The Ancient Curse

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Fabrizio, who was following the conversation word by word, found it hard to believe that this bewildered, uncertain creature was the same woman who had haunted his nightmares, the voice that had sent his heart racing in the middle of the night, the mother who had bullied her child into running away from home. In this context, divested of her aura of mystery and power, she seemed quite harmless, fearful only of ending up in prison. How was that possible? Could she have some kind of personality disorder? He could perfectly call to mind the disturbing, imperious tone her voice took on when she warned him to ‘leave the boy in peace’. And he remembered all too well the anxiety and trepidation in Montanari’s gaze after she’d left his house that night of blood, chaos and gunfire.

  He found himself wishing he could stare into her eyes. Maybe something there would reveal how such a dreadful witch could transform herself into someone so totally different, someone who perhaps somehow had truly forgotten everything.

  He heard her voice saying, ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘First of all, I want to know where that stuff we found underground comes from. In particular, the bronze slab with the inscription.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘OK, so we’re starting off on the wrong foot. I’m talking about a bronze slab that was cut into seven parts and stored for at least several weeks on the ground in the left-hand corner of the room underneath your bar.’

  The precise nature of his reference seemed once again to shock the woman into silence.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You know I didn’t kill Montanari.’

  ‘That remains to be seen. All I can say is that all of the evidence points in your direction and that a lot will depend on how you answer my questions.’

  ‘How do I know that, if I talk, you won’t find new things to accuse me of?’

  ‘Actually, you can’t be sure. You’ll have to take my word for it. My word as a carabiniere officer and honest man. If you answer my questions I will not charge you with homicide . . . I’ll look for another cause. A werewolf, I guess.’

  He stared fixedly at Ambra Reiter as his friend Fabrizio Castellani would have done if he’d been sitting there opposite her, searching in her eyes for the merest shadow of the monster that was terrorizing the city, but her gaze was absent, unemotional.

  He sighed and said, ‘Let’s start from the beginning. When did you first arrive in Volterra?’

  ‘Five years ago . . . in the autumn.’

  ‘Where were you coming from?’

  ‘Croatia.’

  ‘Why did you choose Volterra?’

  ‘I was looking for a tranquil place to start a new life. Things were terrible after the war back home . . .’

  ‘And you found work with Count Ghirardini.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you become his mistress?’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘I’ll decide whether it makes a difference. Did you become his mistress?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you moved into his house – that is, the Caretti-Riccardi palace.’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘With . . . your son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘After which Count Ghirardini suddenly disappeared. Strange, no?’

  ‘He was a strange man. He had spent most of his life in exotic places. He could be anywhere in the world now. He may never come back or he may suddenly reappear like he did back then.’

  ‘There are those who believe that the objects we found underground in your pub come from the count’s private collection and that you smuggled them out, perhaps as recompense for services you rendered and were never paid for.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Then what is true? Careful of what you say, Ms Reiter.’ He tapped a finger against his forehead. ‘This is better than any recorder. I have the memory of an elephant.’

  Ambra Reiter lowered her head and said nothing for a few moments, as if she were weighing her options, then spoke up again. ‘Back then Montanari was working for the count as well, doing odd jobs. One night we heard noises underground and we went to see what was down there.’

  Fabrizio, on the other side of the wall, started. Reggiani instantly became more attentive.

  ‘What kind of noises?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . voices. It sounded like voices. Calling.’

  ‘And you weren’t worried about hearing voices in a place like that? What were these voices saying?’

  ‘I don’t know. You couldn’t understand.’

  ‘Could Montanari hear them as well?’

  ‘Actually, no, he couldn’t. But he couldn’t hear very well anyway.’

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘We went down into the cellar and I kept saying, “That way. It’s coming from over there,” until we found a passageway. Steps cut into the stone that went deeper underground. I couldn’t hear anything any more, but Montanari started saying there was an ancient cemetery there.’

  ‘Etruscan.’

  ‘That’s what Montanari said. I didn’t know anything about any Etruscans. But he said that the objects in the tombs were worth a lot of money.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So he suggested we become partners since I had the keys to the palace and to the cellar. When the count was away, we could go underground and carry those things away, one at a time. That’s what we did. If they were little, I’d put them in my pockets. If they were bigger, we’d do it at night. We’d load them up in the van and take them to La Casaccia. As soon as we started earning some money, I bought Le Macine and opened my tavern there. After that, Montanari dug out a room underground and we used it to store our stuff.’

  ‘What about the inscription?’ prodded Reggiani.

  ‘Yeah, that too. It came from under there. Montanari found it under a layer of—’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of bones. Bones of many different animals, big and small. Maybe even human bones . . . but I don’t remember.’

  ‘What did you do with them?’ insisted Reggiani.

  ‘Montanari threw them out. He said they weren’t worth anything.’

  ‘Why did you cut the slab into pieces?’

  ‘He said the pieces were easier to sell and that we could get a lot of money for them.’

  Reggiani grimaced. ‘So then why did he contact the director of the National Antiquities Service?’

