“But you must be concerned.”
The Colonel scowled, mopping up tomato sauce with another piece of bread. “The reservoirs and turbines you’ve installed are not going to hold much longer. And as for relocation, these people want so desperately to belong to Austria again, then we’ll open up the borders and they can run to Austria. They can busy Hitler enough to keep him at bay. By the way, I want a copy of that report Stefano prepared earlier this summer.”
His father would want the names of all the opponents for one of his little black books, the piles and piles of little leather volumes his father wrote all his secret notes and then kept locked in a hidden safe. Angelo’s face went slack. The Steinhausers’ names were on Stefano’s report now. “It was filed with the Office of River Regulation. You can get it yourself.”
The Colonel tossed his napkin next to his bowl, looked around, and pushed himself against the table, as if he wanted to charge Angelo. Only the arrival of the main courses interrupted them, and the Colonel sat back and at least pretended to relax.
The waiter placed the dishes before them. “The mussels, Colonel. And for you, Minister, the rabbit.”
The rabbit was steaming with the flavours of roasted meat, oregano, and garlic. There was a side of savoy cabbage, something Angelo had not read on the menu or he would have ordered another side dish. It didn’t matter. He had lost his appetite.
The Colonel picked up a mussel to use as a pincer for the others. “We’re moving to the next agenda item,” he said, fishing out the flesh from a mussel. A basil leaf hung from a lip of the shell.
Angelo acquiesced. “Has Marco returned from Kastelbell yet?”
The Colonel looked surprised. “Last week. He helped Barbarasso with the summaries and then left for Rome.”
“Rome? What? When?”
“His troop had some sort of assembly down there. Angelo, I thought you knew. He said he’d told you and that Chiara had put up a fuss but that you gave him permission.”
Angelo shook his head. “I knew nothing about it.”
“He’s even left his friend behind. I don’t understand that.”
“What friend?”
The Colonel grimaced and shook his head, popping another piece of mussel meat into his mouth. “Honestly, Angelo, if you know nothing about your son, what difference does it make where he lives?”
Angelo shot his father a hateful look and sawed at the rabbit, which was unnecessary, as the meat fell straight off the bone, and he nearly sent a clump of cabbage flying off his plate. Stuffing the first forkful into his mouth, he quickly ran through a list of reasons Marco had not returned home after Kastelbell nor informed Chiara and him that he was off to Rome. Was it Annamarie? Was he, God forbid, with her?
The GUF. The pioneers.
There was only one person Angelo could think of who could help him find Annamarie.
Chapter 14
Bolzano, November 1937
T he Conti home was located across the Talvera River on via Fago just minutes from the armoury. Angelo stopped at the gates, flanked on either side by a heavy terra-cotta wall. The villa itself looked like something out of Tuscany with its limoncello-yellow facade and mint-green shutters. Long ivy fingers grew into a creeping embrace around the front of the house, the only living thing in the otherwise winterised garden. There was a rounded loggia on the third story. The same brick used to build the compound’s wall had been installed in the facade, which reached from beneath the windows all the way to the arched green door below. It gave the impression that the villa had been built around the last standing tower of some Tyrolean count’s castle.
He glanced down at the brown paper in his hands. Yellow and red chrysanthemums and dahlias were wrapped up inside. It had been absurd to buy them. He could have simply said he was passing by on his way to or from the armoury for this, that, or the other thing, easy enough as a veteran, as a captain, as the son of Colonel Nicolo Grimani. Too late now.
He pressed the buzzer to the right of the gate and heard it ring in the distance within the house.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice. Had to be the help.
“Minister Angelo Grimani,” he said to the speaker box. “For Signora Conti.”
There was no response, and Angelo was not certain if he’d had to push something to be heard through the metal box, so he pressed the buzzer again, and this time the gate clicked. He turned the brass knob and walked up to the door. When it opened, Gina herself stood in the doorway. Her dark hair lay in waves, loose around her shoulders. She wore a black linen skirt and black blazer beneath which she wore a silk coral blouse, liquid in the winter light. He’d bought her a rose in this coral colour once.
“Minister Grimani,” she finally said, as if she had needed that time to take in the sight of him as well. “I wasn’t expecting you.” It had been her voice at the speaker.
“I do apologise.” He presented the wrapped flowers. “The idea to stop by was spontaneous.”
She glanced at the paper cone as she took it from him, and he could see that she did not believe him. Of course not. The flowers confessed his premeditation.
She opened the door wider. “I was just about to make some coffee. You’ll join me?”
Behind her, the foyer was made of pristine white marble with the slightest of grey-blue veins. He was no architect but knew that this stone had been extracted from somewhere south of the province. The general would not have had it any other way. The sterile interior was such a stark contrast to the outside
