Shout in the Dark

  *

  Marco's apartment

  MARCO WAS ONLY just back from seeing Father Josef, and about to undress for a shower when the doorbell rang twice -- one long and one short. It was Laura's special ring. He stuck his head out of the window. She was standing back in the street, and he waved to her before running down the central stone staircase to the front door.

  "Who's the old dragon who keeps looking out of the window when I ring the bell?" Laura asked.

  "That's Signora Silvini. She owns the place. She's probably suspicious that you keep coming here to visit a priest." He winked. "Come on up."

  Laura was wearing a low-cut evening blouse of white silk, and a short black skirt, which might have raised Signora Silvini's suspicions. "I want to apologize. I've been a bit ratty with you lately. Wrong time of the month, if you know what that means."

  Even without Anna, without sisters and female cousins, Marco would have known of the monthly suffering -- what his father once called the monthly suffering endured by males the world over. This could be the right time to let Laura know something about his past.

  He laughed. "Of course I know what it means -- I've been married." It was so easy to say. Why had he been putting it off?

  Laura looked up quickly. "You sound as though you mean it."

  Marco sat down and breathed in slowly. "It's true. Her name was Anna. We got married when I was twenty-one."

  "But..."

  "Three drunks killed her in a racist attack at the Spanish Steps. Six years ago. Two years of a happy marriage -- and then a life alone."

  "O God, I'm sorry. All my crass remarks..."

  "Thanks. It's silly, but I didn't know how to tell you." He looked down at the carpet, trying to hide his face. "It was like the end of my life. Slowly, I came back to the Church. That's when I decided to become a priest -- of sorts." He felt the adrenaline kicking in. What had he meant by that? His failure to become a practicing priest? It couldn't be anything to do with Laura. His suppressed desires seemed to be speaking without his control. The adrenaline kicked harder now.

  "You're certainly full of surprises, Marco."

  Laura seemed to be looking with an increased awareness, as though acknowledging a shared experience of sex. Or was it his imagination? Time to change the subject. "I've met Bruno Bastiani now, so how about meeting Riccardo Fermi?" he asked.

  A smile flashed across Laura's face. "I came to tell you. Riccardo is working with me on this story."

  "And you're sure he doesn't mind me being around?"

  "Of course not, I have to work with men all through the year." Laura laughed and sounded her old self. The month must have ended abruptly. "Riccardo Fermi is a journalist. He would never be jealous of me working with a priest -- even an ex-priest," she added with a mischievous grin.

  "He's not outside in the car is he?" Marco asked quickly.

  "No, we're meeting Riccardo and Bruno later. That's why I'm all dressed up. We're going out for a meal, and Riccardo's treating us on expenses. Bruno won't be with us until later. He's a press photographer. I expect you've seen some of his work in the gossip columns -- if you look at that sort of trash. He's sorry he was rude when he picked us up at Monte Sisto. I think you'll find he's in a better mood tonight."

  "Then I'll look forward to the meal. I've only just got in. I'm sure those flies from Monte Sisto are crawling all over me. I haven't even had a chance to take a shower."

  While Laura read a magazine, Marco stood under the cool spray and tried to clean away the worries about the day. The water and the shower gel removed the dust, but did nothing to dispel the impression that all was not as it seemed.

  As he turned off the taps, Marco decided he would have to be careful what he said during the evening. The feeling persisted that someone was setting him up, perhaps someone within the Vatican.

  Via del Tritone

  Rome

  THE DARKLY LIT restaurant was like hallowed territory for Marco. For the past three years his student allowance had never stretched to such luxury. Here were candles on the tables, and smartly dressed waiters ready to attend to every whim. From his days in the used car trade he knew that the darker the restaurant, the more the food would cost. A quick look at the menu confirmed the accuracy of this conclusion. As for the company -- Riccardo seemed pleasant enough.

  Earlier in the bright light of his apartment he'd noticed Laura's low-cut blouse. Here by the dim candlelight he became aware of just how much bare skin was showing. He knew of two reasons why he must divert his eyes and his thoughts from Laura's substantial cleavage. One was a moral one; the other was the presence of her observant boyfriend Riccardo.

