He was in the dining room well before dawn, and shortly afterwards was out in the chill of the morning. The shadow of the mountains made mornings seem duller than evenings, and that day the moon had gone down some time ago, leaving only the feeble light of the stars. Dolly picked up his scent immediately and galloped over to him with an enthusiasm which he found touching. He was surprised to hear Sante’s voice from the doorway. “I gave her last night’s leftovers,” he said.
He went back inside to find his table set for breakfast, and Sante standing alongside it. “It’s not shaping up well,” he said, as the commissario took his seat. “Those lorries have been coming and going regularly for a couple of days now, carrying off anything they can before it’s too late.”
“The seasoned prosciutto?”
Sante nodded. “And the rest. Anything they can manage to take to pay off the debts. I’m told that includes the cars.”
“It’s an unfortunate business,” Soneri said.
“I’m not going to get my money back. Nor is anyone else. I mean those who gave him loans,” he said, in a tone which wavered between the tearful and the enraged.
“You won’t see Paride either.”
“He’s dead, is he? I thought so, ever since they put up those posters.”
“Killed up at Pratopiano.”
“Pratopiano? What was he doing there?”
“No idea. He’d been dead for some days and the body was already stinking.”
Sante stopped to reflect, then murmured, “It was bound to end up that way.” The tone in which he uttered those words implied that Paride’s death was in some way a substitute for the revenge he would never have. For the first time, Soneri grasped the depth of hatred Sante felt over the money lost, the deceit suffered and the trust betrayed.
“Don’t say anything to anyone. It’s up to the carabinieri to inform people. They’ll carry out a full investigation.”
“I saw a lot of to-ing and fro-ing yesterday, and I knew there must be something up.”
“When did you see the lorries?”
“It was late, around midnight. They finished about four.”
“You were still up at that hour?”
“How could I sleep with all that’s going on in my head? Do you have any idea what it means to lose your life’s savings?”
Soneri understood well enough, but he was lost for words. He never knew what to say when faced with life’s misfortunes. The only expressions that came to him were meaningless or banal. He let a few seconds go by then picked up the basket and handed it to Sante.
“I found a fair number of russolas and chanterelles,” he said, in an attempt to get off the subject. “Give them to Ida and see if she’d like to cook them.”
Sante emptied the basket and filled it with Soneri’s picnic lunch: salame, cheese, bread and fruit.
“You’ll have no problem finding water at Pratopiano, and it’s really good.”
Soneri said goodbye and set off into the dark with Dolly at his heels. She would occasionally disappear into the undergrowth in pursuit of some trail, but would then make a sudden reappearance. He was well up the mountainside when he heard the noise of a truck coming up behind him, but by then he was almost at Boldara, from where there was no choice but to proceed on foot. Crisafulli brought the vehicle alongside and Captain Bovolenta leaned out of the window as he had done the previous evening. “You’re strong on your feet, I see.”
“You need strong feet for police investigations.”
“I am afraid that’s not true nowadays.”
“On second thoughts, you might be right there,” Soneri said, thinking of his assistant Juvara, who was forever glued to his computer. “But it’s the case round here,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the woods and the rocky summit of Montelupo, where the rising sun offered the promise of another clear day.
As he continued on his way, he heard the roar of a four-byfour from further down the valley. Crisafulli announced, “That must be the magistrate. I got in touch with the ambulance service as well, for the removal of the body.”
The two officers left on guard greeted Soneri and their colleagues with relief. They reported hearing strange noises during the night and said that on several occasions they had taken the safety catch off their weapons.
Soneri smiled at the two fresh-faced youths from the city, reared on dark tales of the forest. Finally the Special Forensic Unit and Percudani, the magistrate, turned up. The magistrate complained of having drawn the short straw, but he was from those parts and Soneri enjoyed good relations with him.
“Who’s in charge here?” he asked, in mock bewilderment.
The commissario pointed to the carabinieri. “I was out hunting for mushrooms and I noticed the smell.”
“What a coincidence!” Percudani said, without much conviction.
The first enquiries confirmed Soneri’s suspicions. The dark patch near where the body was lying was indeed blood, and the corpse had been dragged there by some animal.
Percudani gave the order to turn the body over and it was immediately evident that Paride Rodolfi had been killed by a bullet in the chest. Between the sternum and the stomach there was a little cavity with a mixture of coagulated blood, mud and fragments of clothing. The body, as rigid as a statue, was then wrapped in canvas. The stretcher-bearers struggled to lift it out of the hollow and carry it along the track. From time to time, those who remained could hear branches brush against the metal of the stretcher.
When the group disappeared down the slope, Bovolenta, Soneri, Crisafulli and the magistrate were left standing in a circle around the outline of body in the mud. Only then did they notice in the slime, which was still giving off an intolerable stench, the repulsive, writhing tangle of wax-coloured worms now deprived of their sustenance. The maresciallo turned his eyes away in disgust, while Percudani feigned interest in papers relating to the case, and engaged the agents from the Special Forensic Unit in conversation. The only one who remained undisturbed by that vision was Bovolenta, erect in his starched collar, eyes staring coldly out from under the peak of his cap.
“So this is death,” he finally said. “It’s even uglier than we imagine.”
The commissario remained silent, continuing to stare at the worms wriggling about where the corpse had been.
“Just as well the cold…” the captain said before adding, either from cynicism or in an attempt to reduce the tension, “Remember this spot, Commissario. You’ll get some fabulous mushrooms here.”
Some other members of the Special Forensic Unit arrived, kitted out like speleologists and commanded by a bespectacled man who looked more like an accountant. They embarked on a finger-tip search of the sides of the hollow and the surrounding undergrowth.
“Any mushrooms that grow here will taste of fat,” Soneri said bitterly, but he was overwhelmed by a deep sadness which affected his every thought.
“He met the same end as a street-corner drug pusher,” Bovolenta said.
The commissario’s mind filled with images of himself as a boy, of Palmiro Rodolfi distributing gifts from the company on the feast of the Befana, of the awkward display of gratitude from his father, and of the whole village united in admiration for a family which had shown the enterprise to create a flourishing business able to dispense such largesse.
“Could you have imagined anything like this?” Bovolenta said, his anger beginning to break through his attempts at restraint.
Soneri shook his head. “I told you, I’m a stranger here now. Everything has changed.” He uttered the last words with a vehemence which disconcerted the captain. “My father worked for the Rodolfis, as did everyone else in the village.”
“Met the same end as a small-time pusher,” Bovolenta repeated quietly. “When there’s that level of debt, the motive is clear, but there are so many potential killers. That’s the problem.”
