  The weeks that followed were devoted to training. On the one hand, they had explained to him exactly what he ought to look for and what he was expected to find out, and on the other they had instructed him in the duties of a cultural attaché. Manfred had noticed with joy that among the cities that were crucial to the collection of information deemed useful to his country, there was the one that was of particular and personal interest to him, because in that city, Italy’s most important port city, a city that lay quite close to his beloved Ischia, Enrica lived, his as yet unsuspecting fiancée.

  There was nothing wrong with the Reich making use of him and him making use of the Reich.

  It was a piece of good fortune that not far from the city itself, a campaign of archeological digs was under way, with the participation of a group of German scholars, and it was therefore quite plausible that the German scientific mission should benefit from reinforced assistance on the part of the consulate. Another cultural attaché was needed, and his arrival could hardly arouse any suspicions.

  Just the month before, the German Reichsmarine had intensified its contacts with the Italian Regia Marina, or royal navy, and two high officers, Boehm and Ritter, had been invited as guests aboard the cruiser Giovanni dalle Bande Nere, on the occasion of the fleet’s great naval maneuvers. It had been the first direct contact, and the two officers returned home greatly impressed by the efficiency of the Italian crew and, especially, by the modernity of the port facilities. Manfred’s mission was to determine the scope of the resources that had been brought to bear in order to ready the overwhelming naval forces that had been deployed on that occasion.

  Moreover, that city housed a military airfield; and the new German government was intensely interested in rebuilding an adequate air force, something that was unjustly forbidden by the other European nations in the aftermath of Germany’s defeat. It would be necessary to gather information about this area of endeavor as well, and so a young pilot had been assigned to Manfred’s entourage and placed under his command, in the bogus role of logistical cultural aide; this young man had arrived at the consulate that very afternoon. In other words, an intelligence team was being assembled, which testified to the importance that the German high command placed on that mission. The major was pleased and flattered.

  But now that his work had been properly arranged, he could finally turn his mind to the second important reason he’d decided to accept that posting. A more personal reason.

  Tomorrow, he thought to himself as he walked across the little piazza that lay before the building housing the pensione where he was staying, he’d write a note to Enrica. He would tell her that he was in town and that he would be very happy if he could come to see her. He wanted to get to know the family that the young woman had told him so much about during those wonderful days in the sunshine of Ischia, those days when Manfred had painted her portrait while she, on the beach, tended to a noisy and colorful crowd of children. For her, he would bring his beaming smile, for her mother a bouquet of flowers, and for her father a pouch of tobacco and a Bavarian pipe that he had chosen in Prien.

  He would let them get to know him and, in time, they’d come to love him. Without haste, with persistence and perseverance. He had chosen Enrica to become his wife and to give him the children that he desired. Germany and Italy, to be brought together in his life, for work and for love.

  For no good reason he said hello to four men playing cards at a rickety table under the glare of a streetlight; one of the men responded with an awkward military salute while the three others laughed. And he also said a cheery hello to the proprietor of the pensione, a fat lady who stood drying her hands on a rag, enjoying the evening air.

  He climbed the stairs whistling a happy tune and savoring in advance the sweet dreams that the crackling air of September was bound to bring him.

  From the shadow of a front hall, a pair of eyes scrutinized him coldly.

  XIII

  Just as she was about to get into bed with a glass of warm milk and a book, Livia heard a discreet knocking at her bedroom door.

  “Come in,” she said.

  The door opened a crack and Clara, her housekeeper, poked her head through. Her eyes were puffy with sleep, and she wore a housedress; her hair, which she wore tucked up during the day, tumbled loose over her shoulders. She had never known, Livia thought, how long Clara’s hair was.

  “Signo’, please forgive me. We have . . . we have a visit from that gentleman, the one you know, the one who comes here every so often. The gentleman who says: ‘The signora is expecting me, let her know that I’m here.’ After all, he just showed up at the door, and . . . But if you wish, I’ll inform him that you’re sleeping, and that he should come back tomorrow.”

  Livia had already put on her housecoat and was just brushing her hair.

  “Grazie, Clara. Tell him that I’m coming, and you can go to bed now.”

  The young woman was heistant; she didn’t like leaving her mistress alone, at that time of night, with a man.

  “Signo’, what if you want to offer him something? I can wait for you in the kitchen, that way if you call for me, I’ll hear you. It’s very late, it’s 11:30. Gentlemen don’t go to a lady’s home, at this hour.”

  When Livia entered the living room, Falco was, as was his custom, standing by the window, hat in hand, his eyes trained down upon the now deserted street below. Despite the late hour, he looked as if he’d just left the barbershop: his thinning hair was neatly combed and there wasn’t so much as a shadow of whiskers on his face. He emanated the usual faint odor of lavender.

  Without turning around, when the woman entered the room, he said: “Not all nights are the same, Signora. In the summer, people tend to stay out in the streets, to escape the heat. Women in the vicoli put chairs outside and talk, and then they go to sleep while the others, men and children, get up because it’s impossible to breathe in the ground-floor bassi. And people talk and talk. Every vicolo becomes a single big family. Everyone knows everything about everyone.”

  Livia lit a cigarette and puffed the smoke into the air, a little annoyed but, in spite of herself, worried as well.

  “Falco, why at this time of night? Has something serious happened?”

  The man went on, as if he’d never been interrupted.

  “And in the winter, as you no doubt know, things aren’t all that different. People light fires to warm themselves up, but in tiny spaces that’s not a possibility, everybody would die. And so they start talking again, just like in summer, words pour out of mouths like smoke. The souls of the vicoli are glass, you can see right through them.”

  “Falco, I don’t understand you. I . . . ”

  He swung around, finally turning his back to the window.

  “But not in September. In September the doors can be left shut, and you can sleep without talking. To sleep, perchance to dream, as the poet says. But it is our good fortune that there are those who dream aloud. You requested that I bring you some information, Signora. And I
have brought you that information.”

  Livia felt that she’d been put in an awkward situation, though she had no good reason. The man’s tone of voice, flat and unemotional, contrasted with the subtle sensibility of his words.

  “But there was no need for all this haste. I’d have gladly seen you tomorrow, if only . . . ”

  “Let’s just say that I’m accustomed to working speedily and conscientiously. The young woman that you saw on the occasion of the car crash in which . . . in which the person who is of interest to you was involved answers to the name of Colombo. Enrica Colombo. She lives on Via Santa Teresa, as does he. Two apartment houses side by side, with windows overlooking the same alley, Vicolo Materdei. She studied to be a schoolteacher, but she has not secured a position in a public school. Instead she tutors children who come to her home.”

  Livia’s interest had exploded.

  “What . . . what is she like? What does she do? Are they a couple? Are they engaged? Are they . . . ”

  Falco proceeded very calmly, as if he were reading a report.

  “She lives with her parents and is the eldest of five children. She’ll turn twenty-five in a month, on October 24th. Her younger sister, Susanna, the mother of a little boy, is married to a certain Marco Caruso, who is a party member with a reputation as a good and disciplined activist. Her father, Giulio Colombo, is the owner of a haberdashery that sells hats and gloves, a fairly well known establishment, toward the end of Via Toledo, not far from Piazza del Plebiscito; he sympathizes with the Italian Liberal Party, though he is not politically active.”

  Livia reacted with irritation.

  “Falco, you’re not answering me! Are they engaged?”

  A strange, sad smile appeared on the man’s face.

  “No, Signora. They aren’t. For a brief period, more or less around Easter, the young woman spent time with the late governess, Rosa Vaglio; and we believe that on a couple of occasions she went to see her at home, but always when you know who was away.”