by Jill Downie
Presumably.
Nothing was for certain in the make-believe world of Rastrellamento, and even the luscious Vittoria Salviati had expressed her insecurities to him that morning, as they waited together for their call. Of course, it now appeared she had been carrying on a clandestine affair with the murdered Toni Albarosa, and was afraid she might be the next target. Gunter Sachs’s own insecurities made him uncharacteristically spiteful.
“Your fears are probably justified. Jealousy is, in my opinion, the most powerful of emotions. A primitive passion.”
He watched her dark eyes grow wider, and chided himself for his cheap victory. However, from her next remark it was clear he had misinterpreted her reaction.
“That’s how I saw it, first of all. But now I wonder, Gunter. The last time I was with Toni — just before he died — he was really upset because of something that happened over a location he suggested.”
“To whom? What location?”
“I don’t know — he wouldn’t say. But it was something to do with the family, that much I know.”
“Have you told the police?”
“No. What is there to tell? I’m scared enough already as it is, without giving anyone another reason to come after me.”
The conversation had stopped at this point, when they were called for their scene together, and the only thought Gunter Sachs gave subsequently to Vittoria Salviati’s dilemma was that fear and loss had greatly improved her acting abilities. Access to the emotions, he thought, as he watched her character, Maddalena, weep at the commandant’s cold anger. That’s what it’s all about. Though in real life, it can play havoc, God knows.
“Cut! Print!”
With relief, Gunter Sachs moved away from the heat of the lights and loosened his collar. The scene with Adriana Ferrini had gone well, and would require no more takes, thank heaven. One of the dressers was waiting for him to take his jacket and to hand him a bottle of mineral water, which he drank thirstily.
“Hot work, sir.”
Gunter Sachs’s eyes adjusted to the light and he saw it was the detective inspector with the good bone structure he had seen the day of Albarosa’s murder. They had not spoken before, because his statement had been taken by one of the other policemen.
“Detective Inspector Moretti, sir. I am in charge of this investigation. Could I have a word? I am told by your director you are not needed for a while.”
“Of course. We can go to my trailer.”
Gunter Sachs’s trailer was a comfortable haven of leather armchairs, thick rugs, a sofa bed, and a heavy teak table piled with books and magazines in German and English.
“A drink, Detective Inspector? No? Then I hope you won’t mind if I have a beer. Please, sit down.”
“You do a lot of reading, I see,” said Moretti, picking up a copy of Rastrellamento from among the books on the table.
“There’s always time to do that on a movie set, no matter how major your role.”
“So I am beginning to realize. You are not staying in the manor, I believe.”
“No. I am at the Héritage. I prefer my independence. I ordered room service late the night of Albarosa’s murder, but I have no real alibi for the time itself, I’m afraid.”
“Like many others. But I actually wanted to ask you about this.” Moretti held up the copy of Rastrellamento. “I see you are familiar with the original work, which is helpful, because I gather there are changes to the role played by Adriana Ferrini. From what I remember of the story, that should affect you — am I right?”
“Yes. Reinhardt Ritter is in charge of the prison camp set up in what was once an orphanage in the town, where the contessa’s family, the Cavallis, have ruled the roost for centuries. He is an educated, sensitive individual, ill-suited to the task expected of him — which is to run the camp after the departure of the Italian troops in 1943, and to recapture the prisoners who escaped at that time. What starts off as hostility between the contessa and the commandant develops into a warm friendship — she calls him ‘Ricardo’ — that could have changed to love. Only Hitler is defeated, and the commandant is arrested by the allies. Strangely enough, the changes to the contessa’s role have made little difference to my own. They have built up Adriana’s role in relation to the other characters — for instance, the housekeeper and the priest. And that’s where the problem lies for me — not in the size of their roles, but in the interpretation.”
“Can you think of any reason why they would have built up her role vis-à-vis rather minor characters?”
