by John Harris
Her eyes flashed and her friendliness vanished as she began to get angry. Her voice grew cold and stiff. ‘I can see we’re not going to get anywhere,’ she said.
Henry tried not to show his annoyance. ‘There just isn’t any alternative,’ he said. He paused, feeling his voice was harsher than he’d intended. ‘Would you like some more coffee?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. I think you’re just being stubborn, Dr Chappell. It’s typical of the science side. You never have any time for anything else but your damned figures.’
Henry shrugged. ‘Our damned figures have more than once stopped you woolly-headed lot bringing everything down on your heads with your digging,’ he said.
She got up in a hurry, knocking over her cup as she did so, and she began to dab at the spilled coffee with her napkin.
‘I didn’t expect to get any sympathy from you really,’ she said. ‘But I thought I’d try.’
She seemed furious and all she was able to do with the napkin was transfer the coffee from one part of the tablecloth to another.
Henry handed her his own napkin without a word.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I just thought we might be able to help each other, but I can see I’m wasting my time.’
She suddenly seemed to realize she was getting nowhere with the spilled coffee and she slammed the saturated napkin down, and, picking up her papers, stalked out to the hall.
When Dei Monti came he was hostile from the start. Henry talked to him in the lounge but he’d obviously been briefed against him by Maggie Daniells. He was a short-tempered man in spite of his mild appearance and they bristled round each other like a couple of fighting cocks looking for an opening. It started quietly enough, but Dei Monti clearly expected to be able to convince Henry that nothing was so important as the unearthing of Arcuneum and he seemed surprised when he didn’t succeed.
‘How can you fail to see what damage you might do?’ he finally exploded. ‘We are unearthing the past and you are proposing to stop us.’
‘I’m not interested in the past,’ Henry pointed out. ‘I’m an engineer and more interested in the future. And I rate people’s lives more highly than a few old ruins that’ll be stuck in some museum and never be looked at by anybody except stuffy schoolteachers and bored schoolgirls.’
He realized he’d overstepped the mark with his comment but he knew he couldn’t back down.
Dei Monti stared at him, shocked for a moment, as though he were a monster.
‘Very well then,’ he said with icy patience. ‘When will the dam fall?’
‘I don’t know when the dam will fall.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t know when the Tower of Pisa will collapse or when the waves from the police launches will wash away the foundations of Venice. But they will, one day, unless something’s done.’
Dei Monti stepped back, his eyes narrow behind the pebble glasses. ‘You’re stupid, stubborn and soulless,’ he breathed.
They didn’t get very far after that and Dei Monti stormed out, with the drink Henry had offered him still on the table untouched.
The argument sent Henry to bed in a bad temper and full of an increased determination not to give way. He was an engineer who’d been called in to give advice and in all honesty he couldn’t back away from the decision he’d made. The dam was dangerous and should be drained – at whatever cost.
Caporelli was waiting for him as soon as he arrived downstairs next morning, and insisted on dragging him along as soon as possible to see Mornaghini, the engineer.
‘I’ve fixed an appointment,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t know yet what it’s about but he soon will.’
He listened carefully to what Henry had to say, nodding all the time, his face grave, and his eyes flashed as he told him about the strange bearded man he’d found near the sluice gates. The incident had almost slipped from Henry’s mind but Caporelli seemed to think it was important.
‘Wasescha,’ he said at once. ‘Carlo Wasescha. Small farmer from Madonna del Piano. Trouble-maker. Ex-Nazi. The police want him, if you remember. He’s believed to be one of the Montanari. He was seen near the quarry when the explosives were stolen. He’s never been home since because the police are watching his farm.’
‘What was he doing up there?’
‘Certainly not planning to blow the gates off for us,’ Caporelli said dryly. ‘Using the tunnel, I suppose, as a shelter. They’ve got a hide-out up there somewhere.’
‘Are you going to tell the police?’
‘I suppose so. It won’t do much good though. He was born up there and they’ll never catch him in a thousand years.’
Inspector Castelrossi was in his office in the Questura, a narrow-gutted building smelling of stale smoke and stale wine in the twisted streets behind the Municipio, gloomily staring at maps and papers, his face dark in the shadows from the shuttered windows.
