Livia sat waiting in her living room, staring out at the fog. She had her hat in her gloved hands and was ready to go out.
Her posture betrayed nervousness; her back was rigid, her feet were neatly aligned, her fingers were tormenting the hem of her hat. In contrast to her usual attire, she wore a gray skirt suit with a simple cut, trimmed in black fur, that did nothing to enhance her natural allure. The appointment for which she was about to leave was devoid of charm or gallantry.
She had been contacted in the usual way: the evening before, as she was returning home, she’d found an envelope awaiting her. Inside was a sheet of paper on which was written only the number 14. That represented a time: 1400 hours, or two in the afternoon, when she would be expected to begin walking toward Monteoliveto, remaining on the opposite sidewalk from the direction of traffic along Via Toledo.
At the first strike of the chime from the wall clock, she stood up and walked toward the door. Her housekeeper glanced at her with a look of bafflement and murmured a farewell, to which Livia made no response. In the courtyard, the chauffeur, Arturo, leaned against the car, smoking a cigarette. He stood straight the instant he saw her, ready to open the passenger door for her. She shook her head and pointed toward the main street door. The look of surprise on the man’s face followed her until she vanished out onto the street.
Cautiously, the woman crossed the street. She headed off, wondering as she walked how he would be able to spot her in the heavy fog. After less than a minute a medium-sized black automobile pulled over and a hand opened the rear door from within. She slid onto the seat and the car pulled away.
In the front seat sat two men with hats and a nondescript appearance; the man at the wheel struck her as perhaps slightly younger than the other one. She didn’t know them, and in fact they changed each time, and in any case no one had ever uttered a word to her on these occasions, not even to say a simple hello. Even though it did convey a degree of disquiet, that behavior, when all was said and done, also came as a relief. It was wiser by far not to engage people like that in casual conversation.
Like always, the drive was lengthy and the route made no sense. Livia often wondered why the trip had to last so long, only to come to an end in a location that, in some other circumstance, she might easily have reached on foot with an enjoyable stroll. She presumed that her chaperones must have some reason known to them, but it didn’t concern her: so she never asked, and she certainly wasn’t about to start today.
The driver proceeded slowly, focusing intently on staying in his lane; it seemed evident that he wasn’t accustomed to such limited visibility. Suddenly an obstacle appeared in front of the vehicle and he was forced to brake suddenly; a curse in dialect escaped him. When it happened again, the older man turned ever so slightly and apologized for the inconvenience. Livia thought she detected a Roman accent, but chose not to inquire further, limiting herself to a small, tight smile of gratitude.
The city streamed past outside the windows, from time to time producing a scenic view, without color, like so many black-and-white photographs. Livia noticed that they were leaving the city proper, and that the sea was on their left. Posillipo, perhaps, or possibly Pozzuoli. She was not curious to know where the umpteenth meeting was going to take place. She just wanted it to be over soon.
She went back to pondering why and how she had landed herself in that situation. Perhaps it was due to her friendship with highly placed figures in the Fascist regime, or her tendency to comply with government measures and instructions, or even her love of the fatherland. Perhaps it was the gratitude she felt toward people who had helped and protected her in the past. Or else the fear she felt of the terrible violence that lurked beneath the surface, and which she certainly did not wish to encounter, even in passing.
Or else, more likely, love was to blame.
Her desperate love for someone who had made it perfectly clear that he was rejecting her, yet who still populated her dreams and her thoughts, like some incurable disease, like that fog, which insinuated itself into her soul through the pores in her skin.
Whatever the original reason might have been, Livia was now at the ball and she would be expected to dance. She had been transformed into a character in one of those pulp novels that were now so popular, or the protagonist of an operetta or a cheap, second-run movie. She was now some sort of spy.
She didn’t like this role. It didn’t amuse her, it imparted no shiver of excitement. She couldn’t understand the dark underlying motivation or the secret ends. She didn’t know how to operate. She felt false and insecure. And a recurring doubt tormented her: what would happen if she failed? Any error she committed could put many people at risk, or even someone she loved.
Someone she loved . . .
She felt as if she could glimpse two green eyes in the gray mantle of fog, precisely as the automobile lurched to a halt. Two green eyes that at the very thought transmitted to her a languid thrill even more intense than what she had experienced in the nights of passion she could remember. Two green eyes that had been hers once and once only, burning with fever and dreams. Two green eyes.
