A Dark Song of Blood by Ben Pastor

remained unsaid. She pulled back her hair with both hands, hard, until her features were lifted and she looked like a strange geisha. After she left the room, it was as though the space had grown dimmer yet.
    The perspective of a battle in Rome started a disagreement as to whether the Germans would line up outside the walls, or make a stand in the Vatican. “Open city or not, the Allies could carpet-bomb Rome,” one of the students said. At the ill-advised words, Pompilia saw fit to slump into a faint at Guidi’s feet.
    â€œSomeone turn the radio off,” he ordered. “No point in worrying ourselves sick until some reliable news comes on the air. Professor, will you help the lady?”
    Pompilia remained in a stiff faint despite all gentle slaps and sprinkles of water, and only when Guidi relented enough to say he’d take her by the ankles if someone took her by the armpits, she came to with a flutter of eyelids. “I can walk,” she piped, lifting herself and proceeding out of the room.
    That night Guidi went to bed early. He slept fitfully, dreaming that the Americans had come and he told them how to get to Bora’s office. In the dream Bora phoned him to say that he appreciated having the Americans over, since they would all go to a Pirandello play. But the Americans killed Bora instead.
    The room was odiously dark and cold when Guidi awoke with a sore neck. Unable to find a comfortable position, he tossed for some time, until his trained ear was alerted to the opening of the door at the end of the hallway. Francesca was going to the bathroom. He heard a second door squeak on its hinges as she pulled it closed.
    Guidi sat up to fluff his pillow. Germans, Americans – Bora might have been pretending today, and even now he could be on his way north with a retreating army. Back north, where the partisans had as good a chance of killing him as the Americans. Good riddance , Guidi wanted to say, but he didn’t really mean it as far as Bora was concerned.
    He lay back. What took Francesca so long? He hadn’t heard water flushed or running, nor had the door opened a second time. Guidi waited a few more minutes, then slipped out of bed. In the dark he groped for the door, listening. Carefully he turned the key in the lock, and stepped out into the hallway. No candlelight filtered from under the bathroom door. Before knocking, he felt the door for resistance, and it gave way under his hand. “Francesca?” he whispered, forgetting the embarrassment that would follow her answer. But no answer came. A chilly draft prompted him to turn the light on: the bathroom was empty, and the window on the street stood ajar.
    24 JANUARY 1944
    Monday night, Bora said Pirandello helped him understand Italians.
    â€œYou must be joking.” Guidi took exception. “His plays are absurd.”
    â€œExactly.” From where they sat, now that the intermission allowed a full view of the audience, Ras Merlo’s pomade-shiny head could be seen bobbing up and down at the side of a bright green hat. Bora looked in that direction with an unkind grin.“The man has the authorities of two nations at his heels, and he’s watching a tale about getting caught.”
    All evening Bora had been of a merry disposition, scarcely due to the sarcasm of the play, and closer to relaxation than Guidi had ever seen. Guidi could share none of the good cheer. He had stayed awake until dawn, waiting for Francesca’s return to the house. Without confronting her directly, he’d called for a routine check on her background. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but his heart was heavy.
    Soon Bora headed for another box, where Guidi saw him greet an elegant group, kiss the ladies’ hands and chat nearly until the end of the intermission. “People I used to know,” he explained at his return. “Is Merlo still here? I don’t see his gummy head.”
    â€œHe’s just