According to tradition, on the feast of San Martino things were taken from houses as a joke and left somewhere in the village where they could be rediscovered. All the various objects which had been spirited away the night before were piled up in a quiet lane behind the church. There were farm implements, bicycles, hats, cars and even a pony, which was feeding quietly from a nosebag. A man was cursing as he attempted to pull an old scooter out of a tangle of rubbish, but just as he had succeeded and was about to move off, the town band turned up and the street was closed off.
Soneri waited until the majorettes and bandsmen, decked out in uniforms, hats and sequins, had passed by. He could not understand why the sound of drums and trumpets in all their solemnity always made him laugh, but as he was thinking this over, Maini emerged from the disorderly crowd shuffling along behind the band, took him by the arm and led him into the body of the procession.
“So you’ve had a go, eh!” he exclaimed, glancing down at Soneri’s mud-covered boots. He had forgotten to change but no-one in the village would notice.
“I went to stretch my legs and get a breath of fresh air,” Soneri said.
“How far did you get?”
“Up past Boldara, towards Montelupo.”
“You’ve got guts,” Maini said.
“Is there someone from around here who goes shooting in the mountains?” the commissario asked, abruptly.
The din from the band gave Maini an excuse for taking his time. “Did you hear anything?” he asked.
Soneri nodded, without turning to face him.
“Where?”
“I have just told you where.”
“But do you know where the shot came from?”
“I only know it wasn’t more than ten metres away when it went whistling past. There must have been a boar in the gulley, judging by the noise coming from there.”
“These mountains have become very dangerous. I don’t know what’s been going on recently.”
“There’ve always been poachers in these parts,” the commissario said without much conviction.
“During the day? With this mist, in a hunting reserve?” Maini’s tone was incredulous.
“In the mist you can do anything you want. It gives you cover.”
“True enough, even for a murder. Nobody can see you.”
Soneri felt a tremor run up his spine, but he said nothing. They were back on the piazza after walking around some of the streets where old women at the windows looked down at the band. A big stall was serving torta fritta and salame to a crowd gathered hungrily around it. On the other side of the piazza, some volunteers from the tourist office were roasting chestnuts. Delrio, clearly displeased, came up to join them. He was wearing full uniform.
“Don’t tell me that you’ve got to work today as well,” Maini said.
Delrio shrugged. “More problems.”
“What’s up?”
“One of those damned things…” he said, waving his hands vaguely in the air. “It’s beyond my understanding…”
“There are many things like that,” Soneri said.
Delrio gave him a quick look, as though he wanted to enlist his help. “Last night was very peculiar, even for San Martino’s,” was all he said by way of explanation. He was referring to the custom of flitting, or stealing things as a practical joke.
“The young nowadays carry off things we would never have touched,” Maini said.
“It’s the first time anyone has ever taken a coffin,” Delrio said. “The thing is that nobody noticed, because it was covered by the Ghirardis’ marquee. It was only when the pony started tugging at the canvas that the coffin came to light.”
“Where have you put it?” the commissario asked him.
“Where do you think? In the graveyard chapel.”
“Is there an undertaker near here?”
“The nearest one is about twenty kilometres away,” Maini replied.
“No-one has ever stolen a coffin,” Delrio said again. “The people in this village are all cheerful and good-natured.”
This time it was Soneri’s turn to shrug.
“Nobody’s going to tell me all this was dreamed up on the spur of the moment last night,” Maini said.
The smoke from the roasting chestnuts mixed with the smoke from the fried food. They were passing in front of the stalls where people were queuing up to buy polenta and vin brule, when the band re-formed and struck up another number.
“See that? People having good-natured fun,” the commissario said.
Delrio glowered, supposing Soneri was laughing at him. He moved off in the direction of the band just as the lights went on, in response, it seemed, to how far down the mist had come.
“He’s a worried man,” Maini said, indicating Delrio, as he was swallowed up by the crowd. “In fact, in spite of appearances, everyone in the village is a bit worried.”
