The days following my talk with Renzo about Randy were a nightmare for him—not because of anything I’d said about the American, but as a result of the newspaper clippings he’d sent. To avoid any difficulty explaining how Renzo had received them, we decided that I would send them to him anonymously. I typed up an envelope, and the next day, which was Sunday, while Renzo went to see his brother and his fiancée, I telephoned Randy from the bus station in Montepulciano while I waited for the bus to Chiusi, from where I’d decided to post the clippings.
I thanked him for the newspaper cuttings and the stationery he’d sent in the box. He told me that he had been just about to walk out the door on his way to Rome for a few days to visit the second-hand markets and take a few recent pieces he’d collected to a shop in the Via Veneto that was always interested in what he had to sell. I asked him if he was going to catch up with his army buddy Arnie, but he told me that his friend was away visiting his and Randy’s wives at their excavation site.
When he asked where I was phoning from, I explained the scheme I’d come up with to keep myself out of the picture when it came to explaining how the clippings had landed on my policeman’s desk.
“Your policeman?” he asked. “Who’s that?”
“Ah. I should have told you,” I replied. “Next trip. I promise.”
“I don’t think I can wait that long, Damson,” he said, his voice a mixture of amusement and innuendo.
He suggested we meet up at the Etruscan Museum in Chiusi. The town was on his way to Rome and he said he’d like to see me, even if it was just for a drink and perhaps a light lunch. We arrived at his suggested meeting place at more or less the same time, then toured the museum together before finding a quiet trattoria where we sat outside.
He was very interested to hear about Renzo and, just like “my policeman”, wanted to know all the sordid details. He looked fresher than I remembered—in the sense of being clean-cut: a new haircut, closely shaven, dressed suavely and smelling vaguely of something with a tang of pine and a hint of vanilla.
When I showed him a few sketches I’d done of Renzo in preparation for his nude portrait, his reaction was similar to Renzo’s when I’d shown him the photo of Randy. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch, you know that, don’t you, Damson O’Reilly?” he said with a bright smile. “When do I get to meet this looker?”
*****
When Renzo returned from his day at Buonconvento, I told him that I’d met up with “the American” in Chiusi. He didn’t ask whether I’d had sex with him—I hadn’t, but I would have told him if we had done. Instead, I spent half the evening trying to calm him down because he’d had an enormous row with his brother, whose name I learned was Giorgio.
The following night was my birthday party. I couldn’t even remember the last time anyone had celebrated my birthday. David had always remembered, but at the monastery the birthdays of saints were the only ones that had mattered.
Over the rest of the week Renzo was called away to Florence twice, once for two days, the other overnight. He told me that Baldi was furious: he believed it should be him representing the local police. However, the two detectives in Florence argued that because Renzo’s name had been mentioned in the newspaper articles, and it had been to him that the cuttings had been sent, it was he whom they wanted working with them.
I spent the days working on the renovations of La Mensola. The Mori brothers helped me insert the double doors into my workshop and flatten the earth outside the back of the house. I’d brought the courtyard flagstones from the demolished house, and a lot of the timber. We spent a morning laying the flagstones, leaving me with an expansive paved outdoor area on which to eventually put a table for outside eating—that was, when I got around to constructing one. My terracotta pots were planted with herbs. It was really starting to look like a home, except for the fact that I was still living with Renzo, finding the idea of moving out harder and harder as each day passed by.
The Monday of the following week was a special occasion for La Mensola. The reason for this was that I’d used two pieces of thick, aged timber and had cut a cross lap joint to fix them together, forming a six-foot by four-foot crucifix that I’d attached to the back wall of the stable, using iron angle brackets to support it. I’d invited Father Ignazio to come this morning to bless the cross and say a few prayers, dedicating it not only to those who’d lived in this house, but also to those from the surrounding areas who’d died during the war.