The commissario made no reply. The question of motive was the last thing on his mind. He had never before been so close, physically, to a corpse and yet so mentally distant from an investigation.
“Found anything?” Bovolenta said to the head of the forensic squad.
“Not so much as half a shell. A few footprints,” he said. The offhand tone made it clear he attached no importance to that discovery.
The stench was becoming overwhelming. Soneri watched the daylight spread through the leafless trees, each coloured in a different shade, but all he wanted was to get away from that stinking spot.
“If you need me, you know where to find me,” he said.
Bovolenta stood up and shook his hand, but before Soneri had a chance to move off, he shot him a glance which was perhaps meant as confidential but which came over as merely embarrassed. “I’d like to invite you to have dinner with me one evening.”
Soneri nodded his agreement and set off down the path with Dolly at his heels. She had made herself his shadow, and this worried him because he did not want the dog to grow too fond of him. Dolly had already lost one master and he had no wish to inflict more pain on her, but nor did he wish to hurt himself, since he had already become fond of her. With animals — as with people — his principal aim was to avoid inflicting hurt. He walked briskly down the track, too briskly, he decided, when he stumbled and almost fell. In a grove of fir trees, under whose canopy it seemed still to be night, he almost bumped into a detachment of carabinieri making their way up to Pratopiano, panting under the weight of the implements they were carrying. He stepped aside to let them pass, but as he did so, he felt a pang of anxiety and a lump in his throat. There were more carabinieri at Boldara. The whole of Montelupo seemed now to be crawling with them, and their presence brought back stories told by his father about the round-ups along the Gothic Line in ’44. He recognised a group of journalists assembled alongside the reservoir, but he kept away from them.
He sought quiet to allow him to deal with the sense of melancholy which now pervaded his being. He also needed time, much as does the soil on the Apennines when saturated by too much rainfall. He felt this need all the more keenly when he came in sight of the village and became aware of the hubbub, a state of constant, agitated motion which from a distance resembled the fermentation of grape must. He imagined that the news of Paride’s death must have reached the piazza, but as he approached he could identify no clear purpose in all that bustle. The scene reminded him of a pack of drunks staggering about. He crossed the piazza where bewildered, disconcerted people were standing around, seizing eagerly on any snatches of rumour. He took the Campogrande road which led to Villa del Greppo. In all his years in the village, he had never gone close to that intimidating place, but now he had a reason to go there. Dolly trotted along at this side, obviously very familiar with the path.
The closer he got, the more the villa disappeared behind the surrounding wall and the thick vegetation. One of the bolder pranks they would get up to as boys was to ride past on their bicycles, fire a couple of stones over the wall from their slings and then make off down the slope, leaving the Rodolfi dogs barking furiously in their wake. Now it seemed as though silence had fallen definitively on the villa. Even when he rang the bell he did not hear any sound within. Soneri allowed some time to pass before he tried again. As he waited, he lit a cigar and turned to observe the sunlit valley and Dolly wagging her tail, as excited as on the first day of the hunting season.
At last the gate was pulled back and a small Asian man with an expression of great melancholy appeared in the opening. He stood quite still, looking at Soneri without seeming to breathe.
“I came to bring back the dog,” the commissario said.
The man glowered at him for a few moments, then turned his attention to the dog.
“Not know dog,” he said in low voice.
“It belonged to Signor Rodolfi.”
The Philippino made no reply, but he appeared to be surprised.
“Could you call the Signora?” Soneri said.
The man, still silent, walked in tiny steps across the courtyard in the direction of the house and disappeared inside. The commissario took advantage of his absence to move inside and look over the place which had been forbidden territory to him for so many years. He had expected to see signs of more conspicuous wealth than was on display. It was an old country house, with the barn and stables still recognisable even if now transformed into living quarters. The entire complex retained the unembellished, rustic style which reflected old Palmiro’s peasant tastes.
The door opened and a middle-aged woman, whose severe beauty was tinged with sorrow, appeared. The long black hair which came down over her shoulders seemed to have been ruffled by the wind, and when he saw her from close up, Soneri had the feeling that a different kind of disorder resided in her inner being — or so he deduced from the clash between the haughtiness of her eyes and the brightness of her lips, her imperial bearing and certain listless gestures which were redolent of a languid sensuality. Traits of the abbess and the whore competed in her soul, combining without merging in the way she conducted herself. Even her immediate reaction was idiosyncratic and irrational. Her glance fell only fleetingly on Soneri, but she gave a more intense stare at Dolly, seated at his feet, moving only her tail. The woman’s face lit up with the merest trace of a smile, quickly replaced by an expression of pain which she concealed by placing both hands over her face.
The commissario understood that there was no need to explain anything to her. The presence of the dog was sufficient. “I thought it right to bring her back,” he said.
She nodded, her hands still covering her face. “My husband was very fond of her,” she said.
“She watched over him.”
“She was better for him than any wife,” she said, half laughing and half weeping, in words of bitter self-reproach.
“It’s easier for dogs,” Soneri said, by way of offering her a measure of comfort. “Life or death, love or hate. We get swamped by half measures. We are not as simple as they are.”
The woman made no reply, but took her hands from her face, revealing an expression of suffering and resignation.
“However, I believe you were not unprepared…”
Her expression changed in an instant, as though she were removing one mask and putting on another. And in that instant, the haughty, almost arrogant, expression she had earlier worn, returned.
“We haven’t even introduced ourselves. I am Manuela.”
“Soneri,” the commissario replied, shaking her outstretched hand. He noted that her body had stiffened and that she was now observing him more coolly.
“You’re a policeman. I’ve heard talk of you in the village,” she said, standing back.
“My family is from these parts, but I’m here for a holiday, not to carry out enquiries. I am just bringing back the dog,” he concluded, with some embarrassment.
The woman did not share his embarrassment. “Did you find her?”
Soneri could do no more than nod.
“Where?”
“At Pratopiano.”
Manuela seemed to be running over in her mind the various places in the valley that were known to her. “I don’t know where that is, and I don’t care. As far as I am concerned, all these places are the same — ” She stopped all of a sudden, with a contemptuous sneer, but immediately, in another abrupt shift, she reverted to the gentle tone and asked timidly, “What state was he in?”
Soneri waited for a few moments before replying in a whisper, “You can imagine.”
She lowered her eyes and looked at a clump of weeds at her feet. “Had it been long since…”
“A couple of days, judging by the condition of the body.”
