Six Graves to Munich - Mario Cleri [33]
When Rogan woke up in the morning he had the worst hangover of his life. He felt as if his whole body was filled with sweet rotten grapes. He groaned, and the naked girl next to him cooed sympathetically, reached down beneath the bed, and lifted up the half-empty jug of wine they had been drinking the night before.
“This is the only cure,” she said. She drank from the jug and handed it to Rogan. He put it to his lips and the fruity wine washed the ache out of his head. He kissed the girl’s heavy breasts. They seemed to give off the fragrance of grapes; her whole body exuded the aroma of the wine, as if she herself were the very essence of it.
Rogan smiled at her. “And who are you?” he asked.
“I am Mrs. Genco Bari,” she said. “But you may call me Lucia.” At that moment there was a knock on the bolted door. She smiled at him. “And that is my husband come to reward you.”
Lucia went to unbolt the door while Rogan reached to where his jacket hung on a chair, groping for his Walther pistol. Before he could find it the door swung open and Genco Bari came into the room. Behind his frail, wasted figure loomed two Sicilian peasants, shotguns cradled in their arms. One of the peasants was Tullio. He stared at Rogan impassively.
Genco Bari sat at his wife’s dressing table. He smiled in a kindly way at Rogan. “Have no fear; I am not the typical, jealous Sicilian husband,” he said. “As you see, it is obvious I can no longer fulfill my husbandly duties. I am a more worldly man than my fellow peasants, and so I permit my wife to satisfy her very natural needs. But never with someone from this village, and always with discretion. Last night I am afraid my poor Lucia became carried away by the new wine and her passion. But no matter. Here is your reward.” He tossed a purse stuffed with money on the bed. Rogan did not move to take it.
Genco Bari turned to his wife. “Lucia, did he acquit himself well?”
Lucia flashed Rogan a brilliant smile and nodded. “Like a fine bull,” she said mischievously.
Bari laughed, or rather he tried to laugh. But since there was no flesh on his face, it was merely a grimace of loose bones and skin and teeth. “You must forgive my wife,” he said to Rogan. “She is a simple peasant girl with forthright, lusty ways. That is why I married her three years ago when I learned I was dying. I thought I could hold on to life by feasting on her body. But that soon ended. And then when I saw her suffering I broke all the traditions of our land. I permitted her to have lovers. But under conditions dictated by me, so that my honor and the honor of my family would remain untarnished. So let me warn you now: If you boast of this to anyone in Sicily, I will set my ferrets after you and you will never lie with women again.”
Rogan said curtly, “I don’t need that money, and I never tell stories about women.”
Genco Bari stared at him intently. “There is something familiar about your face,” he said. “And you speak Italian almost like a native. Have our paths ever crossed?”
“No,” Rogan said. He was looking at Bari with pity. The man weighed no more than seventy pounds. His face was a skin-covered skull.
Genco Bari said musingly, as if talking to himself, “You were searching for me when you were in Palermo. Then the American agent Bailey set you on my trail. Tullio here”—he jerked his head at the armed guard—“tells me that at his wine booth you were inquiring where I lived and that I had invited you here. So we must know each other.” He leaned toward Rogan. “Have you been sent here to kill me?” He smiled his ghastly smile. He flung out his arms jestingly. “You are too late,” he said. “I am dying. There is no point in your killing