Blood in the Snow

by Franco Marks

  White Wolf glared at him fiercely.

  “I can’t be your son, because I was five when my mother disappeared for fourteen days. So whatever happened on this trip to Lourdes, which remains to be proven, has nothing to do with my birth.”

  Don Sergio’s expression grew sly again, and he gave him a sympathetic smile, as if to say, ‘don’t you understand, we’d already done it before then?’. Marzio seethed with anger and disgust, but he repressed his personal feelings. With difficulty.

  “You’re wasting my time. And you’re getting away from the point of our conversation: the death of four women.”

  “All words that are spoken are a piece of life.” Again that strange way of talking that made their encounter feel unhealthy. He had to break it off, get out of there. He made to leave, not wanting to say goodbye or look him in the face. But Don Sergio stopped him.

  “I’ve got something for you.”

  He pulled out a piece of paper and a plastic bag from under his cassock. He handed them to Marzio.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s my DNA. I had it analysed at Genomax, the private lab whose camper was parked in the square. So one day, if you want, you can compare it with yours, and find out if you are my son.”

  White Wolf gave him a violent look. He was about to attack him. Physically.

  “You’re mad – don’t play games with me because I’ll lock you up.”

  Don Sergio seemed distant. He had only one goal and, taking advantage of the anger that had overcome Marzio, he slipped the analysis report and the plastic bag into the pocket of his windcheater.

  Marzio would have liked to burn the absurdity of that priest on the candle burning under the painting of Saint Gualberto, immediately destroying every bit of oxygen he had shared with him. Like a man condemned to death, he felt oppressed by the desire to escape the nightmare as soon as possible. He barged out of the church and the snow, finally, brought him back to himself. He fumbled in his pocket to check that he hadn’t imagined that piece of paper; but it existed, cold and true. He opened it under the street lamp. It was covered in dozens of small boxes containing numbers: a calendar, a cabal, a curse. Under the streetlight he also looked at the transparent plastic envelope and the other coloured containers inside it. A complete kit for DNA analysis to be sent to Genomax. A ridiculous fucking game. The falling snow made people talk nonsense, lose their minds, rave.

  The ‘snow sickness’ came suddenly, and it often affected local people – the most sensitive ones, the ones who lived in harmony with nature. After a few days of continuous snowfall, when everything turned white, people began to behave oddly, as if their brains were filling up with water. They no longer perceived reality. Something obscure gripped the brain, and the only way to be free of it was to rush down to the valley where trees, colours and the town could be found… Otherwise you ended up being drawn towards that enchantment like a sort of white vertigo. You stopped being able to see the horizon. Raving his magnificent lies, Don Sergio was rotten with it. Marzio hoped that it was ‘snow sickness’, otherwise things would be unpleasant. That priest and his madness were to be added to the list of a thousand problems to be avoided. Either that or it was a strategy to disorient him, to distract him from the investigation. Mix the investigation up with Marzio’s private life.

  A weakness for which he was already paying with Elisabetta’s death.

  11

  From a simple, straightforward life, Marzio had been plunged into a tangle of knotted snakes. It was difficult to get any distance from things now that the priest and his madness were involved – another slab of marble for him to bang his head against. The car descended from the hills and below it the blue sea opened up, as placid as a decorated ceramic dish, gleaming in the sun.

  It was a feeling he hadn’t had for a long time. He stopped on the curve that overlooked the panorama of Vissone. The play of rooftops and colourful houses against the blue water, some boats, an oil tanker on the horizon. It was Elisabetta’s town. He breathed in deeply – the air contained something calming. It had been years since he’d seen the sea, that blue blanket where a person could dream, and for a moment he wished he was able to stop time. With someone next to him to share the feeling with – with Elisabetta. The day he went to visit her in Vissone, she would have taken him to the viewing point, grabbed hold of his hand and kissed him. He couldn’t free himself of the imprint of her body, a sweet garment that he still wore even when he tried to push her away.

