The Sleeping Nymph, page 10
Massimo leaned on his desk.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s what I heard from a colleague who was on watch duty. He heard the district attorney complaining on the phone to someone. Someone important, judging by his tone. Superintendent Battaglia must have served him one of her put-downs.”
Massimo muttered a curse.
“She just can’t keep her mouth shut,” he said.
He made for the door, then changed his mind and turned around.
“What’s their history?” he asked. “Why all the hostility?”
His colleagues exchanged a look.
“We don’t know. Nobody knows, but feel free to call it hatred, because that’s what it is,” said de Carli.
One glance at them both, and Massimo knew they were lying. As usual, they were forming their protective barrier around her, and he was back to being the new guy who mustn’t be let in.
“You’ll have to tell me eventually,” he said. “You’ll have to tell me what happened to her.”
“Don’t you think that maybe she has a right to tell you herself?” said de Carli.
“Yes, and that’s why I’m going to go and look for her now.”
Parisi threw an envelope at him, which Massimo caught midair.
“What’s this?”
“News on the Sleeping Nymph case.”
Massimo didn’t open it. He would let the superintendent do it, as was her right.
“Did you find a witness?” he asked.
“No one who’s still alive, though I’m not giving up yet. But meanwhile, I’ve found something just as good.”
“And what’s that?”
“The parish priest of the town in Slovenia where Andrian was found.”
“The priest?”
“Why are you so surprised?”
“Well, what’s the priest got to do with Andrian? Was he there?”
“He wasn’t, but his predecessor, Father Jakob, was.”
“Is this Father Jakob still alive?”
“No, he’s dead.”
“Please tell me he’s left something behind.”
Parisi stretched his arms, looking pleased with himself.
“Yes, he’s left something behind.”
Massimo rushed out of the office but quickly stopped in his tracks.
Albert Lona was standing in the middle of the hallway, watching him. He looked as if he had been waiting for him. When Massimo walked up to him, Lona extended a hand in greeting.
“Inspector Marini, we finally meet.”
Massimo returned the handshake. The district attorney’s grip was firm but not as aggressive as Massimo had expected. He had all the appearance of a perfectly courteous man, with nothing about him to suggest otherwise. And yet Massimo’s instinct was to draw his hand back as quickly as he could.
“Doctor Lona,” he replied in acknowledgment.
“I regret that we haven’t yet had time to arrange a formal meeting, but as you will imagine, the circumstances of my presence here are somewhat unusual. I understand you are in Superintendent Battaglia’s team and that you are working with Deputy Prosecutor Gardini on the case of the bloodied portrait.”
Massimo wasn’t fond of vague approximations. The portrait wasn’t “bloodied.” It had been painted with blood. There was a difference—in intent, in psychological profile, in the sequence of events that had led to the final result, and even in its aftermath. But he simply nodded.
“Very good,” said Lona, speaking slowly.
He was studying Marini without even bothering to hide it. Then, placing a solicitous hand on Marini’s arm, he led him on a walk.
“Did you know that Superintendent Battaglia and I joined the force at the same time?” he began. “We were . . . friends. After all these years, I’m astonished to find her still here, exactly where she started. I suppose one must bear in mind she has a rather difficult temper, as you will have gathered already. You will concur, I am sure, that for those who fail to demonstrate the right kind of attitude, any slip can be ruinous.”
Lona stopped walking and gave him a friendly smile.
“I hope I shall find in you a more amenable interlocutor than Superintendent Battaglia. That, I think, would be to everybody’s benefit.”
Massimo detected the implied threat in what appeared a mere suggestion. This man was dangerous.
“I’ll keep you informed on how the investigation develops,” he replied.
Lona nodded, showing no trace of surprise.
“I’m counting on it, Inspector Marini. And is there any news yet?”
He glanced at the envelope Marini was still holding.
“No. No news.”
Lona checked the time.
“Then let me know as soon as you have any.”
He walked away. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air: the scent of a predator, a hunter whose methods were sophisticated, who knew how to conceal his true nature, how to seduce and reassure his prey before he tore it apart.
He realized he had just lied to a superior. He had never imagined he could. He felt breathless, his heart racing. He was afraid, but not for himself: for her.
“One more thing, Inspector,” said Lona, who had walked a few steps back in the meantime. “I have been thinking of initiating a disciplinary review of Superintendent Battaglia’s work. and I may require your take on things, too. The superintendent seems a little . . . lost. Wouldn’t you say?”
Lona didn’t wait for Massimo to reply, which was just as well; he wouldn’t have known how to answer.
21
Frank Sinatra sang “Fly Me to the Moon” while the skillful, harmonious notes of Count Basie’s orchestra twirled through the air. The multicolored shimmer of 1960s dance floors was transformed into music and sound.
Teresa opened one eye, then the other. Sunlight had flooded the room and was striking her face. She had been woken up by a persistent noise, and it certainly wasn’t Frank’s baritone. She sat up and pushed her blanket aside. Her body had left a hollow in the couch.