“You’d have to ask Mario that question, but I think the quick answer is that it’s Adriana Ferrini.” Gunter Sachs smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “She’s a huge box-office draw, as you probably know.”
“Of course. The time span of the original novel was about a year and a half, I believe — from just before the arrest and internment of Mussolini in July 1943 to just after the fall of Rome in 1944.”
“That much hasn’t changed. What has changed, it seems to me, is proportion. There is more emphasis on the contessa, her entourage, her relationship with the fascists and partisans in the town, and less on the love affair between the daughter of the family and the escaped British prisoner of war. Or else both elements have been balanced out, you might say.”
“If I remember the book correctly, one of its strengths was Ensor’s ability to convey the complexities of human nature — in other words, there was no clear-cut bad guy, or good guy. Has that changed at all, particularly with the rewrites?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it before but, now you ask me, I think so. How can I put this — things have become more black and white. Perhaps that is what cinema audiences want today, and certainly that is Monty Lord’s strength — giving them what they want. Mario is the genius, and Monty the facilitator.”
“Who does the rewrites? Not Gilbert Ensor now, I gather.”
Gunter Sachs laughed. “God, no! Mario does them.”
“The director? Is this usual?”
“If you’re Ingmar Bergmann or Woody Allen, yes — Kubrick would even rewrite a scene while the actors were before the cameras. Mario is that kind of director.”
“One more question, Mr. Sachs, and then I can leave you in peace. You say things are now more black and white. In your opinion, who is the bad guy?”
Gunter Sachs got up and fetched himself another beer from the small fridge. For a moment, Moretti wondered if it was a diversionary tactic; he wanted to see the expression on the actor’s face when he replied. However, Gunter Sachs turned back, the open bottle in his hand, and the only expression Moretti could read was one of uncertainty.
“Now, there’s the strange thing. The only bad guys I can see from all this rewriting are both women; the contessa and the housekeeper. Then there’s the priest — and here things become even stranger. He’s a caricature, and he’s so — cozy. But the way the script reads, you wouldn’t trust him to christen your children, let alone take your confession.”
“Because he doesn’t keep his mouth shut?”
“Exactly.”
“Does he betray partisans? Fascists?”
“He’s a turncoat. Many were, of course. At that time, in Italy, survival often depended on being in the right camp at the right time in the war — you must know that, you being a Guernseyman. The stories I have heard since I’ve been here! But you take the carabinieri, for instance. In Rastrellamento, when the Germans arrive in the town, they take their orders from them. It is a situation familiar to many of my own countrymen. I wouldn’t have agreed to take this role if there had not been an understanding of motivation, what makes people betray. What makes them evil.”
“So the contessa is now evil?”
“She is driven by a desire to preserve the status and position of her family into — yes — evil decisions.”
“Such as — ?”
“The betrayal of her own daughter.”
“In the book, the escaped prisoner of war, Tom Byers, surv
ives to marry the daughter.”
“Not in the movie. They both die. But that change was in the original script. Mario has always liked unhappy endings.”
“Is that good box office?”
“If the survivor is Adriana Ferrini, probably. Besides, Detective Inspector, think of Romeo and Juliet. There won’t be a dry eye in the house.”
Moretti held up the copy of Rastrellamento. “May I borrow this?”
“With pleasure.”
Moretti stood up and held out his hand. “You’ve been very generous with your time. Thank you.”
“Tell me, Detective Inspector,” said Gunter Sachs as they shook hands, “do you think the murder and the other attacks are to do with the plot of Rastrellamento?”
“It is certainly one of the many angles we are exploring, sir,” said Moretti, falling back on convenient procedural cliché. “People have long memories.”
“Ah, that is so true.”
It was only after the policeman had left his trailer that Gunter Sachs remembered what Vittoria Salviati had told him. He thought of calling Moretti back, or contacting him, then dismissed it. For the life of him he couldn’t think how a movie location could be of any importance at all in the death of Toni Albarosa.
Liz Falla was sitting on a curved stone seat between two massive pots of hydrangeas writing in her notebook.
