Sanctuary

by Luca D'Andrea

  She took her fingers off the wolf’s muzzle and went to the window, which was merely a tiny rectangular hole designed to prevent the heat from escaping. The pane was encrusted with ice, and it was almost impossible to see outside. It was definitely still snowing.

  Bad news. It meant she was stuck in this place, waiting. While Herr Wegener had all the time he needed to pursue leads, gather clues and . . .

  The thought that Klaus might be in danger made her feel faint.

  “Shit,” she whispered, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. “Shit, shit, sh—”

  The sound of the latch made her jump. The door of the maso opened, and, along with a flurry of icy needles, a man dressed in black came in.

  The man seemed surprised to see her up and about. He was holding two large metal buckets.

  It was easy for Marlene to work out what he had been doing outside in spite of the blizzard. The smell was unmistakable. He had been feeding his pigs.

  Marlene smiled at him, and he nodded in return. He stamped hard on the floor with his boots, twice with his left foot and twice with his right, to shake off the snow. He came forward, put the buckets by the door, removed his greatcoat and hung it on a metal hook next to a rifle. Marlene recognised it: a ten-bore. Her father had one like it for poaching. Illegal, but hunger is hunger. A roebuck could feed a family of three for a week. Two weeks, even, if you were careful.

  End of any ethical dilemma.

  The man examined her a moment longer with those piercing blue eyes of his.

  He was a Bau’r. He must have been sixty or so, but it was always difficult to guess a Bau’r’s age. The hard work, the wind, the freezing winters and scorching summers made their faces enigmatic and as hard as bark. This Bau’r was tall and appeared to be strong. That was natural, too. A Bau’r seldom showed signs of weakness. Just like the trees they resembled, they lived frugally and dropped dead suddenly. A Bau’r couldn’t afford protracted death agonies.

  The man closed the door and spoke.

  16

  “I didn’t think you’d be up until tomorrow,” he said, surprise in his voice. “I’m glad. You’re strong for a city girl.”

  The clothes. The nail polish. The Mercedes.

  City girl.

  Marlene did not contradict him. But although she had deceived herself over the past four years that she was a city girl, it was not true. City girls could walk around in jeans and look like queens. They could drive because it was natural to do so. It was girls from the mountains, more accustomed to shovelling shit, who had to spend hours picking out clothes that would conceal how inexperienced they were. They were the ones who felt challenged whenever they sat down behind the wheel of a car, not city girls. But the Bau’r had no way of knowing that. Just as he had no way of knowing that Marlene hated this nail polish and these clothes because they made her feel like a fraud (not to mention a filthy whore). No, despite the nail polish, the clothes and the Mercedes, Marlene was not and never would be a city girl.

  Nor had she ever felt truly strong. Not even for a minute, in all the twenty-two years of her life.

  Strong? Like hell she was.

  She smiled, though, grateful to be called that, because she knew that in Bau’r language, “strong” was a compliment, maybe the greatest. To a city girl, the word would have conjured up an uncouth country lass with legs as solid as an ox’s and a sour expression on her face. She would have preferred to be described as “beautiful,” or “charming,” or, better still, “sexy.” She might even have taken offence. But the man by the door wasn’t just any man. He was a Bau’r.

  And Marlene, like all mountain girls accustomed to shovelling shit, had been trained from an early age to be aware of subtle nuances in language and to perform verbal minuets that, to an outsider, might sound ridiculous.

  That was why she smiled.

  Marlene knew that when a woman was called “strong” by a Bau’r (“What does a good Bäuerin need to do, Daddy?” “Sew, not eat too much and grit her teeth”), the word took on a meaning in comparison with which the adjectives “sexy,” “charming” and “beautiful” might as well hide their faces in shame.

  “Thank you for your kind words,” she replied, bowing her head slightly and adopting the respectful tone due to someone whose face had more lines than one’s own. “And I’ll always be in your debt because without your help I’d be dead. You saved my life. My name is Marlene. Marlene Taufer.”

  Taufer was her maiden name. Saying it out loud lent a tad more warmth to her smile.