By eleven o’clock there were at least fifty people gathered in front of the stable, more arriving every minute, the road outside lined with cars in all directions, many also walking on foot from neighbouring farms. That surprised me, but nothing had surprised me more than the arrival by bus at the front gate of the town band from Montepulciano. It accompanied Father Ignazio in a slow walk down the driveway to the stable, playing very solemn music. He wore his beretta, a lace surplice over his cassock, and a stola around his neck, a lad carrying a candle walking in front of him and a young man swinging a censer at his side.
Although I didn’t understand a word, I could tell his speech was very moving, many in the gathering weeping loudly. His prayers were given in Latin and then, after blessing the crucifix, he moved around the crowd, asperging as he went. He stopped in front of me and asked me if I’d say a few words, which he’d translate.
Although I was unprepared, the sight of Renzo beckoning me, standing beside his two colleagues, the three of them dressed in their formal carabiniere uniforms and bicornes, somehow gave me courage.
I wasn’t sure of my exact words, because, once I started speaking, some of the terror of war that lived within in me, nearly always held rigidly in check, crept into my speech. I talked of honour for those who’d fallen, even the enemy who were no different from ourselves, and of compassion and love for all of those near and dear to us. I promised that the stable would remain as it was and that anyone was welcome to visit whenever they wished. As far as I was concerned, this was their shrine; I was merely the custodian of the land upon which it stood.
Cesco was the last to leave, offering me a ride on his Vespa back to town in time for lunch. “If you need a hand with anything in the house, do ask,” he said while we had a cigarette.
“Surely you haven’t got enough time? You seem to be constantly running here and there.”
“Just tell me what you need a hand with, Damson. Don’t be such a stoic.”
I shrugged. “The Mori brothers have been terrific help. We’ve swapped my carpentry skills for their labour. I’ve almost fixed all the furniture that needed mending in their parents’ house. But …”
“But?”
“I could do with a pair of hands to help whitewash the interior walls, extend the grape trellis over the new paved area here at the back of the house and maybe spend a morning with me getting some of the vegetable patch ready for planting. It’s already getting late for tomatoes.”
“What plans do you have for Wednesday morning?” he asked.
“I was intending to build my saw-horses for the workshop so I can start to cut out pieces for a workbench in there. After that, I’ve measured up timber to replace the floorboards in the pantry. That’s about it.”
“I’ll get here at about eight. Will that be all right? I’ll help you with the vegetable garden.”
“I’d really appreciate that. Thank you, Cesco.”
“Anything, my friend,” he said, then got onto his Vespa, patting the seat behind him.
“I’ve got my bicycle here,” I said. “I’ll see you at the trattoria.”
“Not today, sorry. Cristoforo is in town; we’re having lunch at the Bar Azzurro.”
“Say hello for me,” I said, as sincerely as I could, hoping it wouldn’t sound false. I wasn’t afraid of Baldi, but didn’t want to make trouble for Renzo.
“I will,” he said, tooting the horn as he drove off.
*****
I found that much of my time working on the house was spent thinking about the murders.
When I’d asked about the crime scenes at Montevarchi, Renzo, using Father Ignazio as translator, had told me they were similar to those at my house, the hands of both victims tied behind their backs, gagged, both stabbed in exactly the same way as the hanged man in my garden, with a similar long, slender blade, inserted behind the collarbone, piercing the heart.
At Renzo’s suggestion, teams of men had dug the ground around the other houses. During the original search back in January, the only thing they’d found in the first house was a long silver screw threaded through a spring: a cigarette lighter screw that came from the bottom of the case. It was used to maintain the height of the flint under the striker wheel. Something had been burned in the kitchen stove. They’d found a small patch of hair; miraculous, because hair was very flammable. The rain cap on the top of the flue had perished and the back of the firebox had probably been wet—that was where the hair had stuck. In fact, when Renzo had arrived it had been raining, and water had pooled inside and was dripping out of both the firebox and the oven. The victim’s head had been shaved and whoever had tortured and killed him had burned his hair in the stove. It had been done roughly, cuts and large patches of the scalp showing where skin had been pulled away. The body, when examined, had been covered in cigarette burns, with special attention to the genitals. There was also a pattern of dense burns around the man’s anus. It must have been dreadfully painful. He appeared to be in his late thirties and had been dead for no more than a few weeks.