  "You and Laura are seeing a lot of each other," Riccardo said, pouring them all a generous glass of Frascati and savoring a long sip. "Good choice of wine. I think I can trust a Catholic priest to behave himself with a beautiful woman, though I don't know if Bruno would agree. He's Jewish." He laughed loudly, making diners at other tables pause in their eating.

  Riccardo was of the good-looking breed of Italian. Marco studied him idly. Was he being too cynical in believing it was all show? The tanned skin, passionate eyes and carefully controlled hair were straight from a clothing catalogue, intended to excite women into believing that their clothes could transform a drab husband or boyfriend into a Roman god.

  Marco kept his thoughts to himself as he returned Riccardo's smile. He would try not to show his growing dislike of the man. Perhaps he was a little jealous. The sharp smell of Riccardo's cologne contrasted annoyingly with Laura's L'Air du Temps. With some pleasure he noted the beginnings of a receding hairline.

  He said, "Laura had her car stolen today."

  Laura added, "Bruno gave us a lift back."

  Riccardo was not particularly interested. "You were lucky we were there, my friend. It's a long way back from Monte Sisto."

  The comment appeared so casual. We? If Riccardo had been at Monte Sisto, why hadn't he been in Bruno's car? At that moment Riccardo stood up and waved across the crowded restaurant. "Here he is!"

  As with Laura, Bruno Bastiani's humor had improved with the coming of evening. Bruno shook hands with Marco. "Ciao, it's splendid to see you again so soon. I'm sorry to be late, but I had to go out of town to finish off a job."

  Riccardo embraced Bruno. "Hot work, I expect," said Riccardo, and both men roared with laughter.

  Marco waited for an explanation, but Bruno sat down and studied the menu, still laughing. He pulled his chair closer to the table and turned to Marco. "I've heard a whisper that a group of fascists want to put on some sort of display." He looked over the top of the menu he was holding in his hands. "Is this something to do with your relic?"

  Marco hesitated and Laura interrupted. "He's sworn to secrecy!"

  "I've heard something." Marco was not going to be answered for. "The Vatican certainly wants its relic back, before the neo-Nazis find it."

  "You mean the head of Christ?" Riccardo had already started on his antipasto. "Two weeks ago your people thought they had it. They were pushing it on television. Now they're denying they've ever seen it. It's a funny old world isn't it? The Vatican can't seem to make up its mind."

  The waiter brought a second bottle of Frascati. Marco twisted the bottle around to read the label. Not a good year. The year that Anna was chased to her death below the Via Sistina for being an Italian woman.

  "Don't be too hard on the Vatican," Marco said abruptly, dropping the bottle back onto the table. "Laura's grandfather gave it to her father in the war in Saint Peter's. We think her father switched it for a modern fake in the early nineteen eighties and tried to sell it."

  "He wasn't doing anything wrong, Marco." Laura sounded defensive. "Millions of Jews suffered in the war. Their families still need help today. You ask Bruno about it."

  "I gather you're Jewish," said Marco, leaning back in his chair and looking at Bruno.

  Bruno pulled a face. "Only by birth. My mother never mentioned God in our household. Sure, I
'll tell you about the Nazis and the Jews, Marco, but not tonight. If you knew half of what the three of us know, you'd want to give the Canon a medal. Laura's father was a good man."

  "I'm all for helping the poor," agreed Marco, "but don't you think we should forget the war?"

  Laura's eyes blazed. "Forget the war?" It was almost a shout. As heads turned at the surrounding tables she lowered her voice. "Don't keep taking such a bloody moral attitude, Marco. The Nazis did terrible things to the Jews."

  "Not just Jews," interrupted Riccardo; rather bravely, Marco thought. "The SS tortured my grandmother and she wasn't Jewish. They questioned her about an attack by partisans on the barracks near her home. They didn't ask about her religion. They dragged her outside into the street and made her watch while they shot my grandfather. And then they took her uncle and aunt away for deportation. Her teenage son didn't come home that evening. She never found out what had happened to him. She went mad. She didn't know anything about the partisans so she couldn't tell anything. I still have bad memories of my parents spending all their time trying to cope with her while leaving me alone. It was Nonna must have this, and Nonna must have that -- every moment of the day and night. What sort of childhood was that for me?"

  "Yes, okay, not just Jews," said Laura, pushing her plate away. "There are plenty of other people who want revenge."

