Beneath the Mountain

by Luca D'Andrea

  Brigitte stood up, letting the blankets fall on the dirty floor.

  Stumbling a little, she walked over to a dark wooden dresser. She opened a drawer, causing a couple of empty bottles to fall. She didn’t even notice.

  She sat down and I passed her the blankets. She laid them in her lap. She held out an old photograph album with a leather cover.

  Ever since Max had shown me the pictures taken at the scene of the crime, I’d had a difficult relationship with photographs.

  “Take it, it doesn’t bite.”

  I took it and placed it on my knees. It took me a while to open it.

  “Is this you?”

  “It was me,” Brigitte corrected me. “They said I could have been an actress.”

  The woman I had in front of me was light-years from the splendor of the blonde girl winking from the album. The hand placed on the pelvis, the defiant look. The long hair, the shorts accentuating a pair of legs that wouldn’t have looked out of place on any catwalk.

  “That’s from 1983. I’d only just turned twenty. I was working as a waitress in Aldino. I’d had a seamstress shorten the skirt of my uniform. Only a few centimeters less, but it was an excellent investment. The customers would compete over who would leave me the biggest tip. After closing hours, some of them tried to get into my pants.”

  “And did they succeed?”

  I immediately regretted the question, but Brigitte took it as a compliment.

  “Some yes, some no,” she replied coquettishly. “I wasn’t an easy girl, but if you were nice enough to me, didn’t have nasty scars on your face, and had all your marbles, then you might just possibly get to the finishing line. And to think that up until I was ten, my mother made me study with the nuns. The only thing that’s still with me from that period is the Bible quotations. If she could hear me . . .”

  She laughed, and tried to drink from a bottle that was now empty. Her face clouded over.

  “There should be something cold in the fridge,” she said, pointing to a door.

  The smell in the kitchen was nauseating. The shutters were closed and when I switched the light on, surprised that the electricity was still working, I thought I saw the tail of a mouse disappear into a crack in the wall. The refrigerator was humming quietly. Inside, apart from some pre-cooked food, there was only beer and spirits.

  I took out a can of Forst and went back into the living room.

  “Drinking alone is a crime,” she said.

  “I’m fine as I am.”

  “Thirty years ago, Salinger, I’d have turned you on just by looking at you. And now you refuse to have a beer with me?”

  “Maybe thirty years ago, just like today, I’d have been married.”

  “Married men are a myth. Do you really think no married man ever got it on with me?”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  My tone must have bothered Brigitte, who contemptuously ordered me to turn the page. I obeyed.

  The second photograph showed Brigitte hugging a girl I couldn’t help recognizing. Brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles on her upturned nose.

  Evi.

  “She was my best friend,” Brigitte said. “Even though we were like night and day. She was so sweet, adult, intelligent, while I . . .”—she shook herself—“. . . was that slut Brigitte Pflantz.”

  “Your definition?”

  “Siebenhoch’s definition.”

  “Did it bother you?”

  “It was Evi who consoled me. We were seriously inseparable. I was an only child and she only had Markus. We both would have liked to have a sister, so we adopted each other. We spent our days laughing over nothing. We tried to spend as much time as possible together, even though I had my work and she had her mother.” Brigitte darkened. “That bitch.”

  She fell silent.

  I waited.

  Brigitte looked at me, then drank from the can and burped. “She was an alcoholic. And she was mad. I used to hear her screaming. We all heard her screaming. And we knew perfectly well that when she went down into town, all scented and shiny, she was going to prostitute herself.”

  “Did Evi know?”

  “You can bet on it. Of course she knew. As the Lord is my witness. But you know something? Nothing made her lose her smile. It seems like a joke: your mother is a first-class alcoholic whore and you still have the strength to smile? But that’s how Evi was. She always managed to find the good side of things.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “You’d have to ask her, I’m the spitting image of that bitch mother of hers. But at least I had the good sense to have my tubes sewn up. No children for me, my dear. Not even dead ones. I wanted to be free. Brigitte Pflantz would get on a plane and go to Hollywood to be an actress, she would fuck all the handsomest actors in the world, and nobody would ever try to order her around. Nobody.”

  “Not even Günther.”

  “Günther came later. Before Günther, there was Kurt.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said, embarrassed, “that you and Kurt . . .”

  Brigitte stopped in mid-air the movement of raising the can to her lips. “I didn’t mean that. I never fucked Kurt, although I wouldn’t have minded, he was a good-looking boy. Tall, with intense eyes. I meant that Evi fell in love with Kurt and I was cut out of the picture.”

  She was silent for a while, brooding.

  “Like a forest fire. One spark and everything goes up in flames. Well, it was the same with Kurt and Evi. It was ’round about then that this photograph was taken, in ’81. The year Evi graduated and moved to Innsbruck.”

  “Were you OK with the idea?”

  “Of her leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  “Everybody talked about leaving, she was actually doing it. I admired her.”

  “What about Kurt? How did he take it?”

  “He followed her. I think that’s answer enough.”

  “And you felt cut out of the picture? Your words.”

