Was it the new arrival which prompted Lessinger and your aunt to start probing, asking questions which led to the 1972 warning? And how was it that the three damn books once again survived?”
Until Ludwig-Viktor Lessinger asked me to get my hands on the damn books my biggest problem in life had been my effort to exude the ‘I’m in charge’ coolitude which Bea now radiated.
“Aunt Ursel will tell us more… but in her own sweet time. As Dirk learned, she does not respond well to direct questioning.”
Bea shrugged.
“Her own sweet time, fine. But remember… when you entered the Fortezza file number as a Google search term there was interest from Italy. Because of the Black Madonna? I think not. What does Fortezza mean to you, Thea?”
A file missing from the official Swiss archives, I wanted to say. I thought an answer like that might have seen me sent to stand in the corner of the classroom.
“Not that Pizzeria in Locarno…”
Nor the Florentine makers of men’s outerwear with design based on the benefits and principles of a fortress.
Nor Hotel Fortezza… on the island of Crete.
There’s a Fortezza Winery in the beautiful rolling Sierra foothills of Auburn California.
Apart from a couple of bed-and-breakfasts and the aforesaid pizzeria, there is no significant Fortezza in the Swiss canton of Tessin. So why a Swiss file?
Not a much better response to judge from Bea’s look.
“Correct. I also thrust aside any thoughts of the Fortezza Crypto Card, which is something I happen to know well.”
This, I learned, was an information security system that implements cryptographic algorithms to create a computer-based based security token. Each individual who is authorized to see protected information is issued a card that stores private keys and other data needed to gain access. The Fortezza card has been used in government, military, and banking applications to protect sensitive data.
“Aha! Not around in 1939, though!” I said brightly.
Dirk cleared his throat as he plugged his laptop into the big forty inch monitor.
“No, you need to go back a century earlier, to 1838.”
There was nothing clever I could say.
“Franzenfeste!” Dirk announced
It is called Franzenfeste in German but South Tyrol is Italian territory, the autonomous province of Alto Adige where a majority of the population are German speaking. Built by the Austrian Emperor Franz I, Fortezza was once considered to be Europe’s strongest fortress. The defensive fortification never experienced a real battle, though, and was soon technically obsolete. Beginning in 1890, the fortress served as a powder magazine, first for the Austrians, and then for the Italian army after 1918. The fortress, built of massive granite blocks, has shaped the landscape of the narrow valley right up until the present day. The fortification comprises three separate levels: the lower fortress, the middle fortress, and the upper fortress. Planned as a hideout, the upper fortress is accessible through a steep tunnel with 451 steps. There are caverns, narrow passages and broader corridors that interconnect the different areas, forming a real labyrinth. There is a neo-Gothic chapel in the large courtyard behind the main entrance to the middle fortress.
The photos Dirk had downloaded from Wiki and Flickr were impressive, and some of the architectural plans looked very similar to those in the Fortezza file from 1939. A Swiss file concerning an Italian fortress?
“It has been renovated and given extensions by a daring post-modernist architect a few years ago. It is now the venue for cultural festivals and avant-garde art events. We should visit…” Dirk concluded.
“I’m not sure if Thea actually wants to be visiting Italy at the moment, Dirk.”
True. I wanted to visit the toilet, or maybe a bar. Aunt Ursel kept little in the way of drinks apart from her beloved Pflümli. Most guests passed when she offered it. I think that’s one of the reasons she stocked the potent sweet plum brandy.
Nine
It was as if the three of us after being cooped up together needed an alternative to each other’s company. At Wystübli I introduced Bea to Martin, one of the regulars and a nice guy whose problem is that he is a total petrol-head, unable to talk for long about anything unrelated to cars. The photos on his cellphone were impressive, loving portraits of the vehicles he had created, power-enhanced versions of automobiles which were already quite devastatingly potent. Bea knew her stuff when it came to something called engine remapping which (I learned before leaving them to it at the bar) had to do with fuel supply, ignition timing, injector opening times and other alterations in order to provide a more efficient combustion. I think they were glad not to be obliged to explain stuff to an ignoramus. Inevitably, on the eve of the Grand Prix in Canada, they would be sharing their enthusiasm for Formula One racing.
Not that I have anything against wheels, but I prefer them to be on my skateboard or inline skates. At the far end of the bar I spotted Renate and her new husband, Eddi, who always had an oafish grin when he saw me. Renate, the owner of a shop selling lamps and electrical fixtures, was also the captain of the local women’s rollerblading club, Weinfelden Gone Wild. There were enough members to field two five-a-side roller derby teams. Once a year we ritually watched the 1975 movie Rollerball, horrified by its ultra-violence but also thrilled by it. I made a favourable impression when I informed the girls that much of the action had been filmed in Munich.
I had run often with Weinfelden Gone Wild during previous summers. Renate was disappointed when I said that my stay would be a short one and that I could not be counted on for the upcoming flat-track derby against the crew we called the Floozies, although our local rivals were officially the Frauenfeld Furies.
Eddi Zimmermann was an incomer from Zurich, assistant manager of a small Weinfelden hotel. His smirk was explained by his familiarity with and frank appreciation of the video of my nude downhill chase.
I drifted across to give Dirk some moral support. Chatting up the nubile hairdresser, Vroni, was not going well. Wheels again! Dirk was trying to get her to understand the rush of riding a fixie. There was a moment when Vroni showed interest, but she had misheard. The word fixie sounds very much like a vulgar German term for copulation. I wondered if I should allude to Dirk’s hidden asset. Aunt Ursel had apologized for not believing me about its signal merits. Vroni complemented me on my skin-tight black jeans; she had a pair which were similar, also with rivets liberally applied. I nodded my thanks. My jeans were decorated rather garishly with Swarovski rhinestones, not rivets made of plastic looking like metal.
Martin ‘the Motor’ passed me in a hurry to get to the men’s room. I wondered if he had become conscious that Bea wore the blue dress and yellow high-top Chucks and nought else. He would understand; I thought. His track race cars were stripped of anything superfluous to reduce their kerb weight.
Bea joined me.
“Martin reckons I can get even more push out of the Corolla.”
Ridiculous! Only the first and last few metres of the drive from Säntisblick to the Marktplatz had been below the speed limit.
“You’re a very good driver, Bea. Did you have special training?” I asked, making conversation while Martin was gone.
No tell. Bea two-point-zero, avid tuner of engines, owner of a super-duper smart cellphone, was as inscrutable as the greige ghost had been bland.
“I did. Advanced driving courses are available for civilians as well, you know.”
Now that was a tell. Although, I felt, no accident.
“Tell me something of your work. Dirk had his moment,