The Sudden Disappearance of the Worker Bees

by Serge Quadruppani

  His dark gaze was trained on Simona. The shepherd spoke his own language, the Calabrian carabiniere translated, his colleague tapped away at the computer keyboard, and it kept getting hotter.

  “Could we open it, perhaps?” asked the commissario, pointing to the window.

  The maresciallo nodded. He went to turn the handle and pulled, almost falling on the bed. A bit of cool air entered the room.

  “Continue,” Evangelisti ordered, after an irritated cluck of the tongue.

  Bertolazzi picked up on the first ring. When he heard Berisha’s voice, the engineer’s tone grew very concerned. The shepherd suggested they meet right away; he wanted an explanation. At first Bertolazzi said he needed to go to Turin for an important meeting, but when the Albanian threatened to turn Minoncelli’s house upside down, he said he would be there in twenty minutes. While he was waiting Berisha rummaged around and found a gun in the beekeeper’s desk drawer.

  “Wait,” interrupted Evangelisti, “what gun? Can you describe it?”

  The shepherd frowned, and, with the aid of some hand movements and a great deal of precision in his use of the terminology (he had spent ten years in the Albanian army), he described the Beretta 92 SBM firearm— a weapon used by women and officials due to its small size and the fact that it could be easily concealed. It was without a doubt the same model as Simona’s stolen weapon.

  Calabonda leaned over to the commissario and said to her in a hushed voice, “In effect, your fingerprints are on the weapon.”

  The Albanian finished his story: subsequently, when Bertolazzi returned, they had argued violently. The engineer told him he didn’t want to see him anymore, and the shepherd had shot him with the Beretta.

  Silence fell. Large, round tears rolled down the shepherd’s unshaven cheeks. Someone coughed; someone shifted in a chair; Evangelisti fanned himself furiously without saying a word.

  Finally, the maresciallo asked, “And the sheet of paper with the words ‘The Worker Bee Revolution’ written on it, where did you get the idea to place it on the body?”

  Berisha looked surprised when he heard the translation. He shook his head and said a few monosyllabic words.

  “He doesn’t know what you’re talking about,” the carabiniere said.

  “He didn’t write ‘The Worker Bee Revolution’ in red marker on a sheet of paper left on or near the body?” Calabonda persisted.

  He denied it again. Simona asked Calabonda with her eyes if she could ask a question. He nodded.

  “How did you meet Bertolazzi?” she asked.

  Berisha tried to sit up a little, tugging on his leg, which caused the bar that held it in traction to sway violently. He abandoned this effort and began to speak in a halting voice. A ridge high above his cabin, some charcoal-colored rocks emerging from a stony trail, the figure of the engineer appearing suddenly while the shepherd is lying in wait for a mountain goat he has been tracking for a couple of hours. It was there they saw each other for the first time. Bertolazzi had told him he loved walking in the mountains; he had been hiking farther down, near the lake, when he noticed, in amazement, what he thought was a swarm of bees. He had followed them up there, but the swarm had disappeared. After that they made their way down to the shepherd’s hovel and spent their first night together.

  After Bertolazzi’s death, he had wanted to return to the place where they’d met, up near those black rocks that jutted out from the stony trail. But as he was making the climb he’d heard a blast from a nearby ridge and he’d caught a bullet in the knee, perhaps from an off-target hunter, or who knows what. Regardless, he regretted just one thing now: that whoever shot that bullet hadn’t gotten him right in the head.

  With these last words, the Albanian’s mouth remained open a moment. He kept his gaze fixed on Simona. Then, suddenly, a long moan emerged from his full, painfully chapped lips.

  “Get the doctor,” said Evangelisti. “The wound must be causing him a lot of pain.”

  The interpreter rushed out of the room. Simona shrugged.

  “I don’t think it’s the leg that’s hurting him. And I think it would be better to leave him in peace.”

  “I agree,” said Calabonda. “But we still need him to sign the deposition.”

