Even before daybreak, the skies seemed to have shed their earlier heaviness. Soneri left the road between the houses, keeping Montelupo, still cloaked in a thick mist, directly ahead of him. He walked past the shuttered houses in Groppo and turned off to start his climb towards Croce, hoping to find some ceps in the more shaded areas which would be still damp with the dew falling from leafless trees. He came in sight of the chapel of the Madonna del Rosario, a place of pilgrimage in the month of May, and proceeded through the tangled vegetation which flourished in the clay of the lower valley and gave off the pungent scents of the wild. Before moving into the hornbeam woods, he stopped to get his breath. The last houses were now out of sight, and within the woods he felt himself both hunter and prey. When he looked up, he could make out wisps of mist clinging so closely to the peaks as to resemble smoke from a fire. Above the path, a sandstone balcony had crumbled under the pressure of the mountain streams and had slipped down into the valley, creating a deep scar in the woods.
If he had had sufficient strength in his legs, he would have already been at the mountain huts and perhaps even at the bar on Lake Santo which was not far from the peak, but first he wanted to reconnoitre the hillside and the watery gullies where the weak winter sun could not penetrate. He gripped the trunks of trees as he clambered down, trying to recall movements he had learned so many years earlier in outings with his father. The third time he fell, he saw them: a colony of “trumpets of death” seeming to intone a miserere in the shadow of an enormous oak.
Sante’s words rang in his ears, but he refused to be put off. His principal concern was finding someone able to cook those mushrooms the right way. He left them where they were when he heard the sound of something crashing about in the undergrowth close at hand, knocking into the lower branches of the trees. He decided it must be a wild boar, sniffing the air and detecting his presence. Soneri stood stock still, listening, and then, straight in front of him, he saw a strip of land which gave the appearance of having been ploughed. He swept aside the leaves and uncovered a second family of “trumpets of death”, crushed into tiny pieces by blows from a club. Evidently there was someone who did believe they were omens of ill fortune. Shortly afterwards, he heard the brushwood breaking as the boar made off. Once he was sure the beast was well away, he returned to the path, from which it was now impossible to see down into the valley.
A thick blanket of mist came down, turning the countryside grey. The huts could not be far off, but he was fearful of getting lost, and afraid too of those shots fired at some target, whatever that target was meant to be. At last he saw the outlines of the stone buildings, sheds for climbing equipment and summer dwellings in the mountaineering season when the passes echoed with the many languages used in that borderland between sea and plain. Inside one of them rubbish was scattered all around — empty cans, broken bottles, plastic bags and the remains of tinned food — but the ash in the fireplace and the crumpled bedclothes on the wooden bench were evidence of some recent presence.
When he stepped back outside, the mist had lifted and this made him resolve to carry on. It was eleven o’clock, so he would have time to reach Lake Santo, see if the bar was open and make his way back, even if this meant another day without a single cep being picked. He quickened his pace along the mule path, coming out into the pure air of the clearing with the bar, high up the mountainside, beyond the point where the wood gave way to moss and stone. It was cold, and it occurred to Soneri that the first snows of winter could not be far off. This thought and the sight of the remote bar made him think of his father with that lurching gait of his, as if he were pushing himself forward by putting pressure on one leg, a habit which spoke of experience gained over a lifetime of grim, debilitating hardship.
Even in the dying days of autumn, the bar was open. Baldi, the owner, was still behind the counter, not yet ready to close up for the season. He was short and sturdy, with white hair and moustache.
The two men exchanged greetings, before Soneri said: “Are there still many hunters around?”
“The season’s nearly over.”
“What about the roe deer?”
“Not much doing. They’ve got cleverer and go down the valley into the reserve.”
“And the trout in the lake?”
“They’re not biting any more. You would swear they feel winter coming on.”
“Same as us. When do you shut up shop?”
“Any day now. Or at the first snow fall — which is more or less the same thing.”
“You think the snow’s nearly here?”
“Feel the air. There’s frost every morning now.”
Two shabbily dressed men came into the bar. One of them, in a heavy foreign accent, asked for two coffees and two grappas.
“Nowadays we have to put up with all kinds of foreign wildlife,” Baldi said contemptuously, but speaking in dialect so that he would not be understood.
“What do they do here?” Soneri said. “I saw that other people had been down at the huts.”