Manuela swallowed hard and stared once more into the distance. Her cheeks turned a gentle pink.
“Did he never speak to you about debts?”
She gave a sigh which swiftly became a scoff. She looked Soneri straight in the eye, and for a moment he thought she was about to faint.
“I’m going to escape from here,” she said, in the tone of someone reciting a litany. “At long last I’ll be free of these mountains…” — her voice rising to a hysterical scream — “I’ve lost everything: husband, inheritance, reputation and, what matters most, my life. My life. I threw it away when I chose to bury myself in this backwater. I played my cards badly,” she said, with lucid cynicism.
Soneri could no longer meet Manuela’s gaze, behind which he glimpsed an abyss of ugliness. He realised that many years devoted to detective work had not yet inoculated him against the sheer nastiness lurking beneath such a great variety of surfaces. It was in many ways a comforting discovery.
“Was it you that made them put up those posters on San Martino?” he said, coldly.
Manuela looked at him with a smile of distrust. “No, I know nothing about any posters. I was as surprised as anyone, but what does it matter? We’re ruined and you can throw any accusation you like at us. You couldn’t care less about knowing what really went on.”
“Why don’t you explain it to me?”
The response was a fresh peal of laughter that sounded more like a lament, but the woman quickly reverted to the expression of pain. “I found out only recently about the situation we’re in. Palmiro told me when he realised there was no way we could get back on our feet. He was dignified in defeat. He was the only real man in this family. I was dragged towards ruination as ignorantly as a moth drawn to a flame,” she said, with another cackle.
“When did your husband disappear?”
Manuela raised her hands, palms upwards to indicate that she did not know. “I hadn’t seen him for two weeks, but I believed he was travelling somewhere. Anyway, when he was here, he spent nearly all his time in the other house in the woods.”
“You were separated?”
“Astonishing! How on earth did you work that out?”
Only then, when his temper was aroused, did he realise that he was interrogating her as though he were on a case. “Nothing to do with me,” he mumbled. “I only came to bring you the dog.”
Manuela was clearly surprised by this, and shouted in the direction of the villa, “Chang!” The Philippino appeared almost at once, deferential and anxious to do her bidding.
“Take the bitch and put her with the others,” she ordered, in a tone of contempt which could have been directed either at the man or the dog. The Philippino summoned Dolly, who made no attempt to move. He grabbed her by the collar and dragged her towards the house.
“Treat her well. She deserves it,” Soneri said.
The woman shrugged. “She was treated better than me.”
“Things have not gone too badly for you so far. You are still young and can make a life for yourself somewhere else. Would you rather have broken your back working in the stables?” he said acidly.
She looked at him with scorn. “They’re all so concerned about the plight of the poor little peasant girls! Do you think ordinary people are pure of heart? You should see these peasant girls drool over their line managers for promotion or a pay rise. They’d happily let themselves be laid on a workbench if it would get them one more grade. And then there are all these pathetic males who used to line up to lick Paride’s or Palmiro’s arse if that’s what it took to get a job for their sons or for some relative. And don’t get me started on politicians, coming cap in hand. And not to forget the bankers, elegant pimps, sticky with sweat running down their starched collars. That’s the sort we’ve had to deal with.”
The sun was up and its brilliance assaulted them as they stood on the lawn. It was in Soneri’s face, blinding him. Its dazzling light and the crudeness of Manuela’s speech left him stunned.
“You’re no better,” he managed finally to say.
“No, we’re no better, but we’re no worse either. That lot, if they were in our shoes, who knows how they would have behaved.”
“They’re ruined as much as you,” he reminded her.
“It was their greed that caused their downfall. Do you know why they gave us all that money? Because of the interest my father-in-law promised them. All this stuff about trust in the firm, or that we were all in it together… bollocks! Money, that’s what they were after. They’d never have parted with as much as one cent if it hadn’t been for the mirage of easy riches. They never gave a damn about the firm, and neither were they so stupid as to believe there was no risk. In the last couple of years, they were being promised rates of interest that would have shamed a usurer and not one of them stopped to ask: what’s going on here?”
“Their trust was genuine.”
Manuela shook her head vigorously, and her reply was scathing. “Once perhaps, but nowadays there are people here playing the stock market, and they know that trust gets you nowhere.”
She took from her pocket a bottle of pills and swallowed a couple without any water. Soneri remembered being told in the village that she lived on tablets and pills. “It’s time for me to be on my way,” he said. He wanted to be gone as quickly as possible from that house and that woman.
“Off you go, Commissario, off you go. Back to those honest souls.”
He decided not to answer, because he recognised a touch of despair in that injunction, but he had not gone very far when more harsh, unfriendly words reached his ears. “Just remember that your father came to see us as well.”
The commissario stopped in his tracks, but as he was on the point of turning, he saw the Philippino scuttle inside and the gate close. As he walked towards the village, he wondered what Manuela had meant. Had she intended to put his father on the same level as the wretches who came begging for work, or was she pleading for clemency? He could not get the idea out of his mind. He had no time for the woman, but neither could he free himself of the doubt she had planted. She had polluted his memories. All the way to the town, he was troubled by feelings which the bright sunshine and the clear air could only partially lift, and when he reached the piazza, his unease grew stronger as he saw the coming and going of the carabiniere trucks and the chauffeur-driven cars from the Prosecutor’s office carrying men whom he recognised. There were also vans with television cameras and satellite dishes and packs of journalists ferreting about the village in search of someone to interview. A crowd had gathered round the Comune, chanting slogans. That was where the carabinieri were headed, since their colleagues were having a hard time holding back people pushing and shoving at the main entrance.
Other patrols were moving in a column for the salame factory where the only smiling face was that of the pork butcher on the Rodolfi label. Soneri looked up at the road running alongside the works and saw a mass of people there, carrying banners and being harangued by someone speaking into a megaphone. These must have been the striking workers protesting against the halting of production, but the whole thing had tumbled into a chaos where every law had been suspended. Once again Soneri had a flashback to the worms devouring Paride. There was the same frenetic activity in the village, and perhaps in a short time it would lead to the worms devouring one another. Soneri was trying to avoid the crush when he was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile.
“I tried ten times to contact you this morning,” Angela began.
Soneri looked at his watch. One o’clock. He thought of his partner getting up from her desk after hours of work, adjusting as she did so the skirt which had climbed half way up her thighs. He experienced a thrill of desire, but her voice had a calming effect. It was primarily the voice of someone friendly and complicit, someone he could hold onto to avoid sinking in the quagmire. She noticed this. “Commissario, what’s happening to you? You’re like a seminarian at prayer.”
