“Or, Jutta,” Annamarie’s father replied, “a triple alliance might be Austria’s leverage. It’s something to consider. If they want Austria’s support, Germany and Italy may have to make concessions. Think about it.”
There was some agreement, some dissent. Annamarie could not understand what half of their discussion meant, but she was intrigued by the tension it caused.
Just then Alois blocked the view to the table, and she had to lean against the wall, away from the door, as he came in. She put a finger to her lips and gently pulled him in from where she stood.
“Annamarie,” Alois hissed. “Are you still playing the game?”
She nodded.
“I have to bring out some more bread.”
The men had not even begun eating, Annamarie noted, but Jutta must have sent Alois into the kitchen because confrontations of any kind easily upset him.
“Then go get some,” she said, putting her ear on the crack of the door.
“…Outsiders, like me,” her father was saying. He was calm. His tone measured. “Sometimes we have a better vantage point. There’s the ministry from Bolzano, the electrical consortium, and Monte Fulmini Electrical we have to deal with first. Let’s focus on getting someone to help us with that.”
A chair scraped against the floor.
Alois stepped in front of Annamarie, wide eyed. “Mother’s coming. Quick. Hide.”
Without checking, Annamarie scampered through the kitchen and to the door that led into the hallway of the inn and the reception desk. She nearly ran into Henri, Jutta’s nephew.
“Annamarie?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
She thought fast. Outside, she heard motorcars pulling up to the front of the inn. “I had to bring my father something,” she said, then pointed to the kitchen. “Tante Jutta needs something from you. She’s in the kitchen.”
Henri’s forehead creased, and he glanced at the door. Motors turned off and car doors slammed.
She eyed the staircase that led to the rooms above and lied again. “I think she wants to talk to you about the arriving guests.”
He shrugged and went into the kitchen. As soon as he disappeared, Annamarie bounded two steps at a time to the first landing and crouched to listen. The front door opened, the iron bell hanging above it erupting into two stuttered rings. Footsteps.
Annamarie adjusted her position until she saw two men in breeches and pullovers. She could only see them from the midriff down because the stairwell ceiling blocked the rest of the view.
They reached the reception desk and pressed the bell. The door from the kitchen creaked open, and Henri greeted the guests in Italian, followed by the familiar sound of Tante Jutta’s keychain. Annamarie craned her neck to see Jutta standing next to Henri. This was odd. Tante Jutta refused to speak Italian with anyone, and that was the reason she had her nephew working here in the first place. So why come out now?
Annamarie moved so she could see Tante Jutta, who was closest to the stairwell. Her profile was stern, and even from here, Annamarie could sense she was coldly assessing the two men.
Henri had given the men the registration cards to fill out, and one of them had finished and turned the forms back to Henri, but it was Jutta who put her finger on them.
Jutta read, “Angelo Grimani and Marco Grimani?”
“Yes,” the first man answered. The voice was soft, polite.
Annamarie ducked her head a little at the risk of being seen, and now she could make out the men’s faces. One was a boy, about her age. He was handsome and looked much like the other man—his father, then—with dark hair swept back. The father was only slightly taller and wore camel-coloured breeches and a dark-grey pullover with a high collar. His hair was grey at the temples.
“What is the rate?” the father asked.
Jutta pointed at the boy and said in German, “This your son? Marco?”
“Sì. Perché?” Yes. Why?
“No reason.” Jutta shrugged. “Fifty lire.”
Fifty lire!
Next to Jutta, Henri flinched a little, but Jutta put a hand on his arm. Henri said nothing.
“Per persona?” Mr Grimani asked.
“Sì,” Jutta said.
He pressed his lips and pulled out a wallet. “With full board,” he said, switching into German.
“Meta,” Jutta corrected. Half.
Mr Grimani looked over his shoulder towards the front door, then back at Jutta. He said something quietly to Henri in rapid Italian that Annamarie could not hear, and Jutta’s nephew turned pink.
“He said,” Henri muttered, “at these rates, he will have to find another place by tomorrow.”
Jutta put her hands on her hips. “Really? It’s your Il Duce, your Benito Mussolini, who introduced the tourist rates. Take your complaints to him. Besides, Il Dante in the Italian quarter is full. But you know that, or you’d already be there.”
Henri sighed and quietly started to translate, but Jutta put a hand on his arm again.
“Never mind. Just tell him he hasn’t had my goulash yet.”
Mr Grimani chuckled softly. “Bene.” Good.
The son—Marco—shifted on his legs. When he lifted his bag and turned towards the staircase, Annamarie nearly sprang up the steps to the second flight. She saw his shadow at the bottom of the stairwell. She held her breath.
“How many nights will you be staying?” Jutta was asking, her tone more solicitous.
“Seven nights,” Mr Grimani said.
Marco moved away from the stairwell, but Annamarie did not dare move back to the landing. In fact, if they were going to be coming upstairs, she would have to sneak into one of the rooms.
She heard Jutta and Mr Grimani exchanging money for keys, and then Jutta said, “Are you here for business or pleasure, Signor Grimani?” She stressed the word pleasure.
“Business.”
“Of course you are. Our holiday season
