The Dawn of Sin

by Grassetti, Valentino

  "I'm sorry, boy” said the old Benedictine, in reality completely indifferent to Guido's fate. Father Romualdo closed the door behind him. He turned his eyes to the iron crucifix hanging on the wall. He asked God for forgiveness. He twisted his gnarled fingers and began to pray.

  Angele Dei, qui custos es mei, me tibi a pietate superna...

  Village of Poggio, 5:30 p.m.

  The village was a crib of a few houses perched on the slopes of Montevicino, in the green funnel of the valley where the river Muso flowed. The brick and porphyry cottages were leaning one on top of the other, separated by small courtyards where the valley people cultivated their vegetable gardens, with cobbled streets wedged between the narrow alleys.

  Leo Fratesi got off Manuel's Citroen with a limp. His knee was healing, but he still couldn't stretch his leg completely. Filippa hesitated before leaving. The clearing was narrow, and on the other side of the door there was an extensive clutter of thorny brambles. They had parked at the foot of a cliff. It was a good vantage point, overlooking the valley with a bird's eye view. From there they could see the hamlet of Poggio and, high up, the dams of the Montevicino lake.

  Below them, the winding, crystal-clear path of the Muso River emerged at times between the treetops. Down below, hidden by a flat sea of fog, was the Benedictine monastery.

  Filippa stepped out of the car holding his camera, a Reflex with a 2000mm lens, a small cannon that could capture the fluttering wings of a butterfly a kilometre away.

  Shee pointed the camera at the village and started shooting. The powerful lens fixed the worried faces of the villagers: it captured an old woman with stubbly hair who was slowly bending over next to a car door. At the back, a thoughtful young man tried to help her into the seat.

  She photographed a hard-faced man driving a crawler on one of the dirt tracks. She stared at a young couple who were loading their trolley into the trunk of a car. She zoomed back with a buzzing sound, focusing on a single shot of the country - a column of cars and trucks full of cattle silently winding along the road.

  Manuel was taking notes for the next day's press release, angry at the printer for not being willing to keep the presses open beyond a set deadline. Leo, his face furrowed with anxiety, called geologist Giorgio Paoloeta because he wanted details about what was happening.

  The scholar's response froze him.

  "I have been removed from office, I am sorry."

  "Are they out of my mind?" Leo worried.

  "They say I no longer have the credentials to continue my work."

  "That's not possible. What happened?"

  "A circular from the ministry on a serious charge of procuring alarm. You didn't want to do it, so I, from my blog, warned the people of the valley. I think you'll read about it in the papers soon enough. I preferred to put my reputation on the line. I've been preaching about securing the lake dams for years. A budget of ten million euros seems to have annoyed someone. Now that the situation is critical,

  they've taken advantage of my stance to take me out. Apart from that detail, what's going on down there?"

  "We're in the middle of the Poggio valley. They're all leaving." Leo heard an in-ear croak from his earpiece.

  "These people don't read blogs, but they've known the land all their lives. I wasn't wrong, Leo. And trust me, my seismic precursor charts are nothing compared to their instincts. Where are you guys right now? Near the creek?"

  "We're right on top of it."

  "That's not a safe place. Listen. Keep your ears open. If the dogs start barking, if the birds start swarming nervously without a definite destination, that's the signal that you must leave the valley immediately."

  "Okay, thank you. We'll be in touch."

  Leo closed the call, but without putting down his cell phone. He tried to find Guido Gobbi.

  The phone was ringing off the hook.

  St. Benedict's Monastery, 5:58 p.m.

  Father Augustus watched the door of the monastery. He made the sign of the cross three times. He joined his small hands, his suffering face, his desire to prostrate himself to the ground as the last of his servants.

  Domine, habitationem istam, et omens insidias inimici ab bea longe repelle...

  He prayed with the fervour of those who burn with devotion, of those who live to enslave a higher and supreme purpose.

  Out of emotion, he pulled an iron ring from beneath the auger from which hung the door key, a solid brass latch with a lily-shaped handle, the tapered stem ending in two large cross-shaped teeth.