“I know. It’s because of the Rodolfi case,” Soneri said.
“Everyone’s livelihood depends on them, and in spite of all their faults…” His voice stuttered to an embarrassed halt.
“Have you heard anyone criticising them?” the commissario asked.
“No, no — apart from the usual chatter. You hear rumours here and there… some bits of their business… But there’s so much jealousy around here. Anyway, who knows how much they’re worth? They can toss their money about…”
“Yes, they can toss it up in the air, or add yeast to make it rise like torta fritta,” the commissario said, as he gazed at the squares of batter swelling up on contact with the hot oil in the pan. Maini was watching too and smiled, but then turned serious once again. “But the coffin… what do you think about that?”
“I think an empty coffin is always waiting for someone to fill it.”
Maini looked down and changed the subject. “If you’re planning to go up there tomorrow morning, you’re as well setting off at first light. These are the shortest days of the year.”
“And the mushrooms are well hidden, unless you know precisely where to go looking for them,” Soneri said.
“In the woods, nothing’s that precise. You have to search about, like when you’re looking for a place to pee.”
Soneri stared at him for few moments, noticing the frown on his face. He had been in the village only a few hours and already the tension in the air had got to him. Now that he was plunged into that stressful atmosphere, heavy with unanswered questions, his hopes for a carefree break were already vanishing. Perhaps Angela had been right when she said that worries live inside us, not outside, because we can never be wholly impregnable. And he knew he was too impressionable.
Fortunately he was distracted by the priest at the head of the procession, cutting his way through the crowd milling about in the piazza. His only followers were elderly ladies, while the altar boys around him had the look of young men who had just been served with their call-up papers.
“More like a funeral,” was the acid observation of Volpi, who had just come over from the roasted-chestnut stall.
“At least you won’t find the priest changing his home,” said an ancient at Soneri’s shoulder, repeating an old joke, trotted out each year, about flitting from one house to another on San Martino.
No sooner had the procession moved on than the mayor appeared alongside the commissario. “Good to see you back. You’ll be here for…” he started to say, but could not get the words out.
Soneri noted the embarrassment on the man’s face, so reassured him. “I’m only here to pick mushrooms.”
The mayor smiled. “Well, you know, with all these mysteries…”
“I’ll steer clear of mysteries for at least ten days.”
“Someone’s been putting about rumours, whispers, gossip. It’s a set-up. Let me assure you that nothing has happened. A minor mishap which has been blown up into a big story.”
“You’re all great fans of the Rodolfis, but you worry too much,” Soneri said, with a touch of irony.
The mayor studied him warily, to make sure he was taking him seriously enough. “It was a mistake to put up those posters. It’s not the first time he’s gone missing.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Going round sticking up posters is…” Soneri said.
“Yes. It was an odd thing to do, and it only heightens suspicion. They should have left well enough alone.”
“It would be better still if he were to appear in public,” the commissario suggested.
“Certainly, certainly, but he never was particularly sociable. You can understand it, a busy man like him…”
“What do you plan to do? Maybe you should just try to calm things down.”
“And what do you think I’m doing? I’m getting out and about as much as I can. I speak to anybody and everybody, but these mountain folk are so distrustful. You should know that, shouldn’t you?”
“It seems someone saw Rodolfi this morning, or last night.”
“That was Mendogni, but now he’s not so sure. He saw a man who might have been Paride Rodolfi, but he couldn’t swear to it.”
Soneri stretched out his arms. “Send for the carabinieri!”
“On what grounds? Because a man has failed to return home? I’ll get charged with wasting police time.”
“Talking about wasting police time,” the commissario said, looking over at the piazza where Mendogni, surrounded by a crowd of people anxious for news, had made an appearance.
The mayor went over to question him, speaking over those who were already talking. He dragged Soneri with him to witness what looked like a public interrogation.
“They tell me you’re not certain whether it was him or not.”
