The Hawthorne Season

by Riccardo Bruni

  The color is the same. Grazia only sprays a few drops, but it’s enough to remove any lingering doubts as to why Viola’s boots were wet so early in the morning.

  Donato has reached the object that was producing the reflection. It looks like a strange device: three propellers mounted on a nearly weightless metal chassis. It has a small eye that resembles a camcorder lens, and a second device that looks more like a tiny projector.

  He’s never held one in real life, but the last time he went to Euronics—to buy the latest Call of Duty for PlayStation 3—he saw the same strange gadgets lined up on a shelf.

  The green light came from this flying object, which must have gotten stuck between the branches. Here, then, is the explanation for the Spirits of the Woods.

  They’re drones.

  Viola opens her eyes. That guy is still in front of the computer. He’s probably still reading all of his ex’s messages. Is it even possible to be this obsessed with someone? Is there a way to get over it? Survive the past without feeling guilty? Will she manage to do it as well?

  If it hadn’t been for the patrol car, she probably would have already retrieved the drone that got stuck in the woods the other night. She sent a message to Diego so he’ll do it. But she didn’t mind the thought of staying here, even after she saw the car was gone.

  She checks the time on her phone. It’s almost time to leave Rodari’s room and go home, since the Marshal decided to leave her some lunch in the kitchen. When it happens, it’s usually a plate of cold pasta with tuna, tomato, and mayonnaise, which, together with toast, sums up everything in her mother’s cooking repertoire.

  “You still there?” she asks Giulio.

  He turns and smiles. His eyes are red. He’s been crying.

  “Welcome back.”

  “You don’t look good.”

  “That’s the downside of memories. Sometimes they get stuck right where they hurt the most.”

  FIVE

  Adele’s Panda four by four has one specific purpose that keeps it running, inspection after inspection: a mile there and a mile back, every Wednesday afternoon. On this occasion, the passenger seat will be occupied by Mirna, her longtime companion in the Gherarda showdowns, the Buraco game held each week at the hotel that situates them opposite Barbara and that damned cousin of hers, Dorina the cunt.

  Before getting in the car, Adele stops at the Novelli Pharmacy to buy a pack of tea biscuits to deliver to her rivals. No one has ever eaten one during the game, but Adele has noted that they contain castor oil and adores the thought of gifting them to Dorina.

  When the time comes, Adele starts the Panda, whose engine faithfully turns with the key, and takes the road to Falconi’s house, from which Mirna, noticing the car from the window, comes running outside with a tray of freshly baked cookies.

  The trip there is silent. Full of tension. The mood on the return mostly depends on who wins the game. It’s best of three, which, between tea breaks and some verbal sparring to heckle the other side, takes up the entire afternoon.

  On the other side of the barricade, Barbara and Dorina wait side by side at the window, anticipating clean runs, pure Buracos, and above all, cold showers for their opponents. Because this is not about winning. This is about humiliating the enemy. To close the game just before the other team decides to drop the points in their hand, because that’s what hurts the most. “What a pity for that jolly, dear” becomes a triumphant song that every player of this ruthless game hopes to sing at least once every time.

  The Panda pulls up. Mirna and Adele get out, closing the doors behind them in unison. They swagger over, almost arrogantly, like in an old western scene. Mirna with her tray of homemade cookies and Adele with her pack of tea biscuits. Barbara opens the door with a big, open smile that will disappear as soon as they sit at the table, which has been set with a green tablecloth and cups for tea.

  “It’s so cold today,” says Mirna. “It seems even colder here than in the village,” she adds, kicking off the hostilities.

  Viola left the Wi-Fi adapter with Giulio. Her usage isn’t controlled, and he can use it. Worst case, she can always say she lost it at the hotel and he must have found it. Violating his ban on contact with the outside world, even online, is the least of Giulio’s worries.

