“Stefano? Take over the staff meeting. I need to think for a while. I’ll be too distracted.”
Stefano nodded and gave him a sorrowful look. “You tried, Boss. You really gave it your best effort. I know you feel I’ve failed you—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. He liked Stefano. This was all just out of their hands, had most likely always been. “I just hate losing, is all.”
Stefano bobbed his head and went to the door. Angelo faced the window once more.
“You know, Boss? I think you might find a way to work with him.”
Angelo turned on his heel. “With whom?”
“With the Colonel. Your father.”
Angelo laughed sadly. “Maybe,” he said. “It’s apparently the lesson I’ve been trying to learn my entire life. Maybe.”
***
T here were two letters on the desk. One from the SEAA—the electrical society of the Alto Adige—and the other with a postmark from Curon Venosta. Graun. The handwriting, Katharina Steinhauser’s. The deja vous made Angelo’s head swim. She’d written to him once before, a lifetime ago.
He brushed Katharina’s letter with the side of his hand, and it slid beneath a pile of papers. Picking up the envelope from the SEAA, he skewered it with his letter opener and slit the fold. No matter how grim the news from the SEAA was going to be, it gave him more assurance than what Katharina Steinhauser’s letter might hold. No surprises here, he thought. Indeed, it was a copy of the application for the Reschen reservoir. He reviewed it in detail, and there were no deviations from their previous proposal. Everything was in order. Haider Lake was included.
Angelo picked up the phone to call the Colonel, but his look landed on the corner of the other letter. He gingerly lifted the envelope, put the opener to the edge of it, and gutted it slowly. The handwriting, the paper, they were both familiar. Years ago, Katharina had written to him, pleading on behalf of the valley about the project.
This had to be something else though, and when a small black-and-white photo fell out, his heart lurched against his ribs, his insides turning liquid and cold.
The photo lay face up on the SEAA application. Careful not to put his fingers on the image, he turned it right-side up and lifted one corner. It was the girl. She had dark hair braided into a crown the way Katharina had worn hers all those years ago. The girl wore a light-coloured blouse with a gingham smock—the same one she’d had on when she’d run away from him?—and gazed steadily at the camera. She was not shy. A small smile appeared at the corners of her mouth, and he could picture her breaking into laughter. He put the photo down and read the letter, his heart pounding as if he’d just scrambled up the Marmolada Glacier and was facing gunfire.
Dear Minister Grimani,
Dear Angelo,
I am writing to you in desperation and feel foolish for having to tell you now what I should have told you long ago. There is no way to be diplomatic or gentle about this. My daughter, Annamarie, is missing. The only reason you should be interested is because you are her father.
Angelo studied the photo, his chest squeezing him as if it meant to kill him. The phone clattered onto his desk, but he ignored it.
Annamarie left us two months ago. We’ve heard only once from her. She’s joined the Fascist youth group in Bolzano. She also mentioned a boy she believes she loves. I fear the worst. Without any accusations, I beg you to help us find her. You are the only person I know in Bolzano. She has meagre means. Please help find her and bring her back to us.
The bottom of the page was not even signed.
He’d known. Since perhaps even the day he’d left Katharina standing in that godforsaken field, the day she’d run after his wagon.
He picked up the photograph.
Miss Medici walked in and looked at him twice. “Minister? Are you not well?”
“No, Miss Medici, I am not.” He closed his hand over the picture, feeling it curl in his palm. “I want to know which projects the SEAA has submitted recently. Please call them and get someone on the line who can tell me.”
“Right away. And, sir, the Colonel is on the line.”
“I’ll call him back.”
When Miss Medici closed the door, he went to the window and gazed at the street below, the photograph still in his hand. He remembered the day he caught Marco under the tree with the girl. Marco had called after her. Annamarie. Fate had a sadistic way with him.
Naturally, he would have to find her. Naturally, he would want to make certain that she did not find Marco, if that was whom she was looking for. Or had she found him? He whirled back to his desk, to the letter.
I fear the worst.
So did he now. He placed the photograph in one of the two creases and refolded the letter over it before putting them into his breast pocket. He would have picked up on something if Marco were in touch with the girl. Wouldn’t he? He checked the calendar. Marco would be returning from Kastelbell, if not today then by the end of the week.
The telephone rang and made him jump. Miss Medici told him the Colonel would not wait for his call. “He’ll be at the Laurin. He’s reserved a table for midday.”
***
A ngelo had an hour before he had to be at the hotel, so he walked through the arcades on Via Portici and turned the corner at the theatre. He paused in front of the marquee. Tonight was the opening of Alessandro De Stefani’s Equator. Marco
