Chapter Thirty-six
Giancarlo Borsa had developed a slight limp as he walked through the pine forest. He had lived with it for almost forty years, and concealed it expertly; but the topic intensified it. He and Melanie had ridden the Arabians for a while, and the more he talked about Sarah and Deschin, and the more Melanie pulled the details of those desperate moments out of him, the more they felt the need for an intimate exchange. So they dismounted and were strolling side by side on a bridle path that ran along a bluff, the city far below, the Arabians clomping along behind them solemnly, as if sensing the tenor of their conversation.
“Your parents were fiercely brave,” Borsa said in conclusion. “They almost lost their lives. But the Germans fell quickly once the storage depot was gone. And Ettore returned for them with partizani.”
Melanie was touched and fulfilled by the tale, and her eyes had become watery, as had Borsa’s.
“That’s so incredible,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Did they spend time together after that?”
“They were inseparable,” Borsa replied. “I recall, Aleksei was devastated when your mother decided to return to the States. It took him a year to get over her; and then, all of a sudden, something happened that plunged him back into the gloominess. He wouldn’t talk about it, and went back to Russia shortly thereafter. Your mother seemed much more able to manage it than he, more self-possessed, mature.”
“Sounds like mother,” Melanie said fondly. “She was always the strong one, always in control.”
“Indeed,” Borsa went on. “One day, I went to her tent to say good-bye. She was packing, holding the picture, studying it. Her eyes told me she was deciding something. She tightened her lips, then folded it in half, almost as if folding Aleksei out of her life, and put it in her trunk.” He sighed wistfully, adding, “We were all children really, barely in our twenties, and we went our ways; that’s how it was.”
Melanie nodded, sensing why her mother had kept it inside all those years, sensing that Sarah knew talking about it might create yearnings for something that was forever gone.
“Do you know what happened to my father?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve maintained occasional contact over the years. He’s a very important official in the Soviet Union, now. Minister of culture.”
“Could you help me get in touch with him,” Melanie asked, feeling overwhelmed.
“I’d be happy to,” he replied, bringing a smile to her face. “I can see you assume he’ll be joyfully pleased to know of you, and indeed, he should. But, keep in mind that your father’s position, and the society in which he lives, could cause quite the opposite reaction,” Borsa added gently, “Regardless, you’ll need help. You couldn’t reach him the way you reached me. These men aren’t public figures. They don’t get involved the way we do here in the West,” he went on, and glancing to his watch, added, “Which reminds me, I have a benefit I must host. Shall we?”
Melanie nodded, and they mounted the Arabians and headed for the amphitheater.
Piazza dei Siena was filled with spectators now. Well-heeled bidders and their guests were milling on the long balcony in front of the private boxes. In the stables below, grooms were preparing the horses that would soon be auctioned. A huge banner proclaiming PACE MON-DIALE hung on the tower opposite the massive stone door through which the horses would make their dramatic entrance.
Borsa and Melanie came through the tunnel from the bridle paths on the Arabians and cantered across the show ring toward his stables.
“Ciao, Olmo! Lucianna! Buongiorno!” he exclaimed, waving to a couple he recognized on the balcony as he and Melanie dismounted. He automatically held out the reins to the stableboy, who wasn’t there; then looked around puzzled and went beneath the overhang, calling out, “Paolo? Paolo, venga qui!” He waited briefly, then shrugged in disgust.
“We’ll have to stable them ourselves,” he said to Melanie apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I spent my childhood in stables,” she said, smiling.
They led the horses inside, removed saddles and bridles, and put them into stalls, then climbed the stairs to the private box above.
Borsa entered first. He walked briskly across the Persian rug to the balcony door, and discovered it had been locked from the inside, ornate key removed. That’s when he noticed the shutters had been closed; and when Melanie noticed the hooded figure behind her locking the door to the stables; and when Borsa whirled to see the two faces concealed by the black balaclavas and sunglasses that gave them the look of giant insects. They had been hidden in plain sight amidst the elegant trappings — Dominica in a wing chair, high back to the door concealing her, Silvio on a leather sofa in an alcove to one side.
“What is this!” Borsa demanded angrily. He had walked right past Dominica on his way to the door, and was facing her now.
“Quiet, please,” she ordered, her voice muffled by the balaclava. “Just do as you’re told,” she went on, remaining seated, calmly leveling a handgun at him.
“I’ll do what I came here to do,” Borsa replied. “I’m going to start this auction, now. And—”
“Yes,” Dominica interrupted. “Go and deploy your horses, Mr. Defense Minister. Then return here, alone. Any trickery — your stableboy, your guard, and your ladyfriend will die.”
Silvio pushed a gun against the side of Melanie’s head. Her eyes darted to it fearfully. They had been speaking in Italian, and she had no idea what they were saying, which made her even more frightened.
“Go!” Dominica ordered.
Borsa flicked a torn glance at Melanie.
“Be calm,” he advised. “Don’t confront them.”
Dominica unlocked the door, opening it just enough to allow Borsa through. He strode past and down a short flight of steps to the balcony.
The crowd in the amphitheater broke into applause.
A TV crew with a mobile minicam followed Borsa through the crowd to a podium at the edge of the balcony. Paparazzi surged around him, motor-driven cameras whirring and clicking noisily.
“Welcome to the Benefit Auction for World Peace,” Borsa began as the applause subsided. “Again, it is my pleasure to host this worthy event. And I ask that you bid generously for the magnificent animals we have for you today. And now”—His voice cracked as he forced it to a climax—“to officially open these proceedings—” he peaked and gestured broadly to the arena.
A trumpter in medieval silks raised the long instrument to his lips and played a spirited fanfare. The banners of the prominent breeding families snapped in the wind, filling the pauses between the stanzas.
Behind the castle’s facade, an attendant listened for the last note to trail off. Then he grasped a thick hawser that hung from the upper reaches of the castle and pulled down, as if ringing church bells.
The heavy rope was affixed to a shaft that ran between two large cogwheels. The teeth engaged the links of a heavy chain that ran from the top corners of the stone door to huge counterweights hanging above it. The attendant’s pull lowered the weights just past the balance point. They began a slow, steady plunge, raising the immense slab upward and back — like the door on a residential garage — into a horizontal position behind the facade.