by Marco Vichi
‘“You …” she said, startling everyone at the table.
‘“Costanza! What are you doing up at this hour?” one of the women said affectionately to her. She must certainly have been her mother, because they looked alike. The chain had been broken, and everyone was looking at the little girl, who was still pointing at a man in the group.
‘“You … Tomorrow you will die …” she said in her squeaky little voice, making the hairs on my arm stand on end. A moment later she peed herself and it dripped on to the rug.
‘“Costanza! What are you saying?” her mother shouted, and went over to her.
‘“Can’t you see she’s asleep?” said someone.
‘“She’s in a trance …” someone else whispered, and was immediately hushed by the others. The man the girl had pointed at stood up. He was skinny as a beanpole, with a goatee and round spectacles. He tried to smile, but looked around with a terrified expression. The mother took the child in her arms and headed for the door. I barely managed to hide in time, and I watched them go upstairs. The girl’s feet were swinging in the air; she hadn’t even woken up. The woman returned a few minutes later and went back into the salon, leaving the door open, probably so she could hear her daughter calling.
‘“Count Anselmo, I’m so sorry …” I heard her saying. Anyway, I resumed my spying and saw that they were all rather confused. The count had sat back down, with a doltish smile on his face. He was terrified but was doing all he could to appear untroubled.
‘“Good heavens, Count … You’re not going to believe the words of a sleepwalking little girl, are you?” said an old woman.
‘“She was just dreaming …” a man said, quite sure of himself, but you could see he was pleased not to have been the one who was singled out.
‘“Would you like a glass of water, Count?” the girl’s mother asked him. The man shook his head and kept on smiling. All he did was smile. Everyone else kept downplaying the whole thing and trying to reassure him. Only the medium had remained silent all the while, staring into space with a worried look on her face. Every so often the count stole a glance at her, ignoring what the others were saying. Moments later a few people stood up and someone turned on the ceiling lamp. I realised the gathering was about to break up. I disappeared the same way I’d come, and a minute later I was flying down the hill on my bicycle, happy to be back out in the open air. The moment I got home I buried myself under the covers. I couldn’t get that girl out of my head, and her squeaky voice, saying, Tomorrow you will die … It took me a long time to fall asleep, but when I woke up the following morning, I felt fine. It was a nice sunny day and I soon stopped thinking about the whole episode. I had other problems, and you can never tell your stomach to wait. I spent the afternoon looking for another villa to visit, and that night I went and did what I had to do. The next day, as I was reading the newspaper, I very nearly cried out … There was a photo of Count Anselmo Belforte Rovatti de Marina, with his goatee and little glasses. I felt like I’d been run over by a bus. His three surnames hadn’t prevented him dying just as the little girl had predicted. And, I can tell you, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes … Anyway, it really starts you thinking that everything is preordained, and there really is such a thing as fate. And from time to time, someone is born who can know things before they happen …’ Botta concluded, shrugging.
Bordelli smiled, remembering that he’d thought the same thing a few days earlier. Fate again … Lately the subject just wouldn’t leave him alone, not even on his birthday …
In the general silence, Dante stuck two fingers into the skull’s eye sockets and pulled it gently towards him.
‘Apparently the little girl had occult powers even greater than those of the medium, and nobody knew,’ he murmured.
‘I would never want to know my future, not even what will happen five minutes from now,’ said Botta, shaking his head.
‘There are times when it could be quite useful,’ said Diotivede, though it was anyone’s guess what he was alluding to.
‘Do you believe in destiny, Piras?’ asked Bordelli. The Sardinian had pushed his chair a bit away from the table, to distance himself slightly from the cloud of smoke in the air. He half smiled.
‘When I was a little boy, there was a sorceress who lived in our town, an old, toothless woman who could tell you the future by standing on your feet and looking into your eyes. She used to say she’d never been wrong, and I was able to attest to this a few times in person. The priest couldn’t stand her. During mass he would call her a crazy old hag and say it was a sin to frequent her. But nobody listened to him. So one day he decided to confront her, and went to see her wearing a giant crucifix round his neck. “Since you know everything,” he said, “why don’t you tell me when you will die?” The old woman smiled and said: “If I could look into my eyes with my own eyes, and stand on my feet with my own feet, I could do that. But I could tell you when you will die.” The priest said angrily that he would die when God wanted him to die, and then he challenged her to tell him his fortune. The old woman sat him down in front of her, put her feet on top of his, looked him in the eye, and said: “You will die in seven years, struck by lightning.” And, making the sign of the cross, she added: “This is the Lord’s decision. I see only his Divine Will …”’
‘I bet the priest died seven years later,’ said Botta, his finger suspended in air.
‘Struck by lightning,’ Piras confirmed.
‘What did I say? Fate is real. Man, is it ever real.’
‘And what happened to the old sorceress? Is she still alive?’ asked Bordelli.