  The man took her hand and held it in both of his. They were as rough as granite, but his grip was gentle, almost as if he were afraid of hurting her: a consideration that only a mountain girl could fully appreciate.

  “My name is Simon Keller,” the Bau’r said. “You don’t have to thank me. No, really. Thank Voter Luis. He taught me everything I know. I gave you the poppy because you were in pain, but it was Voter Luis, years ago, who showed me what to do. I stitched up your wound, and that’s another thing I learned from him.”

  He pointed at her forehead, which was wrapped in a bandage, and said, “There are no mirrors in the maso, but I don’t think it’ll leave a scar. Your skin is like a child’s. A few years from now, nothing will show.”

  A scar?

  Marlene turned pale and instinctively raised her hand to the bandage.

  What will Klaus think when he sees my face patched up like Frankenstein’s? Will I give him nightmares, or will he love me anyway? What if—

  Stop it! The stupid reaction of a stupid city girl.

  “Scars don’t matter. I’m alive. That’s the most important thing, Simon Keller.” Marlene let go of his hand, dropped her voice and, although she suspected she already knew the answer, asked, “Voter Luis is no longer with us, am I right?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Then I shall make it my duty to thank him in my prayers.”

  Keller seemed pleased. “Voter Luis was a man of faith. It will make him happy.”

  The minuet was over. They continued to stare at each other for a few seconds longer. It was the Bau’r who put an end to the awkwardness. He cleared his throat, took a chair, moved it close to the fireplace and motioned to her to sit down. Marlene obeyed, but only after Simon Keller had sat down on the bench, with his back to the wall. It was one of the unwritten rules of maso life. Even if the Bau’r said “please,” it was an order, not a request. The Bau’r would choose the prayer before the meal, slice the speck and pour wine for his guests. The Bau’r was the first to sit down in his own home.

  Home? A maso was hard work and a curse. It was the legacy of centuries of stubbornness and perseverance, a refuge from the elements, a safe fortress in a landscape of icy death. The maso was a self-sufficient world regulated by age-old mechanisms. Only a city girl would call it a home.

  “Is there a Bäuerin I can thank?”

  “Only a man could bear to live surrounded by all this mess, don’t you think?” Keller replied in an amused tone. “The fact is, I never married, because even when I was young, women didn’t want to be Bäuerinnen anymore, just like men don’t want to be Bau’rn these days. Things were already starting to change then, and as usual women saw it a long time before us men did. But it’s fine by me. I have all I need.”

  “Doesn’t the solitude get you down? It takes great strength to bear that.”

  Mountain grammar: a question concealing a compliment.

  Keller’s chest swelled with pride. “This was my father’s maso and his father’s before him. It’s been in the family for centuries. The date 1333 is carved into one of the beams in the pigsty, but Voter Luis used to say it was older than that. It’s been destroyed many times, and the Kellers have always rebuilt it, more solid than before. The maso has always protected the Keller family, and the Keller family has always taken care of the maso.”

  “Wise words,” Marlene said.

  Keller rubbed the back of his neck, which was covered in sparse grey
hair. “They’re Voter Luis’ words, not mine. Voter Luis was a very wise man. And,” he said, getting to his feet as if he had suddenly remembered something urgent, “he was better than me, not only in his words but also in his manners.”

  He went to the cupboard and opened its doors.

  Marlene also stood up.

  Keller stopped her. “You’re strong, city girl, but you need to eat. Eat and restore your health.”

  Marlene tried to protest. “My mother didn’t raise me to be rude. Let me help you.”

  Keller left the plates and spoons for a moment, put his hands on her shoulders, and gently forced her to sit back down. “Would your mother rather have you eat or wait on an old bear like me?”

  Marlene smiled.

  He was paying her a great honour. Bau’rn didn’t serve at the table. That was a woman’s job. And what he had cooked for her was also a sign of deep respect: small, dark liver dumplings, floating in an oily broth. Liver dumplings were only prepared when there were important guests, such as the priest, the mayor, the schoolmaster. Usually, the maso diet was monotonous and far less nutritious: polenta, sauerkraut, black bread, speck, a little cheese.