“When I first saw him, I was almost certain,” Mendogni mumbled, annoyed at having to repeat his story yet again. “But if you ask me if I am a hundred per cent certain, I’d have to say no. Do you know the path that leads to Campogrande? It’s not that close to the Greppo villa.”
“Who else could it have been?” someone asked.
“How should I know?” Mendogni said. “There are so many folk coming and going to that house. You see big cars driving up and there’s no way of being sure who’s inside.”
The mayor was growing increasingly agitated because Mendogni’s words, far from calming people down, were making them more suspicious. Another voice cut in. “Biavardi’s daughter says he’s still not come back, and that it’s a whole week since they had any news.”
“They must have had some reason for putting up all those posters,” someone else said.
Soneri listened in silence to the hubbub, with images previously seen a thousand times chasing each other around in his head. In the early stages of an investigation, everything was always so confused and contradictory, and that did not mean that the outlook was necessarily any clearer at the end. He had no wish for this to become “his” case, so he took advantage of a lull in the exchanges to move away. He was determined to remain an onlooker.
The darkness, made more impenetrable by the mist rolling down from the hills, had in the meantime enveloped the village. He walked towards Rivara’s osteria with the intention of ordering a glass of Malvasia, but when he saw how crowded the place was, he walked on towards the old district. As he passed in front of the Olmo bar, he looked in and was reassured by the atmosphere of mid-week calm which reigned there. This was the bar frequented by the village elders, and it seemed to have grown old with them.
He went in and leaned on the bar to light his cigar. At the table directly in front of him, four men were silently engrossed in a game of briscola.
“Fireworks tonight,” one of the men said. The others shrugged without raising their eyes from the cards.
“Who do you think the coffin’s for?” one asked.
“As long as it’s not for us.”
Soneri was struck by the stoic indifference of the card-players, but he felt himself being observed. He turned round and recognised Magnani, the owner.
“If you’re here, it means something really has gone badly wrong,” were his words of greeting.
“You’re wide of the mark this time. The only investigations I’m doing are in the undergrowth,” Soneri said.
“In that case you’re going to have your work cut out,” Magnani warned him, as he filled two glasses of white wine without waiting to be asked. He raised his glass. “Here’s to your good health and to the investigation.”
“To my health, then. I’ll take nothing to do with any investigation.”
Magnani stretched out his hands, palms open. “I meant your investigations into the state of the mushrooms.”
“What can you tell me?”
“I’ve never taken much interest in them. They tell me that this year the outlook is grim after the dry summer we’ve had. You could search higher up in the hills, where it’s always a bit cooler. Assuming there are any left, that is.”
“They’ve picked the lot already?”
Magnani made another eloquent gesture with his hands. “There are some who are up there every day.”
“They’re not afraid of the gunfire?”
Magnani stared hard at Soneri, and in that one moment a complete understanding was established between the two. “It’s a big, high mountain and there’s space for everybody.”
“Where do you go for the licence?”
“The usual place, the Comune,” Magnani said before adding: “You’re looking well. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Nothing has changed here either,” Soneri replied, looking around the bar with its dated furniture and the wallpaper peeling where the chairs had rubbed against it.
“That’s not true. Everyone here’s growing old. After a while, the years begin to take their toll.”
“You’re an institution.”
“So is the cathedral. And we’re about the same age.”
The four men continued their game, interrupting the silence only for brief comments on the hands they were dealt.
“The one advantage age gives you is that you can stand back and look at what’s happening without getting too upset. And I’m really keen to see how it’s all going to end,” Magnani said.
“Do you mean here in the village?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Do you believe there is something behind this disappearance?”
“I think somebody is cheating, and that this little game is likely to end badly,” Magnani said, looking at the cards which were piling up in the centre of the table. “I have the impression we’re sitting on a powder keg.”
Soneri listened to the old man’s words and remembered how confused he had been when he had tried to explain to Angela what was going on. He was just as confused now, but every time he tried to seek explanations, everyone became evasive, so it was no surprise when Magnani said, “There’s so much going on… it’s not easy for someone who doesn’t live here.”