The doorbell rang again.
Teresa got up, confused. The CD kept spinning inside her stereo, the lights were still on from the night before and she had no recollection of how she’d gotten home. She was still drowsy, and it took her a few moments to work out what time it was.
“Shit.”
She looked around. Her house keys were on the coffee table next to the sofa, her bag was hanging on its hook and there were her shoes, side by side near the door. There was a receipt from a taxi company on the shelf in the hallway. She checked the date and time on it. So that was how she’d gotten home.
Someone banged on the door. The doorbell rang again. Teresa tightened the belt on her kimono and opened the door.
Marini turned around, one foot already on the step that led back down to the street. With one hand in his pocket, his jacket hanging off a shoulder and wearing a silk tie, he seemed attuned to the music playing in the background. There was an old-school elegance about him.
He was looking at her now as if he were seeing her for the first time. Teresa could imagine what he must be thinking, just as she could picture how she must look, with her hair in disarray and the shape of the blanket still imprinted on her face. And finally her dressing gown, which just about covered her knees.
“Never seen a kimono before, Inspector?” she queried, leaning on the door frame.
He looked away in embarrassment.
“I was concerned,” he said. “While you were asleep—”
“Careful with that sarcasm, now.”
Massimo crossed his arms and looked up at the sky, doing anything he could to avoid looking at her.
“While you were asleep,” he resumed, “Doctor Lona came to me to make sure I knew whose side I should be on, and he wasn’t too subtle about it. He threatened you, too: he’s planning to put you under disciplinary investigation.”
Teresa remained expressionless, but beneath the surface, she was in turmoil. She had been expecting an attack, but not quite so soon. Albert’s ascent to the top of the hierarchical pecking order had made him more ruthless.
“What did he tell you?” she asked.
Marini finally looked at her.
“About your history with him? Nothing, if that’s what you’re worried about. And I can see that it is. Aren’t you going to ask me whether or not I plan to take him up on his offer?”
Teresa could feel herself smiling, even though her life had just become infinitely more complicated in a way she’d never expected it to again.
“I don’t need to ask, Inspector,” she replied.
Marini’s face lit up. He waved an envelope at her.
“What’s this?” Teresa asked.
“News from 1945, Superintendent. Now, would you please get dressed? This is really disturbing.”
Bovec. Plezzo. Flitsch.
Three names in three different languages—Slovenian, Italian and German—all referring to the same spot ensconced in the Alps, the meeting point of three nations, where a step in any direction could lead you across a border. The past was a heavy burden on this land and was said to have warped the very nature of those who lived on it. Too many conquering armies had come and gone for the DNA of its people not to bear the traces of ancient wounds.
Teresa saw that on the surface, those wounds were invisible. The astonishing beauty of the natural landscape in which the town was immersed—the Triglav reserve—had eluded any kind of change for thousands of years. The word Triglav meant “three horns”: the high valley was encircled to the north, east and south by majestic peaks of bare, razor-sharp rock that soared high over lush forests of shimmering green. Through it flowed the river Soča, believed by some to be the most charming in Europe: its turquoise-streaked waters had carved through the limestone, coiling their way into tunnel formations and emerging as iridescent waterfalls and pristine springs.
On the grassy meadows that flanked the road to Bovec, they could see homes typical for rural Slovenia, with pitched roofs, flowerpots hanging from the attic and wooden balconies.
Marini was driving with one hand on the steering wheel and the other hanging outside the window, letting the wind run through his fingers. He gestured at the houses.
“Very picturesque,” he remarked.
“They’re called zidanice.”
“What does it say on those signs?”
“That the owners have vegetables, slivovitz and honey to sell. Others announce they have sobe to rent out to tourists—little rooms converted from attics or added as extensions to the backs of people’s homes, often with rather quaint designs. During the communist era, having a soba at their disposal could mean for some families the difference between not having enough to eat and being able to conduct a dignified existence.”
They arrived in Bovec, a little town of no more than two thousand souls, which nevertheless seemed remarkably busy with visitors, particularly those who had come to do some trekking or white-water rafting. Marini parked outside a gostilna with its traditional outdoor rotisserie already spinning on its axis. They could see the church tower a few streets down.
They climbed out of the car and Teresa stretched her back, twisting left and right. The mountains were a silent yet powerful draw for her thoughts; she asked herself where Andrian might have come from that day—which trails his feet might have stepped over, which vistas may have unfurled before his unseeing eyes.
“Dobrodošli. Superintendent Battaglia?”
Teresa turned around. There was a priest across the road, sitting astride a mountain bike and staring at her. He had rolled up and clipped his robe over his muscular calves. Brightly colored tennis shoes adorned his feet, and he was wearing his hair in a stylish coif. He looked young and tanned.
“That’s me,” she replied. “Father Georg?”
The priest’s face glowed with a warm smile.
“Yes. Good morning. In case you’re wondering how I knew it was you, there’s quite an interesting selection of images on Google,” he said, showing them his mobile phone.