  What did the sea lack that a snow covered glacier possessed? Nature was always there waiting, all you needed was to know how to grasp her secrets and harmonise yourself with her and the problems that made your hours anguished became small nuisances – vanished into her splendid, beneficial beauty. He regretted having ignored the sea all these years. He recalled the sad, shadowy holidays he used to spend there with his family for a week in September, usually in some cheap holiday camp or tiny hotel. Unpleasant memories of the sun burning his head, disorienting him, as though the air conditioning in his brain had stopped working. His feet, legs and shoulders covered in sand. The sunburn. Unforgettably torrid nights. He should redeem himself with the sea. A holiday in Vissone? Maybe someday.

  Thanks to Paride’s confidences, Marzio had easily managed to reconstruct much of the hour and a half Elisabetta had spent between his house and the Pino Rosso. He had identified the man in the Mercedes: Franz Binetti, owner of a famous restaurant in Vissone. Elisabetta wasn’t just one of his cooks, but probably also his lover.

  Franz Binetti had definitely returned from Valdiluce on February the 23rd, and had a perfect alibi because his Telepass had been registered as passing through the toll barrier off the motorway in Vicosauro at 20:35 and arriving at the Vissone on the Sea exit at 24:52. These were the details Marzio had collected. But they weren’t enough. He wanted more detailed information, a full blown interrogation – from six thirty until eight, every minute of Elisabetta’s time had to be accounted for. What had really happened in that Mercedes? Why had Elisabetta’s lover gone to see her in Valdiluce? Was it an arranged meeting, or a surprise visit? Had he caused the haematoma on Elisabetta’s left wrist? Had there been a scuffle? These were the official questions, but beneath, like incandescent embers, lay the desire to understand. Marzio had been fooling himself with Elisabetta. Had she been another person entirely from the one he’d imagined? Had that initial prickling of love been a mistake? Had she really decided to leave Franz Binetti because she was in love with White Wolf? Like a forest of stakes, all these question marks outlined a difficult track, as full of bends as a slalom.

  *

  “I’m Inspector Marzio Santoni.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “I’m here to ask you some questions about your meeting in Valdiluce with Elisabetta Todini on Saturday the 23rd of February, which lasted from around six thirty to eight o’clock.”

  “Please, have a seat.”

  Franz Binetti’s red shoes hurried him along as he accompanied White Wolf around his gorgeous restaurant with its two Michelin stars.

  “I am at your disposal. But given the time, Inspector, you absolutely must eat with us, please. I’ll be offended if you don’t. That way you can keep an eye on me.” He had a French accent that made him seem charming.

  “I can’t. It might be prejudicial.”

  Chef Franz looked at him for a long time, perhaps not understanding the meaning of that uncommon word. Tall and sturdy, he walked with difficulty – evidently his years spent in the kitchen had taken their toll on his legs. Thick eyebrows, hair done by some grand barber, very elegant clothes, black trousers, a blue cashmere sweater that couldn’t hide a mighty belly.

  “Please stay, Inspector. In my restaurant, you don’t just eat – you travel through a world of flavours, of the senses, aromas, luxury and quality.”

  Marzio remembered hearing about him on television, but he continued to play the policeman.

  “I accept, if you will let
me pay my bill like any other customer…”

  “I would have preferred to have you as a guest, but I will do as you ask.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please, sit here, so you can have a view over the sea.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather have that table over there.”

  In restaurants, Marzio had always been used to keeping his back covered by the wall and having a view over the whole place. You never knew what might happen. It was a policeman’s habit. He sat down in the golden chair at the extraordinary table with cut-crystal glasses, fresh flowers in an Art Nouveau vase, a finely embroidered tablecloth and napkins, butter on silver plates, numerous and obscure pieces of cutlery and a swarm of waiters who circled around like hard working wasps. Freshly baked bread, mignon.

  A large window reflected the images of the kitchen: dozens of chefs working among pots that looked to be made of gold. Marzio turned into White Wolf – he puffed out his chest and sat erect, as rigid as a child in a place that frightens him.