The door opened, letting in a gust of wind and rain. An elderly man, slightly out of breath, stood in the doorway and, raising his walking stick in front of him, announced, “Now Palmiro’s gone missing as well.”
The four men around the table let their cards drop and turned round quickly. The elder Rodolfi was evidently much more popular than his son.
“What is this? Some sort of plague?” Magnani muttered.
“He went out this afternoon for a walk with his dog, but it turned dark and there has been no sign of him since. The dog came back without its master.”
“Are they out looking for him already?” the commissario said.
The old man nodded. “The carabinieri and teams of volunteers are out on the hills.” Magnani stood rooted to the spot, lost in his own thoughts. None of the others said a word, and the silence was expression enough of their disconcerted astonishment. Soneri went out into the mist now swirling across the streets of the village like clouds on mountain tops. The trepidation among the people standing under the flickering light of the lamp-posts on the piazza was almost palpable. The Comune was open and people were walking up and down under the narrow colonnade at the entrance. An ambulance with its emergency lights flashing, but proceeding very slowly, passed by.
“Either there’s no-one inside, or else for the person they’ve got on board there’s no point going at speed,” said Rivara, who had also come out of his bar onto the street.
“An hour ago someone said they’d heard a shot,” Maini said.
“Where did it come from?”
“From the direction of Gambetta, near the Croce path, but I couldn’t say if that’s true or not. Other people didn’t hear anything.”
“Are you saying it could have been a rifle shot from…?” Rivara asked, but he seemed afraid of finishing the sentence.
“It could’ve been anything.”
A man in a wheelchair, wrapped in a heavy blanket, was repeating that they should talk to him, because he knew where Palmiro normally went. “We used to go hunting together,” he kept repeating, but no-one paid him any attention.
“What about the dog? Maybe he could lead them to where he is,” Rivara said.
“Perhaps, but he’s an old dog and seems worn out.”
“He could easily have got lost in this mist,” Magnani said.
Everyone standing there waiting in the swirling fog was afflicted by the same sense of impotence. A carabiniere car swept past and drew up outside the Comune. Another set of headlights cut through the darkness in the direction of Rivara’s osteria. Four young men from the village got out.
“Were you not needed?” Rivara asked.
“There’re too many people there already,” replied the driver. “They need people who know these woods. It’s a foreign land to me.”
“How are they getting on?”
“They’ll never find him in this mist, at night time. It’s insane. They’ll end up losing somebody else.”
“They can’t just leave him to die of exposure.”
“He won’t be feeling the cold any more by now,” said another of the young men from the car.
“The mist is much thicker up there,” the driver said. “If you don’t know your way, it’s a struggle even to stay on the road.”
“Are they working in teams?”
“A carabiniere truck went up and parked alongside the reservoir, near the aqueduct. The others have their radios.”
Maini shook his head. “They’re not going to find him tonight.”
“You never know,” Rivara said. “There are some people who know the woods like the back of their hands. And Palmiro, if he’s still got any strength in his legs…”
“The carabinieri are relying on Ulisse, who’s been wandering about Montelupo for forty years.”
“Wouldn’t he have had a mobile?” Soneri said.
“Palmiro!” Rivara exclaimed, taken aback by the sheer naivety of the question. “He wouldn’t have anything to do with those things. He still did his accounts with a pencil! No, Palmiro is one of the old school. He reckoned you had to deal with pigs with your bare hands. He would grab them by the ears and turn them over as though they were sacks.”
“And when the mood took him, he wouldn’t think twice about giving you short weight.” The words were spoken in acid tones by a squat man called Ghidini. His teeth were yellowing from the endless cigarettes he rolled himself.
An awkward silence fell and Soneri had the impression that the speaker had touched a delicate nerve. His words had brought to the surface a feeling no-one else would have dared to give voice to.
“We should go up there,” Rivara said.
“To do what?” Maini said. “Either Palmiro comes back under his own steam or he stays in the woods.”