On the same day, the other victim had been found in another house a few kilometres away. This time the victim was much older than any of the others and one of the local policemen had recognised him: a sixty-four-year-old doctor who’d been missing for ten days. In fact, it was the search for him that had led to the discovery of the first victim. He’d been dead no more than twenty-four to forty-eight hours. It had been a particularly painful examination for the forensic expert in Arezzo. The dead man had been her father.
He, too, had been tortured, a large swastika cut into his stomach, the centre over his navel, and another incised into his each of his buttocks. Despite how heartbreaking it must have been for her, the examiner had been thorough. A cigarette packet had been rolled into a tight tube and inserted into his rectum.
As he’d been the only victim who’d been identified, the police had investigated his background. Although he and his daughter had relocated to the area immediately after the war, no one seemed to have any idea why he should have been targeted. Everyone had thought him kind and generous. His daughter said that he’d been well liked in Ostia, where they’d lived before moving to Montevarchi, and had treated both Italians and Germans alike. He had been called into the German garrison once a week, spending his time treating minor ailments and charging the Kommandant an exorbitant amount of money. In return, he didn’t charge the locals who couldn’t afford treatment, and for that had been admired and respected.
Renzo told me that he’d spent time at both crime scenes with the men from Florence and two detectives from Arezzo, then afterwards at an extended meeting in Florence. They’d been intrigued by the things that had been found at La Mensola: the button, the aglet, the broken tooth, the trail of gravel, the Nazi letterheading and the silver ring. The area division commander had decided to form an investigative group, headed by the Florentines, with the two men from Arezzo, plus Renzo and Fabrizio representing our area. Baldi had been cut out of the investigation completely. There’d been a lot of grumbling about the inadequate post-mortem examinations by the substitute forensic examiner in Siena and the hasty interments, and the police there had been considered lacking in vigilance and therefore had not been invited to be part of the investigative body. Since returning from his last trip from Florence, Renzo had told me he hadn’t heard a word from Baldi, who was probably still furious at being excluded.
This morning, I’d arrived at the house early. Cesco had said he’d be here at eight to help me in the garden, but I’d been here since half past six and had cut out the pieces for my sawhorses, wanting to get them constructed before he arrived. I’d managed to find a few short panels of plywood in the market last week. It was as rare as hen’s teeth, having mainly been used during the war for glider construction. Without a workbench it was fiddly to cut out the triangular sections for the end pieces with a tenon saw, but I was very satisfied with the sawhorses when they were finally assembled, standing on each to test the strength of my workmanship.
I threw open the workshop doors and took one outside, sitting on it while I had a cigarette before Cesco arrived. My mind was still on the murders, the only common denominator that I’d been able to come up with being the Nazi connection. Putting aside the SS man for the moment, it had to be collaborators who’d been the victims. I couldn’t think of anything else that linked them. Had the murders been sadistic, opportunistic killings, there wouldn’t have been that link; the chances would have been far too slim. Unless … could it be that the murderer/murderers were former Nazis, or sympathisers themselves, wreaking retribution on Italians who’d thwarted them in some way during the war? In either case, even including the hanged SS officer, the torture and defilement would fit. Perhaps the SS officer had gone rogue and deserted? That could be a reason for ex-Nazis to want to punish him.
However, I was still confused about the sexual mutilations. I didn’t know enough about interrogative techniques to know whether cigarette burns to the genitals and anus were one of the best lip-looseners, or whether the concentration on those parts of the body were part of the perpetrator’s modus operandi or something he fetishised. By now, it certainly felt to me that, even if there were two or more men, the incisions and burns had been done by one—as far as I was concerned, there was too much similarity for it to be otherwise.
I started to invent scenarios to fit each of the bodies, failing to find a definitive answer. There was an explanation for every body that fitted both scenarios except for one: the woman … if only her body had been examined more thoroughly.
