“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“Why ever not?” Keller said, stuffing tobacco into his pipe. “He’s a reasonable man.”
Marlene blinked. “Reasonable?”
“We talked. He understood. He’s a good man. He wishes you well in your new life.”
Marlene felt her legs give way beneath her. She did not so much sit down as sink. “I can’t . . .”
“You can’t believe it?”
“He . . .”
Keller looked at her with his piercing eyes. “Or is it just that you don’t want to believe it?”
That was indeed the crux of the matter.
Herr Wegener, the Herr Wegener she knew, had never given anybody a second chance. Giving someone a second chance, he would say, was like shooting yourself in the foot. And yet Simon Keller was right here in front of her, alive. He had brought her a slice of Sachertorte. If Herr Wegener had not agreed to the exchange, then Moritz would be here instead of Keller or else Georg. Or Wegener in person. Not with a slice of cake but a gun.
Unless . . .
Marlene looked up at Keller, who was smoking his meerschaum pipe and studying her.
A murder.
Like the killing of Voter Luis. Not murder. Justice.
Could killing Herr Wegener be considered another act of justice?
“What’s that nice smell?” Keller said.
Marlene stood up. “Barley soup. I hope it’s good.”
It was.
They ate, and after the meal Marlene prepared poppy tea. Keller accepted it gratefully. They laughed and joked the whole time while having dinner. Keller told her about the shop windows, the dummies dressed in clothes that had left him speechless, and Marlene laughed with him at his naivety – although the correct word was “innocence.”
Murder. Two murders.
Justice.
Revenge.
Could an innocent man be guilty? That was a question she could not answer. Because the question itself was wrong. The right question had been asked by Simon Keller: “Or is it just that you don’t want to believe it?”
That was the crux of the matter. Either you had faith or you didn’t. There were no half-measures.
Marlene split the slice of cake in two, but Keller declined.
He just had a glass of spirits to warm his bones. He did not offer her any. Pregnant women were not supposed to drink alcohol. Marlene could allow herself beer, but only stout, and only while breastfeeding. It was written in one of the old Bibles. Stout helped women produce milk.
Keller seemed happy and excited. “I have some money,” he suddenly said. “It’s not much, but I can give it to you.”
“I could never accept.”
“It’s not for you. It’s for your son.”
“You’ve already done so much for us.”
“You don’t like accepting money, I can understand that.” Keller touched the shirt Marlene had made for him. “Then let’s just call it payment. I’ve never had such nice clothes. Nicer than the ones in town. It costs a lot to raise a child. Modern children are even more of a commitment. That’s the way it is. They need toys. A feather bed with cotton sheets. An apartment with electricity and central heating. Breathing chimney smoke isn’t good for them. And books. Lots of books. Children must read a lot. And they need medicines and . . .” He broke off with a sigh and smiled. “All that costs a great deal.”
Marlene placed a hand on her belly. You couldn’t see it yet but she could feel herself growing a little bigger every day. Maybe I won’t call you Klaus, she thought.
“Simon’s a beautiful name,” she said.
64
Keller still had his clothes on. He had been so exhausted, he hadn’t had the energy to take them off. He had only removed his boots and undone the top button of his white shirt.
He was lying on the bed, beneath the blankets, eyes closed, jaw clenched. The poppy was starting to take effect. He could feel his muscles relax. The pain was easing off.
Marlene’s words had touched him deeply. In the dark, he pictured her child’s face. A little boy with his mother’s blue eyes and his father’s strong-willed chin. And, of course, the beauty spot.
Half asleep, Keller smiled. Of course, the beauty spot: identical to the bloodstain on Elisabeth’s face. The beginning and end of the mystery-filled circle that was his life. One that started with Elisabeth’s blood and ended with Wegener’s.
And so: redemption.
He imagined taking the little boy by the hand. A beautiful, lively child with scores of questions demanding answers. Why do marmots sleep so long? And what do they dream about all winter? He pictured taking him sledging. Teaching him about herbs: devil’s claw, willow bark, larch bark. Watching him rolling around in the snow and doing somersaults. Buying wool and learning to knit in order to give him a scarf as a gift.
Keller drifted closer to sleep.
Obviously, a child couldn’t live up here, in the maso. It was too cold, too solitary. He would get ill. Besides, it was important for children to go to school. He himself had never been. Voter Luis had taught him to read, write and do sums, but those were different times. Education was essential. Moreover, it was important for children to learn to be with others. Life took place in towns these days, side by side with other people. It was important to get used to that. Marlene’s son might even go to university. Become a doctor, who could say?
The boy could come and see him in the summer, during the holidays. Why not? In the summer, the air was clean and good for the lungs. The smog in towns was harmful to children and made them weak. Spending time in the fields would strengthen him. Plus, the nights up here were not as stiflingly hot as they were down there.
The little girl on the bus had called him Opa. Grandpa. Opa Simon: he liked the sound of it. He imagined the boy calling him Opa.
He imagined buying a couple of hens and a cow. Top-quality eggs for breakfast and milk and sugar to help the boy grow healthy. Yes, it was a good idea.
