A Dark Song of Blood by Ben Pastor Read Free Book Online Page A

floor, and as Bora walked through the shady archway leading to the main door, Guidi could tell by the stiffness of his torso that he was in pain. “Actually, my first official act in Rome was to phone her mother. It seems a childless cousin is raising Magda’s daughter in Renningen. But it’s true that I haven’t sat to chatter with her girlfriends. That’s policemen’s work.”
    Having parted ways with Guidi, Bora walked to the pharmacy where the dead girl had been brought. It was an interesting narrow building on Via Andrea Doria, with an oval plate by the door that read “Free Medications Distributed to the Poor.” Inside, with the pretext of buying a painkiller, he conversed with Dr Mannucci, asking him first about the collection of fine apothecary vases on display, and then about the events of 29 January. The pharmacist – a hale old man with an old-fashioned mustache and a keen interest in the humanities – no doubt understood the reasons for Bora’s inquiry, but graciously acted as though it were just a friend’s concern. Patiently picking up and setting aside the well-fed cat that played with pen and papers on the counter (“Down, Salolo, down. You know better”), he said, “Yes, I did suggest that she be carried to Santo Spirito’s hospital. Carried , mind you – not rushed. You understand there was no reason to rush her to an emergency room, as her skull was crushed beyond repair and even recognition.”
    Bora had laboriously opened the Cibalgina container, and now swallowed two tablets. Showing a soldier’s pragmatic empathy, “The incident must have required much cleaning of your beautiful floor,” he observed.
    “Well, blood is less problematic than vomit – and that, too, we had to clean up on the same night.”
    “Oh? One of the policemen who brought her in?”
    Dr Mannucci looked Bora in the eye, both of them fully understanding the gist of the conversation. “Not at all.”
    At his return home, Guidi found its small population in a state of hushed exhilaration. Tenants from all floors had gathered in the parlor, where Francesca curled like a cat on the floor closest to the radio. “You must hear this.” Signora Carmela grabbed him by the arm. “The Americans have really come!”
    Her husband hastened to top the news. “The Germans are pulling out. They say there are none left in the city – they’re leaving by way of the Cassia.”
    Guidi glanced at Francesca, who remained turned to the radio, listening intently with her face low. “Who’s saying this?” he asked.
    “Who cares? The Americans are here!” The cherry-lipped woman – Pompilia Marasca, known as Pina – was ecstatic. “Just think of it – the Americans !”
    Guidi stared at the odd circle of people. Smiling, the professor said he’d use today’s date as a lotto number. The two students from upstairs – on the uneasy verge of being drafted – nudged one another and cracked juvenile jokes of relief. Signora Carmela blew kisses to the saints in their glass domes. “I hate to tell you,” Guidi spoke up. “The Germans have not left. The Americans may be coming, but there are Germans still here. Go see for yourselves.”
    “It doesn’t mean anything!” Angry-eyed, Francesca looked up at him, her paleness stark in the dim little parlor. “It’s the end for the Germans, can’t you see? It’s a matter of time!”
    “And,” the professor whistled through his false teeth, “how long can it take some seventy thousand fully armed men to reach us? I used to run bicycle races to Anzio and back.”
    The students swore they had seen the glare of battle in the past nights, contradicting each other as to direction and hour, but agreeing that it was the American advance.
    “Let’s hope you’re right,” Guidi said.
    “What happens if the Germans don’t leave Rome?” Pompilia suddenly considered. “Does it mean they’ll fight in the streets?”
    “I expect so.”
    “ Oh, Jesus !”
    “Except that