Beneath the Mountain

by Luca D'Andrea

  I wanted to warm myself up.

  “Why won’t you come to me, sweetheart?”

  “Can you hear it, Papà?”

  I couldn’t hear anything and I told her so.

  Clara bowed her head.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “The voice says it’s coming to get you. It says that this time . . .” Clara sniffed, her breath rising in little clouds. It was cold. It was so cold. “It says that this time I have to come, too.”

  I would have liked to go to her. To hug her, console her.

  I couldn’t move.

  “Five letters, Papà.”

  “Stars?”

  “Five letters, Papà.”

  She was barefoot, I only realized it at that moment. And her feet weren’t blue. They were black.

  Like the feet of a corpse.

  “Five letters, Papà.”

  “No, sweetheart, no.” The kilometers separating me.

  Clara raised her head abruptly. Someone had gouged out her eyes.

  She screamed.

  I screamed.

  * * *

  Five letters. Beast.

  The Devil’s Workshop

  It was already February 5 when I knocked at Hermann Kagol’s door. The blizzard was now just a memory and, even though the sun didn’t break through the ice even at the warmest times of day, it was pleasant strolling in the open air.

  The creator of the Visitors’ Center lived in one of the oldest and most beautiful houses in Siebenhoch. But the two-story building wasn’t ostentatious, its richness lay in the details. Elegant ironwork, a wall that must have been an explosion of wisteria in the spring, sober but luxurious finishing touches everywhere. The one concession to vanity, standing beneath a snow-covered slate canopy, was a black Mercedes, the latest model.

  I was greeted by a woman of about fifty.

  “Signora Kagol?”

  “I’m the housekeeper. Are you Signor Salinger?”

  “Yes, I am. I have an appointment. And I’m sorry for the blunder.”

  I followed her to a Stube, where she sat me in a leather armchair. The Stube here was very different from the one in which Max had spent his childhood, and the stove, set into the wall, was a masterpiece of masonry. I was no expert, but judging by the skill with which the majolica had been worked it must have been made by a great craftsman. On the paneled walls were carvings that must have cost a fortune. Everything here exuded money and power.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Signor Salinger.” Hermann’s handshake was firm and decisive. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  “I’m a teetotaler,” Hermann said, almost apologetically. “Do you mind mineral water?”

  “Mineral water will be fine.”

  The housekeeper left us.

  When she returned carrying two glasses with slices of lemon at the bottom and a jug of what looked to me like very pure crystal, Hermann thanked her and dismissed her. As soon as we were alone, the door properly closed, he served the water.

  “They say toasting with water brings bad luck,” he said, raising his glass. “I hope you’re not superstitious.”

  “I’m many things, Signor Kagol,” I replied, clinking my glass against his, “but not superstitious.”

  “You intrigue me, Signor Salinger, tell me how many.”

  “I’m a father. A husband. A TV writer. And a very bad skier.”

  Hermann laughed politely and smoothed his droopy iron-gray moustache. “And are you here as a TV writer, Signor Salinger?”

  “No, as a writer pure and simple.”

  “We’ve had various woodcarvers around here,” Hermann stated indicating the works on the walls, “a couple of bishops, a few witches, quite a few mountaineers and lots and lots of troublemakers, but not a single writer. I’m intrigued.”

  I tried to be convincing. I’d prepared well. I’d had four days to absorb what Brigitte had told me. I’d made notes. Above all, I’d done a lot of thinking, and had prepared a nice little story to con Hermann Kagol. Hoping he wouldn’t then go and spill it all to Werner, in which case I’d be screwed.

  “As you know, I’m here in Siebenhoch as a visitor. After that terrible accident—”

  “I know the details. I’m sorry such a tragedy should have happened to you. I hope you’re not still suffering the after-effects.”

  “It was hard at first, but I’m much better now. So much better that I’m getting quite bored.”

  Hermann nearly choked on his mineral water. His laughter made him lose his veneer of elegance in favor of what he must have been like before making his fortune.

  A mountain man with big ambitions.

  “I admit,” he said, recovering his composure, “Siebenhoch isn’t New York.”

  “But the quiet of Siebenhoch is what I needed. And besides,” I added, feigning an embarrassment I wasn’t feeling at all, “it’s here that I discovered my . . . vocation.”

  “As a writer?”

  “I always thought that writers were serious people, Signor Kagol. People with lots of degrees, real nerds. Instead of which, I woke up one day and told myself: why not write a book about this place? About its myths, its legends. A biography of Siebenhoch.”

  “A biography of Siebenhoch? I wouldn’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, Signor Salinger, but there are already quite a few books about this region. Not to appear immodest, but several of them were financed by my foundation.”

  I’d expected an objection like that. “I’ve read all of them, Signor Kagol. From first to last. But nobody has ever treated this place like a living being. As if it were a person who was born, had a childhood, and then grew up.”

  “It’s an unusual point of view.”

  “Isn’t that why you would read the book? Curiosity.”

  Hermann raised his glass. “It’s an excellent idea. But I don’t quite see how I can help you. Are you asking me to finance the publication?”