“I’m not particularly photogenic.”
“I beg to differ. Follow me; the rectory is back here.”
Inside the church it was cool and shady, and there was a smell of beeswax. Teresa could just picture some old lady from the village spending hours and hours polishing pews in that compact nave decorated with sprigs of daisies and ears of grain. A handful of ancient and rather bleak paintings hung on the walls, depicting saints and martyrs wearing melancholy expressions.
Father Georg knelt and crossed himself before the altar.
Teresa and Marini waited behind him, standing straight.
The priest remained in that position for a few moments, head bowed, then got up and motioned at them to follow him.
“This way,” he said.
They entered a room adjoining the pulpit, a storeroom with a bench, a coat rack and several photographs of Pope John Paul II on the walls.
“He’s still very popular here,” he explained, noticing Teresa’s glance. “Though the new one’s got plenty of fans, too.”
Teresa smiled.
“I confess I’m not much of a believer,” she declared.
He looked at her.
“So what do you lean on when your job brings you face to face with Evil?”
It was a terribly serious question, which Teresa hadn’t expected.
“On compassion, Father,” she replied.
He seemed to weigh her words before nodding.
“A difficult choice,” he said. “Compassion is a painful virtue.”
“Your Italian is very good,” Marini remarked.
“My mother was Italian, and I took my vows in Italy. I served for a time in a little town in Abruzzo, near Chieti. Come, my rooms are this way.”
He opened another door and showed them into a sitting room that reminded Teresa of her grandparents’ house. The upholstery on the sofa and the chenille armchair were worn, a pair of embroidered cushions resting on opposite ends of the sofa in a perfectly symmetrical arrangement. There was a lace doily on the glass coffee table, and the walnut sideboard was immaculate, with not a single speck of dust on it. Everything there was old but smelled clean. Over the door hung a crucifix with an olive branch.
“Please, take a seat. Would you like a glass of iced tea? Or something else?”
“Iced tea would be nice, thank you.”
Father Georg vanished into what Teresa assumed must be the kitchen. She heard the clinking of crockery, and a cupboard being opened and shut.
Father Georg returned shortly thereafter bearing a tray with three glasses and a jug. He placed it on the coffee table, then disappeared once more. When he returned, it was with an envelope held carefully in his hands; he sat on the armchair and placed it on his lap.
“Your colleague told me on the phone about the case you’re working on,” he said, pouring their drinks. “I checked Father Jakob’s journals straightaway and found something there that might interest you, though I doubt it will be of much help. They’re just accounts of what was happening around that time, with no attempt to investigate, nor any pretensions of completeness.”
Teresa sipped her tea, then lowered her glass and looked at him.
“I understand that, Father, but given we’re looking at something that happened at the end of the Second World War and that these journals are the only source of information we’ve found so far, I consider myself lucky to even take a look,” she replied.
“Good, I hope you’ll find them to be of some use. It was Father Jakob’s wish that the journals be stored in the little Church of St. Lenart nearby, but the church authorities wouldn’t allow it because of the damp. St. Lenart’s is in the heart of Ravne forest, between Bovec and the fortress of Kluže. Have you ever been?”
“No.”
Teresa watched him slip on a pair of gloves he’d extracted from the envelope. They were made of white silk and looked like the kind worn by restorers and people who handled works of art and historic relics.
“The Church of St. Lenart holds a special significance for the people of Bovec,” the priest explained. “They took refuge there during the invasion of the Turks in the sixteenth century. It was St. Lenart who ensured that invaders didn’t find the chapel and slaughter all the helpless people who’d sheltered inside it. A miracle.
“Father Jakob asked for his journals to be placed there someday, for he’d written in its pages about a war so brutal and bloody that the only way it could have spared the people of Bovec must have been through St. Lenart’s renewed intercession.”
Teresa nodded. She considered herself to be agnostic but was inclined to respect those who held religious beliefs, particularly if they had managed to come through one of the darkest episodes of humanity with their faith intact.
Father Georg pulled out a bundle from the envelope and carefully lifted each corner of the cloth aside until the notebook was revealed. It was covered in a thin sheet of blue wrapping paper slightly frayed at the corners. The number eight had been written on the cover in elegant handwriting, and below it was a name that Teresa supposed must be the author’s.
“I wasn’t able to photocopy the pages you need, Superintendent, because that would require official permission from the Church, and I understand you’re in something of a hurry. Besides, you’d have needed a translator to read them.”
“That’s all right. I’m going to take notes, if you don’t mind,” Teresa replied, looking for her notebook inside her shoulder bag.
“Sure. I’ll be very precise with the translation.”
“Thank you, Father.”
The priest opened the journal with solemn care. The pages had grown thick and yellow, and crackled every time he touched them.
“A few decades’ worth of damp,” he explained. “This is the eighth journal from the year 1945, the second to last one that year. Father Jakob filled twenty-three in all.”