  “Do you suspect me, Salinger?”

  “I don’t suspect anyone, I’m not playing detective.”

  “That’s not how it looks to me. And anyway, yes, I was upset. Because it all happened very quickly. One day, Evi and I were inseparable, the next day all she could talk about was Kurt. Kurt this, Kurt that. Then she started standing me up. Brigitte had dropped off the radar, my dear. A fire, and it’s every man for himself. And the place the fire started was the Bletterbach. Fate has a strange sense of humor, doesn’t it?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Would you be kind enough to get a drink for a lady, Salinger? This one’s finished.”

  “Isn’t it a bit soon?”

  Brigitte shrugged.

  “The last one,” I said to her, when I got back from the kitchen.

  “Or what will you do? Spank me?”

  “I’m leaving now.”

  Brigitte leaned toward me. “Don’t you want me to tell you about Kurt and Evi? Everything revolves around them, doesn’t it?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Kurt was five years older than Evi. He was a handsome boy, there was a queue at his door.” A wicked gleam. “With or without wedding rings on their fingers, women would eat him up with their eyes.”

  “Did Kurt take advantage?”

  “If he did, he was clever enough not to get caught. But if you really want to know, he wasn’t the type. The only thing Kurt cared about was the mountains. His role model was his father, Hannes. He wanted to be like him, a rescuer. And he was, at least until he moved to Innsbruck. Those two were very similar, even though they quarreled like cat and dog and ended up not speaking to each other.” She gulped her beer. “Evi spent quite a lot of time in the Bletterbach. Did you know she was studying geology?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Her passion started there, in the Bletterbach. Whenever she had free time and I wasn’t available, she’d grab her backpack and go off to look at fossils.”

  “You didn’t go with
her?”

  “With all those brambles? Are you joking? Have you seen the legs I had?”

  I smiled. “No brambles for Miss Siebenhoch.”

  “There was nothing like that around here, but I bet I would have won first prize. Anyway, it was during one of those hikes that Kurt and Evi’s paths crossed. I mean, they were acquainted, but up until that moment they’d never really looked at each other. But then the spark, and the fire. You know what Kurt liked about Evi? The way she had of always seeing the good side of things. Kurt was a grumpy character. Just like his father. But Evi was sunny. You could never be angry with her. And she was incredibly intelligent. Go to the last page.”

  There was a voluminous plastic folder.

  “What’s this?”

  “My scrapbook of Evi’s triumphs. Have a look.”

  They were mostly press cuttings. Sometimes short items. Evi Baumgartner (or rather, Tognon, I noticed) has won the prize for . . . Deserves congratulations for . . . Local scientist . . .

  “Scientist?”

  “She was the closest thing to a scientist we’d ever had around here,” Brigitte replied. “Carry on. There you have the proof of what I’m telling you.”

  There were a number of little pamphlets. The heading was that of the University of Innsbruck.

  “Papers she published,” she said.

  “But Evi hadn’t yet graduated when . . . it happened.”

  “When she was killed, you mean?”

  I nodded.

  “I told you she was good. She stood out. It didn’t take her teachers long to realize that she had potential. Evi wasn’t seen very often in Siebenhoch in the last three years of her life. Too much research, too much studying. She would have had a career, believe me.” She took one of the pamphlets from me. “Look at this. It’s her first paper. She was really emotional when she told me about it on the phone. Actually, I thought it was pretty much of a scam, but she said I was just being cynical as usual.”

  “Why a scam?”

  “It’s a refutation of a thesis by another researcher at the University. All a bit technical and complicated, but that’s not the point. To me, it was obvious that Evi had been manipulated. Her teachers had persuaded her to publish this in order to demolish that other guy. It wasn’t her idea. You see what I mean?”

  “They were using her to get at him.”

  “But that’s not the end of it. The guy showed up at Kurt and Evi’s place. He was furious. The thing had been a real blow to him. But after two hours spent with Evi, they became friends. I mean, you destroy my work and I become your best friend? Impossible for everyone else, but not for Evi. That’s how she was.”

  My mouth was dry.

  I had just found a motive.

  “Do you remember the name of the researcher?”

  “No, but it’s written there.”

  I looked for it, already knowing what I would find.

  Oscar Grünwald. The man who sent the telegram.

  Geht nicht dorthin!

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Salinger.”

  “Is that offer of a beer still open?”

  Brigitte pointed to the kitchen door. “One for you, one for me.”

  I came back, sat down, and sipped from the bottle. Then I lit myself a cigarette. I pondered for a while, and Brigitte sat there silently watching me.

  “What’s the matter?” I said.

  “You.”

  “What about me?”

  “Why on earth you are interested in this story? Do you really not want to make a film about it?”

  “I’m not a director.”

  “Then why?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  Brigitte blew through her teeth, producing a kind of shrill whistle. “You know who you remind me of?”

  “I don’t think I’d like to know.”

  “Günther. You also want to find out who killed them.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  There was no answer.