“Maybe he’s found somewhere to spend the night,” Ghidini suggested. “In one of those huts on Montelupo, or in one of the shelters for drying out chestnuts.”
“Those places are full of Albanians,” Rivara said.
“That’s nonsense,” Maini said sharply.
“They must be. The huts are always full of cans and bottles, and every so often someone builds a fire.”
“Well, Palmiro won’t have gone out without his double-barrelled gun,” Ghidini said.
“Just as well,” Rivara said. “There are so many strange individuals on the mountains nowadays, and who knows what they’re up to.”
Soneri looked up towards Montelupo, but he could see nothing, not even the outline of the great mountain that loomed over the village. At that moment another car pulled up and the mayor, instantly recognisable, got out. He had a deeply worried expression.
“Well then?” Rivara said.
The mayor stopped. “Nothing, there’s no sign of him.”
Once again the man in the wheelchair started shouting they should take him with them, but once again no-one paid him any heed.
“Ulisse hasn’t found anything?”
“Montelupo is very big,” the mayor said, removing his hat for a moment to straighten his hair. He was sweating in spite of the cold.
“And what about that rifle shot…” Ghidini said.
The mayor turned towards him with a venomous look. “I know nothing about it, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“They heard it before it got dark, and by that time Palmiro…”
The sentence was, as ever, left hanging. The mayor glared again at Rivara with irritation, but then his expression softened, and he spoke in a more measured tone: “It could be anything, if that’s what you mean.”
“They heard it as far away as Gambetta, over towards Croce,” Maini informed him.
“It seems somebody is deliberately putting rumours about,” the mayor said.
“But why ignore the possibility?”
The mayor’s brusque shake of the head was an invitation to Maini to let the subject drop. He turned to Soneri, who had been taking it all in.
“Maybe you could help us,” he said finally.
“The carabinieri are already involved. Once you’re outside the city boundaries, it’s all their territory,” the commissario said.
The mayor looked deeply discouraged. “This is a very strange case and the maresciallo…” but he could not finish that sentence either.
“What does Crisafulli know about anything?” Ghidini sneered, putting into words what was in the mayor’s mind. “They should send a senior officer.”
“If it’s a really serious case, they’ll send someone,” Soneri said.
The mayor turned back to him, but his expression was still downcast. He was uncertain what do to and he was looking for support. Silence fell once more. All the while, the mist was rubbing against the houses, a different mist from the mist in the cities: more swift-moving, rougher, more dense
“When all’s said and done, nothing has actually happened,” the commissario said. “What do you want me to get involved in? One man who hasn’t come home, maybe because he had a quarrel with his wife? Another who got lost in the mountains, probably while hunting wild boar, illegally?”
“Could be,” Ghidini said.
“Or is there something more to it?” Soneri said.
Silence again, the unsaid hanging constantly over their conversation.
“Nobody understands a thing,” Maini said.
The mayor, however, seemed to absorb what was being said, and assumed an official pose, as though he were about to make a speech. “The commissario is quite right. After all, nothing has actually happened yet.”
No-one was sure if the word had slipped out or if the mayor had said it on purpose. That “yet” seemed to have been uttered expressly to make the tension grow. And indeed it did grow, causing Soneri to lose patience.
“Speak clearly. If you know something more, tell us,” he snapped.
The mayor looked at the group one by one, as though to give the impression that he could not speak freely in public. He shied away from saying whatever was on his mind. “Perhaps we’re getting needlessly worked up,” he said, turning away.
For a few moments a kind of electric charge hung in the air, until the car of the municipal police drew up on the piazza and Delrio got out. “We’re getting nowhere,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned sideways on his car and lit a cigarette.
“You’d be as well calling it off. At this hour, what’s done is done,” Ghidini said.
The policeman gave a shrug. “We have a duty to do all we can, assuming he’s still alive.”
“But surely you’d hear him shouting,” Rivara said.
“If he has any voice left.”
“Did any of you hear a shot from the direction of Gambetta?” It was Ghidini who spoke.
“No, not a shot. But something else,” Delrio said.
