The Hawthorne Season

by Riccardo Bruni

  Without waiting for answers, Grazia enters the room with the cot where they’ve set up a laptop for investigation activities. And she connects the hard drive, hoping to find no other surprises.

  Seven lives swallowed in the collapse of the bridge. Giulio is stretched out on his bed. He no longer wants to do anything else. He took his mother’s envelope and reread all the old articles. The headlines. The photos. More or less all of them were taken from Facebook. People’s obsession with putting all their photos online was a manna from heaven for newspapers who wanted to find photographs of the dead to publish. The only blurry photo is old Peter’s. He didn’t have a Facebook profile. He appears in an old shot that someone must have taken of him in the woods, crouching behind his belongings.

  The roar of the pipes. Giulio looks around. Akan has to do something about this noise; it’s enough to drive any normal person up a wall. It’s just strange that it doesn’t happen every time. There must be a hydraulic problem somewhere.

  Water.

  The photo of old Peter.

  It’s just a hunch. The next dead end.

  But what if it isn’t?

  Giulio looks for Peter’s picture. He rummages through his mother’s clippings. There’s a photo of his aunt, Amanda. Photos of all the others. Finally he finds the article about Peter. It’s a sidebar, the kind at the bottom of the page, because officially his disappearance was not related to the collapse of the bridge and the river flooding, even though he disappeared more or less around the same time. Four years ago. He finds the photo of Peter. He’s holding those strange sticks he used to walk around the woods with. He was a water diviner.

  He was looking for water.

  “A water diviner looking for water underground,” says Giulio.

  “And what if he’d found it?” Giulio asks the gnome.

  The laptop. Space bar. Giampedretti’s report. The aquifer. Skype.

  “Professor, it’s Patrizia’s colleague again.”

  “Hi. How can I help you?”

  “I absolutely must ask another question.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Can they grant permission to build a waste treatment plant over an aquifer?”

  “Of course not. That would be crazy. There’s a huge risk of percolation, not to mention any other kind of infiltration would jeopardize not only the aquifer but its whole network. Why do you ask? Hello? Can you hear me? There must be a problem with the line . . . hello?”

  Giampedretti’s voice resounds in the room, but Giulio isn’t there. The door is open.

  Technically, he’s a fugitive.

  SIX

  The alarm clock has Mickey Mouse’s smiling face on it. Gerri has a habit of sleeping on his right side, in the fetal position, and the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes, since he was too small to even have memories, is Mickey Mouse’s smiling face. It was this way in the home where he spent his early years, a farm where his parents lived with his mother’s parents for a time. And it was this way in his second home, an apartment in town, with a television and colorful plastic furniture that looked like the future. The alarm stayed through his adolescence, when he’d close himself in his bedroom with some porn procured by his most enterprising friends, the ones who had the nerve to go to the newsstand and buy it. It was what he saw during his archery years, when he woke up at dawn on Sunday to claim his trophies. And it remained that way even after, when he dropped his bow, his arrows, his desire for change, and his dreams in favor of an indefinite sentence behind the counter at Bar Fuga, a mortgage for the apartment with a garage and an attic, a daylong drive, and a date with the gorgeous woman who was supposed to brighten the life that was already becoming identical to his father’s. And even though Mickey’s smile never changed over the years, it’s as if something in that smile had changed its tone. As if it had a different meaning. What used to be a “good morning” smile lately seems to be one of mockery. Mickey’s face is becoming derisive, increasingly difficult to bear. That cursed rat in clothing continues to smile, even though there’s no longer any reason to. Because Gerri’s life has collapsed into a shithole that he’s been able to smell for years, a smell he chose to ignore. Day after day, behind the counter of that bar, while his wife became more and more demanding and distant, while the mortgage rate for the house mounted with the loan for the car, and the payments for the television that filled up half the wall, and the stationary bike, and the hydromassage, and the clothes, and the shoes, and the spa treatments, and the hair treatments, and the manicures, and the hot springs. It all funneled into a bank account belonging to someone who couldn’t afford the lifestyle but who couldn’t say no to his beautiful wife, because it would be like surrendering to the fact that she made his life no brighter. And while he’s sinking in his own shithole, she’s off with someone else.