I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear a truck coming down the driveway. I recognised the sound of the engine as belonging to the Mori brothers. They pulled up outside in the driveway next to the kitchen, standing in the back tray the four men I’d worked with during the demolition, Cesco among them wearing work clothes. I was about to ask what was going on when two more cars drew up behind them.
“You’re the man of the moment,” Cesco called out from the tray of the truck. “I come bearing workers.”
It seemed my dedication of the shrine to the locals and my simple wooden crucifix had cemented my place in the community. I didn’t know what all these men would have otherwise been doing on a Wednesday morning, but I was as pleased as I could be to find sixteen extra pairs of hands had arrived to help. The Mori brothers and the two older men I’d worked alongside during the demolition took charge of the trellis extension. I’d already cut the timbers to size and had rebated the joints; all I needed to do was to give them my sketch of what went where—I’d marked each piece of timber with a number, mainly to help me remember how everything fitted together. The two younger lads who’d pruned the grape vines got stuck into the vegetable garden, along with four other locals who I’d seen around town but did not yet know. Another four put their hands up to help reset the kitchen flagstones—something I’d have found impossible by myself—and the rest offered to start whitewashing the interior of the house, leaving the kitchen until last.
I had no idea my whitewash would prove so interesting. They were full of questions while they watched me prepare the two eight-gallon drums I’d cut the top out of. Slaked lime and salt they understood, which I gathered was the local recipe, but the addition of milk and alum confounded them. “Allume? Allume? ” They couldn’t seem to understand why that and the milk were so important. I had to get Cesco to explain that the milk thickened when added to the lime and the alum helped the paint stick to the walls. The mixture smelled very sour, but the smell would go once the whitewash dried. The recipe I’d learned at the monastery resulted in a thick, opaque coating, more like paint rather than a wash.
At around eleven o’clock a group of women appeared, carrying baskets and bunches of flowers for the shrine. They were introduced to me as wives of the men who’d come to work. Once the flowers were placed at the foot of the crucifix in the stable, they got to work in the kitchen. The flagstones had been expertly laid in the most amazingly short amount of time and those men had moved on to help with whitewashing. The women examined the stove and oven, nodding and smiling at the wood storage area I’d designed underneath. Fairly soon I smelled coffee and was beckoned from my study, where I’d been helping to paint. On the kitchen table was an assortment of preserves, brought as a thank-you for what I’d thought was something any decent human being would do: the preservation of the stable and the quickly constructed crucifix for its back wall. I’d had no idea that such a simple thing would be so greatly appreciated. Bottled fruit and vegetables, tall jars of passata, preserved olives, peppers and cheese in oil, not to mention a large, flat-bottomed, two-handled terracotta amphora filled with someone’s local olive oil, plus a few bottles of the local version of grappa and some demijohns of wine.
How could I repay such kindness? Cesco made it very clear that I should make no attempt, but accept the largesse and thank each person individually.
We had a short break, drinking coffee, several people testing the quality of the water from my well and asserting it was fresh and clean and eminently drinkable—even though I hadn’t had it officially tested yet, something I intended to do on my next visit to Florence. Two large focaccie appeared from somewhere and pieces were torn off and passed around. It was during this sharing that Renzo appeared, somewhat amazed to see how many people there were. It was obvious that he was well loved by the community, constantly laughing and teased by the women. Cesco whispered that even the married ones had offered to keep his bed warm if he got lonely.
By midday, everything seemed to have been done. I couldn’t believe how much of the vegetable garden had been turned over and furrowed ready for planting. The entire interior of the house painted, the kitchen floor levelled and the trellis now attached to the back of the house. I’d made a great number of new friends and everything had been neatly put back into place, the whitewash drums emptied and cleaned out, and, along with the rough brushes we’d used, stored in the shed beyond the orchard.
Cesco, who was the last to leave, told Renzo and me that he’d meet us at the trattoria for lunch. “Look in your basket, Damson,” he said with a wink, pointing at my bicycle as he started the engine and drove off.