  ‘Montanari was stupid. He ended up arousing the suspicion of the Finanza and he felt they were on to us, so at that point he thought he’d better contact the NAS. He told me that Balestra had promised him half a million as a finder’s prize.’ She stopped abruptly. ‘I’ve told you everything I know. Can I leave now?’

  Reggiani didn’t answer.

  ‘You promised me that if I answered all your questions you’d let me go.’

  ‘I have one last question to ask you . . . for now.’

  She eyed him in silence with her grey and apparently absent look, as if she wasn’t even seeing him. Some time ago she must have been a woman of uncommon beauty, that aggressive, brazen beauty that can drive a man mad.

  ‘You’ll remember when I came looking for you that day at Le Macine with my friend Dr Castellani . . .’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘Why did you lie? Why did you say you had never telephoned him?’

  Fabrizio started and leaned closer to the speaker so he wouldn’t miss a syllable of that answer, if there was going to be one.

  ‘I was telling the pure truth. I’d never seen him before and I would never dream of telephoning him.’

  Accustomed as he was to listening to every kind of cock-and-bull story from every kind of insolent delinquent son of a bitch on earth, Lieutenant Reggiani felt sure that he would catch a glimpse of uncertainty in her eyes, but they remained hard and smooth as a slab of ice.

  He said, ‘You can go now, but I w
ould advise you not to leave Le Macine. My men will be keeping an eye on you, so you’d best comply.’

  ‘But I’ve already told you everything you wanted to know.’

  ‘Not everything. There’s one more question.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About that boy who lives with you.’

  Ambra Reiter lowered her gaze and asked, ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In a safe place. To be frank, I would have expected you to put in a call to the carabinieri before now to report that your son had gone missing. Now you can go.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You can go now, Ms Reiter.’

  The woman got up to leave and, for the first time in eleven months, Reggiani lit up his second cigarette of the day.

  Fabrizio emerged from his hiding place and walked into Reggiani’s office.

  ‘Can you believe the nerve of that bitch! I would have liked to look into her eyes while she was telling such an outrageous lie.’

  ‘You’ve seen her do it before, haven’t you?’ replied Reggiani. ‘Completely deadpan, as if she were reciting a phone number. I can assure you that if I didn’t believe you I would have believed her.’

  ‘If you doubt what I’ve told you, I can—’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I’m saying that she seemed to be telling the honest truth. You heard her yourself, right? My gut feeling was that she was telling the truth about everything. I think she realized that I will not hesitate to incriminate her if she doesn’t cooperate.’

  ‘What about the boy?’

  ‘That’s an entirely different matter. And if you want to know what I think, that’s where the greatest mystery lies. I’m convinced I did well to make you come in here with me, even though you are so tired.’

  ‘Absolutely . . . A lot of things are falling into place. Listen, just for a moment, let’s examine the possibility that she’s telling the truth.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the fact that she’s never seen me or called me.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I’ve never been more serious. Couldn’t this be a case of split personality? It’s rare, I know, but it can happen.’

  ‘Just what are you saying?’

  ‘Simply put, the Ambra Reiter who was talking to you a few minutes ago is not the Ambra Reiter who was calling me and whom I talked to at the tavern.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m following you.’

  ‘Let’s suppose that when she was calling me in the middle of the night, she was in a state of altered consciousness; her actions were controlled by a second personality.’

  ‘Like when someone has taken some serious dope?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Can we analyse her?’

  ‘I don’t think you’d get anywhere.’

  ‘So what are you thinking?’

  ‘What if she were . . . a medium?’

  Reggiani shrugged. ‘Yeah, right, like the kind that makes tables dance around and spirits speak. Fabrizio, get serious. You’ll remember that I brought up the idea of using a psychic to get to the bottom of this and you were the one who talked me out of it. I honestly think you’re barking up the wrong tree here. This one may read cards, coffee grounds, that kind of thing . . . I’ll bet she has Gypsy blood in her.’

  ‘Well, before he died, Montanari told me that after they’d found the slab something changed in her, turned her into a harpy. That she became unrecognizable at times. You have to admit there’s something disturbing about her.’

  ‘There’s no doubt about that,’ he said, as his attention was attracted by the noise outside. ‘Listen to the racket those journalists are making out there. I’m here with six cadavers on my back and I still don’t have a clue. What do I tell the Secretary? The werewolf story?’

  ‘The Secretary?’

  Reggiani rolled his head and sighed. ‘Ah, yes. The Home Secretary will be paying me a visit tonight, along with our Commander General. Both sure to be in a foul mood. You know what that means, right?’

  Fabrizio looked at his watch. ‘That in four hours you’ll be sending out your shooting party.’

  ‘Let’s say two, as soon as it gets dark. Unfortunately, the situation has changed radically. And you can be sure we’ll be hearing the beast’s howl tonight as well. But this will be the last night, I’ll promise you that.’

  Fabrizio paled. ‘But wait, you promised—’

  ‘I’m sorry, my friend, but this can’t wait. The lives of too many people are at risk.’