  The image in his mind is always the same. It’s as if a light suddenly comes on among the trees and she appears, Katerina. Her long hair floats in the air. Her white flesh, her naked body, covered only along the sides by a myrtle bush. Her red lips. Her round breasts and pert nipples in the cold air. And now Falconi appears. His body is strangely young and muscular. He sniffs at the air like a beast and moves toward her.

  Gerri gets up. He knows how the story ends.

  He goes to the bathroom. He turns on the tap to rinse away the image. But to let the water flow, to let the water rise, to let the river swell—it’s dangerous.

  Maybe that’s what happened with the bridge. Maybe that’s why his mother is gone, why his father went back to Sicily, and why he tried to save himself by marrying a beautiful woman he didn’t know anything about. He says it all without speaking, looking into the mirror as the water flows into the sink. That’s how it all happened. A day comes when you can’t turn back. And you recognize that day because everything around you gets distant, meaningless, irrelevant. You no longer care about your damned mouse in the alarm clock that laughs at you every time you open your eyes. When that day comes, there’s only one thing to do. That’s why there’s no turning back.

  Because once you do that, there’s nothing to turn back to.

  SEVEN

  Barbara has gathered everyone at the table in the bar. Viola, Akan, and Donato. A community cobbled together by a combination of emergencies, loneliness, and mistakes. Dorina had also been there until recently, but she left after Viola arrived, saying she’d be back in the afternoon. Barbara told her not to worry about it, but her Buraco companion had taken out her hearing aid and couldn’t hear a thing.

  The hostess took out a pie with cream, pine nuts, and hazelnuts and set the table with small plates, coffee cups, spoons, and napkins. There is no better way to spend time together than eating at a shared table. People today seem to have forgotten this, and sometimes it’s good to have someone around who can remind them. Plus there was no other way to keep them all happy at once.

  “You’re a great cook,” says Donato, checking that he hasn’t stained his uniform.

  Even the orange cat is thankful, sitting on his windowsill just above the radiator.

  “I need a phone.” Everyone turns to the new person who has just spoken. Giulio. “And Grazia’s number.”

  “Excuse me, Rodari,” Donato says, “but you can’t use the phone. Actually, you can’t even leave the part of the structure designated for—”

  “They killed her because she discovered an aquifer.” There’s a clock on the wall, battery operated. Never has there been a moment in this bar when it has been silent enough to hear the mechanism that moves the hands. “That German, Peter, was a water diviner, wasn’t he? They probably got him too.”

  “What are you talking about?” says Donato.

  “I have to call Grazia before they bring me in. We have to talk to the mayor, tell him that GeoService is behind this. They could be dangerous—they could be mafia. It’s happened around here before. Do you remember when those guys wanted to buy the Francini vineyard and he refused, and the next day all of his vi
nes had been cut with lasers? Maybe it’s the same people. I have to talk to Grazia and Falconi.”

  “You have to calm down, first of all,” Donato repeated.

  “Skype the station,” Viola says.

  “What? Skype? What are you talking about?” says Donato.

  “Giulio, start from the beginning,” says Barbara.

  “Rodari, go back to your room,” says Donato, “or I’ll be forced to intervene.”

  “Mom has automatic forwarding to her cell phone,” says Viola.

  Giulio snaps his fingers and sprints up the stairs.

  Barbara still doesn’t understand what’s going on, but there’s something to that story about the aquifer. Something too small to know if it’s anything, but that has been imprinted in her mind nonetheless. Peter. The German told her one day he was convinced of it. He had heard about it from some old man, and he was trying to find it. But what does Patrizia have to do with it?

  “Excuse me, but I have to go put an end to this,” says Donato.

