The Devil Will Come

also sounded as if he had more important things to attend to.

‘Are there any older faculty members who might remember him?’ she asked.

‘Maybe Hermann Straub,’ the Dean said irritably. ‘He’s been here forever.’

‘Might I speak with him?’

‘Tell you what,’ Friedrich snapped. ‘Call back and leave your number with my secretary. She’ll see if Straub wants to contact you. That’s the best I can do.’

Elisabetta had already pulled Straub’s office number from the website and she rang it the instant the line went dead. An older-sounding man answered formally in German but switched to serviceable English when she asked if he spoke English or Italian.

Straub was instantly charming and, she imagined from his syrupy tone, something of an aging ladies’ man. She didn’t risk putting him off by mentioning she was a nun.

‘Yes,’ he answered with surprise. ‘I knew Ottinger quite well. We were colleagues for many years. He died some years ago, you know.’

‘Yes, I know. Perhaps you can help me, then. I came into possession of one of his treasured possessions – an old book – through a mutual acquaintance. It made me curious. I wanted to try to find out something about him.’

‘Well, I have to say that Ottinger wasn’t the easiest man in the world. I got along with him fairly well, but I was in the minority. He was quite hard, quite tough. Most students didn’t like him and his relations with other faculty members were strained. Some of my colleagues refused to speak with him for years. But he was a very brilliant man and an excellent mechanical engineer and I appreciated his work. And he appreciated my work, so that was the basis, I think, for an acceptable departmental relationship.’

‘What did you know of his life outside the University?’

‘Very little, really. He was a private man and I respected that. To my knowledge he lived alone and had no family. He acted like an old bachelor. His collars were frayed, his sweaters had holes – that sort of thing.’

‘You knew nothing about his non-academic interests?’

‘I only know that his politics were a little on the extreme side. We didn’t have big political conversations or anything like that, but he often made small comments that showed which direction he tilted.’

‘And that was?’

‘To the right. To the far right, I’d say. Our University is quite liberal and he was always muttering about socialist this and communist that. I think he also had some biases against immigrants. The students we had from Turkey and such places, well, they knew Ottinger’s reputation and they stayed away from his courses.’

‘Did he belong to any political party?’ Elisabetta asked.

‘That, I wouldn’t know.’

‘Did he ever mention an interest in literature?’

‘I don’t recall.’

‘Did he ever talk of Christopher Marlowe or the Faustus play?’

‘To me? I’m certain he didn’t.’

‘Did he ever bring up someone he called “K”?’

‘Again, not that I recall. These are very odd questions, young lady.’

Elisabetta laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose they are. But I’m saving the oddest for last. Are you aware of any anatomical abnormalities that he might have had?’

‘I don’t know what you could possibly mean.’

She took a breath. Why hide it? ‘Bruno Ottinger had a tail. Was that something you knew?’

There was a longish pause. ‘A tail, you say! How marvelous! Of all the characters I’ve known in my life, Ottinger, that old devil, would certainly be the one man to have a tail!’

Once Elisabetta had pulled back the heavy curtains and let the light pour in she discovered that her father’s bedroom wasn’t the disaster she had expected. True, his bed was unmade and books and clothes were strewn everywhere but there wasn’t much dust and the en suite bathroom was acceptable. The cleaner, it appeared, had periodic access to his inner sanctum.

She stripped the bed, gathered the towels and dirty clothes and began to assemble a load of laundry.

She left the second bed untouched. The bedspread was perfectly draped, the decorative pillows in precise rows of descending size. It seemed as though it was protected by some force field – the only surface unencumbered by her father’s things.

Her mother’s bed.

Returning to the bedroom, hands on hips, Elisabetta surveyed the untidiness. She reckoned there’d be hell to pay for organizing his books and papers but she was determined to take a stab at it. Besides, she could do it with more care than anyone else: Goldbach monographs in one place, Goldbach notebooks and scraps of paper in another. Lecture notes here. Detective novels there.

One bookcase was neat as a pin, the one next to her mother’s bed. Flavia Celestino’s books, most of them on medieval history, remained in the same exact order as on the day she died. Elisabetta reached for one, Elizabeth and Pius V – The Excommunication of a Queen, and sat on the bed. The dust jacket was bright and clean, a pristine copy of a 26-year-old book. She opened it to the inside back flap and gazed at the author’s photo.

It was like looking into a mirror.

Elisabetta had forgotten how much she looked like her mother; the photo had been taken when Flavia was about her own age. The same high forehead, the same cheekbones, the same lips. Even though she’d been a young girl when the book came out, she remembered the soiree her parents threw and how proud and radiant her mother had been over its publication. Her academic career at the History Department at La Sapienza was launched. Who could have known she’d be dead within a year?

Elisabetta had never read the book. She had avoided doing so in the same way that one avoids dwelling on the memory of a painful love affair. But at that moment she resolved to take a copy to Africa. She’d start reading on the flight. It would be a long-neglected conversation. Absently, she thumbed through the pages and dipped into a paragraph or two. There was a light turn of phrase evident in the style. Flavia, it seemed, was a good writer and that pleased her.

An envelope dropped onto her lap – a bookmark, she supposed. She turned it over and was surprised to see the Vatican seal. The envelope was unaddressed, unused, never sealed. There was a card inside. With a curious anticipation she pulled it out and instantly froze.

There it was!

She had seen it before. She remembered.

The bedroom door loomed large and scary.

‘Go in,’ her father said. ‘It’s okay. She wants to see you.’

Elisabetta’s feet seemed to be stuck.

‘Go on!’

The doorknob was at a child’s eye level. She turned it and was assaulted with the unfamiliar smells of a sickroom. She crept toward her mother’s bed.

A thin voice called to her. ‘Elisabetta, come.’

Her mother was propped up on big pillows, covered by bedclothes. Her face was hollow, her skin dull. Every so often she seemed to be fighting off a wince so as not to scare her daughter with facial contortions.

‘Are you sick, momma?’

‘Yes, sweetheart. Momma’s sick.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know why. The doctors don’t know either. I’m trying my hardest to get better.’

‘Should I pray for you?’

‘Yes, why not? Praying is always good. When in doubt, pray. Are you eating all your food?’

Elisabetta nodded.

‘Your brother and sister too?’

‘Yes.’