“Everything and nothing. They come from Liguria and Tuscany with all kinds of stuff. I’ve even seen some of them struggling up here with suitcases.”
“Are the carabinieri aware of this?”
Baldi shrugged his shoulders. “Occasionally they come to make checks, but by the time they get here, everything seems to be in order. These people bury whatever they have in the woods.”
“Who do they sell it to?”
“Well, you hear so many stories. They pass it on to other people who take it to the cities. Some of it’s given to the kids in the village. They’re at it now too.”
“Drugs? Around here?”
Baldi gave another shrug. “Everything’s changed. They get bored. The winters are long, there’s nothing to occupy their minds, so they look for something different. If they’d ever known hunger, like this lot…” Baldi said, indicating the strangers with his chin.
Soneri’s thoughts went back to his father, setting off for work with three pears and a crust of bread for his midday meal. He changed the subject. “Do you see the Woodsman from time to time?”
“He hasn’t been here for a while. The woods are his world. Here, it’s too open for his tastes. When you reach a certain altitude, the mountain’s no good for keeping secrets. You can see everything that’s going on, even if there are very few people watching.”
Soneri took his time to decipher those words, the time needed to light a cigar, but he still failed fully to grasp their sense.
“What does he do that anyone might watch?” the commissario said, instinctively, without thinking.
Another shrug. “Nothing, but he wouldn’t find out here what he finds in the woods.”
“You mean the wild boar?”
Smiling, Baldi looked at him and murmured, “Yes, the boar.”
Soneri understood there was more to it, but he chose not to ask. It would have been in vain, but he was left with the disagreeable feeling of having been outwitted.
“Nobody knows Montelupo like him. He reckons he owns it. Who’s going to get the better of him? Delrio? Volpi?” Baldi spoke with a sneer in his voice.
The two foreigners got up, paid their bill and were gone. The commissario had watched as the one who had done the ordering took out a thick wodge of notes and peeled one off, as the fixers and middlemen who had once been active in those parts used to do.
“There’s no telling who’s coming and going on these mountains nowadays,” Baldi said.
“Are you sometimes afraid?”
“I’ve got my gun under the counter, and my aim’s as good as ever.”
A light haze was hanging over the lake, like steam from a pot coming to the boil.
“Have you heard what’s going on in the village?” Soneri said.
“Palmiro? It’s terrible. I would never have thought of him hanging himself. Did you know that he and the Woodsman were good friends?”
The commissario shook his head. “I knew he was a friend of Capelli’s, and he too ended up with his head in a noose.”
“The only one of the trio left is the Woodsman. They were all from the Madoni hills, raised in the poorest families in the valleys. They knew what it was to go hungry, and they were all desperate to get out.”
“Do you think the Woodsman too could kill himself?”
“Not unless he’s cornered. When his time comes, he’ll lie down in the woods and the worms will get to him before the dogs do. He’s happy in his world and he’s never cared for money.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Somewhere on Montelupo. He only goes home when it’s dark, that is, unless he decides to rough it in some hideout for the night. Your only hope is that you’ll bump into him on some path. If he’s in the mood, he’ll talk to you, and if not he’ll slip away the moment he catches sight of you.”
“How does he live?”
“He’s never short of meat,” Baldi chuckled. “Apart from that, he sells firewood and charcoal. He’s the only one left who can make it.”
“Did he stay in touch with Palmiro?”
“I don’t think there was much contact. They would run into each other on Montelupo, but they had grown apart. Money creates boundaries that aren’t easy to cross. It’s true that once they were inseparable, but then Palmiro married Evelina. The Woodsman and Capelli both had their eye on her, so the friendship between them was bust.”
“The same old story, women…”
“There’s more to it than that. Palmiro’s money was what made up her mind. Not that Capelli was short of cash, but he spent it on whores.”
“Was this Evelina really so beautiful?”
“They were all after her in those days, and the Woodsman completely lost his head over her. They say she was quite keen on him too. He had more of a spark to him than the other two, but then her parents persuaded her to make the most of her good looks. Was she really going to go off and live in a den in the woods when she had the chance of marrying a man who could show her the good life?”
“But you are sure she was more fond of the other one?”
Baldi gave a guffaw and rose to his feet. He produced a bottle of Malvasia and two glasses. “When they’re pitched against self-interest, fine feelings are as much good as a two in a card game. A pretty face has its value, doesn’t it? Why undersell it?”