“This is a big place, Guv. Good thing you phoned on your mobile or we could have looked for each other the rest of the day. It’s got seven bathrooms, so they tell me. I found the security people and the feller who was covering this part of the premises —” Liz’s arm swept over the expanse of terrace, “— says there was no unexpected behaviour from the dogs that night. Everything was quiet.”
“Which is exactly why the behaviour is unexpected. Whoever stabbed Albarosa had to be on the grounds — as you say, this is a big place — and I’m presuming the security staff’s rounds would be frequent enough to coincide with the murderer, concealed in bushes or among trees. Were the dogs allowed to fraternize with any of the cast and crew?”
“Yes. Usually that’s not the case, but because this is a private home, the dogs had to know who they should expect to find in the grounds. They didn’t have to be big buddies with them, just had to be familiar with their smell, apparently. I got a list.” Liz Falla consulted her notebook. “The marchesa and her son, Mr. Albarosa, Monty Lord, Mario Bianchi, and three cast members who are staying here: Miss Salviati, Ms. Ferrini, and Mr. Wesley.”
“Good work, Falla.” It came naturally, to Moretti’s relief. “We’ll need to look more closely at all of them, but I want to start with Mario Bianchi.” Moretti went over his interview with Gunter Sachs, concluding with his theory about the rewriting of the script. Liz Falla raised her eyebrows.
“Really, Guv? Then I don’t have to be a genius to know why you want to check into Mr. Bianchi. He’s directing the film — and the plot.”
“Yes. It should be easy enough to run a background check on him, because he’s a celebrity. I’ll get records to run his name through the computer and give us everything they come up with — everything. I want all the gossip, all the dirt, even from unreliable sources, like the tabloids.”
“Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“I’m hoping to find something about his family. He’s too young to have been around at the end of the war, but at the back of my mind is a feeling I’ve read something about him that has something to do with the political situation in the thirties and forties.”
“What now, Guv?”
“Back to headquarters. I want to see if anything has come up about any kind of an incident involving the Vannonis.”
There was a sudden burst of noise, and a small but voluble army of technicians came round the corner. Moretti stood up.
“We’ve been displaced, Falla. The world of make-believe is taking over while we go back to reality.”
Back to reality. The phrase kept recurring in Moretti’s mind on the drive back to St. Peter Port. Back to the reality of the war years, when the uniforms and the dresses in Betty Chesler’s lodge and the military vehicles in the car park that looked so quaint and picturesque were part of an actual and threatening landscape in which real people lived, and lost, their lives.
"Bitch — you bitch.”
“Hypocrite — you hypocrite. Just because you think I slept with Giulia Vannoni, you’re oh so upset!”
“Giulia Vannoni? Christ almighty! Giulia Vannoni! Whose fucking shirt is that then? Hers? I thought you said it belonged to that policeman!”
“It does. But the black tights don’t come from his wardrobe — hadn’t you noticed them? Funny, my legs have always been such a turn-on for you. My strong point, in more ways than one — right, sweetie?”
“Bitch — you bitch!”
“You just said that, darling. Are words failing you? Dear me, I hope not, or why should I stay with you? I’ll go be someone else’s muse.”
“Muse? If you’d taken a minute out from examining your own navel over the past few weeks you might have noticed I haven’t written a bloody word — be it good, bad, or indifferent. You’re no muse, woman, you’re a — a — pestilence, bringing death, disease, famine of the imagination and writer’s block. Damn you to hell!”
Sydney winced. “Don’t scream. Hysteria doesn’t suit you — you sound like a cross between a hyena and a eunuch.”
“Doesn’t suit your hangover, you mean. So the great detective thinks he can screw my wife on the job, does he? I’ll show him! I’m getting on to that prissy-mouthed Chief Officer Hanley and letting him know that one of his officers has compromised a murder investigation!”
Gilbert Ensor crossed to the phone.