The older man stepped out to open the door for her, without uttering a word, his head bowed, displaying to her view only a section of chin beneath the brim of his hat. A precaution to ensure she wouldn’t recognize him if, by some chance, they happened to cross paths in the future, in some other context. As if Livia weren’t the first to hope she’d be forgotten once and for all by these individuals.
She found herself standing outside a low gate that led into a terrace where a number of small tables stood in array, all of them empty but one. She walked toward that one occupied table, and the sole occupant stood up, solicitously, offering her a chair.
“Good afternoon, Falco,” she said.
The man executed a dutiful bow and sat down once again. The air, steeped in mist, seemed to shroud them both, isolating them from the world. It was damp, but not chilly. Being outdoors suited the nature of the conversation she was about to have: in and of itself, that wasn’t unpleasant, but it could be dangerous in terms of final consequences.
Falco smiled. He appeared neither old nor young, neither tall nor short, neither fat nor skinny. He had facial features that appeared to have been designed at a drawing board to go unnoticed; his short gray hair was parted down the middle. Freshly shaved and scrupulously attired, he emanated a vague scent of lavender. Nothing about him stood out as exceptional, with the exception of his eyes, sharp and intelligent, ironic and chilly, and they impressed themselves in your mind, impossible to forget.
“Hello, Livia. You don’t mind if we remain out here, do you? I’d chosen this place because out front, theoretically, you can glimpse the sea. I certainly didn’t expect this weather, and by then it was too late to make any changes; you know the procedures.” He broke off and gestured as if they understood each other, as if the woman was well acquainted with the mechanisms involved in designating the locations for that sort of meeting. Then he went on: “But the atmosphere is interesting, there’s something symbolic about it. It makes me think of our conversations: we could compare them to a whisper in the fog. A lovely image, don’t you agree?”
Livia felt uneasy.
“I have nothing for you, Falco. Manfred is very reserved and . . .”
The man interrupted her: “No names, I beg of you. Call him the German. What’s come over you?”
He snapped his fingers and out of the nothingness there emerged, as if by enchantment, a waiter. He must have been acquainted with the secret nature of this meeting, because he kept his eyes downcast.
“An espresso, thanks.”
Falco lifted forefinger and middle finger together, and the man vanished without a sound.
“I wasn’t expecting any special news. Our friends in Berlin would surely have never entrusted a mission like this to the kind of naïve fool who’d reveal his intentions to the first woman who smiled at him, even if she were as dazzlingly splendid as you, madame. But progress, yes, that’s I was expecting. And I continue to expect it. Instead, I notice difficulties.”
Livia grew agitated and shifted on her chair.
“He’s going through a difficult period. He tends to overdo it with the drinking, and he can be aggressive at times. I don’t know how to . . .”
The waiter arrived with his tray, started to say something, and stopped abruptly. Falco nodded, as if confirming that the man had made the right decision. He waited until they were alone again and began to speak again: “Ah, yes, young Signorina Colombo. Her rejection of his proposal of marriage. I confess that it took us all a bit by surprise. And yet, sitting face to face with a woman like you, a man ought to see the bright side: the opening of a path toward a new opportunity.”
Livia couldn’t quite detect whether those words were meant ironically, and she replied harshly: “There is more than just beauty, Falco. Perhaps Manfr . . . Well, anyway, he might to sensitive to other considerations.”
The man leaned forward and his voice suddenly cut like a very sharp knife: “Or else you’re not putting in enough enthusiasm.”
The words were unleashed like a straight-armed slap, so much so that Livia recoiled.
“Why, how dare you? Have you taken me for a . . . for an easy woman? I’m not going to reel men in at your command. I can make friends, I can wheedle information out of them, but I’m certainly not about to . . .”
Falco smiled at her, pretending that that exchange had never begun.
“I remember seeing you sing in Un ballo in maschera, in Parma; it must have been back in 1924. You, of course, played Ulrica. ‘Re dell’abisso, affrettati, precipita per l’etra, senza librar la folgore il tetto mio penetra.’ Fantastic, just fantastic.”
He’d lightly sung the beginning of the aria, directing the melody with his right hand. Livia noticed that he was in tune. Absurdly enough, she felt flattered.
“That was a lifetime ago.”
Falco’s eyes opened wide.
“Oh, no! You’re still the most alluring woman I know. And believe me, I know plenty.”
Livia shook her head.
“Perhaps not alluring enough. He’s got his heart set on that young woman, and I . . .”