  It happens in a flash. Just as he gets up, the orange cat leaps into the center of the table, knocking over cups, cakes, creams, and, oh, how it spins everywhere like a washing machine. And before he leaps away, leaving the devastation behind him, he tips over two cups of boiling coffee onto the trousers of the carabiniere, who instantly begins to shout and scream, as he tries to save his balls from near certain incineration, stripping down to his underwear in front of everyone.

  “Shit!” he shouts. “It’s burning!”

  “You need to get some ice on that right away,” says Akan.

  “What on earth was that?” Barbara asks the cat, who has paused in a corner to enjoy the scene, licking at a paw.

  “Hi, Grazia? It’s me, Giulio—”

  “Giulio?”

  “Don’t ask questions and listen, I think I know what happened to Patrizia. We have to go to Falconi and make him tell us how to contact GeoService and who these people are, because they might be behind Patrizia’s disappearance.”

  “But what are you talking about? And why? How did you get a phone?”

  “I told you, no questions. We have to—”

  “Look, Giulio, I assure you my day’s already going shitty enough. Hang up the phone immediately and hand it over to Donato.”

  “You don’t understand. They’re coming to get me today and—”

  “And if they find you with a phone in your hand, it’ll be an even bigger mess for me to clean up, which is the last thing I need.”

  “At least give me Falconi’s number. It’s not online, and I have to call him.”

  “Online? Do you have to call him? Giulio, you can’t be online or use the phone. Where is Donato? I’m hanging up now, and I’m calling him right away. Let’s put an end to this story once and for all, please.”

  She actually hangs up.

  Now what?

  Akan has gone to get ice. Barbara is helping Donato take off his uniform jacket. The officer has dropped his underpants and is covering his still-sore groin with a towel as he stands in the bathroom door. In the confusion, only Viola hears the phone ring.

  “Mom,” she says, answering.

  “Viola? Why are you answering?”

  “Because Donato can’t answer right now.”

  “Why is that?”

  “A cat spilled some boiling coffee on him—you know where.”

  “What on earth is going on? Pass me to Donato, please.”

  Donato has to unfold the towel to put more ice inside, and Barbara looks away. And that’s when her eyes widen.

  “What the . . . ?” she says.

  Viola turns in the direction Barbara is looking. Through the window she sees Giulio out on the terrace, looking down. Giulio seems to be assessing the height. Down below there’s a snowdrift.

  “Nothing’s going on, Mom,” Viola says into the phone. “But you should talk to your friend. Rodari. I think he has something important to tell you.”

  “Put it there,” says Akan, passing Donato the bag of ice.

  “Viola, when exactly did you speak with Rodari?” Grazia asks. “Because it suddenly seems to me that Rodari is talking to a whole lot of people.”

  Giulio launches himself off the terrace. Onto the snowdrift. Barbara and Viola are agape. The snow, in fact, is almost iced over, and Giulio takes a hard hit before rolling to the ground.

  “Oh shit,” says Viola.

  “What was that?” says Grazia.

  “No, nothing, just that . . .”

  Viola and Barbara look at each other. Barbara is about to leave the carabiniere, but Giulio gets up. He looks stunned. He touches his back. He bends over and takes a deep breath. Barbara also takes a breath.

  “Now what’s his plan?” she asks, thinking aloud.

  “I have no idea,” says Viola.

  “What?” says Grazia, still on the phone. “Look, Viola, can you pass me to Donato, please, so we can put an end to this before it goes too far?”

  Giulio enters the garage.

  “Fine, here he is. Just one sec, he’s icing his balls.”

  Viola is about to get up but sees Barbara’s eyes widen again to the point where they might fall out of her head. She turns to the window to figure out what’s going on. Amanda’s old Ford emerges from the garage, in reverse, finally drifting across the road.

  “I don’t know what he’s trying to do,” Barbara says, “but he won’t make it if it involves getting behind the wheel.”

  “He can’t drive?” Viola asks.

  “Who?” asks Grazia. “Who can’t drive? Who are you talking about?”