  “Günther used to say he knew quite a few secrets about the killings. Things he couldn’t admit to. Stuff that would have blown the whole of Siebenhoch sky high. He used to say that when he was very, very drunk. One time, I tried to get him to talk. I made him drunk deliberately. It was getting on my nerves, all that going on about secrets without ever coming out with them. I didn’t think he was being very respectful.”

  “Respectful?”

  “I was the one who wiped his vomit, bought the aspirins for his hangovers, made excuses for him when he stayed away from work. I was the one who cradled him in my arms when he had one of his nightmares. He never told me anything. Anything. When he died, I thought for a few days it was murder.”

  “You mean someone might have killed him to keep him quiet?”

  “Yes. But it was a stupid idea.”

  “Why stupid?”

  “He was already killing himself. A little more patience and he would have died anyway.”

  “You were there to protect him.”

  “But who would have protected me?”

  I said nothing.

  “Sometimes I still think it,” she resumed. “It’d be more heroic, wouldn’t it?” Her voice shook. “Günther murdered just as he was about to shed light on the Bletterbach killings.”

  She was crying now.

  “I’m sorry, Brigitte.”

  Brigitte looked up abruptly, her eyes shiny. “Get out, Salinger, get out and shut the door behind you.”

  I didn’t want to leave her alone, not in that condition. But I did. I left her alone with her booze and an army of demons.

  * * *

  Outside, the blizzard was still covering Siebenhoch in snow and ice. I drove the kilometers separating me from Clara and Annelise, in the grip of a thousand thoughts.

  Just before getting within sight of home, I stopped and switched off the engine. I grabbed my cell phone and waited for Mike to pick up on the other side of the ocean.

  After the seventh ring, I heard his drowsy voice. “Salinger? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

  “For you, it’s always too early. Is she a blonde?”

  “A redhead, sergeant,” Mike joked. I heard him closing a door. “So,” he said with a hint of anxiety in his voice, “how’s it going, partner?”

  “So-so. How about you?”

  So-so meant half shit and the other half wasn’t much better.

  “Mr. Smith is trying to crucify me and I screwed up the sound tests twice running. Partner, seriously, is everything OK? Are you taking the magic pills?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Mike McMellan always knows everything.”

  “Have you been talking to Annelise?”

  “Yep. We’re worried about you, shithead.”

  I screwed up my eyes. I didn’t want to be moved.

  “I need a favor.”

  “Annelise told me you’ve become obsessed with the story of a murder.”

  “More than one,” I corrected him without even thinking.

  “Whatever. Is it true?”

  “Yes.”

  From the other side of the ocean, silence. And a noise that I couldn’t define at first. Then I realized Mike was chomping on nachos.

  “She told me that if I dared help you, she’d cut off my . . . you know.”

  “She’d be quite capable of that.”

  “Have things gotten so bad, partner?”

  This time, I was the one to be silent.

  “I need to know.”

  “Who committed a murder thirty years ago? Have you gone completely crazy?”

  “I’m not so stupid,” I replied, even though a part of me was convinced of the opposite, especially after what Brigitte had told me. “I just want to find out if I’m still capable. If I’m still able to tell a story the way it should be told.”

  “But it’s obvious that—”

  “Not after the Ortles.”

  “Shit, Salinger, do you want me to massage your ego?
Do you want me to tell you you’re the best writer around? If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. I’ll get on a plane today and come there and sing you a lullaby, but I want you to know that if that’s your real problem, then you’re as crazy as a shit.”

  “There’s no way you could understand.”

  I’d offended him. I knew that even before I’d finished the sentence.

  “Because I wasn’t there, right?”

  “That’s not the reason.”

  “You’re an asshole, Salinger.”

  “If you’d been in my place, nothing would have happened.”

  “That’s not true.”

  I’d thought a lot about it. I’d spent nights on end thinking about it. “You wouldn’t have been so dumb as to go down into that crevasse. Right now, Mountain Angels would be the latest series from the McMellan-Salinger stable, Mr. Smith would be sitting happily in his office counting his money, and we’d be thinking about the second season. Or making a movie.”

  “We already are,” Mike murmured. I’d never heard him sound so depressed.

  “I hate it.”

  A sigh. “So do I. But we have a contract.”

  “I know. Now listen carefully,” I said, again pretending a normal voice, “because I need your help.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I want you to find any information you can about a particular person.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Do you have pen and paper?”

  “Of course.”

  “His name is Oscar Grünwald. He used to be some kind of researcher at the University of Innsbruck. I want to know everything there is to know about him. Unleash your inner 007.”

  “Salinger?”

  “Do you want me to spell it for you?”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “Just do it.”

  Silence.

  Then Mike’s voice: “Is it a good story at least?”

  I smiled, and for the first time that afternoon I was sincere. “It’s a great story, Mike. As soon as I have a little time, I’ll tell you the whole of it.”

  “Then I owe you one.”

  “’Bye, man.”

  “Partner?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful.”

  * * *

  Clara was dressed in red. Dark red. Blood red. She had her hands behind her back and she was pale, her lips blue. Her eyes wide open and fixed. I crouched and opened my arms. I wanted her to come to me and hug me. I wanted to warm her up.