  Marlene waited for Keller to sit down and bless the meal, but he did not. He took up his spoon and started eating, so Marlene did the same. It was scorching hot, but although it looked unappetising, it tasted delicious. She did not ask for a second helping. It was Keller who refilled her bowl. Marlene emptied it.

  They resumed talking only once Keller had filled his oddly shaped white meerschaum pipe with tobacco. Sated with the food, Marlene now returned to her anxieties.

  “May I ask what time it is?”

  “I usually feed the kids, then have dinner,” Keller calculated, “but today I was a bit late, so it must be around six.”

  Marlene blinked. “Kids?”

  Keller laughed and sucked at his pipe. “I mean my pigs. There also used to be cows, but only the kids are left now. That’s what I call them. Pigs are intelligent animals. They’re also very touchy and always want to eat at the same time. I try and keep them happy, otherwise they scream all night long.” He let the swirls of tobacco smoke disperse through the saturated air of the Stube. “So, yes, I’d say it must be six o’clock. Six o’clock in the evening on the Day of Our Lord.”

  Marlene felt faint. “The Day of Our L—”

  “Sunday.”

  “I’ve spent—”

  “You slept for two days.”

  Two days.

  17

  One. Two. Three.

  The captain picked up at the third ring. Wegener could hear the murmur of the television news, mixed with the evening’s domestic sounds. Isabella was washing up. He could make out her voice in the background, singing a tune.

  He did not say hello or give his name, but got straight to the point. “I need the villa’s telephone records,” he said.

  “I don’t like being disturbed at home.”

  “And I don’t like your tone. The last three months. Actually, let’s make it six.”

  The captain laughed. “Are you joking?”

  “And I need them urgently.”

  “It’s not like buying a few oranges from the greengrocer.”

  “I still don’t like your tone.”

  There was a bit of bustle as the receiver was put down on a hard surface, followed by footsteps and the sound of a door closing. The clatter of dishes stopped abruptly, and so did the singing.

  The captain came back to the telephone. “It would have to be signed off by a judge, which is a major hassle, not to mention risky. You’re well known, somebody might notice what I’m doing, and I’d have to face questions I can’t answer.”

  “It’s not a request.”

  “There are prosecutors who’d trade two years of their lives for your telephone records. Have you thought of that? And what if I get caught and these records end up in the hands of one of them?”

  “You’re not a prosecutor. Prosecutors decide. You don’t decide a fucking thing. You just have to be cleverer than they are. We’re in the same boat, Carbone. If I go down . . .”

  “That’s outside my jurisdiction.”

  “I have a name. Klaus. I want to know who he is.”

  “You’re asking me to—”

  “I told you,” Herr Wegener cut in. “It’s not a request.”

  He hung up. Irritably, he rubbed his chin. The prospect of dinner made him feel nauseous, but he dialled the internal number all the same and ordered Georg to bring him a sandwich and something sweet to drink. Peach tea, iced, with a lot of sugar. He needed energy. And coffee, please. Thank you.

  He had to stay awake. Alert. His men could call any minute, and he had to be ready. Except that nobody had called. Not yesterday, not today.

  He walked up and down, his fists in his pockets, trying to clear his mind. The Standartenführer had taught him that patience was a formidable weapon. As he paced the room, he tried to follow that advice.

  Georg knocked at the door, entered and put a plate of ham sandwiches, a pitcher of peach tea and a cup of coffee on the desk, then withdrew, shutting the door behind him.

  As he ate, Wegener spread a detailed map of South Tyrol on the desk and studied it for the umpteenth time. He had spent the whole of Sunday on that map, racking his brain, constructing theories, and had always reached the same conclusion. Marlene did not have many options.

  His instinct and his reason told him that she had fled north and not south. Marlene did not speak Italian very well, whereas in Austria or Switzerland no one would notice her accent. Austria or Switzerland. Wegener considered Switzerland, but for purely logical reasons plumped for Austria.