Soneri blushed, annoyed at having revealed a hidden side of himself. “I’ve had a bad morning. I saw Paride eaten by worms.”
Angela gave a snort of disgust.
“It was revolting, but we may as well resign ourselves to the end that’s coming to us all,” he said, donning his customary, tough exterior.
“The company has been declared bankrupt,” she said, changing the subject.
“Not just the company, the whole village and maybe the council as well.”
“There’s a degree of sadness in your voice, Commissario. Didn’t you say you were going to stay out of it?”
“It’s not so easy. It seems everybody is caught up in it.”
“But not you, and yet…”
“Angela, it’s hard to remain indifferent when you’re faced with the ruin of people you’ve known, people who speak the same dialect.”
“Tell the truth. It’s the idea you had of the place that’s ruined. That’s what’s so upsetting.”
Soneri refrained from telling her about the doubts concerning his father planted in him by Manuela. He said nothing for a few moments, then said, “The mistake was to come back.”
“Maybe it would be different if I were there.”
“Maybe,” Soneri said. She had contacted him at the very moment when he was at his lowest ebb, and before he had the chance to change his mind, she grabbed at his half-invitation. “I’ll turn up one of these evenings.”
“I should tell you that the Scoiattolo is a fairly basic sort of place. There are cabinets beside the beds and a San Martino over the headboard, and that’s the lot.”
“I’ll do my best to carry out an exorcism.”
“Try to speak to the Rodolfis’ lawyer.”
“I’ll try, but he too seems to have disappeared.”
The commissario switched off the phone and walked towards the piazza. From a distance he could distinguish the yellow outline of the carabiniere H.Q., where there seemed to be a great deal of movement. As he approached, he recognised the journalists hanging about waiting for someone to invite them in. In front of the Rivara, he ran into Maini.
“It’s all coming to the boil, but it’s not quite at boiling point yet,” Soneri said.
“There’s still some way to go. I doubt if they know where to start,” Maini said, nodding in the direction of the police station.
“They can hardly interrogate the whole village.”
“Where would you start?”
The commissario shook his head. “I don’t know. Every single person is a potential suspect, and each one of them could have more than one motive. There are all kinds of hatreds, passions… I’d want to talk to those who know about the skeletons in the various cupboards.”
“In fact they’ve been to see Don Bruno.”
“Of course, the priest. They always know a great deal, priests, but I’m not sure he’s the most helpful starting point.”
“They can’t even find a wall to bang their heads against.”
“Who’s in charge of the interrogations?”
“The new man. Bovolenta I think he’s called.”
“There’s a unpleasant atmosphere about the place,” Soneri said, looking around at the stalls scattered across the piazza. “Do you think something’s going to explode before the day is out?”
“Might do, but I wouldn’t put money on it.”
Both men observed the village in the bright light of the autumn sun. The fine vapour rising from the dampness of the woods gave the countryside a mellow haziness, but it seemed as though a menacing rumble, the first sign of an impending storm, could be heard in the background.
“Who has managed to save themselves from the disaster?” the commissario wondered. Maini failed to understand, so he went on, “I mean, who brought up the vehicles to empty the factory?”
“Who do you think? The banks. Who else would have the power to get the place opened? It’s not likely to be a simple peasant or any one of those who bought the bonds. They tell me there’s not a single cotecchino left inside.”
A siren blared out and seconds later a carabiniere car, travelling at high speed, raced across the piazza. Some people came from the same direction, walking in small groups as though after Mass. Delrio, in plain clothes, was among them.
“The mayor has handed in his resignation,” he announced, with a hint of nervousness in his voice.
“Was that him in the police car?”
Delrio nodded. “He’s been receiving threats.”
“Because of that rumour?” Maini said.
Delrio nodded again, leaving Soneri once more with the disagreeable feeling of being an outsider which had haunted him since his arrival in the village. “What rumour?”
“A bit of nonsense,” Maini said. “They say he has managed to get back the money he had lent the Rodolfis. There’s also a story that he’s had one of the flats in the new development assigned to him, but in his daughter’s name.”
“Mere gossip,” Delrio said. “In this village, every passing rumour immediately becomes a gospel truth.”
“It’s not only the mayor. There are others, some councillors, people in the same party as the mayor, who are supposed to have got their money out in time,” Maini said.
“Aimi acted as a lightning conductor. They needed someone to blame, so they chose him as being a public figure. Nowadays, anyone in politics is automatically considered a thief,” Delrio said.
“The real thieves are the bankers. Right up till yesterday, they were telling us the Rodolfis were in great shape, and they carried on selling bonds with a promise that it was good deal.”
“People have piles of them this high,” Delrio said, holding his hand about a metre off the ground. “Cartloads of waste paper.”
“Are we supposed to believe it’s pure chance they’re closed today?” Maini said. “This morning there was a queue of people demanding their money back. Some of them still believe they’re going to get it.”
“I’d like to see any of them having the courage to show their faces in public now,” Delrio said.
“Oh, they’ll show their faces alright, only they won’t open their mouths,” Soneri said, lighting another cigar.
The other two remained silent, contemplating the truth in Soneri’s words. “I suppose that’s right,” Maini said. “The majority will say nothing — out of a sense of shame. They’ll prefer to face their ruin in silence rather than protest and let everyone know they’ve been duped.”
The image of Sante, with all that repressed venom and resentful silence broken only by occasional snarls, sprang into Soneri’s mind. He feared that years later the accumulated hatred would, like some toxic liquid corroding its container bit by bit, break out as an illness.
A few minutes later, when he found Sante standing beside his table, Soneri looked at him more closely than usual. Sante noticed this.
“My face is a mess. I haven’t slept for a week,” Sante said.
Soneri was tempted to say that his health should always come first, but he desisted.
“Ida cooked the russolas you picked. She’s got plenty of time on her hands.”
It was only then that Soneri realised that the dining room was empty. He felt uncomfortable in that large room full of tables with no guests. Only half the lights were on, and the semi-darkness of the environment made it resemble an establishment in a seaside resort at the end of the holiday season, as the first storms were brewing.
After the savarin di riso, the mushrooms were brought in. Their taste was familiar and reawakened memories of his mother’s cooking. A wave of emotion seemed to swell up from his stomach, carrying him back to a place he had no wish to recall for fear of falling into a displeasing state of melancholy. Those flavours reunited him, mouthful by mouthful, by methods beyond the reach of reason, with the past. Help came in the substantial form of Sante, who sat down on the chair opposite him.