  ‘Listen, just give me another hour, two at the most. I have to figure out what the last part of the inscription says . . . There’s a . . . How can I get this across? . . . You’ll be putting the whole city in dire danger. It could be a disaster . . .’

  ‘Mediums . . . dire danger . . . Sounds like your brains are fried, my friend.’ He took his pistol out of the drawer and drew back the bolt to load it. ‘You want to know what I believe in? This.’

  ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘My men are stationed at the exit to the old cistern. We’ve cleared the area for half a kilometre all around. As soon as the creature shows up, we’ll unleash hell. Whatever it is, there won’t be a hair left of it. I’m sorry, Fabrizio. I have to go now. I had you come in here because I wanted you to know how we were proceeding, and I wanted you to hear Ambra Reiter’s story with your own ears. I felt I owed it to you.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said Fabrizio. ‘It’s going to be a massacre.’

  Reggiani didn’t answer. Fabrizio watched as he pushed his way through the crowd of journalists waiting in the front hall.

  The lieutenant then went into the locker room, took off his uniform and put on his combat gear.

  18

  FABRIZIO MET the press himself shortly afterwards. Special correspondents and TV reporters thrust their microphones at him, figuring he must be involved somehow with the story.

  Those crowding in behind the first row asked, ‘Who’s this guy? Was he with Reggiani? Does he know something?’

  Others provided partial answers: ‘He’s an archaeologist . . . Someone said he’s an archaeologist. There’s got to be some connection . . .’

  Then one said, ‘His name’s Castellani. Dr Castellani, a question, just one question, what were you doing with the lieutenant? What did he tell you? Is it true a woman has been arrested? Please, give us a hand here!’

  Fabrizio shoved his way through, ignoring the insults and abuse hurled his way, especially from the notoriously rude Italian TV operators from Rome, and began to run down the city streets, trying to lose them in the maze of the city centre. He reached the museum and saw Mario at the security guard’s booth.

  ‘Dr Castellani! The director has been looking for you all week! Where have you been?’

  ‘I can’t just now, Mario. Please tell the director I’ll report to him as soon as possible. Is Dr Vitali here?’

  ‘No. She left half an hour ago but didn’t say where she was going.’

  Fabrizio nodded. He swiftly made his way to the taxi stand in the nearby square and hailed the first cab he could find.

  ‘Take me to the Semprini farm, as quickly as you can.’

  ‘The place in Val d’Era?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll tell you the best way to get there.’

  The taxi set off and Fabrizio phoned home. No answer. He tried Francesca’s mobile but it was off. Anxiety welled up inside him like a black tide, crushing him back into his seat. The regional road, then left, Val d’Era and then the track.

  When the cab stopped outside the front door, Fabrizio had the fare ready. ‘Keep the change,’ he said, and jumped out. The taxi backed up and drove off.

  The house was deserted, but the computer was still on, with the translation of the last part of the inscription. He noticed the handwritten note that Francesca had left for him and his heart plummeted. He feverishly dialled Reggiani’s mobile number and listened as it rang one, two, three times, his teeth clenched as he
spoke aloud: ‘Answer, goddamn it, pick it up—’

  ‘Where are you?’ asked the lieutenant curtly at the fourth ring.

  ‘At home. Marcello, for the love of God, listen to me. Francesca’s down there.’

  ‘Down where?’

  ‘In the palace, underground.’

  ‘What the hell . . . Is she crazy?’

  ‘She translated the last part of the inscription and I think . . . I think that . . .’

  ‘What! Talk! You know my minutes are counted!’

  ‘I think that she believes . . . that she believes in the words of the inscription. She thinks she can stop disaster from happening. It’s too long a story to explain it all now, but do you have a flame-thrower?’

  ‘A flame-thrower? You’ve lost it, Fabrizio. What do you want with a flame-thrower? That’s an assault weapon, used by the special forces. I’d have to ask the ROS guys.’

  ‘Shit, Marcello, you are an ROS guy! You must have a flamethrower.’

  ‘I’m no longer operative, and even if I wanted to get one, there just isn’t time enough. Listen, don’t screw things up here. I’m about to launch the operation. Do not interfere, Fabrizio. Do you hear what I’m saying? You’d risk fucking up the whole thing, putting your own life at risk and Francesca’s as well. Wherever you are, go back to headquarters and do not move from there until it’s all over. We will find Francesca, understand? We will find her. You—’

  The line went dead and whatever he had meant to say was cut short. Fabrizio immediately dialled Sonia’s number.

  ‘Hi there, handsome,’ said her voice. The connection was scratchy.

  Fabrizio tried to keep calm and speak in a normal tone of voice. ‘Sonia, where are you?’

  ‘You said you wanted me out of your hair and I took the hint.’

  ‘Where are you?’ he repeated in an even, if not calm, tone.

  ‘I’ve just turned on to the regional road for Colle Val d’Elsa. Hey, what’s up? You sound funny.’