  "Laura, you're not suggesting your father wanted retribution?" The prospect appalled Marco. "He was a canon in the church."

  Laura relaxed a little. "No, but he wanted money from the neo-Nazis. He was planning to give it to the families who suffered because of the war. That's not revenge -- that's my idea of justice."

  Marco felt uneasy at this statement. "It didn't work, though. He got killed for his troubles."

  Laura shook her head. "You're not going to tell me you see it as some kind of divine retribution, are you?"

  Marco looked around with a certain amount of embarrassment. Faces glanced up from time to time, eyes glinting in the light from the candles. They were attracting too much attention. "Whatever the reason, someone murdered him."

  Bruno put down his glass and leaned forward. "We think one of the men who did it is back in Rome. More wine?" He poured some for himself but Marco declined. "We've been keeping an eye on a couple of Germans. They want the relic for some sort of Nazi religion nonsense, if you can believe it. You'd know more about it than I would, you being a priest." Bruno raised his eyebrows but no one smiled.

  "I think they want to show that Jesus wasn't Jewish," said Marco. "But he was, of course."

  "That's not what some Christians have said for the past two thousand years," snapped Laura. "You say that the Jews killed Jesus, and use it as an excuse for persecuting them. What do you think Jesus was, for God's sake? Some sort of blond Aryan?"

  "Of course I don't think that," retorted Marco. "I totally condemn the persecution of Jews. I'm just as much to blame for Jesus' death as anybody who was there at the time. He's the Savior of the whole world, and that includes me personally, and the Jews. You must have heard the story of the scapegoat, the innocent animal that took the blame for the sins of the Old Testament Israelites. That was a sort of picture language to make a point. Christians believe that Jesus took our sins. He was the sacrifice. What right have we to give the Jews a hard time?"

  "Leave it, Marco." Bruno raised his hands. "You'll be standing on the table and preaching a sermon in a minute. I'm going to show you some photographs of our main suspect. Perhaps you can recognize him. We think he's one of two men who killed Laura's father."

  Marco regretted declining the second glass of Frascati. He reached for the bottle. Being with these journalists, on the inside so to speak, was exciting. "They might jog a memory," he agreed. "I'll do anything to get those men into court. They deserve to be hanged." He could feel the return of his bitterness, but was excited by it.

  "You've left it too late to find one of the two Germans who killed Canon Levi," said Bruno. "His name was Rudi Bretz. He died a few years ago. A brain tumor. And don't tell anyone I've shown you these pictures."

  The first two color photographs showed a large youth, a skinhead, standing by an older man with either white or very fair hair. The high glass panels in the background looked like the studios of TV Roma. Another showed the same two men standing with a third outside a hotel. Marco paused, halfway through his first mouthful of chicken. Surveillance photographs. All these questions.

  "Of course I know who the first two are. I saw them before the raid. You're not journalists. You're either the carabinieri -- or the secret service!"

  The laughter sounded authentic as well as loud. Several diners looked up from their meals again, turning in their direction.

  Bruno stopped laughing and shook his head. "We're journalists all right. Look, Marco, I have my press card here."

  A press card would be easy for the security people to come by, but the laughter convinced him. "All right, you're journalists." He jumped to his feet. "I'm taking these pictures to the carabinieri."

  "Sit down." Bruno snatched the photographs from his hand. "You promised you'd keep this to yourself. If you want justice to be done, don't talk to the carabinieri. Half of them are fascists."

  "Only half?" asked Marco, in mock disbelief.

  "Yes, well, don't take that literally. But there are enough fascists in the carabinieri to make trouble for us." Bruno was becoming increasingly agitated. "You could blow the whole thing. You have to trust us over this."

  Marco sat down reluctantly.

  "Believe me, these two men in the photographs will be caught. They're like filthy flies. And they're coming to a spider in his large sticky web." Bruno lowered his voice and Marco had to lean forward to hear him above the noise of the restaurant. "The flies are now paying for their evil."

  He had no idea what Bruno meant but it sounded splendid. Was this the effect of too much wine? He wiped the condensation from the date on the bottle and poured himself another glass. The events of the last few days were releasing something that had been dormant until the death of Old Savio in the Piazza Venezia. His mind was in turmoil. Punishment for the guilty. Yes, it was good to meet Laura's friends.