“I expected a revolt, but there’s actually less disturbance than on public holidays,” Soneri said.
“What good has it done those who’ve got themselves all worked up? It only draws attention to the fact that they’ve been screwed. At least I want to avoid that. And anyway, they’re all away.”
“Who’s away?”
“The directors of the company. All close friends of Paride. A gang of thieves.”
“Until a short while ago, no-one would say a word against them,” Soneri said.
Sante shrugged and Soneri noticed the exhaustion written on his pallid face. “I always heard the Rodolfis spoken of in reverential tones. Never a word of criticism, even when there were good grounds. It seemed there was nobody like them,” Soneri said.
“Money puts a glitter on even the ugliest things. They’ve always been bandits.” Sante spoke angrily, with a break in his voice, as though he were holding back a howl of pain. “There’s no other way if you really want to make a lot of money, is there?”
The commissario was inclined to agree, but said nothing.
“Bandits! And we all knew it all along. The number one was Palmiro himself. In the days of Fascism, he earned himself stacks of money by working on the black market. He used to go down from the mountains to La Spezia and buy up salt, fish, sugar and coffee which he then sold here at exorbitant prices. He knew the mountain paths like the back of his hand, so there no chance of him ever getting caught.”
“It’s still going on, but it’s the Arabs now and it’s not salt they’re selling,” Soneri said.
“Do you think I don’t know? It’s the same old story, with the difference that in the old days everybody knew who was coming and going on Montelupo with their black-market goods, while now there’s no telling who’s crawling about. Nobody knows, not even those who are squatting in the mountain huts or in the old drying rooms… well, maybe one person knows, the Woodsman.”
“A childhood friend of Palmiro’s.”
“But he never dabbled in the black market. He never speculated on hunger, he never bought stolen pigs to make prosciutto, he never fed them on rubbish. After the war, you could get away with anything.”
“I’m sure that’s all true,” Soneri said, becoming irritated. “But the fact remains that you all gave him your money. If he was really the bandit you now say he was…”
Sante sighed deeply, his great paunch bumping into the table. “We got along in business matters. He’d keep his bargain, as long as he was sure there was something in it for him.”
“And that something was that he could fleece the lot of you.”
“No, no. At the beginning, he needed to expand, to extend his salame factory, and then he wanted to pull it down and build a new one on the present site, because the old one in the village was no longer big enough. The banks would only give him so much, because most of his dealings were under the counter, and so the turnover was not impressive. That’s why he turned to the people in the village.”
“And you all opened your wallets. If he’d asked for your wife, you’d have handed her over as well.”
Sante grimaced, but did not demur. He clearly had other thoughts in his mind. “In the early stages, he didn’t go to every house because some people had hardly enough to buy themselves white bread. He only dealt with those who had managed to put something aside, and in exchange he promised to see their children alright. Sometimes, he arranged for them to study free with the priests in the city, but then when conditions in the village improved, he widened his circle. He got them to hand over anything they’d hidden under the bed, but he also took them on at the factory and guaranteed them a fixed wage. It was a perfect set-up.”
This account worried Soneri. Could his father have been caught up in this web? Manuela’s words continued to nag at him, but Sante’s voice dragged him back to the present.
“You see, Palmiro was one of us. We spoke in dialect. He’d a good head for business, but he also knew how to rear pigs and produce high quality prosciutto. We knew what he was made of, but we could never work out what Paride was about. We had to address him as Dottore. He’d been to university and considered himself a cut above us all. He did favours for politicians, and they repaid him in kind. The money was manipulated in ways we couldn’t understand,” Sante lamented. “Our money.”
The issue, as far as Soneri was concerned, was of a different order. He was not even sure how to define it. Honour? Principles? The integrity of the image of his father? A multitude of thoughts revolved in his mind, and they left him convinced he could no longer remain inactive in the story unfolding in the village. It seemed to him he had uncovered an old debt, and had no choice but to repay it.
Taking advantage of a moment’s silence, he looked across to the door which opened onto the courtyard on the Montelupo side and saw the mountain bathed in the bright, early-afternoon light. He felt the need to get out of the semi-darkness of the room he was in. Sante was standing in front of him, cowed and stooped, like an old chestnut tree weighed down by rainfall. Soneri sprang to his feet, but Sante remained immobile, shackled to a vision of his own ruin. As the commissario made to go out, Sante’s voice called him back. “I denied myself so much to save that money. I gave up on living. They’ve taken away part of my life. It’s worse than if they’d sent me to jail.”
Soneri stopped in his tracks, struck by those words, and then said the first and most obvious thing that came into his head. “You have your job and your health. These are the most important things.”
Only when walking in the sun did he think seriously about the rancour that was devouring Sante. That man was imploding day by day, at the same pace as the village which was now seething with silent hatred and stoking up a dying flame, as people do with the smouldering embers and ashes in which on autumn evenings they bake potatoes.
He crossed the piazza, still deserted after lunch, and climbed towards the church with one thought buzzing in his head. He went into the graveyard and saw elderly widows moving about among the tombs. Some were busy dusting off greying, sepia photographs and attending to the adjacent space waiting for them in the cemetery wall. He walked alongside those walls, noting familiar faces, each linked to him by some childhood memory. There they were now, side by side, still images from an uneven montage of some B-movie. He came to his parents’ tomb. His mother smiled at him from one of the few photographs ever taken of her, but when he turned to the photograph of his father he received what felt like an electric shock. He had seen that image hundreds of times before, but his attention was drawn to a detail to which he had never previously given any importance, but which now left him transfixed. The gates in the background were the same as those to the Rodolfi establishment, and the piece of surrounding wall that could be glimpsed was the employees’ entrance.
He had never before wondered where that photograph had been taken, but now he knew. The discovery was sufficient to bring back the doubt that his father too had gone to the Rodolfis for help, as Manuela had insinuated. He felt more implicated than ever in the case. As his mood grew darker, he saw Don Bruno coming out of the chapel, covered in dust, dressed in layman’s clothes without even the Roman collar. He was kicking ahead of him some dried flowers which had become detached from old bouquets.
“I’ve even got to do the tidying up. There’s not one single woman in the whole village who’s prepared to give a hand. Not even part time.”
“They’ve all turned anti-clerical, have they?” Soneri joked.
The priest was not amused. “They’re all indifferent, which is even worse. Once there was a belief among them that they could make up for aridity of spirit by doing some service for the church, but now they can’t even be bothered with that.”
“Priests used to awaken consciences.”