  “No, I’m not looking for a publisher. Never put the cart before the horse, as my Mutti used to say. First I write it and then I sell it.”

  “An excellent philosophy. But I still don’t—”

  “According to lots of people, you saved Siebenhoch from a slow, painful death.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “But I think you had exceptional foresight. And I’m not just referring to the Visitors’ Center. You’ve kept Siebenhoch’s traditions alive. That’s what interests me.”

  Hermann’s eyes gleamed.

  I’d nailed it.

  He nodded passionately. “Without its traditions, where would Siebenhoch be, Signor Salinger?”

  “A tourist village like any other. With the Bletterbach instead of a beach. Entertainers in Tyrolean costumes and songs in the elevators. Look, you’re the Krampusmeister. I’d like to start the book with the man who makes the devil’s clothes.”

  “The man who makes the devil’s clothes. I like it. May I call you Jeremiah?”

  “Whatever you prefer, although everyone calls me Salinger. Apart from my mother and Werner.”

  “So be it. Come with me, Salinger.”

  * * *

  He led me down a steep staircase to the basement. There was a strong smell of glue in the air. When he switched the light on, all became clear.

  I smiled, surprised. “Is this where the magic is born?”

  “The devil’s workshop, Salinger, to paraphrase your words.”

  It was a huge room that must have extended under the whole of the house. The indisputable centerpiece was a gigantic table heaped with Krampus costumes and masks and various types of sewing machine.

  All around the walls was an impressive array of cupboards and shelves filled with all kinds of objects.

  “Extraordinary.”

  “I try to use traditional materials. These are all natural dyes. Iron for blue, for example. Mercury. Silver. Nothing that can’t be found locally.”

  I p
ointed at a box filled with shells. “These, too?”

  “Let me show you one of my treasures.”

  He took a book from a cupboard. It looked very old. I noticed that every page was protected by a layer of cellophane.

  “What’s this?”

  “The notes of a schoolmaster. From 1874. He was sent to Siebenhoch by the emperor. The Austro-Hungarian Empire cared a lot about the education of its citizens. The dream of the Habsburgs was to build an enlightened monarchy in which nobody was illiterate and everything worked to perfection. Herr Weger lived here for fifty years. He married a local girl and you can see his grave behind the church, a simple iron cross, as he requested in his will.”

  “Weger . . .” I said. “I don’t know of any Wegers in Siebenhoch.”

  “He had a son, who died of diphtheria. A sad story. Weger didn’t deserve it. He was an intelligent person and his ideas were quite advanced for his time. This . . .”—he tapped his index finger on the cover of the book—“. . . is proof of that. At the end of the nineteenth century, Europe was in the grip of positivism. People thought science would solve all problems. A kind of Enlightenment attitude raised to the nth degree. Everywhere, factories and railway lines were being built. Soon, there would be electric lighting in every street. The Habsburgs were infatuated with the writings of the great thinkers of the day, and Weger had studied them, too. But then he’d put them aside.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Even though I’d come to the Kagol house with the intention of extracting information about the dead brother of the wealthiest man in Siebenhoch, this story fascinated me.

  “Because he’d realized that some things can’t and shouldn’t be done away with.”

  “Such as?”

  Hermann opened his arms in a gesture that was meant to take in the whole of his workshop. “The old traditions. So many people had tried to eradicate them, Salinger. First, the Catholic Church, then the men of the Enlightenment, Napoleon, and finally the Habsburgs. But a simple schoolmaster had understood that if the ancient traditions disappeared, not only would strange customs and a few proverbs be lost: the soul of the people would die. So he started keeping this.”

  He showed me a few pages. Weger had close, elegant handwriting. He wrote in a refined German, full of words I couldn’t translate. But above all, this brilliant schoolmaster showed himself to be an artist manqué.

  “These drawings are remarkable.”

  “As precise as photographs, aren’t they? But Weger didn’t only transcribe old stories and draw traditional costumes. He started collecting them.”

  He led me to the far end of the room.

  “Naturally,” he explained, opening a large wall cupboard, “these aren’t the originals. They’re faithful reproductions. Same fabrics, same ornaments. As you can see,” he added, shaking an inlaid belt so that it jangled, “these are shells.”

  I was fascinated. “Are these also copies?”

  “They’re real. I paid for them out of my own pocket.”

  They were Krampus masks. Hermann put on rubber gloves and placed the masks carefully on the table, revealing their detail in the harsh fluorescent light.

  “This one’s the oldest. According to estimates, it probably dates from the end of the fourteenth century. Extraordinary, don’t you think?”

  I couldn’t stop looking at it. “It’s a masterpiece.”

  “Does it scare you?”

  “To tell the truth, no. I’d call it curious, amusing. Certainly not scary.”

  “Because things change, Salinger. People modify their concept of what’s horrible according to the flow of history and changes in customs. But at the time, believe me, this mask was meant to instill fear.”

  “No movies. No television and no Stephen King.”

  “Only the Bible, translated badly and understood even less. And long winter nights.”

  “With the Bletterbach behind the houses.”

  I didn’t even realize I’d said it. I was hypnotized by the Krampus mask. By those empty eyes, above all.

  “Does the Bletterbach scare you?”