I’d become friendly with Beppe, the man who ran the AGIP petrol station, and, although we could barely communicate, he’d allowed me to weld the bracket for my basket onto the front fork of my bike. In it was a bundle of straw containing a dozen eggs, a cheese the diameter of my hand-span covered in ashes—the local cacio di Pienza, which I loved—and a few cuttings of rosemary, wrapped in damp newspaper. I knew where they came from—the Mori brothers’ mother, who’d taken a shine to me while I’d been repairing her furniture. Having never seen it before, I’d admired the weeping, spreading form of the herb. There was a short note in the basket; Renzo translated it. Signora Mori had advised me to put some cuttings between the flagstones of my outside terrace. If I happened to step on it by chance, the smell would enhance my day and my memory.
I was very moved.
*****
That same night, I was surprised to learn that the investigation team wanted to come to Pienza for the day on Friday, visit La Mensola, interview me at the house, have meetings with Renzo and Fabrizio, stay the night, then return on Saturday morning.
Renzo was annoyed that the visit had been arranged without consulting him. Not only would he have to find accommodation for the four visitors, but also arrange somewhere for them to eat. Lunch would be easy enough, they’d eat at the trattoria, but dinner was another thing. “Who is paying for this? We have no allowance for visitors!” he protested.
Despite his anxiety, the visit went very well. The men were charming, educated, and very serious. The two Florentines spoke good English—one of them fluent with an American accent, very similar to Baldi, with not the slightest hint of Italian vowels. I’d have easily taken him for a native speaker. And one of the men from Arezzo spoke very passable French. So my dread of having to stumble along with Italian or inveigle either Cesco or Father Ignazio to translate proved to be unfounded. They understood that the house had been cleaned up since I’d found the bodies, but asked me to walk them through the discovery of the first body, how I’d discovered the smell of faeces on the tile in the front room, the gravel trail, the tooth, and the piece of letterheading. Oddly enough, when I’d shown them the area in which I’d found the buried body the dog had turned up, wagging its tail and moving from one man to the other for pats and back-scratches. I’d since discovered his name was Pagliaccio, or Clown, because he had one of those faces that seemed to be constantly smiling. He belonged to the family whose farm abutted mine, and to whom I’d made tentative approaches about cultivating the two hectares of my land.
The subject of dinner was easily solved. Father Ignazio had spoken with the mayor, who’d offered to host the visitors in the town hall, catered by both the Marinos and the staff of the Bar Azzurro. Father Ignazio and I were invited to join them. The meal was outstanding, the mayor anxious to show off not only the beauty of his building but the local specialities. It was the first time I’d eaten porchetta—suckling pig stuffed with garlic, fennel and rosemary, roasted on a spit over a slow fire. The mayor of Montepulciano and his wife had also been invited, bringing along some of their town’s renowned vino nobile.
Outside, while having a cigarette, I got to chatting with the policeman from Florence whose English was flawless and idiomatic, who told me that he’d started reading Living with Ghosts. He said it had been recommended by an American friend of his, Randall McCall, someone he believed was a mutual acquaintance. He’d lunched with Randy and few friends yesterday and had mentioned that he was coming to Pienza. Randy had recounted the story of meeting me by chance and pointed him in the direction of Tewksbury’s, where he’d bought one of the copies I’d signed during my recent visit to Florence. I expressed some surprise at the coincidence of them knowing each other, but he explained that he belonged to many English-speaking societies and social clubs in Florence—it helped keep his speech fluent and up-to-date. It was at one of those that he’d originally met Randy. I started to wonder whether ‘English-speaking societies and social clubs’ was a euphemism for something else, but during the course of our conversation had detected nothing more than friendly chat. However, I had no innate sense for who was one of the boys and who wasn’t—except for men like Baldi who made it bloody obvious.
“I hope you’re enjoying my book, Signor …?” No one had actually introduced me to any of the visitors.