“In fact, we were accused of the opposite. Anyway, it is not like that any more. You can say anything you want. They’ll listen silently and won’t be ruffled in any way. That’s the worst of it. They prefer to isolate themselves in the smallness of their own minds, wasting away in the pettiness of a few, utterly insignificant things. They haven’t even reacted to all that’s been going on. I’d rather have the anti-clericals back, the communists that I would debate with. At the very least you had the impression of hearts beating. But now I am left with a handful of old folk who come to Mass out of habit, or else with a nest of vipers who genuflect before the altar but who would cheerfully murder their husbands the minute they get home. And don’t even talk to me about young people! To get the rest of my flock interested, I’d need to be a car salesman or a banker.”
“Bankers are not everybody’s favourite at the moment,” the commissario said.
“Oh, wait a while and it’ll pass. Money is all they think about nowadays. And here am I devoted to the care of souls.” The priest gave a bitter laugh before adding with an onrush of pride, “But I’m not giving up. They’ll all come back to join the flock, I’ve no doubt about it. This catastrophe is the first sign that the things of this world will pass away and that sooner or later every human being has to settle his accounts with his Maker. His real accounts, I mean. Take Palmiro Rodolfi. He only cared about power, but at the end, all of a sudden, he realised it was all in vain. He settled his accounts alright, but the outcome was terrible.”
“The outcome is always terrible, for everybody.”
“That’s not true. It’s true only if you believe you can settle everything in this world.”
“Were you getting the chapel ready for Palmiro?” Soneri asked.
The priest looked him straight in the eyes and nodded.
“But he committed suicide.”
“God’s mercy is infinite. We will pray for him too. I happen to believe that his final act implies repentance, do you not agree?”
“Perhaps. He no longer had the strength to show himself to those he had betrayed, but neither did he have the strength to show himself to God and beg forgiveness. This might mean he did not recognise him.”
Don Bruno paused in silence for a moment, then said, “We’ll never know what went on, but the Almighty Father does.”
The commissario reflected that this was true of his own father as well. Perhaps he would never know what went on between him and the Rodolfis.
“I heard you came to look for mushrooms.” This time it was the priest who changed the subject. “Your father shared that passion.”
“So did you,” Soneri said.
“Once upon a time, yes, but now my legs have let me down.”
The priest was short but had heavy bones. Only the metal-framed glasses undermined the image of a man of the mountains and woodlands. He was bow-legged, like a jockey, but the bend was due to the weight of his body.
“Who told you I was here to gather mushrooms?”
“Priests get to know everything, sooner than the carabinieri, who in fact come to us for information.”
“Were you summoned to the police station?”
Don Bruno made a gesture which was half fatalism, half resignation. “They’re not aware that we have precise obligations.”
“They didn’t actually ask you for the name of the person who had confessed to the crime?”
The priest laughed. “Hardly anyone comes to confession nowadays. Maybe that is because we obstinately continue to take an interest in other people and go round sticking our noses into their business.”
“And they have no idea which saint to pray to.”
“I understand they are following a definite lead.”
“Yes. Revenge for the fraud. But so many people have the same motive,” Soneri said.
“There’s also the question of the gunfire that was heard on Montelupo on the day after the feast, and which you can still hear occasionally,” the priest said. “But it could have been a poacher. There are so many guns around.”
Soneri looked puzzled but said nothing, so the priest went on. “I’m afraid they’re closing in on the Woodsman. They started digging up things from his past and they’ve uncovered something about an old rivalry over a woman. They must have some sort of proof.”
Soneri could not help thinking that if he had been in charge of the case, he too would have wanted to know more about the Woodsman. But then, why had he sent his daughter to make that appointment?
“Who called you in? Was it Bovolenta?”
“Yes. Crisafulli’s been sidelined.”
“What did he ask you?”
“Are you involved in the investigation?”
“No, I’m on holiday, but everything here brings up personal issues.”
“Of course. You’re part of this community.”
“Not any more, Don Bruno. In part because I’ve been away for years and in part because I’m finding everything different from how I remember it.”
“Bovolenta is expecting some assistance. He likes to appear sure of himself, but he admitted to me that he cannot fathom this village. It’s different for you. You’re from here.”
“The less I get involved, the better for everybody. My father worked for the Rodolfis, remember.”
“Of course, and I gather he had a good relationship with them.”
“What do you mean, a good relationship?”
“He didn’t see them just as employers. He was happy to work there and was fully committed to the company.”
“I was only a child then, and later I went off to study in the city. I don’t know much about my father’s work,” Soneri said.
“Neither do I, but I heard that’s how things were, at least until he threw it all up and moved into the city himself. But there’s no point in asking me what brought that about, because I simply don’t know. Perhaps there was some kind of argument, or maybe he just made up his mind it was time to go. Maybe he got fed up with village life. Or maybe he saw a better opportunity.”
The commissario thought of his father’s work as an accountant, but also of his love of the woods and of Montelupo and found it difficult to imagine that life in the city would have been in any way better for him. He found his father’s past more and more difficult to understand. He realised they had never spoken about his time as an employee of the Rodolfis. At most, he had thrown out a couple of hints, free of rancour or nostalgia. Any time he mentioned it, he used the phrase, “when I was under the Rodolfis”. Soneri found himself regretting for the hundredth time opportunities missed.
“Have you seen the Woodsman again?” Soneri said.
“He never comes down to the village, and if he did he would not come to church.”
“I know. He’s not a believer.”
“It’s not his fault. Palmiro wasn’t either. The pair of them were brought up in the Madoni hills among the beasts, and the only object was survival. It’s not much different now.”
“He lives like a savage and yet he’s the master of Montelupo,” Soneri said, with a trace of envy in his voice.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Up there many strange things go on, and they’re getting stranger by the day. On a clear night, you can see lights that look like fires flare up in the clearings, but they go out quite suddenly only to reappear further up. There are lots of people living on Montelupo now, and they’re liable not to be officially registered.”
“Foreigners. They come and go from Liguria,” Soneri said.
“Not only foreigners. There are all sorts who turn up there. They come from far and wide and they don’t look like holidaymakers.”
“When do you see these lights?”
“At night, if there’s no mist. All you need is patience, and keeping your eyes peeled. I’m not a good sleeper.”
“Have you reported this to the carabinieri?”
“I told Crisafulli some time ago, but he gave me the same answer as when I spoke about the gunfire. There is nothing he can do about it.”