  He’s filtering Patrizia’s emails, not knowing exactly what he’s looking for. It’s like trying to satisfy his abstinence with small fragments of her. The ones about her new relationship are painful. And not because that douchebag tennis player may seriously have something to do with her disappearance, but because he makes Giulio feel as if he has been replaced, eliminated. Because this is what obsession does. It binds to something you can’t have and stands by as you destroy everything you have to get it. And each time that same story comes to mind. The whale is white. And it repeats: “Do you remember the Pequod?”

  The first time you read Melville, you wonder why Ahab can’t just drop it and turn back. But he couldn’t resist. And now there you are, on a splintered ship, a crew dotting the sea, defying your misfortune just to chase that white obsession that will sink you into the abyss once and for all.

  You’re the bad guy. And every story, from the bad guy’s point of view, is exactly that.

  Patrizia was seeing the tennis player. A smile in the office, lunch at the bar, Patrizia wants to start playing tennis and he’s a total tennis fanatic, and what a coincidence, it was raining and they both had to hide under his jacket to get back to the office, running through the rain so close they could smell each other like in one of those romantic movies when the song plays at that moment that turns everything into a 1980s music video for some metal ballad. It’s horrible, Patrizia. You’re going to end up making out to Bon Jovi. It’s surprising that you, the woman who never takes anything for a given, ended up living such a cliché.

  “Do you think it’s sunrise or sunset?” she asked him that day.

  They’re in bed. Naked, under the sheets. In Patrizia’s apartment. She and Giulio have been seeing each other for a few months. On the wall is the Erwitt photograph he gave her, because he could not bear that her walls were so white and bare. He explained why, his white theory. The wall gave him a sense of the void, the impression that the place was soulless.

  Now, instead, there’s that photo of the kissing couple reflected in the rearview mirror of a car parked by the sea, which reflects the sun as it hovers near the horizon.

  “Do you think it’s sunrise or sunset?” Patrizia asks.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Is there a way to know?”

  “You just have to know exactly where the photo was taken.”

  “Then I don’t want to know.”

  “You change your mind quickly.”

  “Sometimes I’ll see it as a sunrise, and others I’ll see it as a sunset. And it will be beautiful just the same.”

  There are emails from colleagues, friends, personal and work conversations. Giulio can’t stop searching her email messages. Each fragment becomes precious. Each glimpse of the whale, the white monster, is a step toward the end.

  Toward the abyss.

  “And why did you give him that ridiculous name?” Patrizia asks. They’re walking along the tree-lined avenue that runs along the park. In the evening, she and Giulio often go there for an aperitif. The bar with the overturned tables and shattered glasses from the day he lost control for the first time isn’t there yet. The beginning of his downfall. Not yet. It’s a beautiful summer evening. They’re talking about his job. About the gnome.

  “Theophrastus Grimblegromble,” says Giulio, as if he were introducing an old friend.

  “Yeah. What does it mean?”

  “It’s a reference.”

  “I imagined. You’re one for references.”

  “Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim, also known as Paracelso.”

  “Did he have a red beard and a green hat?”

  “He was a fifteenth-century alchemist, the f
irst person to talk about gnomes, tracing the name to the Greek root gnosis, for knowledge.”

  “A cultured reference, then. And the surname?”

  “Grimble Gromble is the name of the gnome in a song by Syd Barrett, from Pink Floyd.”

  “Mystery solved. But don’t you think that’s the sort of thing the parents who buy your books for their kids would love to know?”

  “That’s why I find it fun.”

  Scrolling through her emails, he finds one whose subject catches his eye: “Reopening Bridge Collapse Investigation.”

  He didn’t know Patrizia wanted to reopen the investigation. He clicks on the email. It’s from a geologist. A professor Ubaldo Giampedretti.

  Dear Patrizia,

  As I mentioned, no new elements emerged regarding the calamity in question. In the sense that the recent discovery I mentioned to you does not relate to that specific event. However, it’s still a notable finding and should be brought to the attention of the appropriate parties. I’ve attached the report and remain at your full disposal.