“Great big animals,” sniggered Rivara.
“Who knows? It’s hard to make out.” Delrio was being deliberately ambiguous.
“Maybe a two-legged animal.” Rivara refused to let the subject drop.
“In this mist… It must have been a wild boar,” Delrio said.
“Let’s just pretend it was a couple of boar. No reason to be afraid of them,” Rivara said, in an attempt to be ironic.
“Can Ulisse not help you?” Maini said.
“He’s checking the paths lower down the hill, but he’s moaning about having the carabinieri at his back. He says they are more trouble than the mist.”
The policeman’s radio crackled, and he put it to his ear. They were asking him to keep the ambulance in a state of readiness for dispatch to the reservoir. At the far side of the piazza, a light could just be made out at the window of the office where the mayor was waiting for developments. The four youths who had arrived a short time before made off again, the headlights of the car cutting twin circular openings in the darkness.
“He’ll be shaking in his boots,” Ghidini said, pointing to the one lighted window.
He received only grunts in response, but it was clear they had all understood and were in agreement. Soneri looked quizzical, but Ghidini and Rivara only smiled.
“Why should he be shaking?”
“If Rodolfi goes bust, the mayor’s days are numbered. Here everything is linked to the pig-farming business, and even politicians come out smelling of pork and salame,” Maini explained.
Ghidini raised his right hand, rubbing his thumb against his index and middle finger, the universal sign for money and wealth, a gesture which was at once eloquent and ambiguous. Soneri, innocent of professional involvement, was happy to remain a bystander. The now-customary silent pause followed, and just when it seemed that someone was about to launch into a speech, the first fireworks went off. Everyone turned towards the houses huddled around the church and peered into the mist as it took on different colours moment by moment. The explosions came slightly later, delayed like peals of thunder.
“Do you think that’s such a good idea?” Maini said, referring to the fireworks.
“The mayor has decided it might help him get his bearings if he’s lost,” Delrio said.
“Assuming, of course, that Palmiro can see them,” Ghidini said.
“Even if he can’t see them, at least he’ll hear them,” Delrio said, staring at the flashes which appeared as opaque as coloured ice in a granita.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Rivara said. “Sounds can be deceptive in these mountains, and can produce the very opposite effect from what you would expect.”
“Palmiro knows what he’s doing, and anyway he’ll see the lights,” Delrio said, waving his hand in the air as a Roman candle was set off, its colours floating in the milky air.
“It’s like being back at war, when Pippo and his reconnaissance plane circled the skies,” Ghidini said.
Just then a sequence of bangs, similar to a burst of machine gun fire, rang out, followed by a loud report, like a deep cough issuing from enormous, tubercular lungs.
“We’d got used to the occasional gunshot…” Rivara said.
Each man’s expression was grim and frowning but indecipherable. The bar owner, shivering in the damp air, broke up the meeting by suggesting they repair inside. They trooped in silence into the brightness, and still no-one spoke. Only a few stragglers and a couple of stray dogs were left on the piazza, but the solitary light in the Comune remained switched on while the last flashes from the fireworks died away, falling into an abyss of dampness. When the church bell struck eight, Soneri realised it was time for dinner, but just then his mobile rang. He went outside to reply, aware of the watchful eyes of the others gazing at him, as though he were a priest celebrating Mass.
“Is the mist as bad as ever?” Angela asked.
“In more senses than one.”
“I deduce from that reply that the Rodolfi affair is beginning to intrigue you.”
“There’s more than one Rodolfi affair now. The father has gone missing as well.”
“Palmiro?”
“How do you know his name?”
“Who doesn’t know him? You’re forgetting that I’m a lawyer. It was he who created the company.”
“You think I didn’t know that?”
“Well then, you must know that he can eat fire, he’s as strong as a bull and afraid of nothing.”
“I know, I know.” The commissario cut her off sharply. “Anyway, right now he must be afraid of the dark and the cold, because he’s lost somewhere on Montelupo.”