Dusk was falling rapidly and Soneri regretted he had not made better use of that sunny day. Don Bruno got into his old Fiat, leaving Soneri to stroll back to the piazza. He arrived as the streetlights were being switched on. A stronger light suddenly cut through the twilight, shining a bluish beam onto the surrounding houses. The carabinieri’s Alfa Romeo was coming up the street from the new village on its way to the police station. Soneri recognised Captain Bovolenta in the rear seat.
“They’ve got someone,” he was told by Maini, who had been watching developments from the Rivara. “They say it’s a foreigner, a dealer who operates on Montelupo.”
The bar and the piazza were suddenly sunk in the silence of the falling night. The tragedy, with its ramifications of lost money and unexpressed shame, was now unfolding behind closed doors in every household. Soneri glanced at the thin, wiry figure of his friend, remembering races run along pathways and first cigarettes smoked furtively in mountain huts, and felt confident enough to ask him about his own private affairs. “Did you trust the Rodolfis with your cash?”
Maini turned quickly, blinking rapidly in embarrassment. He gave him a wink, but on his face the commissario could read deep hurt mingled with a plea for absolution. Again Soneri felt ill at ease, but Crisafulli, with his prancing gait, turned up at that moment to spare them further awkwardness. “Good evening, Commissario. The captain would like to see you.”
Soneri nodded to Maini, whose expression was growing more and more melancholy.
“Am I under suspicion?” a decidedly displeased Soneri asked the maresciallo. He could not stand anyone interfering with the planning of his days. He liked to be in charge and decide for himself, moment by moment, how the day should go.
“Oh no! What do you mean? We’ve got somebody.”
“So what?” Soneri said, brusquely.
Crisafulli turned to him, shaken by this reaction. “Was that an important conversation?”
“A business matter,” Soneri said.
The maresciallo did not pursue it any further. “A Romanian. We found Paride Rodolfi’s mobile on him.”
The commissario shrugged.
“Isn’t that an important clue?” Crisafulli asked.
“It’s a clue of sorts, but I’d proceed cautiously.”
“Bovolenta, I have to say, is taking it very seriously.” Crisafulli winked at the commissario.
There was something treacherous in that remark which did not go down well with Soneri. “How did you get him?”
“Luck. You need a bit of luck, don’t you? We sent a fax to all the police forces in the Apennines, and we came up trumps.”
“Where was he picked up?”
“In Sarzana. He sells things in the street to camouflage other kinds of dealing, if you see what I mean. Maresciallo Zanoni gave him the once over and found the mobile hidden in his car.”
Soneri nodded to say he had understood. They were at the police station and Crisafulli accompanied him to Bovolenta’s office.
When they were seated, the captain looked disapprovingly at Crisafulli, then turned to Soneri. “No doubt the maresciallo will have informed you…” he began, with a touch of irony in his voice.
“Yes, the Romanian.”
“Exactly, the Romanian. That’s why I asked you here. When you found the body, did you do a search of the surroundings? Even the most cursory of searches?”
“No, it was nearly dark and I didn’t want to grope around too much. I only took out the wallet to ascertain the identity.”
To Soneri’s annoyance, the captain uttered an “Ah”. It was not clear if this was a reproach or merely an aside, so he added, “It was completely empty.”
Bovolenta paused for a moment to reflect. “The man we have arrested claims to have found the mobile in the woods. From his description of the spot, it would not seem to be not too far from where the body was discovered.”
“Was he the one who removed everything from it?”
“Probably, but he’s never going to admit it. His story is that he found the mobile by chance, as though someone had lost it. He swears he never set eyes on the body.”
“There are so many people wandering about on Montelupo.”
“Exactly, so many. That’s why I have my doubts as to whether…” but he left the sentence unfinished.
“If I were in your position, assuming your doubts refer to the Romanian, I would share them.”
“But he talked at great length about Montelupo. And, as you said, there are lots of people moving about up there.”
“Always have been. But in the old days, they were a different type.”
“I know what you mean. But it’s not only foreigners. The Romanian spoke about a huge, tall fellow with a beard, who goes about armed and sometimes fires off his gun. He and his friends are terrified.”
“There are plenty of people who fire guns.”
“I know that too. But this is an Italian, a local man. We know his name, Gualerzi.” Bovolenta’s expression was almost venomous, an Inquisitor’s expression. “Do you know him?”
“Of course I do. The Woodsman. But what’s he got to do with it?”
“Do you think it normal for someone to go round armed, firing when he feels like it? The Romanian claims that twice, on separate occasions, bullets passed very close to him.”
“He’s a man of the woods. He’s spent his life on Montelupo, and as for poaching, they’ve always done it up there.”
“Where can I find him?”
“To the best of my knowledge, he lives in the Madoni hills,” Soneri said, feeling he was taking on a role which he had not initially wished to assume.
The captain turned to Crisafulli, having no idea where the Madoni hills were.
“Drop it,” the commissario said. “This is a matter for gamekeepers.”
Bovolenta stared at him intently. “We can’t afford to neglect any angle.”
“And the Romanian?” Soneri said.
“He’s in custody. He had stolen objects in his car. For the moment, we’ve got him for handling stolen goods, and meantime we’ll proceed with this line of enquiry.”
Before the captain could make a move, Soneri jumped to his feet as rapidly as a private soldier.
“The invitation to dinner is still open,” Bovolenta said.
The commissario nodded and said goodbye. Crisafulli went with him to show him out. At the front door, looking over his shoulder to make sure no-one was within hearing distance, the maresciallo, as though offering an excuse, said to Soneri, “He’s new. He’s still got a lot to pick up.” As he spoke, he waved his hands eloquently in the air, as only a Neapolitan can.
For some ten minutes, Soneri wandered aimlessly through the narrow streets, still sunk in a tense silence. When he came out on the piazza, he noticed a bright light. It was coming from a fiercely burning fire, near a house outside the village, on the road to Montelupo. Livid flames engulfed the tops of the chestnut trees some way higher up. A few moments later the fire exploded and the flames leapt up towards the skies. He heard the carabinieri rush from the station, and imagined the curses of Crisafulli, forced out his office chair. Shortly afterwards, the strident sirens of the fire engines filled the valley, violating the peace of the evening. No-one in the village made a move, as had happened in times of war, when the curfew protected the solitude of the victims.
The vehicle of the municipal police, with Delrio at the wheel, moved off from the Comune. The usual group of evening customers was gathered outside the Rivara.
“Is that the Branchis’ farm?” Soneri said.
“They’ve been gone a good while. It belongs now to a family called Monica,” Rivara said.
“They burned the Branchis’ barn in ’65,” Volpi said.