  The Swiss border was better protected than the Austrian one. More guards, more border posts. Marlene had no contacts who could get her across without her being subjected to a thorough check.

  Or did she?

  He was consumed with doubt. Was there another traitor working with her? A traitor who belonged to his organisation? Or maybe someone from outside? Perhaps this Klaus belonged to the competition. At the same time, Herr Wegener was tormented by the fact that there was no organisation from Neumarkt to Brenner, or from the Reschen Pass to the Puster, powerful enough to dare challenge him. Except for them.

  But they were something else.

  No, South Tyrol was his.

  There were only a few mavericks, a few gangs of blowhards, hot-heads of no importance, whom Herr Wegener tolerated. Had he underestimated them? Was Klaus one of these loudmouths who were all muscle and no brain? And how had he met Marlene? Where? When? How had he managed to seduce her? What had he promised her that he, Herr Wegener, could not buy her?

  Did she love him?

  Herr Wegener hated these questions almost as much as he hated waiting, but what he hated even more was being distracted from his thoughts. So when Georg came into his study without knocking, he let out an irritable curse.

  “You have visitors, sir,” Georg announced, out of breath. “They’ve just driven in through the gate.”

  “Why didn’t you stop them?”

  “Sir . . .” Georg was worried.

  Wegener went to the window and parted the curtains. Two cars had just parked by the front steps. Two black Mercedes, the latest model. He did not recognise any of the four men who got out, two from each car, but instantly knew the breed. Bodyguards. Athletic bodies, cautious gestures. Professionals.

  He did recognise the silver-haired man in the elegant charcoal coat who got out of the front car immediately afterwards, leaning on a cane. The man looked up and gave a sign of greeting.

  Wegener knew who he was, who had sent him and what he wanted. The only thing he did not know, and this filled him with anger, was how they had found out so quickly.

  The Consortium.

  18

  It was a rumour, a whisper.

  It was gossip, the kind you come across in every workplace. The reason for the schoolmistress’s prolonged one-to-one meeting
s with the hot-tempered headmaster. The worker who was too fond of his drink and risked having a colleague on his conscience. The good sacristan consumed by resentment. The office manager who steals. The underworld was a workplace like any other, and criminals, too, enjoyed gossip and idle chat. Only the nature of their stories was different, not the tone. They would talk about the prostitute who boasted of spending nights in a cardinal’s bed, or the doctor whose shifts coincided with a rise in the mortality rate on the wards, or the magistrate who had concealed the peccadillos committed by a degenerate son.

  And they would whisper about the Consortium.

  Whisper and keep away from it.

  Few people spoke about it openly. Fewer still wondered about its true identity. They relied on their imaginations rather than on facts. They said it was a branch of the C.I.A. or a vestige of the Stille Hilfe, the S.S. veterans’ association, which had turned into a criminal organisation. There was talk of entire boards of directors of banks being involved, as well as members of the government and other high-ranking politicians. Why not aliens? Wegener had wondered with a sneer the first time this rumour had reached his ears.

  Still, the Standartenführer had not believed in the Bogeyman, and Bogeymen had dismantled his Reich piece by piece, to the sound of gunfire and TNT Which meant that it was wise never to underestimate a legend. So he had begun to investigate. Especially since, so they said, the Consortium considered South Tyrol – his patch – a free zone to be exploited at will, without the need to ask anybody’s permission. And this Wegener found intolerable.

  It had taken him three years to get to the bottom of the mystery, and he had been astounded by what he had discovered. Not only did the Consortium really exist, but it wasn’t a criminal organisation in the sense Herr Wegener had experienced until then. The Consortium was a fierce, living entity.

  He was thrilled.

  The Dragon did exist, and he wanted to ride it, but even if only half of what he had unearthed was true, what was someone like him to the Consortium? A bug, to be squashed underfoot without a second thought. For all his villa, his properties in the Dolomites, his beautiful wife, his loyal men, his weapons, his safe-deposit boxes crammed with notes in three different banks in three different countries, Herr Wegener was nothing compared with the Consortium.