  Angeli tui sancti habitent in ea, qui non in pace custodiant...et benedictio tua sit super nos semped. Amen

  The monk put the key in the lock. The mechanism squeaked gently. The door opened wide, moving puffs of grey mist.

  The two brothers were on the door, motionless, hand in hand.

  They entered the monastery in silence.

  In the darkest corner of the monastery, a monk with a hood pulled over his face whispered a prayer in a voice broken by emotion.

  Adriano and Daisy climbed the stone staircase to the old abbot's rooms. Adriano moved with a certain familiarity, as if he knew the monastery well. The two brothers climbed to the second floor, walking through a hallway, where on the walls some painted altarpieces recounted the lives of saints and martyrs of the Benedictine order.

  Crossed the corridor, they entered what looked like an old private study. There was a wooden desk and a bookcase filled with antique volumes. The pungent smell of linen oil permeated all the furniture.

  Adriano walked through the study with a sure-footed step, as if it were part of his daily routine. Daisy followed him by his side, holding his hand.

  The boy opened the door of the room next to him. He was a poor, bare thalamus with a wrought-iron bed, a parked chair, and a large window reflecting the grey mist on the damp-stained walls.

  Father Romualdo was there. He stood bent and silent, his hands crossed on the stick, his wrinkled face sunk into the hood. The two brothers passed by the monk, touching him indifferently. He himself had no reaction, as if he was a wax statue.

  Adriano invited his sister to get on the bed, and she sat docile on the mattress, bending it under the weight of its seductive shapes. Adriano stroked the flowing mass of her hair, which swelled under her fingers in a wave of shimmering shades. She ajarted her eyes, as if to better savour the pleasure of her caresses.

  “You know why we're here, don't you?” Adriano said with the deep voice that didn't belong to him.

  Daisy felt no need to answer. He stared at her, lingering on her features, and brushing her silken cheeks with the back of his hand.

  “Remember your beautiful face?”

  She nodded faintly, and he touched softly as he gently swung his arm around her soft, turned shoulders.

  Father Romualdo whispered an ancient prayer.

  “What was left of you? Remember?” Adriano kissed Daisy with the same grace as someone who wants to catch an orchid, but without cutting the stem off.

  Daisy closed her eyes. Little mottled spots moved around in the darkness of their eyelids, where everything is never really black. Dark dots and luminous dusts appeared and disappeared, ectoplasms stretching out on a cloudy sea bed, full of impurities. Illusions of the retina, of the brain, imprinted light.

  It reappeared sharply in the mind on the night of the accident. She remembered the scorching heat in her cockpit, her clothes on fire, her hair burning like straw, her skin burned.

  "I was burning in that car” she said in a calm, almost sleepy voice, and you saved me.

  “I simply gave you back to yourself”.

  Daisy wrapped her arm around her brother's side, reclining her neck to rest her head on his shoulder, as her absorbed gaze passed quietly through the window panes. She thought of the boys who had died under the rubble of Dancing Sport.

  "I think I understand” she said, enjoying the contact with Adriano's warm, wet lips on her neck.

  "I am nothing but a delusion
..." she exclaimed as she indulged in the thrills of kissing. "You are keeping me alive with other lives. Stolen lives that are no more."

  As he kissed her, he said, "Soon you will remember everything. We've been doing this for centuries. Very soon, I will give you more lives. You'll see. You'll shine like never before.” Adriano invited her to lie on the bed. She indulged him by lying down and taking on the soft movements of a sleepy cat.

  “We've always used human bodies, Daisy. Especially to love each other...”

  She was ready now.

  He bent down, staring into her eyes veined with shadows and desire. He kissed her on the mouth. She moaned with pleasure. Daisy looked for him with her tongue, arching her back to take off her pants. He unbuttoned her blouse, lifting up the cups of her black lace bra. She showed proudly her breasts were firm and firm, her nipples swollen like ripe cherries to be tasted. Adriano kissed one of them, turning his rough tongue around, his fingers squeezing the other. Daisy screamed excitedly.

  The monk's arrogant prayer rose.