  The commissario looked away from the Albanian’s gaze.

  “I’ll wait for you in the hallway.”

  When she went to push the door open she caught a glimpse of something moving sideways. She stuck her head out and saw a figure hurrying toward the elevator. She could run very fast for a woman of her size, and she found herself face to face with the fugitive just as the elevator doors were closing.

  “It’s you, you piece of shit!” she shouted.

  They weren’t alone. Two nurses were keeping a dazed old man company. He was wearing a hospital gown and sitting in a wheelchair with his arm hooked up to an IV, which one of the women distractedly held in place as she and her colleague jabbered on about the bad-tempered head nurse. When they heard Simona cry out, the nurses went silent, darting glances at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

  The person Simona had addressed so indignantly, a bald man who was elegant in spite of a little extra weight around his midsection, flashed a courteous smile at the two ladies.

  “My colleague has always had a penchant for flowery language,” he said. “But she’s a true professional.”

  The nurses giggled and got off on the next floor, pushing the old man as he drooled a bit on his neck. Simona stopped the elevator between two floors and planted herself in front of the control panel, using her solid body as a shield.

  “When I saw that Ciuffani was on the scene, I knew the Services had to be behind it,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her. “It’s like they say: even paranoid people have their enemies. Was it marksmen who shot down Danela and wounded Berisha?”

  The man shrugged.

  “Why would we start shooting people over some bees? We have a sense of proportion, after all.”

  Simona stared back at him and shrugged in turn.

  “To tell the truth, I believe you. But what about my gun being stolen?”

  The man burst out laughing.

  “Yes, well, that little trick was suited to the circumstances. Some activists start harassing a laboratory after we’ve been asked to protect it, and then wouldn’t you know it, along comes Commissario Tavianello, the same dreaded ballbuster who’s thrown a wrench in our operations more times than I care to count. You have to admit it was quite a feat, our getting into your room while you were sleeping; and may I just say, your chief of police snores like a hippopotamus, and so do you. Anyway, it was a nice bit of ingenuity on our part: on top of breaking into your suitcase without your realizing it the next day—yes, these are things you must be able to do in our line of work—we steal your firearm, landing both you and Minoncelli in deep shit. All we have to do from thereis phone the carabinieri and report that the beekeeper has a stolen weapon in his possession, and we take out two birds with one stone.”

  “Except that things didn’t go as planned.”

  “Ah, no. The Albanian showed up. I just barely managed to avoid him.”

  “But he didn’t leave . . .”

  The bald man threw his arms open wide in exasperation.

  “What can I tell you? I couldn’t have known . . . I was just trying to keep an eye on things . . . and when he fired the gun, well, it was too late then, wasn’t it?”

  “That didn’t keep you from going back to put that sheet of paper on Bertolazzi’s body that said ‘The Worker Bee Revolution.’”

  “Nice instincts, wouldn’t you say?” the man snorted. “We were aware of the existence of a pamphlet that was circulating among the beekeepers, though we hadn’t managed to determine the author . . . Well, it’s true I misplaced the marker. I thought I’d stuck it in my pocket but I must have missed. I have to admit that I had a little whiskey after the gun went off. To reflect.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you that y
ou’d done enough already?”

  “And you, didn’t it occur to you to stop meddling in matters that don’t concern you? What do you think you’re going to accomplish? You want to change the world, or what? Regardless, this conversation never happened.”

  Simona nodded.

  “Understood. But just out of curiosity . . . that other sheet of paper, the one that was left on the body of Danela, the guy who destroyed the apiary . . .”

  “Ah,” said the man. “No, no . . . Apparently I started a trend. But would you mind starting the elevator again? It’s hot as hell in here.”

  “All right,” she said. “But you realize that a man is dead because of you? Dead by my weapon?”

  “Oh, we could even say it was your fault, if we liked. You shouldn’t let yourself fall into such a deep sleep when you’re carrying a weapon in your suitcase. Of course, after the good screwing that Marco gave you . . . Seriously, how do you two do it? Does he take Viagra? And you, you don’t have any problems with vaginal dryness . . . ?”