  Kind regards,

  Giampedretti

  “But your stories about gnomes also have orcs. Doesn’t that scare the kids?”

  “Orcs exist.”

  “Is that how you do it, then? The gnome just serves to tell the children that the orcs exist?”

  “It’s a little like what Chesterton said about fairy tales. He was talking about dragons, but it’s the same with orcs. Children already know that orcs exist. The stories about the gnome tell the children that orcs can be defeated.”

  SIX

  The cold pasta with tuna, tomato, and mayonnaise had a coveted variation of capers. Viola hopes to be able to go back to Barbara’s soon.

  She leaves the house, her backpack and laptop in tow. She mounts the scooter and leaves the countryside behind. Just outside, at the mouth of the county road, there’s a car on the road. A white Giulietta. The sound of gas in the engine, the wheels spinning. Viola stops. She leans her scooter against a tree along the road, leaves her helmet on the mirror and the backpack on the rack. She approaches.

  Katerina is inside the car. With her mirrored sunglasses and her pink pop-star makeup.

  “Do you need help?” Viola asks.

  “Are you going to call someone?”

  “Maybe I can do it on my own.”

  “Do you know how to drive?”

  “Let me try.”

  Katerina gets out of the car. Viola walks a circle around the Giulietta and studies the situation. Her mother taught her to drive in the snow; she’s obsessed with knowing all the tricks to driving in the snow. Viola compacts some under the wheels, where a mud pit is developing, so they adhere better to the ground.

  “There was a black cat crossing the street,” says Katerina, explaining why she’s stranded. “And they say it’s not true that they’re bad luck.”

  “The most important thing, however, is to remain calm when it happens,” says Viola, sitting in the driver’s seat. “Just let the wheels turn very slowly.”

  The car, after a couple of motionless attempts, budges and finally leaves the pit.

  Katerina thanks her but gets back in the car right away. She seems to be in a hurry. No time for small talk.

  “If you’re going to stay on the county road, be careful because the snow is loose this time of year and you can slip,” says Viola, because it’s clear that if she’s taking the county road, she’s not going to the bar, and she wants to see Katerina’s reaction.

  “Thank you,” she responds, with a forced smile that she doesn’t even bother to disguise.

  Viola smiles as she waits for the Giulietta to leave. Katerina doesn’t take the road to town: as expected, she takes the county road. Caught red-handed.

  Viola walks back to her scooter, puts on her backpack, and drives off.

  What she doesn’t know is that four pairs of hidden eyes have witnessed everything. Two of them are human, while the others, glimmering in the light, belong unmistakably to two cats.

  SEVEN

  The first investigation into the collapse of the bridge ended after a year when the prosecutor shelved it. Seven lives swallowed into the abyss, what the deputy prosecutor had referred to as an “act of God,” an unpreventable natural disaster outside of human control. No liability to be found.

  Giulio is sitting at his desk with his legs stretched out, his feet resting on the windowsill. On the floor is the tray with the remains of his lunch and the bottle of bitter orange soda. On the bed, the envelope with the material he took from his mother. On the laptop, the browser is open to Gmail’s record of Patrizia’s last days and her conversations. Time stamps for what she sent, received, and archived, confirming that attorney Alberti was working nonstop. Giulio was her client and, from a certain point onward, her boyfriend. He can’t deny that the time his lawyer was going back and forth with him and other clients had been the happiest. And if the gnome had asked him to focus on a happy thought to help a weary flower blossom, he probably would have picked a memory from that time, when everyone around them was in pieces, including his mother.

  As a civil attorney, Patrizia had opposed the prosecutor’s request and had asked the preliminary judge to open a new inquiry, summoning a hydrogeological expert from the area. The hearing and court decision took nearly half of the following year. Eventually, the judge listened to her, at least in part. He opened a new inquiry, remanding the case back to the prosecutor, albeit requesting general insights on only a few issues.