‘She disappeared one day, and that was the last that was seen of her.’
Everyone fell silent again, but you could almost hear their thoughts filling the room. The sound of the wind in the trees outside made their symposium even more intimate.
‘Why don’t we have our own séance and try to call forth her spirit?’ said Ennio, but nobody paid any attention. Bordelli served another round of grappa, then turned again to Piras.
‘Don’t think you’re going to get off easy just telling us about the sorceress … Now it’s your turn to tell a story …’
‘One morning in Bonacardo when I was ten years old, we heard gunshots. A few minutes later, out of the classroom window, we saw Salvatore, a kid from town, limping along the road with blood pouring out of one of his legs and leaving a red trail on the ground. We all ran outside, including the schoolmistress. Salvatore was howling in pain, saying he’d been shot by Fidele Marra, a thirty-year-old shepherd who lived in a shack up the hill. Nobody would believe him, because they all knew Fidele was a gentle man. The Carabinieri arrived, and after turning the lad over to the medical team, they climbed up the hill to go and talk with Fidele. They were greeted by gunfire, and the sergeant very nearly got killed. A bullet grazed his ear, and he had to keep a handkerchief pressed up against it to stanch the bleeding. A few centimetres to the other side and the buckshot would have hit him right in the face. Fidele kept firing away, taking long pauses to recharge the shotgun, and every so often he cried out a woman’s name: Bibina … followed by some decidedly rude adjectives. Bibina was a beautiful girl from Millis, who just the day before had married a lad from my town. The Carabinieri kept trying to persuade him to come out with his hands up, but the shepherd only answered with more gunfire. The whole town gathered at the top of the hill to see what was happening, ignoring the Carabinieri’s orders to stay away. The schoolteacher had come running behind us children, unable to stop us. We were hiding behind some boulders sticking out of the ground, excited but frightened, trying to see if we could see the shepherd’s silhouette in the dark space of the window. But all we could see, and not very well at that, was the barrel of his lupara. Everyone was wondering why Fidele Marra was calling Bibina a slut, a trollop and a whore. No one had ever seen her so much as talk to him. All the same, everyone in town started gossiping about it, questioning the girl’s morals. The ones that came down on
her hardest were the ugly girls, the ones who hadn’t found husbands. They’d always been jealous of her and finally had an opportunity to give vent to their feelings. And meanwhile Fidele kept shooting. After every two shots, there was a few seconds of silence, the time needed to change cartridges, and then the shooting started up again. During one pause, a friend of Fidele’s stood up and started approaching the shack without fear, yelling at him not to shoot. By way of reply he took a blast in the shoulder, circling round twice in place and then falling to the ground, screaming in pain. He was carried away, and the marshal said that if anyone tried another stunt like that he would shoot them himself. Everyone was wondering how many cartridges Fidele had left. The only way to get him out of there was to wait until he ran out. Still more people came to watch, and they brought news that Bibina herself was on her way with Giacobbe, her husband. And in fact a few minutes later we saw her climbing up the slope, dragged along by her husband. Giacobbe was frowning angrily, and she seemed furious. Another two shots ricocheted off the ground, raising clouds of dust. The Carabinieri went to meet the young couple, telling them not even to try to come closer. Bibina was disgusted and swearing she had nothing whatsoever to do with that madman. Giacobbe was clenching his teeth and glaring at her as though looking in her eyes for proof that she was lying. Then she suddenly broke free from her husband and started running towards Fidele’s shack, shouting at him to come out and have the courage to call her a whore to her face. Giacobbe started running after her, but a rifle shot persuaded him to lie down on the ground. The marshal ran after the woman, but got some buckshot in his leg for his trouble and rolled to the ground without a sound. Bibina kept advancing, furious, and stopped about fifteen feet outside Fidele’s window, still screaming her rage at the shepherd: I don’t know you, I’ve never even seen your face! If you’re a man, come out! And other things like that … Her honour was at stake, and she didn’t want to lose the husband she’d just married. We were all waiting with bated breath, expecting to see Bibina’s head explode like a melon. Fidele had just fired two shots and was surely reloading. The girl was out of breath and started crying. Her wailing sounded like a young lamb’s before its throat is slashed. Her husband looked on from a distance, feeling desperate and tormenting himself with doubts, but didn’t have the courage to get any closer. Suddenly there was another gunshot, but Bibina’s head remained in its place. And all felt silent. Bibina stopped crying, and then started slowly walking towards the shack. As soon as she went up to the window, she let out a scream and ran away in terror, yelling that the madman had killed himself. We all went to look, even us little kids. Fidele’s face was almost all gone, and floating on top of all the blood was a faded photograph of Bibina when she was a little girl, returning from the well with a jug on her head. When they showed her the picture, Bibina said her cousin had taken it many years ago, and she swore on the Blessed Virgin of Bonacatu that she had no idea how it had ended up in Fidele’s hands. Her husband, in the end, believed her, and embraced her in front of everyone and tried to kiss her, but she spat in his face and told him it was too late. She went back home to her parents, creating a scandal that finally forced her to move to the mainland, and nobody ever saw her again.’
