The captain realised he had opened a subject of some importance, and indicated to Soneri that he understood. “I’ll get my men to have a look. Or maybe I should attend to it myself. Yes, I think that would be better.”
He walked off and Soneri, although confused, realised that, in spite of everything, he had formed a favourable opinion of Bovolenta, and that was something that did not happen too often. His thoughts turned to the papers the captain had found in the Madoni hills. They were not likely to contain anything he did not already know, but then again there might be something new. Perhaps they would provide the key to his father’s relations with the Rodolfis.
He did not realise that he was walking towards Villa del Greppo until he became aware of the deepening darkness on the road leading to the fields. He turned and saw beneath him the roofs of the village, beyond which the vast, empty spaces of the valley stretched into the distance. He looked closely at the piazza, deserted at that hour, the lighted window of the Rivara and the lamp-posts lining the narrow streets. Anyone chancing upon the village without knowing what was going on there would have decided that it was a tranquil enough spot in which to spend a week searching for mushrooms. He lit a cigar, took out his mobile and dialled Angela’s number.
“I’ve just had dinner with Bovolenta.”
“Whom do you prefer, him or me?”
“He told me that the Woodsman is on his last legs.”
“Is he surrounded?”
“No, he’s got cancer.”
Angela sighed. “A person in that condition is capable of anything.”
“Precisely. I think that’s the case with him. So far the shots he’s fired at the carabinieri have only been to scare them, but if they go on hunting him down…”
“If he no longer cares what happens to him, why should he care about other people?”
Soneri changed the subject abruptly. “The captain has found some papers concerning my father in the Woodsman’s house.”
“Are you back on that hobby-horse of yours?”
“Don’t you want to know what he said?”
“Maybe that woman was talking nonsense. Maybe she made the whole thing up.”
“So much the better if she did,” Soneri said, cutting her short.
At that same moment, he heard a dog bark, and the bark was familiar. He interrupted the conversation with Angela to listen. It came from the mountain, from the path which led from Greppo to Campogrande. He stood still for a few moments, keeping his mind clear as though he were afraid his thoughts might make a noise. Everything was peaceful, apart from the hoot of an owl in the depths of the woods.
“You still there?” Angela said.
“I thought I’d picked up a sound in the trees.”
No sooner had he spoken than he heard the dog bark again, this time from lower down. The animal was coming closer. Just a few paces more and, if the wind was in the right direction, it would pick up his scent.
“Where are you?” Angela said.
“Near the Rodolfis’ place. I think there’s something going on down there.”
This time there was no possible doubt. A dog was racing in his direction.
“I am glad I called you,” Soneri said, already guessing which dog it was.
“I always bring good luck,” Angela said, but without any idea of what was going on.
The dog emerged from the brush a few moments later and came bounding down the road. Soneri felt its tongue lick his hands, and when he bent down to rub it behind the ears, he had all the confirmation he needed that this was Dolly. There was no way of knowing why she was on the road which led from Campogrande to the uplands of Croce. He walked on until the villa appeared ahead of him. He committed to memory the position of the mule-track, but he could not see the whole track from where he was standing, since it turned into a small gorge before climbing up to Greppo. It was then that he heard a low whistle. Dolly heard it too and stiffened, making no movement, standing as still as a hunting dog about to put a flock of partridges to flight. So she had not run away. Someone was with her. The commissario looked in the same direction as Dolly and noticed she was staring down the path. Shortly afterwards, a faint light appeared — perhaps a torch — and moved about. Then it disappeared and the whistle was blown again.
Someone was searching for Dolly further along the path, but she had heard Soneri talk on the phone and had come looking for him, or perhaps she had picked up the scent of his cigar. The commissario thought of going over to the mule-track but he worried that whoever was there might hear him. He was also constrained by memories of tales he had been told in his childhood about that path, where “strange things” could be seen and “stranger things” heard. At night-time, the path was lit by lights which appeared and disappeared, while indistinct whispers and laments were carried on the wind.
He decided to wait close to the villa. He struggled to keep Dolly quiet, as she whined and tried to snuggle under the hem of his duffle coat. He hoped to see someone emerge along the path, even if he was not clear who that someone might be. For a while he thought it might be Manuela, but the more he pictured her with all the airs and graces of a gran signora, the less plausible did it seem that she would be out in the woods at night. So he remained where he was, in the company of Dolly in the pitch black of a moonless night, the stars invisible above the dense, damp air.
An hour later, when it was evident that no-one would be coming, he set off. He wondered what had become of that nocturnal presence, made manifest in whistles and faint lights, which seemed only to confirm the truth of the old legends. He walked into the village, escorted by Dolly, stopped in the piazza and took a seat on the wall. The dog stood facing him, looking up and wagging her tail. Her eyes were shining with a trust and devotion which he found deeply affecting. He tried to imagine what life would be like with Dolly at his side. The very thought was a novelty, but all of a sudden he saw a custard coloured brightness in the form of a huge candle swell up before him.