  Confiteor Deo omnipotenti et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis cogitazione...

  Adriano took off his shirt, showing a chest shaded with hairy hairs. He looked at the sinuous curve of his sister lying on the bed like a soft es. She bent her arms back to free her breasts from the lace of her underwear, and he watched her as she watched as she watched a ritual that was both sacred and exciting.

  Verbo, opere, et omissione mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa...

  Daisy closed her eyes, savouring the voluptuous touch of her brother's masculine hands. He caressed her hips, descending slowly on the curve of her belly, and then leaned over a flap of her panties, which she paraded with a slow gesture, accompanying the slender line of her thighs. He crossed her knees with that small garment, and then slid it out from

  under her feet. For a moment, Adriano held Daisy's panties in his hands and sniffed them to breathe the most intimate scent with voluptuousness. Then, almost with contempt, he threw them on the floor, reaching the monk's leather sandals. She breathed a slow, prolonged sigh, barely holding a moan.

  Daisy was now completely naked.

  Adriano passed the palm of his hand along her warm thigh, which he felt was covered with chills. He caressed her between her legs, pushing two fingers to touch her deeply.

  Father Romualdo raised his eyes to the sky, glancing over the walls of the cell.

  Concede mihi misericors Deus que tibi placita sunt ardenter concupiscere...

  Daisy sunk her nails into her brother's back. Beneath the fabric of her jeans, the firm, warm shape of her erect penis increased her desire to be penetrated. As he caressed her inside, she whimpered, trying to pull down the zipper on his pants.

  "Why did you choose me?" she said, wet with pleasure.

  “Because we are one. We have always been one.”

  On the other side of the corridor, Guido was curled up on an iron cot, locked in one of the dormitory cells. The dizziness had become less violent and the nausea was bearable. He managed to get up, even though the objects he was standing on still tended to move and dance, giving him the feeling of being on a ship in the middle of a stormy sea.

  He grabbed the handle and pulled the door toward him, but the Santa did not move from its hinges. He tried to push it with a shoulder. No way.

  He heard a soft prayer beyond the door. He recognized the voice of the tall, massive Benedictine, the same one who had grabbed him and slammed him into that cramped cell. He was clearly on guard, to make sure he did not escape. Guido

  placed his eye on the shell. Throughout the entire convent, a dark prayer echoed in his bones.

  The boy banged on the door. "You are protecting him! You are protecting that monster” he cried out in frustration.

  He felt a twinge in the back of his neck, extending to his forehead, as if an awl had pierced his head.

  “For them, evil is only a detail when it is the living manifestation of God.”

  "Is that you? Are you the painter?" Guido asked, hearing his voice again. He checked every corner of the room, from floor to ceiling, as if he were looking for his ghost. The cripple's was an invisible presence, but it was undeniable that he was there. He could neither see him nor touch him, but he felt the essence of it. He could feel the vibration of his tremors, his anxiety, his breath, even his smell. A bad smell, like that of a sick and neglected person.

  Outside, prayer became more intense. A spasm bent Guido in two, making him scream in pain, as if someone had plunged the blade of a dagger into his stomach. He felt his intestines torn even though there was no wound.

  “Only you can separate her from him.”

  Beyond the door, a chorus of voices rose gloomily.

  The pain in his stomach became unbearable.

  “He is standing in your way. He wants to stop you from interfering. But he can't kill you, because she's in love.”

  Guido felt a stabbing pain between his ribs, as if someone had struck him in the back with a baseball bat. He fell on his knees. A purple thread of blood dripped from the side of his lip, scratching his neck.

  "Daisy” he said, gasping. "She's here. I can feel it."

  “Yes. She's here with him. But she's in love with you.”

  26

  Sandra Magnoli remembered when her husband told her that he considered the gun a socially useful tool. Paolo's was a grey Beretta with silver chrome plating that Sandra couldn't remember the calibre. She had bought it to keep out the bad guys, but her husband didn't have time to use it the day he was murdered by the psychiatrist.

  Roberto Salieri was there with her now. And the gun was sold.