“Manetti,” he said, shaking my hand. “Giancarlo Manetti.”
“Pleased to meet you, Signor Investigatore,” I replied—it was imperative to use someone’s title for the first time when addressing them.
He smiled. “These days we use the American word: detective.”
“You do? I’m sorry, I had no idea. However, the English would not be happy to hear you claim one of their words as American.”
“I’m sorry. Have I offended you?”
“Not in the least. I’m simply surprised by your fluency. You have one of those accents that we used to call ‘mid-Atlantic’. Where did you grow up?”
“My father was the Italian ambassador in Aden before the war and my sister and I went to an international school run by American missionaries. We learned English and Arabic, but spoke Italian at home, of course. I’ve heard you speaking in what seems to be very fluent French—and also Latin. That’s surely more of a surprise than my English.”
I filled him in on my background and he a little more on his; we were only interrupted when Renzo joined us, so we continued to chat in English and Italian for five or ten minutes more, until called back inside for dessert. I found myself sitting next to him, Renzo on the other side of the table next to the wife of the mayor of Montepulciano. I could tell the conversation was tedious: his smile looked forced as he listened to her.
“So, Mr O’Reilly,” Manetti said, “my colleague Donati tells me you were an army investigator during the war.”
“Well, that’s not entirely correct. I was an infantryman during the conflict. Then I served in the occupational forces in Japan after the war, working in liaison with the Australian and American military police. Yes, it’s true that it was mostly investigative work. I have to say that I took to it like a duck to water; I’ve always been someone who loves to solve puzzles. In fact, some of the victims here are reminiscent of one or two of the cases I worked on in Japan.”
I glanced at Renzo, who, unable to hear what we were saying, gave me a questioning look, but was immediately drawn back into conversation by the mayor’s wife.
“Really? Reminiscent in what way?”
“I’ve told Cristoforo Baldi my theories, and I’ve discussed them with Signor Donati.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve only read the reports, and nothing is mentioned about your ideas.”
“I suppose that’s because they’re merely theories and speculations … and, of course, I’m a foreigner. I was firmly told to mind my own business and leave Italian police matters to the Italian police.”
He glanced quickly at Renzo, then back at me. “Not by him,” I said.
Manetti snorted softly. I could tell he knew who I meant. “Well, I for one am very interested in your theories, foreigner or not.”
Eventually released by the mayor’s wife, Renzo leaned over the table to join our conversation, which then became complicated, Manetti having to translate. After he’d relayed what we’d been talking about and they’d chatted for a bit, he told me that Renzo hadn’t included my theories in his written reports because there was no direct evidence.
“The Fascist badge pinned through the man’s foreskin. Your thoughts on that?” he asked.
“Baldi had the—”
“Let’s stop talking about Baldi. He was not invited to be part of our official investigation for a very good reason. Cristoforo Baldi is a narcissistic fool, a man of few principles, and a peacock.” Renzo looked curious, hearing Baldi’s name, but the policeman didn’t translate what he’d said. “Please, go on. I’m very interested.”
“Well, for one thing, the first three bodies found in my house were carted away very quickly then seemingly buried in haste, and without what I’d call a proper forensic examination. I’d really have liked to know if he was infibulated before or after death, and whether his fingers were severed while he was still alive. In just those two things we’d know if it was torture or post-mortem mutilation—perhaps a fetish murder. When I queried whether the contents of his rectum and stomach had been examined, I was told that nothing had been done, and in my opinion he and the other two victims were thrown into the ground far too quickly. I know the examiner in Siena was a locum, but surely there are rules and procedures to follow? There was no mention of cigarette burns on the three bodies found in my house, unlike the German outside in the garden and the bodies at Montevarchi. Surely that’s what would cement a pattern and make it unequivocal that you’re dealing with the same killer or killers for all six victims. Otherwise, it remains an assumption. My suggestion is something no one seems to like: an exhumation of the three bodies and proper, thorough post-mortem examination.”