‘Wasescha undoubtedly,’ he said. ‘Somewhere up there they hide their weapons. I wish we could find them. I’d like to tell you you’d done us a service because we know he belongs to the Montanari.’ He shrugged. ‘But unfortunately we shall never catch him. I shall send a patrol up to the dam, of course, but I don’t expect them to find much.’
He sighed. ‘We must have interrogated everyone in the town below the age of twenty-five,’ he said. ‘But we still get nowhere, and they are still questioning the student who jumped from the train.’ His brows came down and a worried look came into his eyes. ‘Unfortunately,’ he ended, ‘the boy, Von Franck, managed to commit suicide this morning. In his cell at Trepizano. He hanged himself with his own bed sheets.’
Caporelli’s face darkened. ‘More trouble,’ he growled. ‘They’ll make speeches at the funeral.’
Castelrossi shrugged. ‘He was guilty,’ he said. ‘The map we found on him had things marked with circles. The Bolzano railway was one. This police station was another.’
He seemed low in spirits and there was an atmosphere of defeat and failure about the office, in spite of the maps on the walls and the constant arrival of messengers with telegrams.
Caporelli was frowning as they left. ‘They arrest a few students,’ he said bitterly. ‘They will eventually find “Hofer”, too, I suppose. But it will never stop.’ He looked up and saw Henry’s eyes on him. ‘Because simple justice is subordinated to military strategy and economic factors,’ he explained, ‘and because every decision’s bedevilled by a hundred complexities. The fact that Trentino remained Austrian after Italy became a nation was an affront to the patriots who’d fought for her. They’ll never give it back now.’ He lit a cigarette slowly, then looked up and smiled, as though he were trying to push his unquiet thoughts to the back of his mind. ‘Let’s get back to things we understand,’ he suggested. ‘Dams.’
The Mayor was waiting for them in his office in the Municipio, sitting like a plump spider below the huge eagle of Colleno and a picture of Dante Alighieri. He was a small slight man with restless eyes like sloes, who showed them to their seats and even produced a bottle of vermouth for them. He seemed to want to talk politics and appeared anxious for them to hear his views on the inevitable subject of the Sudtyrol Volkspartei and the Montanari. Caporelli let him go on for some time, allowing him to discourse on what he clearly thought was the ingratitude of the Austrian minority, then he brought up the subject of the dam abruptly, as though he’d grown tired of talk.
The Mayor’s face fell at once. ‘The dam?’ he said. ‘Yes, of course. That’s been a source of trouble for years. It’s like the sword of Damocles hanging over our heads.’
‘It won’t hang much longer,’ Caporelli said bluntly. ‘It’ll start to fall soon unless it’s shored up.’
‘It’s as bad as that?’
‘It’s dangerous,’ Henry put in. ‘I’ve examined it. It’s impossible to estimate how disastrous a breach could be.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ The Mayor rubbed his face with his hands and thought for a while, clearly not underst
anding the implications of Henry’s words.
‘And is the dam full?’ he asked at last.
‘Not yet,’ Henry said. ‘As a matter of fact, it’s down at the moment because there’s been no rain for a few days and it’s leaking. But with heavy rainfall it rises round the shores at the rate of one metre per hour. The feeders can pour in twelve million litres in the same period of time, and the gratings are clogged with branches and debris from the mountain.’
‘Eh, già! Of course! I understand.’ The Mayor spoke slowly, as though he were trying to play for time. ‘We must have the engineer in here.’
They waited in silence while he sent for Mornaghini, and the old engineer listened carefully to them, his lined aristocratic face grave, his head nodding from time to time as Caporelli talked.
‘I’ve heard of Dr Chappell, of course,’ he announced. ‘I’ve read his articles on the Alexandria breakwater and the Pontemorvo bridge, and he’s by no means unknown to us in Italy. He must let us have a report on the dam at once, so we can act.’
‘A report will take too long,’ Caporelli announced curtly.