He replied coldly: “Listen to me carefully, Livia. The German has an assignment and he’s carrying it out without any particular haste because his superiors haven’t told him to hurry. But he’s moving forward. His reports are being sent on a regular basis and they are subject to our examination; we have tracked down their route, shall we say.”
Livia failed to see the meaning of that line of thought: “Then why should I . . .”
Falco ignored her.
“He’s not a first-line agent in their intelligence service. But through him, the organization I work for has an interest in arranging for Berlin to receive a series of . . . let’s just call them misdirections. It’s therefore of vital importance that he be kept here in the city and that he continue his assignment: monitoring the operations of the Italian Royal Navy here in the port. Have I made myself clear?”
Livia nodded, and Falco adopted a gentler tone.
“Very good. Now, let’s suppose that this gentleman should happen to be overwhelmed by an emotional crisis, personal sorrows, or even just a bad case of homesickness. He’s not a full-fledged member of the forces that work in . . . in this field, which means that his superiors would have no difficulty replacing him with another, comparable individual. Do you follow me so far?”
She nodded her head.
Unexpectedly, Falco took her hand and squeezed it; Livia started at the gesture.
“Do you understand what that would mean to us? We’d have to start over from scratch: identify the new agent, gather intelligence on him and reconstruct his habits, interactions, and friendships; intercept his reports, which most assuredly would travel by different channels. It would take a great deal of time, and other information would filter back instead, causing enormous damage—and let me underscore the word ‘enormous’—to our national military strategies.”
Livia tried to wriggle free of that grip, which was hurting her, but Falco wouldn’t loosen his hold on her, as he stared at her with his ice-cold eyes.
At last, and quite suddenly, he released her, and she yanked her hand back to her chest, in fright.
“What can I do about it? If he doesn’t . . . If he isn’t interested?”
Falco moved the empty demitasse in front of him and replied, amiably as if he were chatting about the weather: “There’s more. Since we are determined to keep him at any and all costs, we’re willing to remove the obstacles that might persuade him to return north to Bavaria or wherever the devil his little village full of barbarians is located.”
Livia blinked her eyes even as she continued massaging her hand.
“What do you mean by that?”
Falco turned to gaze out at the unseen sea. Then he started to spin the demitasse around on the small tabletop, stopping it every time it came into contact with the sugar bowl.
“Let’s imagine that the presence of our mutual friend in this land, usually so sunny and bright, depends upon the favors of a certain young woman. And let’s further imagine that she, for who knows what incomprehensible reasons, happens instead to be in love with another man . . .”
Livia felt her heart pounding in her ears.
“Falco, you can’t . . .”
The man went on, in a monotone, continuing to toy with the demitasse: “It’s clear that the real stumbling block is that other man, don’t you agree? If we got rid of him, perhaps the young woman would give more serious consideration to a lasting relationship with the German. If so, he’d remain here, continuing to pass information to us, without even knowing it, even before it reached his handlers back in Germany.”
With a single sudden blow, he knocked the sugar bowl off the table; it landed on the pavement and shattered, scattering a fine snow across the floor of the terrace. Livia lurched in startlement.
Sweetly and persuasively, Falco ended his little talk: “It’s not just for your own sake, for the sake of the fatherland, or for whatever reason you might think of, that you must succeed in this little mission. It’s also in order to preserve the life of another shared acquaintance, who by the way happens to do a rather dangerous job and might very easily fall victim to some disagreeable mishap.”
Livia felt tears well up in her eyes. Frustration, sorrow, and fear: who could say which of these emotions would be the first to emerge.
“Could you sink so low, Falco? To this level of cruelty, of infamy? What does he have to do with any of this? It’s not his fault.”
The man threw his head back and burst into a hearty laugh as if he’d just listened to the most amusing joke imaginable.
“Do you seriously imagine that we care one iota about the life of a small, useless policeman? Every day that man has dealings with unscrupulous criminals, individuals who are accustomed to handling knives and pistols. Who could accuse us of being at fault, if he were to have an accident? You? But you’re one of us.”
He stopped laughing and his face returned to its usual impassivity.
“Do as you think best, Livia. Take him to bed, push him to continue courting the young woman, find him another lover, but it is indispensable that he remain here to do what he does. At any and all costs.”
Now Livia was frantic.
“He’s been invited by the Colombo family to come celebrate New Year’s Eve, tomorrow night: I’m sure things will fall into place. I’ll find the way. Just give me time.”
Falco stood up.
“You have the time, Livia. As long as everything remains as it is, you have the time. Perhaps.”
With a courtly nod of the head, he vanished into the fog.