A Few Drops of Blood (27 page)

Pity, she thought. And unfortunate, because from here on Ernesto appeared to be her problem.

In the afternoon, Natalia drove to the police firing range and knocked down twenty out of twenty targets on the live fire range and then did target firing for an hour.

Returning to Casanova, she cleaned her two pistols and reloaded the four magazines. Then went to Dr. Agari for the official ruling on the cause of Tina Gracci’s death.

“Suicide,” Francesca said. “No surprise there.”

“I can’t thank you enough for your help yesterday,” Natalia said.

Francesca gave her a long, hard look.

“Job getting to you?”

“You could say that.”

“I’ve been there. More than once. Mind if I say something?”

“Of course not.”

“A few years ago I had to see a therapist. I don’t usually tell people this. I’m tough, you know? But I am human. First you get sick seeing people eviscerated. Then you grow numb. I’m not sure which is worse. Talk to someone. Take a day off. See a friend. You’ll be surprised. The world won’t come to an end.”

“Yes.”

“And listen, if something funny is going on in a case, come to me, okay? We’ve all been there. The men cover each other’s backs. We should do the same, yes?”

When Natalia got home, she found Pino sitting on the floor of the balcony by a large potted plant, his head buried in his arms.

“You all right?”

“No,” he said.

She found a bottle of Chivas in the back of the cupboard and got down the two cut-crystal glasses she owned. She brought everything out to the little terrace and poured out two stiff ones. They sat beside one another not talking. Pino knocked back his. She sipped.

“I’m sorry I got you into this.”

“Yeah, well. It’s done. Some of it was just my job.”

“I’m hoping Tina’s mother surrenders the gun tomorrow,” Pino said.

“Me, too.”

She poured him a second round and splashed some in her glass, too.

“I need you to do something, no questions asked, Pino.”

“Like what?”

“Go to your Uncle Ricci. Stay there for a while.”

“Go when?”

“Tonight. Take the late train. Keep off your mobile phone.”

“You’ll tell me why someday?”

“Someday, sure.”

“I can’t. I just can’t right now.”

“Pino, please. Listen to me.”

“No,” he said, and with that he rose and left.

Rain pooled in the cracks of the black stone. Blessed rain, Natalia thought. She hadn’t bothered with an umbrella, and the light drizzle felt refreshing. She turned her face upward, “catching blessings” as her grandmother called it. She passed the Teresa Calfonieri School. She could hear the girls reciting their sums. No doubt impatient for lunch, to be free of the classroom, of the day’s lessons as she and Mariel and Lola had once been. And itching to grow up, so that their real lives could begin.

They didn’t realize that their lives were already fully underway or that, for many, these school days might be the best life would offer. Before they were weighted down by men and screaming infants or careers.

“Did you ever consider using an umbrella?” Francesca said as she opened the door and welcomed her colleague. Natalia shook the water from her curls and slid in. The silver Miata was sleek and small.

“How do you get your long legs into such a tiny car?” Natalia said.

“Vanity. Last year I needed some cheering up. I’ll spare you the details. And this baby just stole my heart. Problem with an engine? Take it to a mechanic. With a man?”

They laughed.

Natalia had to admit it was a thrill to zoom along the waterfront in such a snazzy car.

Antonella Cavazza, waiting for them at the entrance to her mansion, reminded Natalia of a heron. She waited while Francesca parked, then shared her large black umbrella with Natalia as the three women walked together slowly up the driveway of her mansion. Francesca led the way, her taupe umbrella flecked with gold moons.

Not only that, she had a pair of stylish rain boots—with heels. Natalia could feel the water squishing into her flats. The countess did her best to avoid the puddles and keep the cuffs of her black capris dry.

“This is such a treat for me that you took time from your busy schedule to come out. I’m sorry for the foul weather.”

“How cute!” Francesca said.

Two amber-colored kittens tumbled from the bushes.

“Looking for me to feed them,” the countess said. “I’ll bring them something after we dry off. I don’t know what I’d do without them. I depend on them as they do on me. They say cats aren’t loyal. Not true. They are my babies. Can you imagine? During the war the
scugnuzzi
hunted them down and killed them. The same street urchins also stole petrol from the Allies, soaked rags in it, tied them to bats they’d trapped, set them ablaze and let them fly. It looked like fireworks going on all over the city. Come, we’re going to get soaked if we stay out here.”