Mornaghini looked up. ‘We can’t possibly act without a report,’ he said sharply. ‘How can we discuss it when we don’t know the facts?’
‘We do know the facts,’ Caporelli exploded. ‘Dr Cappell’s just given them to you. We should drain the dam at once. That’s the most important of them.’
Mornaghini still seemed uncertain. ‘I happen to know that the sluice gates are immovable,’ he said. ‘It would cost a great deal of money. And, besides, the bed of the stream has been filled up for years. There’d be flooding in the town.’
‘We could remove a gate in the stopper wall on the east side,’ Caporelli said gently. ‘They’re lighter and smaller, and the water wouldn’t go near the town.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Mornaghini said. ‘That’s true. But we should need authority from the Province.’
‘We can get it. We’ve got to get it. Another set of thunderstorms like last week’s and the dam might decide to drain itself. And there will be more storms. It’s already too warm. We’ve had no spring this year.’
Mornaghini rubbed his nose and adjusted his glasses. ‘There’s just one point,’ he said. ‘I’ve had Professor Dei Monti in to see me this morning. Together with a young lady who seems to be a press representative for his Universities Underwater Group.’
Henry said nothing. He knew what was coming.
‘I’ve met them all before, of course,’ Mornaghini said to the Mayor. ‘As you’ll remember, Counsellor, we entertained them to drinks when they first arrived. In my office. It seems the Professor has also heard of this project to drain the dam through the stopper wall. They are absolutely against any such thing. Particularly since the appearance of the Cross of Bishop Lazzaro.’
The Mayor looked a little puzzled and Mornaghini hurried to explain.
‘The cross,’ he said patiently. ‘The Cross of Lazzaro. If we drain the dam through the stopper wall the water will follow the old stream bed through the Val Caloroso and will run into the lake at the Punta dei Fiori. And that’s where we know Arcuneum stands.’
The Mayor looked startled. ‘But if Arcuneum is discovered,’ he said quickly, ‘it could well become another Pompeii! A wall and a few pumps could make a lot of difference. It’s not very deep there and it wouldn’t be difficult.’
‘We already have more ruins in Italy than we need!’ Caporelli exploded. ‘Without finding any more.
The Mayor looked away, as though be hadn’t even heard. ‘Oh, no,’ he said to Mornaghini. ‘We can’t possibly drain the dam into the Punta dei Fiori. We must do it some other way.’
‘What other way?’ Henry asked. ‘There isn’t another way.’
‘Can’t we dig a spillway round the end of the main wall?’ Mornaghini asked.
‘Through rock? That’s what it is. I was up there yesterday. It would cost a fortune. There’s only one way to do it.’
Mornaghini rubbed his nose vigorously. ‘We must find another way,’ he said firmly. ‘We simply must. We can’t chance covering Arcuneum again now. Father Anselmo also came with Professor Dei Monti,’ he added. ‘I have an appointment this afternoon with the Bishop of Trepizano. Father Anselmo arranged it.’
‘What does he want?’ Caporelli said sharply.
‘It seems that the Church is completely behind the Pro~ fessor, too. It’s thought quite possible there might well be sacred relics in Arcuneum.’
Caporelli’s face was dark with rage as they went outside again, and he was literally spitting with fury.
‘Dwarfs,’ he said. ‘Gnomes! Intellectual, over-religious gnomes!’
His raging dislike of Mornaghini was infectious. ‘The Church is behind it all,’ he said, ‘and we’ll get nowhere with the Church in on it. And half the universities of Europe, too, I suppose, and every goddam’ archaeologist who ever grubbed about in sand for a set of old bones. Even the television and the press people will be against it.’
‘And the Sudtyrol Volkspartei,’ Henry pointed out. ‘If Lazzaro’s going to be a saint they’re determined he’ll be an Austrian saint.’
‘And the hoteliers and the travel agencies and the bus operators,’ Caporelli said, going on with a sour pleasure at the growing list. ‘My friends! My associates! Cadivescovo will be the new Lourdes. A wall, he said, and a set of pumps. To preserve the ancient burial ground of a man who died so long ago we don’t know whether he was good, bad or indifferent. All we know of him is that he must have been goddam’ crazy to cross the lake on a stormy night with a cross that size attached to the bow of his barge. De mortuis nil nisi bunkum, as you say.’