A bright light and the acrid smell of burning rubber came from the lower part of the village. Out of the darkness, an enormous funnel of smoke ascended into the night sky, then stretched like a giant mushroom as it moved in the direction of Montelupo. Soneri raced down the deserted streets until, in the square overlooking the new town, he saw a car in flames. There was no-one there to make any attempt to extinguish the fire — although there was nothing that could now be saved. Behind the shutters, whispered voices and the sound of bolts being drawn could be heard, but as the fire died down, silence again fell on the village. The commissario stood watching as the flames turned to glowing embers. Only the rubber of the tyres and the plastics were still burning. Finally the carabinieri arrived.
Crisafulli had the dishevelled look of a man who had fallen asleep at his desk. “After a day like the one I’ve had, this was all I needed,” he moaned in Neapolitan.
“It must have been half an hour ago,” Soneri told him. “It could have been a slow fuse in a petrol can. The whole thing was over in a couple of minutes.”
The maresciallo walked round the burned-out wreck.
“Do you know whose it is?” the commissario said. “All I can make out is that it was a Ford.”
Crisafulli nodded. “It belongs to the mayor’s son. I thought this sort of thing only happened in Naples.”
The maresciallo ordered his assistant to take down all the details and to call in the Special Forensic squad who were still in the village investigating Paride’s death. “Who knows? They might come up with something interesting,” he said, but he sounded doubtful.
“That Romanian, the one who was found with Rodolfi’s mobile, do you still have him in your cells?”
“The magistrate has authorised an extension of the period of custody. You never know.”
They both looked again at the car, still burning but no longer fiercely. Neither had anything more to say. From time to time the steel of the chassis made a crackling sound as it buckled in the heat.
&nbs
p; “When is the funeral of the two Rodolfis?”
Crisafulli gave him an embarrassed glance from under the peak of his cap, and shivered. He must have been frozen standing about in the cold. “Tomorrow at dawn. Paride’s wife fixed the time and the only ones who know about it are Don Bruno and us.”
“What are they afraid of? The villagers have been quiet up till now and they’ll stay that way.”
“There are other people not from here who feel cheated as well. People from the city, for example, and they always make more fuss. And then,” Crisafulli said, lowering his voice, “the Rodolfis are ashamed of being seen in public.”
The commissario winked at Crisafulli and put his hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to bed. And you’re out hunting again tomorrow.”
“Commissario, we’re not hunters. We’re the hunted.”
9
In his dreams, Soneri saw the chestnut groves of Campogrande, and saw himself careering half way down the hill, zig-zagging from tree trunk to tree trunk on the steep slopes at whose foot stood the new town with its workshops and wide road, buzzing with activity. Once more he saw himself with his father, once more he heard good advice delivered in half-phrases accompanied by vague gestures, but as he lay half-asleep and half-awake, he felt a sense of anguish creep over him. His father walked ahead round the trunks of fallen trees, indifferent to his son’s inability to keep up. Soneri saw himself tumble and roll madly downhill, bumping into tree after tree, but at that point he awoke with a start to see Ida standing beside his bed, shaking him, bending over him, holding the blankets with both hands as though she were kneading sfoglia.
When he switched on the light, he saw her face clearly, but it was a face deformed by panic. “Sante’s very ill, very ill,” she repeated, over and over.
Finally she let go, allowing him to get up. He peered at the alarm clock, which read half-past four. Once out of bed, he was assailed by the biting cold, and this, together with the dream, the restless night and the abrupt awakening, knocked him back on his heels as effectively as a punch on the nose. He put on his slippers and slowly began to come to his senses.
Ida led the way, proceeding sideways, almost skipping down the stairs. When she reached the landing on the floor below, she turned into the room where she and her husband slept. Sante’s eyes were glazed over. He seemed to be staring at the ceiling, but with a look of disbelief. A slight wheeze was the only sign of life. Ida and Soneri positioned themselves at either side of the bed, as powerless as if attending a wake.
“I kept telling him to calm down. He couldn’t sleep and he wouldn’t take the pills to reduce his stress,” Ida said, through tears.
Soneri was lost for words as he passively assisted at the undoing of another image from his past, the one featuring the relaxed and jolly Sante, the inn-keeper who made everyone feel at home. It was at that point he made the decision never to return again to the places where he had grown up.
A few minutes later the ambulance siren rang out and the stretcher bearers rushed in. Before carrying him out, a paramedic attached a drip to his arm, immobilised him with a collar and put a tube down his throat. A machine seemed to keep time with the patient’s precarious, irregular heartbeat. While this was going on, Ida went on explaining obsessively what had happened, but no-one paid any heed to her. She said that Sante had been in a state of agitation for days, that he had not gone to bed at all on recent nights but had padded about from sunset till dawn. He had done the same the previous night, but this time he had wanted to be ready early to go to the Rodolfis’ funeral.
“I don’t know what he wanted to do, doctor,” she went on, “but I’m afraid he was planning something crazy. ‘I want to go and spit in his face,’ he kept saying. I was doing my best to calm him down, but the rage poisoned his blood.”