This time it was the commissario’s turn to shrug. “Money can’t make up for an unhappy life.”
“You get used to anything,” snorted Baldi. “Humans are the most adaptable of all animals.”
“Anyway, the Woodsman took it badly.”
“Very badly. He believed she wanted him. And also because for the first time the companion with whom he had shared so much had stolen something important from him. But what really got him was the realisation that the two of them were different. Palmiro’s thoughts were elsewhere, on his business in the big city, on buying pigs and selling prosciutto. The Woodsman, on the other hand, imagined that the bond formed when they both had nothing would never be broken. The result was that he never really grew out of adolescence, while Palmiro became harder and more dour as he focused more and more on his own interests.”
“It’s always that way with people who have feelings and people who only care about things,” Soneri said, his eyes still fixed on the lake and its smooth surface with its light veil of mist.
Baldi gave another laugh. “I’ve never been persuaded by all this talk of feelings. The Woodsman was on heat for Evelina, and she had the same effect on the other two. That’s all there was to it. Nobody in this world ever wants to call things by their proper name, so we have all this drivel about love and rubbish of that sort.”
Soneri reflected for a moment, and was disconcerted to find himself largely in agreement. When he thought of Angela, he could not conceal from himself the physical desire he felt for her, but he had never really understood what love was and where it differed from simple liking. There was no more ambiguous or trite word in the language.
He sat lost in thought for a few moments, while Baldi poured them what was left of the Malvasia and put away the bottle before preparing to close. The commissario looked round the room. The clock on the wall told him it was already one o’clock.
“It’s late. I’ll need to head back down before it’s too dark or too misty to see.”
“You’ve got until four before the dark draws in. With the mist, it’s a more of a gamble.”
At the door, Soneri turned round. “Do you hear the gunshots up here too?”
“Nearly every day. Always from half way down the slope.”
“Do you think it’s poachers, or could it be the Woodsman?”
“Who knows? The Woodsman sets traps and the poachers won’t go out in this mist.”
“So?”
Baldi’s face was expressionless as he gave yet another shrug. “Come back again,” he shouted after him. “I’ll be open for another week at least.”
Soneri struggled to keep his footing. He slipped and slithered downhill towards the huts. The soft ground and the layer of fallen leaves muffled the sound of his footsteps. He glanced inside as he passed, but there was no sign of a living soul, so he pressed on almost at a run in the direction of the valley until he came to the path over the short grass of the upper mountain. He saw the woods a little way off, and when he entered them, a bank of mist made it almost impossible to see. Everything was a blur, and fear gripped him by the throat. He had no choice but to slow down. He remembered his father’s advice: always keep moving downwards, because every descent leads to a valley where there will be either a stream or a riverbed; follow the water and you are bound to find a house. After walking for about half an hour, the mist suddenly lifted. He had strayed off the path but not by much, so he had no problem finding his way again. He made the best of the remaining daylight, even if it was fading as the afternoon wore on.
He was walking through a copse of chestnut trees when the mist came down again. The drops from the trees were like rainfall, and he could feel the moisture on his moustache. As he was pulling up the hood of his duffel coat, he heard an explosion on the far side of a ridge from which one rock stuck out like a wisdom tooth. The drifting mist parted a little and the commissario quickened his pace to get away from what looked to him like a firing range. He saw a light shining higher up and that increased his alarm. He crouched down, looking in the direction from which the shot seemed to have come, but all he saw were puffs of mist rising, tossing about in the breeze and rubbing against the tops of the trees. He set off again at a run and arrived in Groppo bathed in sweat. When he reached the road, he was exhausted and famished. Back at the Scoiattolo, he went straight up to his room.
He found Sante when he came down. He deduced from his expression that he did not have good news to impart. “A new carabiniere has arrived,” he said.
“Officer or lower ranks?”
“A captain.”
Soneri digested this news for a moment. “Does this mean there have been developments?”
“I know nothing, but if they’ve sent someone important, it means there must have been some big developments. And I have no reason to believe that’s good news for us.”
“Maybe Crisafulli wants to wash his hands of the whole business.”
“Could be,” Sante said, but he sounded doubtful. “In addition to all that, another two lorries were here last night and loaded up without the help of local labour.”
“Who saw them?”
“I did. My head was buzzing with all those things I was telling you about, so I couldn’t sleep. I went up to the loft and looked out of the window. I saw them arrive, load up and set off again. Six men in total. All over and done with in less than three hours.”