  Chef Franz brought him the menu. It wasn’t easy to choose from among so many French names, but the inspector found a dish that he knew he had to try – the one Elisabetta and her friends had eaten in their apartment, the bouillabaisse. That dish fitted perfectly into the investigation, it was material evidence. Marzio ordered it without altering his proud bearing, like a hawk in front of its prey.

  The waiters entered with huge fish on silver trays, sauces, raw and cooked vegetables, seafood, sea urchins, oysters. She – the bouillabaisse – sat at the centre like a queen in a Richard Ginori tureen. Franz watched to observe the inspector’s reaction. From the aroma came overwhelming pleasure. When he took his first taste, Marzio could not hold back his amazement: he melted, went slack, relaxed his muscles, left the role of White Wolf and became Marzio Santoni, an ordinary man, swooning over that extraordinary delicacy.

  “Good, eh?”

  “My compliments.”

  “The real secret of this bouillabaisse isn’t just the freshness of the fish but the Pastis Ricard.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Franz placed the bottle on the table. “There’s a legend that the best bouillabaisse was made in Marseilles by a grand cook, Lucienne Oasi. Everyone wanted to know what the secret was, but he was always vague and would never tell anyone. Only when he was a hundred and one and on his deathbed did he say one last word: Pastis. From that day on, we have all used it. It mixes East and West, Mediterranean and Arab culture, and the aroma of Provence, of Marseilles. Have a drop.”

  “Thank you, I’d better not.”

  “It’s similar to your juniper liqueur.”

  “Ginpin.”

  “Can I ask you one question before you start with yours? A cook’s curiosity. How is Ginpin made?”

  Marzio was relaxing, becoming convivial.

  “It’s a distillate of juniper berries with the addition of aromatic herbs and some blueberries. We have a little secret too, which gives it the touch of perfection: fir shoots ground up with juniper berries.”

  Franz Binetti looked at all the empty wine glasses.

  “Are you only drinking water, Inspector? Try at least a drop of Pastis.”

  “Unfortunately I’m on duty.”

  A faint hint of a smile appeared on Marzio’s face, as though to apologise for this little breach of decorum. He would have preferred to say that he had many hours of driving ahead of him, or that he had trouble digesting alcohol, or that he didn’t want to spoil the splendour of the fish by adding different flavours. And instead he’d come out with a cliché worthy of an American TV show: ‘Unfortunately I’m on duty.’

  Franz took on board the inspector’s words. Their jarring effect echoed off the Riedel glasses. He tried again.

  “Eating bouillabaisse without wine is a mortal sin. Even if you are on duty.”

  Marzio became terse – he didn’t like Franz’s know-all manner.

  “Let me have the bill.”

  “I’d be very happy to offer you it on the house.”

  “That won’t be possible.”

  The bill took some of the shine off the lunch. Marzio paid as they had agreed. He thought the administration would probably reimburse him, because the bouillabaisse was part of the material evidence of the crime. But he would never present them with a bill for one hundred and seventy-two euros. On the other hand, Franz Binetti’s restaurant, with its two Michelin stars, deserved to be tried once in a lifetime.

  “I’ve given you a fifteen per cent discount.”

  “Thank you. Now let’s get down to business. I came here to question you.”

  “Very well, let’s go to my office.”

  “No, let’s go somewhere quieter. Let’s go out, show me the sea.”

  “Let’s go to the Tiffany bar.”

  *

  The bar was on the beach. There was almost no one there and the sea was very calm, busy simply reflecting the sun. They sat on a boat pulled up onto the shore in front of the bar.

  “So tell me exactly what relationship you had with Elisabetta.”

  “It was no mystery that we were together. Even though we were going through a bit of a difficult period, I thought she still loved me. Or at least, I did until that Saturday.”

  Franz paused. He softened – a friendly bear.

  “Elisabetta was a very carnal woman. Despite the kitchen uniform, the aprons, the clogs, you couldn’t hide her body. One day, about two years ago, we were alone, and I lost my head while I was beating the eggs for the soufflé. I kissed her, and we became lovers. An irrepressible passion. Elisabetta gave me a pair of red shoes, and since that day I’ve always worn them on important occasions.”