“What is Montelupo?”
“It’s the mountain facing the village. It’s no place for day trippers, beautiful as it is in its own way. It’s got a sinister feel because of all the legends associated with it.”
“They’re overdoing their disappearing act, these Rodolfis,” Angela said.
“It’s going to be a difficult business finding him. In this fog, either he makes his own way back or he stays up there for good.”
“If you go climbing tomorrow, instead of finding mushrooms, maybe you’ll find the old man.”
“If this mist doesn’t lift, I might get lost myself.”
“No, you’re like a cat. You always find your way home.”
“I keep seeing myself as a boy, when I used to go searching for mushrooms with my father.”
“If you go on like that, you’ll only get depressed.”
“He would teach me the names of the trees, but he wasn’t given time enough to teach me all of them.”
“Possibly Palmiro won’t manage to teach his son all the tricks of the trade either.”
“He might still turn up, but there’s a really bad feeling abroad in this village.”
“They’re afraid the whole pack of cards will collapse. Anyway, you have work to do, Commissario.”
“Yes, tomorrow, on Montelupo, among the beech trees,” Soneri said.
When he went back into the bar, he was struck by the silence. All that could be heard was the plaintive tinkle of the videogame machine and the smack of billiard balls as two boys moved round the table.
“Are we going to have to wait up all night?” Maini asked the commissario.
“There’s nothing we can do. We’d be better off going to bed,” Ghidini said.
Rivara offered them all a drink, and they lined up at the bar like a detachment of soldiers, until their attention was diverted by the crackle of Delrio’s radio.
“The ambulance? It’s already here in the piazza. The doctor? Of course he’s here. The one on stand-by duty.” The radio crackled once more. “Yes, we’re on full alert… You heard a voice?… Ah, you’re not sure?… Well, we’re ready in any case.”
“They say they think they heard a voice, but it might have been the cry of a wild beast,” Delrio advised his companions.
“There are some that sound almost human,” Rivara said.
“Such as cats on heat,” Ghidini added.
“You can never be sure of anything,” the commissario said.
“It’s not like being in the city. Sometimes these mountains seem to have been put there just to confuse people,” Maini said.
“It’s got nothing to do with the mountains, for God’s sake,” Soneri said.
“It could have been Palmiro calling for his dog. He can’t have known it had long ago made its way home,” Maini said.
“He was as fond of that dog as he was of his son,” Volpi said.
“And the dog was more faithful,” Ghidini said.
Soneri grew ever more uncomfortable listening to the conversation, laden as it was with allusions which escaped him. It was clear that there were layers of hidden meanings in the talk, confirmed by nods and little grins and winks. It was like a mime show put on for him, or like listening to a foreign language and it made him aware of a growing distance between himself and the people here with whom he would have liked to re-establish a fraternal cameraderie. He had deluded himself that he could easily re-enter the community, but now he felt as isolated as he felt in the questura, and as perhaps he always was.
He noticed that the conversation had stopped and that Maini and the others were staring at him. The same silence as before fell over the group. The waiting became more and more oppressive. He lit a cigar, more to mask his embarrassment than from any genuine wish to smoke. That intolerable silence was broken by the sound of a car screeching to a halt in the piazza. The youths who had been there a short time previously came running into the bar.
“Palmiro is home,” the driver announced.
The tension evaporated in an instant. Rivara stepped forward. “Who found him?”
“No-one. He made it on his own. He bumped into the carabinieri at the reservoir and asked them if they were looking for him. Apparently, he didn’t even want them to give him a lift back.”
“Palmiro’s made of iron!” Volpi said.
“They’ve made us waste all this time for nothing,” Delrio grumbled. He picked up his radio-phone and bellowed into it, “OK?… It’s all over?… Can we go now?”
He stood there listening for some time, while the others spoke in whispers so as not to disturb him. When he shut down the connection, he found all eyes trained on him.
“The fireworks did the trick. He says he saw them and was able to get his bearings, but he claims he would’ve found the road even without them.”