  Simona breathed in, breathed out, pushed the button. Then as the elevator started down again, she turned to face the man.

  “What did you say a minute ago? That I was a ball-buster?”

  Without giving him time to respond, her foot flew up, striking the federal agent in his lower abdomen. He howled and dropped to his knees. Clutching his holy bits, he spat out:

  “You dirty communist whore! You’ll pay for this, you big, fat, crooked slut! We recorded all of your little play sessions. We’ll put them on the Internet!”

  “You poor asshole. Don’t even bother. I’d love it!”

  She got off on the ground floor and hurried straight for the exit. Outside, large drops of rain had started to fall.

  * * *

  “Did you really say that? That you’d love for them to put recordings of us screwing on the Internet?” Marco asked her a little while later.

  “Well, yeah. I’m pretty proud that we still screw like maniacs after all these years. Aren’t you?”

  “Well, sure, but . . . What are you doing? . . . Stop it! This room is definitely bugged. They’re listening to us right now . . .”

  “So? Who gives a crap! Come here . . . Listen, I, hmm, see that the best part of you understands me and is showing me its approval. C’mon, come here . . .”

  “Simona, you’re really . . . really . . .”

  Sighs. Sounds of kissing and bed springs creaking.

  [ Transmission interrupted.]

  * * *

  “Really? You agree? We’ll go back tomorrow?”

  “Of course, dear, of course. This case is going to fizzle out anyway. Sooner or later Minoncelli and the others will be set free . . .”

  “Ah, so that’s who you’re really thinking of. Your Minoncelli.”

  “Stop talking nonsense. Besides, he’s gay!”

  “Pssht! What are you talking about? Minoncelli, gay? Please, I’ve done my research. He’s a lady-killer.”

  “But Berisha said that he and Bertolazzi had run into him in a gay bar in Turin.”

  “So what? You know it’s the latest thing to knock one back with the queers!”

  “Watch your mouth! So if I understand correctly, you checked up on Minoncelli because you’re a big jealous idiot?”

  “Not at all. It was just to get a clear picture of the situation.”

  “A clear picture! Listen, I’ll show you a clear picture! Take a look. How do you like it?”

  “Simona, you’re out of control! What got you into this state? Was it getting picked up by Minoncelli?”

  “So what if it was? Even if that were true, you’re the one who’s benefitting from it now, so what do you have to complain about?”

  “Mmmmmh.”

  “I love shutting you up this way . . .”

  [ Transmission interrupted.]

  * * *

  Professor Martini ran a light hand over the pyramid of reeds arranged among two enormous bellflower bushes. Inside were the Osmia cornuta, Osmia caerulescens, Osmia adunca, Megachile willughbiella, Eucera longicornis, and all the rest of them. Every one of them buzzing, coming and going, transporting the professor’s honey mixture, and building their nests.

  “Good-bye, my dears,” he said quietly.

  Kneeling down to pick up his backpack, Martini felt a stabbing pain in his lower vertebrae. After the age of fifty, if you wake up in the morning and you don’t feel pain somewhere in your body, it means you’re dead, he thought as a way of consoling himself. Fine. Besides, soon I won’t have any pain anywhere, he added straightaway. He pulled the straps of his backpack over his shoulders, pushed the green door open, and walked out into the garden. Outside, the fountain was singing. He turned to face the mountain vista. He thought he could make out, above the agate lake, far off in the distance, the sea of rocks and stones where he had an appointment.

  * * *

  By the time Marco emerged from the shower, Simona had finished getting dressed.

  “Wow!” he exclaimed. “You look stunning! Are we going to a castle tonight?”

  “Exactly, darling. While you were sleeping I got a call from Dottore Alberto Signorelli. We’re invited to dine at the castle. His brother Francesco will be there as well; he’s the executive director of the Sacropiano research center in Pinerolo. As will our friend Felice, the local reporter who’s not as dumb as he looks.”