  Sandra stood up, retreating to the farthest point of Adriano's room. She placed her shoulder blades on the protruding floors of the bookcase, remaining trapped in a confined space between the bed and the bookcase.

  "Can we talk?" the psychiatrist asked politely, hands outstretched to preach calmly. "Go away” she said, trying to remain as lucid as possible. She knew the man was a murderer, and she couldn't afford to give in to fear.

  "You have nothing to fear, Sandra. We have known each other for so many years” he said reassuringly, as his gaze leapt out the window overlooking the courtyard with obvious concern that someone might come.

  "What do you want?" the woman asked, trying to remember if there was a heavy, blunt object behind her, above the bookcase, that she could use against him in the event of an assault.

  "I followed your son for years, Mrs Magnoli. Years and years. In spite of his father” exclaimed Roberto Salieri, undoing the knot on the tie, which he calmly untied from under the collar of his shirt.

  "I thought your husband was a problem of the past. But someone wants to cast a few shadows on his death” she said, pulling the tie's hems, as if to test the thickness of the fabric.

  "Get out of my house” Sandra stirred, trying to remember which shelf Adriano kept the only thing she could remember that had any substance: the trophy he received at the Italian Music Awards, a bronze sculpture of Euterpe, the muse of music.

  "Trust me, I couldn't stand the idea of your husband touching my wife” said the psychiatrist, her lips bent by loveliness, her flowing voice changing tone, as if she had taken a dusty sediment off herself and resurfaced penetratingly, full of repressed anger.

  "I was pretty fragile at the time, you know? And very, very jealous. And jealousy is a blind impulse, one of the most irrational impulses a psychiatrist should ever learn to control."

  Roberto Salieri came one step closer, sniffing out Sandra's intentions. For her part, the woman was perfectly aware that, as soon as she made the slightest gesture, he would jump on her to tighten the tie around her neck.

  "Unfortunately, I succumbed to the tyranny of jealousy. And I must confess that it was bloody gratifying” exclaimed Salieri, clenching his fists on the edges of the long strip of fabric.

  "After all, death has always walked towards us. To kill is to spare her a few steps."

&
nbsp; Sandra looked in the mirror at the back of the room. She saw the reflection of the bookcase behind her. She noticed that in the middle shelf was the trophy her son had won. The sculpture sparkled in a space between a stack of books and old vinyl collected by Adriano. Sandra had located the only weapon with which she could defend herself. Now, however, she had to stay cool. As in a duel between gunslingers, it took lucidity, luck and speed.

  Salieri, at that moment, sprang forward with the speed of a cobra. Sandra, full of adrenaline, turned and held the trophy behind her.

  The psychiatrist leaned forward and threw the body forward, hands firmly on the tie. Sandra lowered her arm, hitting the doctor's head with the sharp base of the trophy. Salieri staggered back. The blow had torn his skin deep into his scalp. Blood gushed out of the groove that opened in his shaggy hair, dripping abundantly on his bushy eyebrows. Salieri felt his shoulders wet with blood, the scarlet stain spreading through his shirt. Sandra walked past the desk and ran to the door. She came out of her son's room and threw the trophy on the floor. She heard Salieri's heavy breath

  behind her, the trampling on the parquet floor, the angry grunt of a wounded animal.

  She was about to take the spiral staircase that led into the living room, when she broke the heel of a shoe. Completely unbalanced, she fell with her face on the ground. The psychiatrist reached her walking unhurriedly, her face a disgusting purple mask.

  She rolled up her tie, turning it into a slender, sharp lace. Salieri wrapped it around Sandra's neck.

  It began to tighten.

  Sandra grabbed onto her tie to loosen her grip. She contorted herself like a bloodsucker, trying to harden muscles and flex the tendons in her neck to resist strangulation as much as possible. She defended herself by stabbing her nails into his face, scratching him with the desperation of a wildcat.

  Salieri squeezed even harder.

  She gave a choked gasp, her pupils turned backwards and the whites of her eyes turned to the sky. Her slender neck bent sideways. Her arms, free of normal tension, suddenly relaxed, falling down the curve of her hips.