He smiled unexpectedly. ‘Dr Cappell, old friend,’ he went on, ‘you and I have quite a fight on our hands. Archaeology, education, radio, television, the Press, the hotel trade, the travel trade and now even the Church. The Bishop of Trepizano wouldn’t have come here just now for any other reason.’ He looked slyly at Henry. ‘Après nous le déluge, eh? A pity we don’t have less prayers and more practicality, a few less saints and a little more sense.’
Six
As they left the Town Hall, Caporelli touched Henry’s arm and they stopped on the steps.
A small procession had just emerged from one of the side streets near the Municipio and was heading across the pearl-grey wooden cobbles towards the Church of Lazzaro di Colleno. They were all youths, most of them around twenty, and they moved solemnly across the square carrying a large wreath bearing the single word, Lazarus.
‘Alois’ friends,’ Caporelli said grimly. ‘Volkspartei members. Students, every one of them.’
‘What are they up to?’
‘Out to embarrass someone, I expect. See the colours of the ribbon on the wreath? Red and white – Austrian.’
The procession had halted outside the door of the church now, in the shadow of the great beam carrying the carved words Gebet Gott Was Gottes Ist, Give to God what Belongs to God. Father Anselmo had appeared in the entrance with Father Gianpiero behind him, and they were carrying on a fierce argument with the leading students.
‘They’re wanting to put it at the foot of the cross,’ Caporelli explained. ‘To establish the fact that Lazzaro belonged to the Volkspartei, I suppose. It’s like this all the time here now. We’re always waiting for an explosion – as though everything were on a hair-trigger.’
He gestured towards the youngsters crowding round the door of the church, their faces stiff with unrelenting idealism. ‘It’s been like it for months,’ he said. ‘They’re all in it, the patriots, the fools and the people you saw yesterday. All wanting different ends from the same beginning. It’s like hearing the thunder in the mountains and waiting for the next flash of lightning to strike and wondering where it’ll be.’
‘I’d have thought the cross might have united everybody a bit,’ Henry said.
Caporelli’s mouth twisted cynically. ‘Don’t fool yourself, old friend,’ he advised. ‘Christ’s
cross never united the Jews in Jerusalem.’
Henry glanced at the church, impressed by the anxiety in Caporelli’s voice.
The argument had already grown fiercer and the voices louder, and a policeman who had just turned the corner from the Questura began to run. He took up his position at the side of Father Anselmo and began to gesture with his hand away from the church.
For a while it looked as though the students might still try to push past, but the policeman unfastened the flap of his pistol holster and the students drew back, turned and marched towards the statue of Andreas Hofer, where they silently laid the wreath down. Several of them knelt for a moment, praying.
‘Melodrama,’ Caporelli said bitterly. ‘Melodrama. Politics is always melodrama.’
After a while the students drifted away, watched by the anxious eyes of the locals and the curious glances of the tourists who had drifted up from the lakeside to see what was going on. There were twice as many sightseers about the town now as there had been when Henry had first arrived. They were coming from Trepizano by road and water, and there were others from Trento and Bolzano and Milan and Venice, to say nothing of cities farther to the south, such as Florence and Rome. They were obviously presenting quite a problem for the police.
When the officials at the Questura had organized their road blocks they’d been out merely to unearth ‘Andreas Hofer’ and his Montanari and they couldn’t cope with the flood of traffic that had started with the arrival of the cross, and the police were standing about in groups now, still officially on duty but all of them with a helpless look of frustration on their faces.
The feeling of resentment against the cross that Castelrossi had shown was clear in their expression. They weren’t interested in religious revivals, and the crowds who were flocking into the town only served to confuse them in their search for ‘Hofer’ and the missing explosives. There were now so many people coming and going in and out of Cadivescovo it was impossible to stop and search them all, and it was difficult to tell who was merely a curious sightseer from Trepizano and who was an enemy, anxious to take advantage of the fact that the police had their hands tied.