Manetti pulled out his notebook and scribbled in it. “In that case, if you’re mentioning exhuming the bodies—something very difficult to do in Italy—you think that, like the victims in Montevarchi and the hanged man, all three found inside your house were tortured before they were killed?” he asked.
“That’s my theory, yes. The only way one could be certain there was a definite modus operandi would be to know how the woman died—that’s the biggest advantage of an exhumation. And, Signor Manetti, before you jump to any conclusions, I’m not suggesting there was any attempt by the Siena constabulary to sweep anything under the carpet. I think it was all down to menefregismo.”
I used the Italian word for “couldn’t be bothered” or indifference, or, as the American MPs used to say: something that went into the “too hard basket”, or what we Australians during the war had called “can’t be fucked”.
Manetti spoke again quickly with Renzo. “Come, let’s go outside again,” he said. We excused ourselves from the table and followed him into the courtyard.
Renzo studied my face while I spoke with Manetti. I was aware of it. He seemed to be appraising me, and then, when I did glance at him, he smiled and winked.
“What other thoughts do you have, Signor O’Reilly?”
“Please, won’t you call me Damson? We Australians aren’t used to such formality. Don’t worry, I’m happy for you to use my surname when your colleagues are around, and when we’re speaking officially.”
“Very well, Damson, you must call me Giancarlo, under similar circumstances. Now, your thoughts?”
“For a start, I’m very curious to know about the woman. I asked Signor Donati about her, but he said that according to the Siena case files she wasn’t even given a cursory examination before she was put in the ground. It’s very strange.”
“There’s still a special reverence for women in our society. If a complete examination were carried out, and the identity of the victim revealed at a later date, the knowledge of an examination requiring the woman’s clothes to be removed without a female doctor present would create an enormous problem—especially if she came from a small town. Sacrilege, desecration, dishonour of the entire sex. The cult of mammismo is very much alive in the Italy of 1950.”
“Mammismo? ”
“It means the excessive attachment to one’s mother. As an extension, the word can mean a veneration and presumed sanctity of any woman.”
This nearly took my breath away. “Are you telling me that women’s bodies are not routinely examined after a suspicious death?”
“Maybe in a larger city, where there might be a female doctor, supervised by a forensic specialist, but otherwise, improbable.”
“What about doctors for normal ailments, or childbirth? Surely doctors are able to—”
“Many rural women would sooner die than have a man other than their husband examine them, especially the intimate areas of their bodies. It’s not that long ago that I went to a scene where a woman had died, her husband not allowing the doctor to examine her body directly, but directing the woman’s sister to perform the examination, the doctor behind a screen giving instruction.”
I knew my face must betray my amazement, but, fearful of saying something that could sound patronising about another country’s beliefs and systems, I changed the subject. “I can tell that neither you nor Signor Donati are hiding anything from me about the victims, identifying marks or the like, so what actually was in the locum’s medical report?”
He glanced at Renzo, then sighed. “Please keep this to yourself. We’ve enough problems with leaked information as it is. The locum in Siena issued death certificates as if he’d done a home visit and found someone who’d suffered a heart attack. No forensic report, the causes of death of the three victims found in your house simplistic. The man you first discovered, for example? Death by a single bullet wound through the back of the head … or words to that effect.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I said, then crossed myself. The army man inside me had shown his face for the first time in a long while.
Manetti smiled at my blasphemy. “I’ve said worse myself,” he replied, offering Renzo and me another cigarette. We smoked while Manetti translated what we’d been talking about.
“We have a huge problem with all of those victims,” he said, after Renzo had spoken back to him briefly. “Apart from one person—the doctor from Montevarchi—we don’t know who any of them are, and there’s no way of identifying them.”
“I can help,” I said.
“How?”
“I can give you a facial sketch of the four people found in my house as they were when they were discovered, and I can also flesh out the features to show you how they would have looked like when they were alive. I can even give you a drawing of the SS man in uniform if you think that would help.”