“The ones who normally work there know nothing about what’s going on?”
“They say it’s business as usual. No change.”
Soneri shook his head, indicating his bewilderment.
Sante changed the subject. “No mushrooms, then?”
“The only ones I found were the ones you don’t like.”
Sante furrowed his brow. “More ‘trumpets of death’? They’re the only ones anyone’s found this year.”
“You all detest them, but there’s at least one person who won’t leave them for the boar.”
“They’re a harbinger of bad times. And in fact…” Sante’s voice trailed off as he raised his hand in an eloquent gesture.
Ida called him into the kitchen. The commissario stood where he was for a few moments, savouring the smells coming from the pots, then went out into the mist with its very different scents, the scents of the woods. He walked towards the piazza where he saw Maini in conversation with Volpi and Delrio at the window of the Rivara bar. Delrio was in uniform and gesticulating wildly. Soneri walked straight on in the hope of finding old Magnani in the Olmo. He could not get the story of the Woodsman out of his head, but before he got there, he ran into Crisafulli in the colonnade outside the Comune.
“Just the man I was looking for,” the maresciallo began. “I went to the Scoiattolo, but you weren’t there.”
The commissario now understood how Sante had heard about the arrival of the captain. “I was foraging for mushrooms, and doing my best to avoid gunfire,” he said, with a smile on his lips.
Crisafulli knew at once what he was referring to, and was obviously troubled by it. “We heard it too. At 3.24.”
“Do you record them all?”
“We certainly do. We have a file. So far, we’ve counted sixteen, but there might be more. Whoever does the shooting always picks up the shells. We haven’t yet managed to find even one. All we have are some marks on tree trunks made by large-calibre rounds from a hunting rifle.”
“You’ve obviously looked into it deeply. These bullets are not toys. They’re meant to kill.”
“They’re devastating. You should see the poor beasts when they’ve been hit by one. However, that’s not the real news.”
“I hear they’ve sent a captain.”
The maresciallo looked at Soneri in surprise. “Who told you?”
“You told me to be alert, Maresciallo, did you not? I am only obeying orders.”
“After reading my report, they’ve sent along a Captain Bovolenta.” Crisafulli’s tone made it clear that he had no wish to pursue the subject.
“Crisafulli, you are the very first investigator I have met who doesn’t give a damn about his career. This might turn into a really big case, so you should have played it close to your chest. Do you have any idea of how this could all blow up? You might have ended up on television.”
“I’ve got three children, Commissario. This is a great place to bring them up. They’re happy here, and I’m always worried they might transfer me to some big city.”
“You’re right. Who gives a damn?” Soneri said, beginning to like the man. After all, they saw things the same way.
“There’s another reason why the captain is here,” Crisafulli said.
“I guessed as much. I know the carabinieri, and they would never send in an officer unless there was something more to it than an unspecific fear.”
“It seems Paride Rodolfi can’t pay back a loan.”
“To the banks?”
“The banks in their turn have passed the loan on to their clients. Believe me, I’m out of my depth here. Bonds, defaults… it’s Arabic to me. I can hardly understand my own current account.”
“Nor can I. It’s one of the most complicated things on earth,” Soneri conceded. “Does this mean they’re close to bankruptcy?”
“No, the family lawyer put out a statement saying that they will be able to pay. He says it’s only a cash-flow problem and he gave an assurance that the money is there.”
“What’s the name of the Rodolfis’ lawyer?”
“Mario Gennaro.”
“Is there not a managing director, or a chairman?”
“The chairman was Palmiro Rodolfi, and the managing director is his son, Paride.”
“And where is he?”
“To be honest, I have no idea. His wife is still saying he’s in their house in the woods, but I think she’s been lying to us from the outset. Either that, or she doesn’t know herself, considering her stormy relations with her husband. Apparently they went weeks without seeing each other. Their lawyer thinks he might have gone somewhere to resolve this question of the bonds. He believes the company has money in a foreign account in one of those countries where you don’t pay taxes, and he has gone to sort things out.”
“Is it possible that no-one knows anything? Have you spoken to the people who work for the Rodolfis?”
“They say that everything’s above board, and they do seem extraordinarily calm. I had a quiet word with the managers of the branches of the banks in the village and they all insist that the Rodolfi company is in solid shape and that if it gets more funds, it will be in a position to start expanding again. As recently as yesterday, they were selling bonds issued by the company and they were going like hot cakes.”