  “No, he can’t drive,” says Barbara.

  “Maybe you could go out and sit in the snow,” Akan tells the officer, who has his eyes closed in an expression of bliss.

  “Viola? Viola!” Grazia’s voice comes through the phone that her daughter abandoned on the table before slipping on her jacket and leaving. “Viola, if you’re up to trouble, I swear to God I’ll make you pay for it with interest! Do you hear me? Viola? Viola!”

  Her mother continues to call her while Barbara watches Amanda’s old Ford whiz past the window.

  PART FIVE

  THE HUNT

  “But there’s blood everywhere.”

  ONE

  The patrol car pulls away. The carabinieri had come to GeoService’s office for surveillance after they got a report of vandalism. There’s the fox head that the younger carabiniere, the driver, had lingered to inspect. As the car drives away, Falconi and Maglio remain.

  “Go ahead,” Magliarini says to the lumberjack who has just seen what happened at the cabin and called everyone. “I’ll catch up with you in five minutes, I have to talk to the mayor for a minute.”

  The lumberjack walks away, whistling.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have called the cops,” Falconi says. “We shouldn’t have too much traffic in this area.”

  “The boy found it. He came to do maintenance. What could I do?”

  They look around. Then their gaze ends at the same point. Among the trees. “Do you feel guilty?” Falconi asks.

  “I thought I’d feel worse.”

  “There was no other way. If we want to go all the way, we have to pay the price, you know.”

  “You don’t need to convince me. I just want to get out of here.” They both look toward that point in the trees as if they can’t help themselves. “Sometimes I think of Teresa. I don’t know. If she were still around, all this . . . I mean, I don’t know if I would have done it. But the best part of me died that day. That’s why I don’t feel as guilty as I should. Because the part of me that should have felt guilty died that day the bridge came down.”

  Falconi looks away from the woods and turns to him. “We’ve come this far, we have to finish it.”

  “I know, you don’t have to keep telling me that.” Maglio turns to look at him, his eyes dark, deep.

  “There’s another problem,” Falconi says.

  “What’s that?”r />
  “I got a photo the other day.”

  “A photo?”

  “Of Katerina and me. If Mirna had found it, I would’ve had a mess on my hands.”

  “Do you know who could have . . . ?”

  “No, but keep your eye out, okay?”

  They say goodbye. Maglio catches up with the lumberjack, who is waiting for him in the Magliarini Forestry Services pickup truck. Falconi returns to his car. He turns on his engine and takes the road that leads back home.

  TWO

  One of the worst Buraco days of all time. There’s no doubt about it. Adele has forgotten how to play, no doubt about that either. And she’s still burning up over Dorina’s play.

  Mirna has just gotten out of Adele’s olive-green Panda four by four. She can see the flicker of the fireplace through the living room window. Maybe this is the night of the big announcement. Adele had said something about a job Eugenio is working on. She told her she couldn’t say anything about it, but something did manage to escape her. It had to do with that land of Marcello’s that Adele sold to those gentlemen through Eugenio. She doesn’t know how, but Marcello managed to sign off on it.

  Eugenio was the kind of husband who knew how to provide for his wife. A beautiful house, a seaside apartment, two grown daughters who have made their own way in the world. Eugenio traveled with her all around the world, on organized trips, cruises, all documented with stacks of photos that she sometimes pulls out when her friends drop in for tea. Eugenio is a respected man, and everyone turns to him when they need help. He will always be a central figure in this community, as he always has been. And she wanted to take on the corresponding role of First Lady, but Barbara Tantulli was always in her way, contradicting her husband at every turn, taking the attention away from her. But victory as Misericordia president is only her first step toward redemption. And soon Eugenio will tell her everything. She could have made Adele spit it all out, but if she had, Adele would have eventually told Eugenio, ruining his surprise. We are in the game, then. He must be hiding something big. And this time she will send a nice postcard to her dear old friend Barbara. Barbara, darling, I’m sending you some postcards to hang in that sad hotel of yours.