  CHAPTER 9

  SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE VILLAGES OF PINEROLO and Sestriere, just before arriving at Chisone Valley, of which it is a branch, the valley of San Giorgio al Monte becomes such a narrow ravine that the road and the railroad tracks that run alongside it have to go through a tunnel. On the other side of the stream, which barrels down into the Chisone, the Signorelli castle is perched on top of a bluish rock, sharing with countless fortified towns of the region the role of the centuries-old sentinel incapable of stopping the countless invasions.

  With its machicolated battlements and small towers added on in the nineteenth century in a proto-Disneyland style, the place seemed more picturesque than luxurious. This changed when one entered the grand hall, with its paneled ceiling adorned with ornate supports in the forms of mermaids, wolves, wild boars, and carnival figures, in front of incredibly tall three-arched windows that presented a vertiginous panorama of the valley. The divans as deep as tombs, the strange flowers on the corbels, the parquet floor covered in wild animal skins and arctic fox fur, the lectern, the ebony bookcases. Royal-blue silk curtains showed a handful of silver seraphs, embroidered by the brotherhood of weavers of Cologne, flying swiftly toward the top of an ancient-looking chimney. All of the bric-a-brac amassed by some Baudelaire- and Huysmans-loving ancestor or other had proven to be extremely pleasant for enjoying an aperitif of Drappier Brut Nature “Zéro Dosage” champagne, spoonfuls of pea-sized beluga caviar, figs filled with foie gras, and dishes containing various types of game.

  “None of this bullshit compares to a nice wild boar polenta washed down with a red wine from Pinerolo,” Alberto said to the Tavianellos when they thanked him for the lavish hospitality. “But my wife likes it, anyway . . . And here she is.”

  Dressed in ultralight taffeta, willowy yet angular, her husband’s junior by at least twenty-five years, the wife standing behind her consort presented a contrast like the ones frequently observed, thought Simona, in high-net-worth families. (In other families, she added mentally, the good-looking pair off with the good-looking, the ugly go with the ugly, and average ones like us go with the average.) Signora Signorelli had just entered alongside her brother-in-law, Dottore Francesco Signorelli, who had boldly chosen a plum-colored tie for the evening.

  “So good to see you again, dear Commissario,” he said after quickly hugging his brother. “And to make the acquaintance of your husband as well,” he added as he absentmindedly shook Marco’s hand. “I’m sure it’s owing to your presence that the investigation into the failed attack is moving forward in leaps and bounds . . .”

  When Simo
na raised an eyebrow, he added:

  “Come on, Commissario. I admire your discretion, but I’m sure you’re aware that gas cylinders like the ones used by the terrorists have been found at the homes of certain beekeepers . . .”

  “Really? Gas cylinders? And they’re being used as evidence?”

  “Oh,” said Giuseppe Felice, popping out from behind the director of the research center. “A lot of beekeepers use those cylinders. They’re the cartridges for the lamps they use to visit the hives at night.”

  Francesco Signorelli turned around and zeroed in on the reporter, who had also made an attempt to dress up: ironed jeans, a white button-up shirt, and an apple-green jacket.

  “Ah, the press!” snorted the executive. “The indispensable fourth estate! As long as they don’t play to too many parties at the same time . . . but at least you’re not afraid,” he added, eyeing Felice’s red hair, “to show your true colors!”

  He laughed at his joke.

  Signora Signorelli shook hands with the police officers in turn before inviting everyone to be seated at the table.

  “I hope that you enjoy fusion cuisine and molecular gastronomy,” she exclaimed with a sideways glance at her overweight husband. “Alberto would rather force traditional food on us for every meal, but he doesn’t realize that it’s no longer suited to the modern lifestyle.”

  As she said this, she guided them into the dining room, the floor of which had a path of inlaid marble. At the center was an enormous oak table that gave the impression of having withstood many years of banquets of the kind where guests devour entire bears and deer.