“It’s either one hell of a mess or else it’s a bubble,” Soneri said.
“At the moment, it’s a bubble, but I’m going to leave it to Bovolenta. That way, if it bursts, he’ll scuttle off, keeping his head down. If it’s a mess, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces,” Crisafulli said, winking at Soneri.
The commissario had believed he was dealing with one of life’s innocents, but now found himself facing a Neapolitan on the make.
The fragrance of the atmosphere in the Olmo was a pleasing mixture of the wood fire and the unfiltered cigarettes Magnani was smoking as he dozed behind the bar. This time there were more people there, some leaning their backs against the wall as if they were in the piazza in summer. When the commissario came in they all fell silent, like schoolboys at the appearance of the teacher. Their expressions were a combination of respect and distrust and that made him feel even more of an outsider in the village where everything made him think of his parents and his childhood. He looked around at faces he recognised, but on which time had laid a crust of suspicious hostility.
“No shortage of customers this evening,” Soneri greeted Magnani.
“In these parts, there’s no hospice so the Olmo takes its place,” Magnani sniggered, with a touch of bitterness. “As for me, I’m half-way between the two.”
The commissario waved away this solemn line of thought.
“I’m not much younger than your poor father,” Magnani said.
The phrase struck Soneri. He saw himself once again as a boy in a bar full of young people, holding in his hand the chocolate ice-cream his father would buy him on Saturdays. He bent almost double, as though he had just been punched, and anxiety brought on a pain in his chest like an ache from a bruise, leaving him struggling for a moment to catch his breath.
Magnani noticed this and remained silent, waiting for it to pass. In the room, all the others had gone back to chatting or playing cards.
“This is the first day there’s been no talk of the Rodolfis,” Magnani said, to take Soneri’s mind off his sorrows.
“Has the son been seen?”
“His wife has. She was at the pharmacy and it seems she said Paride would be back in a matter of days. He had to leave suddenly to attend to some urgent business, but he would rather have spent a few days on his own after his father’s death.”
“He’s got problems repaying some loan or other,” the commissario said.
“Huh, that’s a risk we all run…” but he stopped short as another thought darkened his mood. “Last night, three youngsters were killed in a village near here.”
“What happened?”
“Car accident. They were out their minds with drugs. Is there a more stupid way to die?”
“They had their whole lives ahead of them…” the commissario said, in a fatalistic tone. “And then they take some of that stuff…”
“So I’ve heard. I blame the immigrants who’ve brought us nothing but trouble.”
“They can only sell what other people want to buy. I didn’t know that sort of thing went on here.”
“They’ve got everything they could want, but they get bored. The television does their heads in. They’ve never walked as far as the woods in their lives, and they won’t even think about taking up their parents’ businesses. As soon as they can, they’re out of here, and the only ones that stay are the idiots, and not all of them either.”
He broke off to take some wine from a glass he kept under the bar, but he had worked himself into a temper. “Montelupo’s going to the dogs. There’s no-one left who’s willing to clear the ditches, to attend to the drains or look after the woodland. Instead of going to gather firewood, they switch on the gas. Do you know what it is? They have too much money and they spend it on things they could get for free, whereas the rest of us,” he continued, sweeping his hand around the room, “we’re not capable of anything any more, and we spend day after day yapping about nothing. That’s our curse, and we’ll die of it.”
“There’s still the Woodsman roaming about on Montelupo.”
Magnani’s face lit up. “He’s the only one who’s got any spunk, but he’s surrounded by that rabble of foreigners. They should all be sent packing.”
“I don’t believe they ever meet up. Neither side is much good at conversation.”
“They might not meet up, but he doesn’t like them just the same. The woods are for working in. They’re not a hiding place.”
“I go searching for mushrooms. That’s not work.”
“Oh yes it is. There are men who earn their living looking for truffles, although this year…” Magnani said, shaking his head.
“All you can find this year are ‘trumpets of death’,” the commissario said.
“Nobody here eats them. They bring bad luck.”
“Talking about deaths,” Soneri said, changing the subject, “did anybody ever find anything about that coffin that turned up on San Martino?”
“No, nobody came forward to claim it. After a while the priest said it was cluttering up the chapel and that it had to be moved somewhere.”
“So what became of it?”