“He must be nearly dead with exhaustion.”
“I suppose so, but it’s pitch black up there and they’ve only just found him.”
“Did he have his rifle?”
“No, he was unarmed.”
“Have they asked him how come he got lost?”
Delrio stretched out his arms. “His story is that he wanted to go as far as the mountain pass to see if there were any mushrooms there, but the mist came down without warning.”
“And that was all he had to say?” Volpi sounded sceptical.
“He asked a couple of times about his dog, because it seems they were separated and he kept calling him.”
“So that was the voice they heard.”
“Sounds that way.”
“The dog’s getting old. He doesn’t see too well now and doesn’t like walking long distances,” Ghidini said.
“So his chief anxiety was his dog,” Delrio said.
“That’s all he’s got left,” Rivara said.
One of the young men who had arrived in the car went over to the bar, placed both elbows on it and leaned over towards the barman. “Why do you think a lorry would be stopped on the main road at this time of night?” He spoke loudly enough to ensure that everyone could hear him.
“What lorry?” Rivara said.
“A refrigerator lorry with a foreign number plate. The driver seemed to have lost his bearings in the mist, and asked us for directions to the salame factory.”
“He must have been picking up a load but was running late.”
“The driver wasn’t on his own. There were three of them, and we watched them go up to the factory.”
“All three of them?” Rivara said.
The boy nodded, with the faintest of conspiratorial smiles. “If you want my opinion, they were planning to pick up a delivery right away.”
“They must be in a great hurry,” Ghidini sniggered.
“They certainly were. And why should that be?” the boy wondered aloud.
Nobody dared to utter a guess, and once more a silence fell. The young man said goodbye to the group and opened the door to go out, but he was stopped in his tracks by the sound of gunfire. Everyone followed him out onto the street.
“Was that from Greppo?” Delrio said.
“Couldn’t tell. Either Greppo or Campogrande,” Maini said.
“This is happening too often,” Rivara said.
“At least we can all agree on that,” Soneri said.
The mayor emerged from the Comune and strode determinedly across the piazza. Delrio went to meet him. The two men stood talking in the mist, then the policeman turned back and went into the bar.
“The mayor has told the carabinieri to go and see what they can find. This time the whole village heard the shot.”
“It’s high time they showed some interest,” Volpi said.
“For all the difference it’ll make! By the time they get there, whoever fired the shot will be long gone,” Ghidini said, shaking his head.
“In this mist, you could lose an army,” Rivara said.
“You never know. They’re already in the right area,” Delrio said.
Some twenty minutes later, the piazza was lit up by a flashing blue light which cut through the mist which was now even more treacherous. The carabiniere truck crossed the piazza and pulled up outside the Comune.
“Is that them on top of the job now?” Maini said.
No-one made a reply. Soneri was thinking only of the lorry parked on the main road and of the three people inside. He was keen to go and see whether or not it had gone to the salame factory, but once again his attention was diverted by Delrio’s radio. He drew close to overhear what was being said.
“It was Palmiro who fired the shot,” Delrio eventually relayed the news.
“Who at?” Rivara said.
“At the dog,” Delrio said, but obviously he himself did not attribute much importance to it. There was another thought niggling him.
“So he’s gone clean off his head,” Ghidini said. “He has always been extremely fond of that dog.”
“He told the carabinieri it was too old and the exertion had weakened its heart.”
“Ever the unscrupulous bastard,” Rivara said.
“If he was old… He would not have wanted him to suffer,” Delrio suggested.
“I think there’s more to it than that. He might have felt let down, if the dog had run off home leaving him on his own on Montelupo. There aren’t that many people he could count on,” Maini said.
“There wasn’t much anybody could do. By the time the carabinieri got there, he was already burying it,” Delrio said.
“All this trouble for nothing. Still, in the end everyone’s alive and back home safely — apart from Palmiro’s dog,” Rivara said.
“What about the lorry at the factory?” said one of the young men who had stayed on after his companions had left.
The only response was a collective shrug.