“Oh, I’m so scared! Please, Gil, you’ll have to do better than that.”
Sydney Tremaine did not feel as calm as she hoped she sounded. Unable to resist turning the tables on her husband, she had revealed much of the previous night’s events, with some added embroidery that involved much more than merely abandoning Ed Moretti’s suggested version.
As Gil picked up the phone she added, “If you do this, I shall tell them I spent the night with Giulia Vannoni, and your accusation is vindictive and groundless.” Sydney placed herself in front of Gil, hands on hips. “Do you want the whole world to know that the wife of superstud writer Gilbert Ensor is having an affair with one of the highest-profile lesbians in Italy? I’d quite enjoy that, myself.”
“Fucking bitch.”
Gilbert Ensor’s hand fell limply from the phone that crashed back on its cradle. She had him by the proverbial short and curlies and he knew it. Screaming had got him nowhere this time. Usually in their relationship, she screamed back and eventually surrendered one way or another — sexually or emotionally. Gilbert Ensor was a bastard, but he was a highly intelligent bastard, and he knew that something had changed in the balance of power. He decided to try pathos.
“Syd, darling, do you really hate me that much? Do you want revenge so badly you’d go against your nature to make me suffer?”
His unrepentant wife gave a short, sharp laugh laced with sarcasm. “Which nature is that, my darling? My heterosexual one, or my lesbian one? When it comes to navel-gazing, you know nothing about my nature because it has never interested you. Anyway, may I remind you that last night — I did both!”
With a theatrical toss of her auburn hair, Gilbert Ensor’s scarlet woman turned away from him and started unbuttoning the accursed blue shirt that hung loosely over her slim torso. “I’m going to soak in a bath,” she said.
As the shirt fell from her shoulders, Gilbert Ensor saw she was wearing yet another shirt underneath. The slippery fabric gleamed a luminous green in the sun slanting in through the window, making her look like a mermaid washed up on the island’s shore, to hurt him and to haunt him with her bedtime stories.
“Bitch,” he said again, weakly.
“That’s right,” she called back over her shiny green shoulder. “Bitch
in heat. That’s me.”
He could hear her humming as she closed the bathroom door; she had a pretty singing voice. He recognized the tune: it was Snow White’s theme song, “Someday My Prince Will Come.”
Gilbert Ensor collapsed into an elegant gilt chair that squawked beneath the sudden arrival of his dead weight. So preoccupied had he been with her disappearance from the manor and her subsequent reappearance at the hotel, smelling of another woman’s perfume and another man’s cigarettes, he had not got around to telling Sydney about Monty Lord’s visit.
This, he thought, has to be one of the worst days of my life. So far. With a promiscuous wife, an unbalanced director, and a nutter on the loose with a knife, who knew what fate might yet have in store for him!
When there had been a rap on the door at about nine o’clock that morning, he had assumed it was Sydney. Rage filled him, accelerating his heartbeat and filling his mouth with spittle and venom.
“Where the fuck have you been, you whore?” he spat through the door.
“Gil?” said a surprised voice. “It’s Monty Lord. Is Sydney not there?”
“Monty?”
Shit, he thought. Now he knows my wife stayed out all night. I’ll be a laughingstock. A second or so later he admitted a concerned-looking Monty Lord.
“Hi, Gil. What’s happened to Sydney?”
“Oh —” Gilbert Ensor made a valiant attempt at nonchalance and failed miserably. “She’ll turn up — she always does. Night on the town, I should think.”
“You knew she left the manor with the marchesa’s niece?”
“The one with the motorbike?”
“Yes. Giulia Vannoni.”
“Oh.” Gil’s relief was palpable. “Girls’ night out — she’ll like that, Syd will.”
Monty Lord looked mildly amused. “Yes,” he said. “So will Giulia.”
A nasty suspicion crossed Gil’s mind, but faded swiftly into insignificance when he heard Monty say, “I didn’t want to do this on the phone, but in person, Gil.”