Magnani appeared flustered and unsure of himself. He started to say something but then stopped. Faced with the commissario’s calm but unflinching look, he muttered, “They put Palmiro in it.”
It occurred to Soneri that there might be something more than coincidence at work here, but Magnani started up again: “They took full advantage… a beautiful casket, glossy chestnut wood… it was the daughter-in-law who gave permission, but it seems Paride was in agreement as well.”
The commissario shook his head. The whole story seemed grotesque. Something ugly was unravelling, beneath the appearance of normality.
“It seemed a funny business to me too,” Magnani said, guessing at what was in Soneri’s mind. “But if you think about it, there’s nothing really out of place. There’s a coffin without an owner and nowhere to put it. There’s a corpse which has to be buried. Why not put the two together? There are some people in this village who bought their coffins ten years ago, and in the meantime they use them to store wheat.”
“It all seemed so random,” Soneri said. “What’s so strange is that the facts all line up, like the pearls on a necklace, and in real life that never happens.”
Magnani shrugged. “Come on… when the devil gets to work…”
Soneri shook his head once more to indicate his resolute scepticism, then, as with Baldi, he asked Magnani, “Where can I find the Woodsman?”
Magnani waved his hands about. “Where would you find a buzzard? The skies might be bigger than Montelupo, but it is easier to hide on Montelupo.”
“There must be one or two places where he is more likely to turn up?”
“I’d try the area round Lake Bicchiere, or Malpasso. Or you could try the cabins in Badignana.”
“They’re all quite a way off.”
“He tramps around, and he has his own dens, where occasionally he spends the night. He’s like a wild animal. He’s not afraid of anything. His father once punched some highranking Fascist official to shut him up.”
Magnani spoke of the incident with pride. Evidently the Woodsman was all he himself had never managed to be.
“What’s he like? Physically, I mean.”
“A beast, all one hundred and ten kilos of him. He could kill you with one punch. He’s as solid as a safe.”
“So it would be hard to miss him.”
“He always wears the felt hat of the Alpino regiment, with the feather.”
“Does he ever come here?”
“He leaves it to his daughter to come down to the village. He’s completely antisocial.”
“Ever since Palmiro and Capelli abandoned him. Is that right?” the commissario said, inhaling the smoke from the cigar he had lit while talking.
“Well, a great many things originate there. Before those two got rich, they were all as thick as thieves. Once the Woodsman saved Palmiro’s life, up on Lake Bicchiere. He’d fallen in because he’d failed to notice a crack in the ice, which collapsed under him. The Woodsman stretched out full length on his belly, risking going under himself, and dragged Palmiro to safety by brute force. From that time on, Palmiro made him a present of some money every year, at Christmas, on the anniversary.”
“Even recently? Seeing that things are not going too well?”
“What were a couple of coins to him? And anyway, who says things are not going so well? I’ve heard that the Rodolfis have millions and millions salted away in some fund somewhere.”
“And he could always turn to the villagers,” Soneri said.
Magnani stopped short, as though he had been stung by a wasp. “Not much hope there. You won’t get much from a village of peasants and shopkeepers, and one way or another they all work for the Rodolfis now.”
“Palmiro must have come here,” the commissario said, tentatively.
“This was his bar. He always came here until the other one opened,” Magnani said, with unmistakable resentment.
The door swung open and an old woman came in pushing a wheelchair with a man wrapped in a blanket, the one who on the night of Palmiro’s disappearance had claimed to be a friend of his. The woman manoeuvred the chair round and positioned the man next to the heater. She lifted away the blanket, folded it neatly and turned to Magnani. “No wine, mind.” She went out without another word, leaving her husband uttering curses behind her.
“Don’t get annoyed, Berto,” said one of the men in the group. “Women rule the roost the world over nowadays.”
The old man, as impassive as a block of wood, said nothing.
“She brings him here every afternoon. That way she gets rid of him for a bit. He’s off his head,” Magnani said.
“Was he really all that friendly with Palmiro?”
“He was more than a friend. He was his faithful retainer. He turned his hand to everything for him — slaughterman, cheese maker, gardener, chauffeur. It wasn’t the same with Capelli and the Woodsman. They treated Palmiro as an equal, but Berto took orders.”