“No! Surely that’s not possible? I know you’re a writer, but …” He glanced at Renzo, who hadn’t understood one word of what we’d been saying.
“Dammi il tuo taccuino,” I said to Renzo. He always had a notebook and a pencil in his jacket pocket. I turned him around, so that we were both facing away from Manetti, then began to sketch, the notebook leaning against Renzo’s back and my body blocking Manetti’s view of what I was doing. I handed the portrait to Manetti over my shoulder.
Renzo turned around and joined him, smiling at my drawing.
“You weren’t even looking at me,” he said, amazed.
I shrugged. “I have a photographic memory for faces and places,” I said.
He gazed at it for a moment. “You’ve made me look very handsome,” he said.
“I’ve merely drawn you as you are, detective.”
*****
We accompanied Manetti to his hotel. Renzo had been very lucky to find vacancies for all four men. As we stood at the entrance, smoking a last cigarette, Manetti turned to me.
“I think you may be correct, Damson,” he said.
“Correct about what?”
“That there may be two killers, not one.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The threads in the aglet and the colour of the button. It has to be two people. Who wears brown shoes with a grey jacket?”
I shrugged. Manetti translated his question to my friend.
“A foreigner?” Renzo suggested.
We three exchanged looks. The thought was chilling. Everyone who wasn’t a native Italian who lived in the wider area around the killings would now fall under suspicion.
“Let’s keep that creative suggestion between ourselves, shall we?” It wasn’t easy to understand what he’d said in Italian, but I got it. I guessed Manetti realised that this would create an avalanche of work.
“Be careful on your way home, Damson,” Manetti said to me. “Where is your bicycle, anyway?”
“I left it at Signor Donati’s,” I replied. “I’ll probably stay in his spare room tonight to save cycling in the dark.”
He shook my hand and smiled. I didn’t miss the slight flicker of something in his eyes. Perhaps he was more than a social acquaintance of Randy’s after all.
*****
“The men. They like you.” Renzo said, when we were finally at home in bed.
“I don’t care about the men, I only care whether you like me,” I replied. Of course he didn’t understand, so the usual rigmarole of explaining followed.
“Ah,” he said. “Yes, I like you, Damson. The Florence American. He like you. Too.”
“He likes this,” I said, then slapped my arse.
He laughed. “Manetti. He look at you. Hard.”
“He got hard when he was looking at me? How do you know, Renzo? Did you have your eyes on his flies?”
His puzzled look made me realise some jokes just didn’t translate—humour wasn’t universal.
“You think he …?” I asked.
Renzo shrugged. “Che ne so io? ”
“Come on,” I said, nudging his ribs. “Speak!”
“He is handsome.”
“So are you. Are you jealous?”
“Me? No! Men no look at me. Like you.”
“They do. You’re just too blind to see it .”
There followed one of those moments when I wished English wasn’t nearly all idioms. So, I got out of bed and went to my room.
“What’s that?” he asked, as I handed him a large brown paper parcel.
“Open it,” I said.
“Madonna! Quanto è bello. Chi è? ”
“Who is it? It’s you!”
He stared at me. This morning in Montepulciano, I’d picked up the nude portrait of him that I’d had framed, intending to give it to him on Sunday night when he returned from Buonconvento. I’d painted him in profile view as an ancient Roman in the baths, sitting on a marble bench, his head resting against the wall. A few drops of sweat ran down over his bicep and stomach, a furry patch of pubic hair barely visible over the thigh closest to the viewer. I was very proud of it. He looked noble, strong, and intensely masculine. I’d matched the exact colour of his skin, working for days with the watercolours to make him as lifelike as possible.
“Me? It cannot be.”
“It is you.”
“This is how you see me?”
I nodded.
“Thank you, Michelangelo,” he said, turning to kiss me, tears in his eyes. “I cannot show this to anyone else,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because this painting shows that you think of me as more than just a friend,” he said.
I wasn’t expecting that, and it took me a while to understand, but when he kissed me again, pulling me close to him, I knew that he didn’t mind that thought at all.