There were three places set at one end of a long dining
table. A wine-colored damask cloth covered it. Two vases of wildflowers—purples and reds. The
contessa
insisted Natalia dry herself with a large fluffy towel. She even provided a pair of jeweled flip flops. “A gift,” she insisted. “I probably have ten pair. What do I need with ten pairs? Come, get comfortable.”

The maid brought in platters of grilled sardine. Then
pasta al forno
and a basket of
focaccia
just out of the oven.

“This is amazing, Nella. You went to too much trouble.”

“Nonsense, Francesca. I always feed myself very well. And I like to extend that civility, if you will, to those I care about. I never take it for granted—the privilege of being fed. During the war, all we thought about was food,” she said as they served themselves. “And I was one of the fortunate ones. But I never take the next meal for granted. We had a handyman. A lovely man, part of the family, you might say. He contracted TB. And it was too dangerous to take him for medical help. He survived the winter. In the spring he was a living skeleton. I asked if there was anything he wanted, anything I could bring him. And you know what he wanted? Cherries. We had several trees on the property—gorgeous things. I prepared a basket for him and brought it to his room. He was able to eat at most half a dozen. The next week he was dead.”

Francesca passed the bread to Natalia. Through an open window they could hear the rain’s gentle patter.

“I made a conscious decision then that life was too short to waste being miserable,” the countess continued. “At least personally. But then can we will ourselves to be happy? Foolish to use the term ‘happy’ perhaps. Accepting might be a better term. Everything passes—good and bad. I understand your case is officially closed?”

“Not yet,” Natalia said. “For the moment we seem to have reached a dead end.”

“Funny how things seem to be at an end when you don’t even realize it. And then when you think they are, well … they never are—not entirely. Case in point—the war. Am I going on too much?”

“Not at all,” Francesca said. “Please.”

“All right. At the end—but we didn’t yet know it was the end and weren’t sure we would survive to see it—the Germans were desperate. They killed innocent people, children included. Rape was the norm, if you can imagine such a thing. Change your mind yet?”

“No,” Natalia said. “Please. Go on.”

“They burned farms. Slaughtered innocent people. But every afternoon without fail I read to a group of neighborhood children in our garden. I was determined to have something of ordinary life, something beautiful.”

“I never knew that,” Francesca said. “How brave.”

“Brave? I don’t know. Forgive me for saying it, but I worry about you girls. The kinds of things you are exposed to. I suppose the work is interesting.”

“That it is,” Natalia said.

“Fascinating, actually.” Francesca took a sip of wine.

“Not morbid?” the countess asked.

“That most definitely,” Francesca laughed.

“Not my business, but do you have boyfriends, if they still use that term?”

“I do, but I suspect I won’t much longer,” Natalia said. “Not the present one anyway. I can’t speak for my colleague.”

“I’m between boyfriends.” Francesca dabbed her mouth with a linen cloth and pushed back from the table. “This is fantastic, Nella, but I’m afraid I have to eat and run. I’ll come back when I can spend more time.”

“On Saturday? No time for coffee?”

“Afraid not. Barbaric, isn’t it? I have to check on
something at the morgue. Never a dull moment.” She kissed the countess’s head. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“What about you?” she asked Natalia as the maid saw Francesca out.

“I’m in no rush.”

“Terrific. I’ll have my driver run you home.”

“That’s not necessary,” Natalia said.

“No, absolutely. I insist. I’m so glad I haven’t bored you. Plus I have these terrific
dolci
. I hope you like caramel. They make them for me specially.”

The women repaired to the living room for coffee.

“This is nice. Having female company. Don’t misunderstand me—my husband was a wonderful man—he understood me. But one advantage—perhaps the only advantage of being a widow, I’ve found—is that I can do what I want to do, when I desire. Quite a luxury. No one to answer to. It almost, but doesn’t quite, make up for the loneliness.”

“Gianni Scavullo was captured,” Natalia said, suddenly changing gear. “You didn’t mention that when I spoke with you about Cantalupo.”