Soneri’s cigar had gone out, and as he relit it he looked around the bar at all those ageing men, a company that could have included his father had he been blessed with only slightly better fortune. A deep weariness took hold of him. There were times and places where he was particularly and painfully susceptible to an awareness of the unstoppable march of time, of its inevitable ending and of the vanity of all things. He rose decisively to his feet and made for the door, meeting the glassy stare of Berto, who with difficulty raised a hand to him in greeting.
Once outside, he rang Angela. She answered in a drowsy voice. “Am I interrupting something? Are you in good company,” he said, trying to sound ironic.
“Yes, of unreadable documents. You sound as though you are trying to be funny, which leads me to think you’re not at your best. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. A mood that comes and goes.”
“Comes and goes, as regularly as a bus service.”
“Listen,” he said, changing the subject. “You know a lawyer called Gennari, don’t you?”
“We were at university together.”
“He’s the Rodolfis’ lawyer.”
“Well done, Commissario! Did you think I didn’t know? I seem to remember telling you.”
“I know. It was just to get the conversation going. The story here is that they are in a liquidity crisis, that they can’t raise the cash to pay back a loan. In other words, they’re on the brink of bankruptcy.”
“You couldn’t resist it, could you! You’ve been dragged into the investigation. So much for the dear old mushrooms.”
“No, you’ve got it all wrong. The story’s very mysterious, but very private. The only problem is that Sante, the boss of the Scoiattolo, is worried sick and has asked me to help him out.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“Palmiro asked the villagers for what they call ‘nursemaid’ money.”
“What on earth is that?”
“It’s a loan given in the way things used to be done in the old days in the villages. A few pages to jot down the transfer of cash, the interest agreed verbally, a signature and a handshake.”
“And people still do that?”
“You know what it’s like. In these parts, everybody knows everybody else, they trust each other and the Rodolfis are above all possible suspicion.”
“If you were to go about telling people that story, nobody would believe you.”
“It’s a system which has worked for a long time and nothing has ever happened. Honesty still counts up here,” Soneri said, with a touch of pride.
“Are you sure of that? Things are much the same all over the world, I hear, and we’ve learned the worst vices from each other.”
“This is a complicated story. There are some things I don’t quite get.”
“Gennari’s putting a brave face on it all, but he hasn’t got the whole picture, especially on the financial front.”
“What has he told you?”
“I haven’t had a chance to sit down with him properly, but when I simply mentioned the subject, he was hesitant and gave nothing away. Knowing him as I do, that is not a good sign.”
“So there really is a crisis.”
“Finally he admitted it. He gave me to understand that the outlook is grim, but he hasn’t got to the bottom of it all yet. He says that no-one really understands the accounts, except, perhaps, Paride Rodolfi and those closest to him.”
“Do you think the position can be saved? There’s talk here about some account that could be unfrozen.”
“I don’t know. Talking to Gennari, my sense is that the whole show is going belly up. I’m telling you this based on impressions only. You know how women have a special intuition.”
“It would be a catastrophe for the folk here. They’d be ruined and have no hope of other work.”
“If you want my opinion, that account they’re talking about simply doesn’t exist. It’s a trick to win time, to keep the creditors quiet while they search desperately for funds to paper over the cracks. It’s not the first time the Rodolfis have pulled this stunt, did you know that?”
Soneri mumbled a “no” between his teeth, but once again he felt himself overwhelmed by a strong emotion — like the one he had felt a short time before in the Olmo. The image of the Rodolfi trademark came back into his mind, an image which ever since his boyhood had been a symbol of security and solidity, but which now seemed to represent not only yesterday’s lost world but also today’s threat of destroying people with its collapse.
“Perhaps that’s why the old man was going round collecting money,” Angela said. “I don’t understand even now why he didn’t send his son. After all, it was he who caused the trouble in the first place.”
“He’s scarcely had any contact with the people in the village. He’s seldom seen around the place, and he ponces about posing as a manager. He doesn’t even speak the dialect. He’s more comfortable with English.”
“A typical social climber.”
“Palmiro, on the other hand, remained one of them. He didn’t intimidate them and they trusted him, because he drank wine and his hands were calloused. Do me a favour, try and find out when the company had its last crisis before this one.”
“Anything you say, sir. I’ll need to get my lawyer friend to unbutton.”
“He can do all the unbuttoning he likes, but make sure you remain well buttoned up.”
“Your fingers are not likely to be undoing my buttons any time soon, are they? You haven’t even asked when we’re going to see each other.”