‘A courageous woman,’ said Bordelli.
‘I hope she’s in Paris with a rich and fascinating man,’ Botta said solemnly.
After they all toasted Bibina and made a few more admiring statements, Bordelli went to tweak the fire a little. When he turned round again to go back to the table, he noticed that the others were all looking at him. Now it was his turn. He dropped into his chair, lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke up towards the ceiling. All evening long he’d been undecided as to whether he should tell the crowd a fairy tale of ogres who ravish children. He’d even imagined the opening: Once upon a time there was a little boy named Giacomo, who lived a quiet life with his family. One terrible day he vanished into thin air, and a short while later his corpse was found buried in the woods …
He wouldn’t have minded submitting the whole affair to the court of his friends and hearing their verdict … Even if only in an attempt to understand whether what he was doing was right only for him, or had instead a universal ethical value. It would have been a little like consulting the Pythia at Delphi … But deep down he knew that he would not tell the story of Giacomo, at least not that evening. He didn’t want to foist his responsibilities, or his crimes, on to others. He’d started out alone on this path, and he had to reach the end without involving anyone else …
Searching his memory, he remembered an episode from his days in the San Marco Battalion, a story he’d never told anyone. In the first years right after the war he’d thought about it a lot, almost every night before falling asleep, curled up under the covers. He’d kept it jealously to himself, almost to the point of forgetting it. Taking a sip of grappa, he began to speak, hoping he could elicit in his listeners the same emotions he’d felt himself …
It was late May 1944; they’d broken through the lines at Cassino a couple of weeks earlier, and the Germans were fleeing northwards. The Duce at this point was merely a puppet in Hitler’s hands, and clearly had no hope left. All anyone talked about was the forthcoming Allied landing in France, but nobody knew where they would arrive along the coast. By now it was clear to all that the Nazis and Fascists would lose the war, but it was hard to tell at what cost in human lives. It would not be a walk in the park, that much was certain. Italians would have to pay for Mussolini’s idiocy and the cowardice of the king and Marshal Badoglio.
The battalion had struck camp in the hills of Narni for the night, after a tortuous trek that had taken them from the Abruzzi to Umbria. At dawn that morning, some patrols had left camp to reconnoitre the area. They needed to find out how much distance there was between them and the retreating Germans and to blaze a trail for the bulk of the Allied troops, with whom they were in constant radio contact. The German back lines were seeking to slow down the enemy advance, to allow their army to consolidate a new line of defence. It was the harshest, cruellest moment of the whole conflict.
There were four men in Bordelli’s patrol. Aside from him, there was the giant Molin from the Veneto and young Cuco from Potenza, both released from prison in Brindisi in exchange for enlisting in the San Marco. The fourth man was Gavino, young Piras’s father … Surely he, too, remembered that day. The other two could not remember it, since they died a few months thereafter while clearing a field of mines.
There was a glorious sun that day, it was quite hot, and they preferred walking in the shade of the woods. It had been a few days since they’d heard any gunfire. In the darkness of the underbrush grew flowers of every colour, and there was a strong scent of tree-bark in the air. It seemed like one of those peaceful days on which nothing could possibly happen. But they were dead wrong.
They pushed several miles northward, more carefree than ever. Every so often they would exchange a few words on sundry subjects ranging from women to family memories. Sometimes they would indulge in fantasies of roast pork or a plate of pasta. If not for their sweat-drenched uniforms and the weapons they were carrying, they could have been on a country outing.
They stopped to eat, sitting on a bare patch of rock emerging from the moss. They ate a few biscuits and a bit of Allied tinned meat, washed it down with a swig of disgusting coffee, then resumed their march.
Climbing one hillside they spotted a farmhouse at the top and approached somewhat cautiously. Aside from the clucking of a few chickens, everything was quiet, a fact that seemed to promise nothing good.
‘I don’t like the look of this, bloody German hell,’ Molin muttered.
When they reached the house, a spectacle of horror lay before their eyes. Gavino started cursing in Sardinian. In the middle of the threshing floor lay an old peasant with arms outstretched, his head smashed open like a watermelon. Three or four chickens scratched around the body, pecking the blood-spattered ground, surrounded by a cloud of flies whose
buzzing made the scene all the more macabre. Cuco, who’d gone over to the stables, called to them from the doorway, and they all went to have a look. Lying on the straw was the corpse of a little boy with a pitchfork still jammed into his chest. He had not died instantly, to judge from the furrows he’d made in the straw with his kicking feet. They pulled out the pitchfork and tossed it angrily aside. The killers hadn’t fired a single shot, to avoid making any noise. Had it been the Germans, or only some mad wretches brutalised by hunger and poverty?