“Only because I didn’t think it was relevant. Yes. Papa saved him from arrest. It was sheer bravado. He shamed the Germans into releasing him, protesting that he was just a boy. But the Gestapo grew suspicious of my father and took him for interrogation.”

“Painful memories,” Natalia said.

“Yes, they are.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I am not as fragile as I may appear.”

“They imprisoned him on information provided by another local, a dedicated fascist named Lattaruzzo,” Natalia continued.

The
contessa
didn’t immediately respond, merely sat thinking.

Natalia said, “According to Vincente’s unpublished manuscript, your land holdings were confiscated and awarded to the Lattaruzzos. You were evicted, alone, at fourteen.”

“Yes.”

“But you survived.”

“I was among the fortunate. I was provided a roof over my head, flour and eggs.”

“You had the protection of the Resistance,” said Natalia.

“In the form of the Scavullos. Yes. My father had saved Gianni Scavullo. The family in turn risked all to try and rescue my father. But they couldn’t.” She put aside her tea. “My father was a man of principle. There weren’t many such men left in our world then. The times made for odd alliances—communists, democrats, monarchists, liberals, devout Catholics, clerics, Sicilian mafia, and of course, Camorra.”

“That’s a partnership hard to imagine,” Natalia said.

“Believe me, if it hadn’t been for
camorristi
like the Scavullos or libertarians like Papa, we would still be giving the fascist salute and celebrating Il Duce’s birthday.”

“Might Ernesto Scavullo have been avenging your father in killing Vincente Lattaruzzo and the other unfortunate man?”

“I can’t imagine … certainly not on my account.” She paused mid-breath, visibly distraught. “When I was young, I dwelled on revenge. At that age, you think you are powerful and obligated by family. Time eroded my pain and the anger. The actual culprit is long dead. I grew up. I met a man I loved.” She sipped her water glass. “Vincente wasn’t even born yet.”

“Were you aware Vincente Lattaruzzo intended to
include some of his family’s history in his book on the war—his grandfather’s fascism, the help from the Camorra you and your mother received after the Armistice that paid for your farm’s restoration?”

“No.”

“He was given to sensationalizing. He even included the story of your father’s betrayal by his own grandfather. Also your meeting him, all these years later … and your long-standing relationship with the Scavullos. The loan of funds back in the 40s, invitations you accepted to their weddings and christenings, your faithful visits to Don Gianni Scavullo in prison twice every year of his imprisonment.”

“They were close—Gianni and Father. I felt indebted and grateful.”

“I understand, but would you have wanted that made public? The media in your driveway, tabloids railing about your family’s ties to the Naples underworld?”

The
contessa
sighed and sat back. “I see your point. You think Gianni Scavullo may have exacted retribution for the sins of a previous generation, ordered Vincente Lattaruzzo and his companion delivered by his son’s associates to my garden like … a trophy?”

“Something like that. Possibly, yes.”

“And all along I’ve taken it as a heinous crime committed by someone with a deep hatred of homosexuals, a sociopath. Or a deranged lover cast aside. But Gianni Scavullo?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe that.”

“Ernesto qualifies as both homophobic and brutal, I assure you,” Natalia said.

“A blood debt repaid. Well …” Countess Antonella Cavazza looked away. “But it’s true. The war did things to us. Inhuman things.” She suddenly stood. “A blood debt,” she repeated. “Crushing, if true. I’ll confess something:
When Vincente appeared at the museum board, the past came rushing back. I could barely stay in the same room with him. I thought God was taunting me. Yet he was so young, completely charming.” She recovered her glass and took a sip. “Upset as I was, I felt no anger toward him. He had no responsibility for his grandfather’s deeds, after all. If you live long enough, you find the soul itself becomes a kind of palimpsest … the distant past, shimmery and vague.”

Natalia turned onto Arcangelo a Baiano. A third of the way up the block, one of the men from the social club got off his chair and sauntered up the street behind her. The lookout. Checking on where she was going, who she was talking to. And reporting it to the next in the chain of command.

Someone was playing “Polvere di Stelle” in the apartment below Tina’s parents’ flat. The vinyl was scratched, but the voice was unmistakable: Hoagy Carmichael. A legacy that remained decades after the Americans were long gone.