“And in ’44. But that was the Germans,” Ghidini said, with an exaggerated precision which sounded malicious.
The flames were now through the roof, and already the fire-fighters were working from the neighbouring fields which were as bright as day. Someone was running to free the desperately bellowing cattle tied up in the stalls. One cow was running in terror towards the woods, while others were scattered over the slopes.
“Poor beasts. It’s not their fault,” Volpi said.
Soneri would have liked to enquire exactly whose fault it was, but the profound indifference he saw etched on every face made him decide that this was not the best time. Maini took him by the arm and led him away from the group.
“They hate the Monicas here,” he said, when they had moved far enough away.
Soneri made a questioning sign with the fingers holding the cigar.
“The son is one of the Rodolfi accountants, and they say he’s salted a lot of the money away.”
“So it’s revenge?”
“Probably. Burning barns is an ancient custom.”
The commissario remembered various tales told locally, especially one about a house outside the village where a blackened skeleton lay for many years.
“Monica himself went to school with Paride. They dabbled in finance — investments in the stock exchange, shares, assetstripping, that sort of thing. They were the first generation in a poor village who’d gone to university, and they thought they were untouchable,” Maini said.
“You thought you were too.”
“I believed in Palmiro. How could anybody know it was all built on a fraud like this?”
“You’re right. When you get down to it, it’s always hard to believe how appalling reality is. It invariably takes you by surprise.”
Neither man had anything more to say. They watched the barn burn down in spite of the best efforts of the fire-fighters, and contemplated the senseless tragedy of the fire as it rose diabolically up against the indifferent bulk of Montelupo. From time to time, a light breeze carried towards them gusts of tepid air and the scent of burning hay, creating an improbable spring-like heat.
The commissario turned towards the houses and became aware of furtive movements behind the shutters. He could detect the malevolent joy of revenge on faces fleetingly visible in a glimmer of light behind curtains or grilles. Bells began to toll like hammer blows, but the village remained imperturbable.
“It’s gone. They could divert the river Macchiaferro onto it and they still wouldn’t extinguish the blaze,” Ghidini said.
The flames seemed longer, higher and unaffected by the water, which had as little effect as if it were tumbling down a crack in the rocks. No-one bothered any more to make an effort to save the barn, except for a few dispirited firefighters holding the hosepipes. There was only one man who had rolled up his sleeves and it seemed he wanted to leap into the burning building. There was no longer any sign of the animals. They must have all run off, perhaps up the mountain path they had only recently been brought down.
“The embers will smoulder for two days,” was Rivara’s reckoning, delivered with a sarcastic half-smile.
The breeze dropped quite suddenly and a shower of ash fell on their heads.
“Is it Ash Wednesday again?” Ghidini sniggered.
“I don’t see any sign of penitence,” Soneri snapped.
“It wasn’t us.”
“No, but you’re all quite pleased just the same.”
Maini looked at him sternly but imploringly. Soneri was setting himself up against them all, and he did not care. Ghidini and the others did not react. They held their peace, but exchanged sharp glances.
“As you sow, so shall you reap. Monica’s son was one of those who did the accounts up there,” Ghidini said, pointing to the salame factory. “He knew everything that was going on, but he got above himself with the money he’d stolen. If you play dirty, sooner or later someone is going to make you pay. He’s lost this hand.” He looked around, expecting the approval of the group.
“Playing dirty suited you all,” was all Soneri said by way of reply.
“The people in the village were not responsible. The banks should have put a stop to it once they’d run up all those debts. They could see the whole game,” Rivara said.
“The banks are hand in glove with the politicians, and the Rodolfis wallowed in political schemes,” Ghidini said.
“You voted for those politicians, don’t forget. Who was it who returned Aimi with majorities hardly seen outside Bulgaria?”
Soneri’s tone was calm but biting. Maini stayed on the sidelines, trying unsuccessfully to move the conversation to safer ground, even after it had turned bitter. Rivara stuttered that they were not all in agreement and that many had understood only now, but he did not carry conviction. The debate dragged on and ended in a hostile silence. The commissario was familiar with that state of mind among the mountain men, because at least in part it was his own. He was only too aware that when faced with a direct accusation, they invariably preferred evasion. Their silence transformed the words they would have liked to voice into apparent indifference and detachment.
The siren from a fire-engine winding its way along the twisting road in the valley had a mournful sound. It was sufficient to ease the tension which had been created.
“Another one on the way,” Volpi said.
“They’d have been better off staying at home at this stage,” Ghidini said.
Soneri took his leave with the excuse that he wanted to observe the operations at close hand, but as he left the group, he was conscious of a strange, niggling sense of embarrassment. Maini came after him, but as he caught up Soneri’s mobile rang. Angela’s voice came and went, but he could hear her when she shouted “I’m on my way.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m looking at a sign that says twenty kilometres. Are you asking me because you want to warn me off?”
“Not at all. It’s to know when to expect you. You’re arriving in a moment of particular turmoil.”
“That’s not surprising, with all that’s been going on.”
“Apart from all that, there’s been a fire. A barn went up in flames.”
“Arson?”
“It belonged to the family who were Paride’s closest collaborators, so draw your own conclusions.”
“I’ve a lot to tell you. I spoke to Gennari, the Rodolfi’s lawyer. Once he found out you were on holiday and not engaged on the case, he opened up. Obviously, I omitted to mention that you were holidaying in their home village.”
Soneri agreed to meet her in half an hour. When he turned to talk to Maini, he had disappeared. The village bells stopped ringing and the fire-fighters made no noise as they moved back and forth, so everything was plunged once more into silence. The barn was a smouldering wreck now, with only an occasional tongue of flame shooting up into the darkness. The crackle of the beams collapsing under the intense heat, dragging down sections of the wall with it, could be heard quite distinctly. It was the end, the final death spasm of a section of the village. The commissario decided the spectacle was over and set off for the Scoiattolo through the narrow streets of the old quarter. He glanced into the Olmo, where some of the older customers were at their cards, watched by others leaning against the walls. Magnani was behind the bar, only half-awake but with a cigarette in his mouth. The contented calm of the older generation signalled that all was as it should be on any normal evening.
He walked on, leaving that cluster of houses behind and coming out on the road which overlooked the valley. The lights from the houses there seemed like reflected starlight. He continued quickly on his way until he saw the sign of the pensione, but at that moment he heard the gentle scrape of a dog’s paws on the road. He turned to see Dolly, wagging her tail. She had been waiting for him at a spot where she knew he would pass by.