  Marzio tried to maintain the detachment that a police inspector should have, but the flame of jealousy inside his heart burned stronger.

  “Why did you go to Valdiluce?”

  “We’d agreed that I wouldn’t go and visit her during her winter holiday. Unfortunately, after a few days, I felt a terrible desire for her. I thought it was stupid that I couldn’t call her or see her, so I decided to surprise her. I called her on Friday night, I told her I wanted to meet her. She replied that we’d made an agreement and that I had to stick to it. So I said I’d just do it anyway, that I’d come to Valdiluce. She shouted that if I came without her permission she would dump me on the spot. I was almost afraid that I’d got the wrong number. She didn’t sound anything like my Elisabetta. Her voice, which was always so melodious, had become hysterical. I tried to calm her down, but it was useless – like when mayonnaise curdles. I asked her if she’d met someone else. A lover? She didn’t answer. Elisabetta knew very well that if I got an idea into my head, I would go through with it and I would go to Valdiluce anyway and so it was better to make a precise appointment rather than just leave it to chance, After much insistence, she accepted. ‘At seven in the evening on Saturday in front of the church of Valdiluce. I’ll meet you, because there are things that I have to tell you.’ Then she asked me to bring her the bouillabaisse that she ate with her friends that evening.”

  “And what were these things she had to tell you?”

  “At seven, Elisabetta got into my car in front of the church and we went somewhere we could be alone. She was strange – her eyes were cold, like another person, as though there was a devil in her body. She cut me off immediately. Her first words were, ‘I’m leaving you, I’ve met another man, I’m happy with him and so I don’t want anything else to do with you’. Can you imagine, Inspector? It was a bolt from the blue. I reacted, I tried to kiss her. She’d treated me unfairly. I’d done nothing wrong except love her. ‘I’ve been faithful to you, I love you, we have to build a future together. I’ve bought a house where we’re going to live’. But Elisabetta had closed in on herself, she was impregnable. That’s when I tried to kiss her again, but she reacted violently.”

  “In this scuffle, did you, Franz Binetti, squeeze Elisabetta’s left wrist quite hard?”

  “I pulled at her
a little, to stop her from hitting me in the face.”

  “Hard enough to hurt her, to give her a bruise?”

  “Maybe. I was furious.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Elisabetta wanted me to take her back to the square. When she got out of the car she ignored me, didn’t even say goodbye, and then it was all over. Perhaps I could have won her back if she weren’t dead, but she went in that ridiculous way… And forever.”

  Franz was on the verge of tears.

  “Inspector, do you think that she committed suicide that night, maybe because she’d been horrible to me, because she’d mistreated me? That Elisabetta left the gas on and because of her they are all dead – a stupid caprice that turned into a tragedy?”

  “We’re investigating. We still don’t quite understand the dynamics. That night is still a mystery, anything could have happened.”

  “You see, Inspector, I also lost a very good cook. In the kitchen there was always a smile on her face, and now she’s not there any more. It won’t be easy to go on.”

  “Was Elisabetta’s husband aware that you were lovers?”

  “Of course. He knew about our relationship. We’d come to a tacit agreement. Luckily they didn’t have any children. He never caused any problems, he was resigned to it. Have you met him?”

  Marzio nodded.

  “He’s a bit uncouth, but he’s honest. He runs a mineral water business down there in town. If you want to question him, I’ll come with you.”

  “No, no – my colleagues have already handled that.”

  Franz looked at him in amazement. “So, Inspector Marzio Santoni, I’ve had the honour of being personally questioned by you. Did you do it so you could eat the bouillabaisse, or to meet a great cook, or what?”

  “Just to seek the truth.”

  Franz interlocked his fingers as though in prayer. He wasn’t used to asking for something. He was uncomfortable.

  “A big favour. You must make me a promise: when all the investigations have been completed, please, I want to know the name of the man Elisabetta was in love with. It’s very important to me, I want to talk to him at length. Understand what happened.”