His heart was at peace.
For him, it was a strange feeling.
Shortly before the darkness wrapped itself around him like a soothing blanket, just as his mind was plunging into oblivion, he heard the Voice. It was teasing him.
Do you really believe that a new outfit can change anything?
65
The villa was all lit up.
The carabiniere by the door had never felt so cold in his life. He wasn’t used to it and doubted he ever would he. He hated the cold, and he was in a foul mood. He had been here for ages. Surely the captain should have finished by now. Instead of which, Carbone had sent away the officers who were supposed to remove the body and had ensconced himself in the villa as if he never meant to come out again. He had said he needed to think. When the examining magistrate had asked him to let him get on with his work, he had hurled insults at him. Furious, the magistrate had left.
The young carabiniere had been serving under Carbone for almost a year and, all things considered, he thought he was a good chief. He did not demand any more from his men than he was willing to do himself. If work ran over, he would immediately take the heaviest tasks upon himself and would be the last one to go home.
There were rumours about the captain, that he was in cahoots with some shifty characters, and a couple of times the young carabiniere had actually seen odd individuals go into his office, people who were clearly Secret Service. Still, the young man did not believe most of these rumours. Besides, Carbone not only always enquired after his parents, he had never refused him leave.
But tonight Carbone looked scared. He had given orders that made no sense and had even been rude to the examining magistrate.
The car drew up, almost splashing the young carabiniere with melted snow and mud. He stepped forward to protest. The man who got out looked like an actor. A Hollywood actor, though he could not remember the name.
Somebody famous, anyway.
66
The stench of stale cigarette smoke in t
he air, and, beneath it, the smell of blood.
The Trusted Man looked down at Wegener, lying on his back on the floor. He was puzzled by the expression on his face. He saw fear in it (and who wasn’t afraid when faced with death?), but there was something else. He stood there for a long time, thinking, while the pale young carabiniere stood at the door and Carbone smoked one cigarette after the other.
The Trusted Man got down on one knee, taking care to avoid the pool of congealed blood. Wegener had not even tried to defend himself. The gun lay there, loaded and with the safety catch off. He could have used it, could have reacted. But he had not done so.
The Trusted Man stood up. He tried to picture the dynamics of the murder.
Georg, Wegener’s bodyguard, had been killed in the garden. The carabinieri had found his body in the snow-covered bushes. He had not died immediately, but had evidently taken a while to bleed to death. A rushed job, Captain Carbone said. The Trusted Man disagreed.
Whoever had killed Georg had sliced his jugular with a single cut. The blade must have been big and sharp, at least thirty centimetres long, something like a hunting knife. The killer had not been hasty, he had been thorough. He had come in through the front door, gone up the stairs and into Wegener’s bedroom. A tall, well-built man. There was a footprint in the pool of blood. A size forty-five mountain boot.
Not a vixen. Not a ferret. Something larger.
The Trusted Man went to the bookshelf, pulled out a couple of volumes of the Treccani Encyclopaedia and put them on the floor. Then he took the young carabiniere by the arm and made him stand in front of him, about an arm’s length away.
He stood up on the books. “How tall are you?”
The young carabiniere looked first at the Trusted Man, then at Carbone, who signalled to him to answer.
“One metre seventy-five.”
More or less the same as Wegener.
The Trusted Man added two more volumes of the encyclopaedia and once again stepped up onto the pile. Now he was towering over the carabiniere. He reached down, took a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his uniform and quickly ran it under the carabiniere’s throat.
The young man jerked back.
“Keep still.”
“You—”
“Do as you’re told.”
The carabiniere got back into position.
The Trusted Man added one more volume and repeated the action. The young carabiniere held his breath when he felt the point of the pen dragged across his Adam’s apple.
“Thank you. You can go.”
Relieved, the carabiniere took his pen and left the room.
“Our friend,” the Trusted Man said, “is no doe. She’s a vixen with many friends: a ferret and now . . . this is a different animal.”
Carbone studied the Trusted Man’s face intently. “What are you talking about?”
“A wolf. I think it was a wolf.”
The captain took a step back. “Can’t you see he’s been stabbed? Do you really think a wolf could have . . .”
The Trusted Man smiled. “I know, there are no wolves in South Tyrol.”
“And you know wolves can’t stab.”
“Ah, but this is a special wolf. One metre ninety, I think. Strong, with a firm hand. It’s a clean cut. No second thoughts, no hesitation. An irreversible act.”
“Maybe a Consortium man,” Carbone said in a low voice.
“In that case, why didn’t he use a gun?”
Carbone shrugged. “Strange business, don’t you think?”
“Why didn’t Wegener defend himself?”
“He was taken by surprise.”
The Trusted Man pointed to the space between the body and the door. “Six metres. The gun was loaded and the safety catch was off. Even if the killer had started running, Wegener would have had plenty of time to fill him with lead.”
Carbone lit his umpteenth cigarette and shook his head. “None of this makes any sense.”
“Have you looked at him carefully?”
“I was here for three hours before you deigned to arrive,” the captain snapped back.