  The second investigation lasted even longer. Twenty months. In practice, the deputy prosecutor repeated everything he had done the first time around and came to an identical conclusion. An act of God. Case closed.

  One evening, Patrizia had told Giulio that, at that point, the only way to get a charge was to convince the preliminary judge to ask the prosecutor for one directly. “A coerced indictment,” she had told him. But to persuade the tribunal to pursue this path, and not simply because of the “mutually beneficial relationship between the judge and the deputy prosecutor,” Patrizia had commissioned a private expert on behalf of her clients, a geology professor of a certain renown, to conduct the expert assessment that the judge didn’t order and that the deputy prosecutor never carried out (or at least not on the terms Patrizia was hoping for).

  The amount of time the assessment would require, however, wasn’t compatible with what the court could provide, which now, four years after Bridge Day, was suddenly in a hurry to shelve the case.

  Giulio remembers the evening Patrizia met with all her clients in her office in the city. There was the head of the lumberjacks, Magliarini, and the old man from Bar Fuga, Torloni, both men having lost their wives. There was that distinguished lady who had lost her son. There were the family members of the plumber and the bus driver. Not a soul for the Kosovar. There were bottles of water and orange juice on the table, a bag of pretzels, a tray of sandwiches, and a set of copies of the binder with all the investigation files that had been released. The investigation had become Patrizia’s professional obsession. And obsessions, Giulio Rodari is now in a position to observe, never bring anything good.

  Obsessions are white. He has no doubt about it.

  “I’m left with the conviction that a disaster like this can only be the result of negligence,” Patrizia explained. “In the sense that if a bridge collapses, it can’t be no one’s fault. If that were the case, every motorist should be aware that whenever he crosses a bridge, there is a real risk that bridge could collapse. Because there are no specific legal liabilities in place to prevent it. And that, of course, is unacceptable.” That afternoon, Akan had driven Amanda’s old Ford to take Barbara to town to see the lawyer, and he had stopped by to pick up Giulio, who had never learned to drive. It was his first time back in the car he used to ride in as a child with his aunt, when she would take him out on her rounds, if she would only be a few hours. Those times she left for days at a time; on the other hand, no one ever knew where she
was going. Among the many things that had been left unexplained was also why, on Bridge Day, Amanda had decided to take the bus. “Unfortunately, after years lost on paperwork, bureaucracy, and delays, which is certainly not the fault of the deputy prosecutor or the judge—nor is it ours—the court seems intent on closing the case and has upheld the prosecutor’s request for the same. And we, because I delayed my decision about whether to order it, are not ready to present a report that might convince the judge—because at this point it really is about convincing him—to indict the parties under investigation, although I don’t even believe they are principally liable.” At that time, things with Patrizia were going less well. She was absorbed in her work. “All I can do at this point is continue my inquiry, which I’ve placed in the hands of a luminary in this field, and try to open the case again if new elements emerge.”

  Professor Ubaldo Giampedretti was the luminary in charge of said inquiry. Giulio had met him one day as he waited at Patrizia’s office to speak with her. They hadn’t seen each other for a while. He had shown up at her office without notice and had caused something very close to an uproar.

  Remembering all this now is like opening a window on part of a story that had remained in the shadows. The period when Patrizia was carrying out her inquiry had been, for Giulio, the period of his own shipwreck, his progressive slide toward the abyss, his decline from human to predator.

  “Do you get it now?” Patrizia would say, if she were there next to him. “Now can you can see what was happening on the other side of your barricade? I felt guilty for having miscalculated the investigation at times, and I was trying to make up for it, working into the night, because I couldn’t take time away from my other cases. And in all this I had to endure your little scenes, because you didn’t feel included, you didn’t feel considered, coddled. You accused me of being an egomaniac, remember? You were so caught up in yourself you were incapable of considering anything but your own needs. And when I tried to keep you at arm’s length, you showed me the worst of you.”