“Mountains make you depressed, you always say.”
“If I’m there too long, but I have no intention of spending all my holidays there.”
“Then come whenever you like. I have a double bed.”
“O.K., Commissario, but don’t start treating me as if I were your assistant, Juvara.”
When he hung up, scents of minestrone were blown towards where he was standing. He glanced at his watch and decided to go back to the Scoiattolo. It was dinner time, and the streets were deserted. He walked though the lanes of the old town, but as he went, the sound of footsteps on the gravel in a garden gave him the feeling that, in the shadows of the trees, someone was following him. He spun round in time to see an imposing figure wrapped in a camel-coloured overcoat walking some thirty metres behind him. At first, he paid no heed, but he was quickly convinced that whoever it was had him in their sights. He turned into the piazza, saw the bell tower looming over him and stopped beside the parapet which overlooked the lower valley where the new village slumbered. Its little villas and cabins were laid out in neat lines and right angles as though part of a re-forestation programme. His pursuer stopped too, feigning interest in the landscape which was finally clear of mist. Soneri decided to confront him, but when he drew up close, he discovered that the person following him was a woman. She was wearing a man’s shoes, her hair was cut short, and the rest of her body was covered by the ill-fitting overcoat. She was tall, not particularly pretty but seemingly very sure of herself.
“Are you Commissario Soneri?” she asked.
He nodded, rolling in his fingers the cigar he had just taken from its box. “And who are you?”
“Gualerzi Lorenza,” she said, putting her surname first, as though answering a school roll call. “My father asked me to tell you that he’ll meet you tomorrow at Badignana because he has some things to tell you. He’s sure you’ll know the right place.”
Soneri nodded again. “And who is your father?”
“I took it for granted that everyone knew. In fact in the village they know him only by his nickname.”
The commissario, looking her squarely in the eye, began to suspect the truth. “Almost everyone has a nickname.”
“My father is known as the Woodsman. Does that mean anything to you?”
That imposing physique was a giveaway. “What does he have to say to me?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t say much even to me, but since I go to the village every day, he asked me to act as go-between.”
“Did you shadow me?”
“I came out of my work and I saw you go into the Olmo. I waited in the garden and followed you.”
“You might have come in. At least you’d have been out of the cold.”
The woman shrugged. “If you lived in the Madoni, you wouldn’t complain of the cold. Every night you’d go to bed in freezing rooms with no heating, but my father would never consider moving from there. He wouldn’t even agree to making life easier with modern conveniences. We have a cooker but that’s all.”
As he looked at her, the commissario realised how primitively dressed she was. Apart from the outsize overcoat, her shoes were almost worn through and the mouse-coloured stockings would have been more suitable for a much older woman. He guessed she had been required to conform to the customs of an earlier time and saw her as one of life’s unfortunates, an object of ridicule among her peers.
“Where do you work?”
“At the Rodolfi plant,” she replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Nearly everybody works for the Rodolfis.”
“In an office?”
“I wish! No, in the salting and curing section.”
“Does your father want to talk to me about the crisis? Is he worried about your job or about the possibility you won’t get paid?”
The woman’s face darkened and, after a few moments’ silence, she replied. “I told you I don’t know. I never know what my father wants.”
“They haven’t been paying your salaries for months now, isn’t that right?”
She shook her head in denial, but suddenly seemed to be in a hurry. “Papa will explain it all to you tomorrow. I’ve got to go now. I’m on my scooter and I’m afraid of being caught in the mists on the mountain.”
He made no effort to detain her, and she strode off, taking the long paces only someone brought up in the mountains and used to life in the woods could manage. His thoughts turned to Badignana, to the cabins, to the shepherds down from the mountains, to the cheeses eaten in the company of his often taciturn and distracted father who kept his eyes trained on the hills, gazing at the things he felt closest to. Soneri sensed in that gaze, expressive of everything and nothing, the deep relationship between those mountains and the men born in their shadows, a relationship he could never know, having never suffered sufficiently on those rocks.
As he made his way to the Scoiattolo, he felt himself once more caught up in a mystery which involved him more deeply than any official enquiry ever could have. He opened the door of the pensione, took his seat at a table to wait for Sante to serve him the minestrone which had the same smell as that from the houses which had so delighted him a short time previously. He broke his bread and mixed it in his soup, and when he had finished eating, he poured some wine into his bowl, as his father used to do.