“Look into his eyes. What do you see?”
“Fear. Death. Nothing. What do you expect to see in the eyes of a corpse?”
“Relief. Wegener had been expecting death for a long time.”
This startled the captain. “You think he knew the killer?”
“Not the killer. Death.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Wegener was a son of a bitch, and believe me, there’ll be a lot of us celebrating.”
The Trusted Man jabbed two fingers at Carbone’s chest. “I had a connection with this man, don’t you understand that? A very strong connection. There are some things I won’t allow you to say in my presence.”
Carbone let the cigarette slip from his fingers.
The Trusted Man was upset. The veins on his neck stood out, and he looked pale and drawn.
Good God, the captain thought, it’s as if an actual friend of his has died.
“Wegener’s death changes nothing,” the Trusted Man said. “Until I tell you otherwise, you’ll continue to report to me and me alone. Is that clear?”
Captain Carbone had been involved in five separate shootouts. He had once been grazed by a bullet. He had trampled over guilty and innocent men alike. He had lied to magistrates and to his own conscience. He had never experienced such terror before. “Of course.”
“Marlene is still out there. Somewhere. I know it. And she’s scared.”
“How can you tell?”
“If she’s behind this, it means she’s scared. And if she’s scared it means she knows she can be found. She’s still out there.”
“Where?”
“It’s never a matter of where. Trust me, it’s merely a matter of when.”
67
One week. Seven days of keeping the maso tidy, making clothes for Simon Keller, preparing meals, feeding the pigs. Breathing. It was as if Marlene had been living in limbo up till now. It was not just the mountain air, it was Keller’s words.
For the first time in her life, Marlene was not thinking of the past and was not worrying about the future. She was living in the present, the here and now. Her major concern was giving the pigs the correct mix of feed, preparing the wood for the stove and the infusions to ease Simon Keller’s pain. Making sure he got enough rest. Telling him off, gently, when he went out hunting. Then, she thought, once he had regained his strength, she would ask him to take her to the village, say goodbye to him (goodbye, not farewell) and see what fate had in store for her.
Marlene was no fool. She knew Simon Keller had lied to her, she knew he had killed Wegener. That was the only reason the two of them – the three of them, actually – were still alive.
God alone knew what was going on in town. She pictured carabinieri and police drinking a toast to her husband’s death and doing the absolute minimum to bring his killer to justice. Wegener had been hated, and men who are hated seldom receive justice. She imagined Georg and Moritz swiping gold and valuables from the villa on the Passer to sell on the black market. And no doubt looking for new employers to whom they could offer their talent for violence.
The cars auctioned off. The villa sold. The boutique, too.
What about Gabriel? She tried to picture him happy. She was fond of him.
Wegener had died the way he had lived: violently. And in killing him, Simon Keller had not just protected her and her child. He had saved an untold number of her husband’s future victims. Was that crazy?
No, it was right.
She kept repeating it to herself every day. It was not a murder, it was justice. It was not wrong, it was right. Marlene was sick and tired of feeling she was in the wrong.
And she remained happy all week.
68
Not Keller, though. No, he was unwell. Very unwell.
He did his best to stop Marlene from noticing. He made jokes, expressed delight at the sunshine outside and stood as still as a
scarecrow as the young woman with blue eyes (and the beauty spot at the end of her smile) measured his neck, chest and arms for new clothes. Later, once the night took control of his thoughts, and hiding them became more painful than the vice around his knee, he smoked his meerschaum pipe, looking blissful and praising the cook for a delicious dinner.
It was all a lie.
Keller kept hearing the Voice. It was ever more insistent. In the dark, its call was so loud that it drowned out every other thought. As he lay curled up in bed, his hands over his ears, trembling, it would make him dribble like a baby. When the Voice started screaming, he would put his trouser belt between his teeth and bite down on it to stop himself from crying out. He did not want Marlene to hear.
The Voice would insult him, flatter him, threaten him.
Sometimes it would whisper.
Of course, it was asking for just one thing, always the same thing. Blood.
It was his duty, the Voice kept saying, his duty to kill. The Voice never said it explicitly, but Keller knew perfectly well whose lives had to be cut short.
Marlene. And the child she was carrying.
That would never happen. He would never do it. He couldn’t do it. It wasn’t right. He didn’t want to. In shedding Wegener’s blood, he had closed the circle, and now he had plans, hopes.
The Voice would not let him go.
During that week’s anguish-filled nights, Keller clung to the image of a boy with Marlene’s blue eyes and his father’s chin. He wanted to see him grow healthy, strong, sturdy. He would teach him about herbs, build him a sledge. They would look at the starry sky together, and he would tell him that the universe teems with mysteries but also with miracles and springtimes.
He wanted to hear the boy him call him “Opa Simon.”
But the Voice was as unstoppable as an avalanche during a thaw. And so, crushed between the crude reality of that call and the imagined serenity he would offer Marlene, Keller had come up with a kind of compromise and put it into practice.
He had taken the rifle and gone hunting in the woods, for the Voice. He would kill animals. Blood for blood. A life for a life. Just as it was written.
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