  “Can I be honest?”

  “Please,” Hermann said, putting his treasures away.

  “I do find it frightening. It’s a prehistoric graveyard.”

  Hermann turned to look at me. “Those aren’t your words, are they?”

  “Actually no,” I replied, embarrassed. “But I find them fitting. They’re Verena’s, the wife of—”

  “The wife of Chief Krün. But she was quoting someone else as well.”

  “Really?”

  Hermann sighed. “These aren’t things to talk about down here, Salinger. Unpleasant memories. I’d prefer to continue our conversation in daylight, if you don’t mind.”

  * * *

  Hermann was examining a photograph, an aerial shot of the Bletterbach that hung next to a stag’s head carved out of pinewood.

  “Do you see anything unusual in this picture, Salinger?”

  “The Center isn’t there.”

  “That’s right. Do you know who took this?”

  “No.”

  “The same person who called the Bletterbach ‘a prehistoric graveyard.’”

  “Your brother Günther?”

  “That’s right. He was on board the rescue team’s Alouette when he took it. He gave it to me for my birthday. He said only a fool like me could think of making money from that terrible place. He was convinced nobody could possibly like the Bletterbach.”

  “He was wrong.”

  “A lot of people were wrong at the time. But I was sure of it. I was convinced.” He turned to me and in his eyes I saw a determination I’d rarely seen in my life. “I knew it would work. The question wasn’t whether or not people would be interested in the Bletterbach, but whether or not I’d be the one to monopolize that treasure.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “Tourism was taking off everywhere. In the Val d’Aosta, in Switzerland. In Austria. But around here it was as if nobody had noticed because everyone was too busy planting bombs or demanding special laws. Sooner or later, though, someone else would get the idea.”

  “And you wanted to be the first.”

  “I wanted the Bletterbach, Salinger. I felt I was the right man in the right place at the right time.”

  “And time proved you right.”

  Hermann nodded smugly. “Yes, it did. Time proved me right. My family wasn’t rich. Nobody in Siebenhoch was rich. Not in those days, anyway. The young people were leaving, the old did nothing but complain, and those in the middle? Either they left or they complained about the fact that they couldn’t leave. My family had four cows. Four. Maybe that’s how your book should begin, with four cows. Because it was with those four cows that the rebirth of Siebenhoch started.”

  “You’ll have to explain.”

  “There’s not much to explain. My father died and I inherited everything.”

  “And Günther?”

  “It’s the law of the closed maso. The eldest son inherits everything, but has to make sure he gives half of the value of the property to the second born, in cash. Half,” he said, “or a third or a quarter, depending on the number of siblings. The important thing is that the land and property shouldn’t be divided.”

  “Why?”

  “Because dividing the barren land in Alto Adige meant destroying a family. Reducing it to starvation, if not worse. When my father died, I sold the cows. Günther didn’t make a fuss. He said I had all the time in the world to give him his share of the inheritance. He thought I was crazy, but he trusted my abilities. The proceeds of the sale I invested in my first company. A construction company.”

  “To build the Visitors’ Center?”

  “That was already in my mind, but it wasn’t the first thing I built. The foundations of the Center weren’t laid until 1990. Kagol Construction started in 1982, the day I turned thirty, a date I chose because I was young and idealistic and it seemed to me q
uite . . . symbolic. It brought me luck, anyway. The first order Kagol Construction got was to repair the roof of a henhouse in Aldino. I found myself up to my ears in chicken shit, but believe me, I was overjoyed.”

  “Four cows and a pile of shit. I could use it as a title.”

  “That would be wonderful, but I don’t think it’d sell many copies.”

  “Did Günther work with you?”

  Hermann’s face clouded over. “It’s the second time you’ve mentioned my brother, Salinger. Why’s that?”

  “I’m curious,” I said, choosing my words as if I were walking on eggshells. “From what I’ve heard, a lot of people here miss Günther.”

  Hermann looked surprised. “Really?”

  “People have often spoken to me about him.”

  “In relation to his drinking?” he asked, his face registering no emotion.

  “In relation to the Bletterbach killings.”

  “Are you planning to write about that business?”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied without batting an eyelid. “Maybe a few hints, just to give a slightly sinister feel to the Bletterbach.”

  “I don’t know if I like the idea, Salinger.”

  “The book will be about the village and that event is part of its story.”

  Hermann nodded, although there was a touch of suspicion in his eyes. “A lot of nasty things happened that day. And in the days that followed.”

  “Werner told me about that. He also left.”

  “In a hurry, yes. One night he just up and left. So I’ve been told.”

  “Weren’t you here?”

  “I was away.”

  “On business?”

  “In ’85, Kagol Construction became Kagol Construction Ltd. I had an office in Rovoreto, I was constantly traveling throughout the north of Italy. I had ongoing projects in Friuli, in the Veneto, and was about to seal a major deal in the Tyrol. The building of a skiing center. I wasn’t on my own now. The previous year I’d hired, in addition to the usual office staff, two young architects with very innovative ideas. One of the two still works for me, the other emigrated to Germany. He’s designed several stadiums and a skyscraper in the Arab Emirates.”