Ida repeated that he was no longer taking his pills, and at that the paramedic briefly raised his head. Sante was lifted up and carried cautiously to the front door where the ambulance was waiting. Soneri watched him leave his pensione, but it appeared he was also taking leave of his mind. A new image, that of a defenceless body trussed up like a chicken, was being superimposed on the image of the man Soneri had known.
He got dressed and went out without waiting for breakfast. The first light of day showed up the white of the countryside hardened by the frost. As he walked, he heard the crystals crackle under his feet with the same sound as a footfall on sand, while Dolly’s paws struck lightly and rhythmically against the asphalt. There was no-one in the graveyard chapel other than Don Bruno, busily arranging a bouquet sent anonymously, with no name on the accompanying card. In a corner, there was a brush standing guard over a pile of dust with some dry petals and stems.
“Is this where the funeral is taking place?”
The priest looked up and turned an expressionless face to Soneri. “It’s already taken place,” he said, pointing over to the Rodolfi family tomb.
“When?”
“It finished half an hour ago,” replied the priest, shaking his head. “You didn’t miss anything.”
“Who was there?”
“Only his wife, the son on crutches and the Philippino servant. A dozen or so old men turned up, but they were here only for Palmiro. Nobody so much as looked at Paride’s coffin.”
“He didn’t go out of his way to make himself liked. He’s caused some people, like Sante Righelli, to suffer a heart attack.”
“Sante?” Don Bruno repeated incredulously. “He seemed the most well-balanced man in the world.”
“If they cheat you out of everything you own, it’s not easy to maintain your composure.”
“That’s because people no longer focus on the things which really matter. Look here,” he said, pointing to the rows of crosses. “All these people lived as though death were not part of their lives. When you believe you’re immortal, you only think of yourself.”
Soneri reacted with impatience, as Don Bruno noticed. He came over to where the commissario was standing, fixing his black, slightly malicious eyes on him. “This village has grown more and more corrupt ever since money, real money, started circulating here. Material possessions have become the centre of people’s world, meaning that everything is treated as merchandise or as a means to an end. Instead — how did Plato put it — you must attend first to your soul.”
“If you want to put it like that,” Soneri said, sceptically, “but that kind of philosophy sounds better in a sermon.”
Don Bruno looked at him darkly. “They’ll all realise eventually that they’re on the wrong path. When they’re near the end, I’ve heard them damning everything they’ve spent their lives pursuing, and spitting on the very things they believed in blindly for many, many years. My sermons are not enough, but death will convince them to look on all the baubles of this world as vanity.”
“I’m no intellectual, and my explanation would be much simpler. When a person is poor, he knows he might need other people, and so he’s prepared to give a hand because one day he might be in trouble himself. It’s got nothing to do with goodness of heart. What moves people is fear and need.”
The priest looked perplexed. “There’s some truth in that. Poverty induces prudence and humility, while wealth leads to arrogance. You might say that these things too are the fruits of fear, but I insist that respect and human understanding are also factors.”
Don Bruno lowered his voice as he came to the end of his speech, as though he were in the confessional. Soneri saw written on his face the concern that must have been tearing him apart inside, and he thought of all the various spiritual exercises the priest must have practised to stem that haemorrhage of trust. Soneri, on the other hand, was falling in a void where there was no safety net.
“Think about it the way your father did. He too believed that people were motivated only by their needs, including people on his side. He used to say they struggled for a cause because they had no choice, because they’d been humiliated and wanted to redeem themselves, but, so he
said, once they were free of poverty they would think the same way as the boss class. When you look at the situation today, he wasn’t far wrong. He believed in what he said, and he understood the difference between a man with ideals and a man with a full belly.”
“How did my father get on with the Rodolfis?”
“You’ve already asked me that and I don’t know what to say.”
“There are some weird rumours going about.”
“Pay no heed to them,” Don Bruno said, waving a hand to clear the air.
“No, I have to resolve this, even if the conclusion is that the whole story is rubbish.”
“Look, all I can tell you is that it was something to do with a piece of paper, a document, but don’t ask me what kind of document, because I couldn’t tell you. I also know that it’s an old story, going back at least as far as the war.”
Soneri immediately thought of the papers Bovolenta had found in the Woodsman’s house, and was tempted to hurry off and find him. Don Bruno noticed this reaction and turned away to get on with cleaning the chapel. The commissario thanked him and went out to find it was already daylight and the sun was rising over the mountains. No sooner had he left the graveyard than he heard the sound of gunfire. It came from somewhere above Boldara, and no doubt took the carabinieri, who were barely ten minutes along the footpath, by surprise. Plainly the Woodsman was intent on warning them what was in store for them that day. At the same moment, a ray of sunlight shone over the peaks and lit up Montelupo.
Soneri walked quickly down to the village and went into Rivara’s for breakfast. “Any news of Sante?” he asked immediately.
“The ambulance men who took him to hospital say his condition is critical. They think it was a stroke, and he might be paralysed.”
The commissario said nothing, but he thought it might be the end for Sante. “It’s like half-dying,” he finally said.
“Better to go altogether than to linger on,” Rivara said. “Did you hear that?” he added, nodding in the direction of Montelupo.
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