by Franco Marks
“You look like an angel. My guardian angel.”
Marzio kissed her, tried to direct her interest onto his body, but she looked at him for a long time, then said something momentous.
“We’ll get this earring altered and it can be my ring when we get married.”
*
Considering how attentive she was to details, it was strange that Elisabetta had lost something that was so important and symbolic for both of them. This was added to other small puzzles: the fragments of spinach in the kitchen sink, the blue mark around her wrist. Now the earring. Perhaps it had accidentally fallen onto the couch. What if it was a sign, a message for him? There was always that missing hour and a half: from six thirty to eight.
Marzio went into the bathroom of the Pino Rosso, splashed his face with cold water and looked at himself for a moment in the mirror. His eyes were restless and his face was a cry for help, begging for a solution to escape that terrible moment. The sting of the water shook him and brought him back to himself. The visual trails the recording had left in his eyes boiled like a pot. He had dozens of questions.
“Instead of going home, let’s commit suicide. All four of us.”
Had it been a game for these four women, who wanted to shock and be shocked? A collective suicide, a collective divorce, a collective escape, a collective dare, a collective fuck, a collective transgression. A parenthesis, nothing more: a cry of sorrow at the end of the holiday. He took the footage – he knew it would overshadow the investigation, but he couldn’t do otherwise. The video was totally damning, its verdict unequivocal. He had plenty of doubts, though, and the further he went, the more unnerved he became. They would all interpret the recording in the same way. An irreproachable document. What else did they need to conclude the investigation? It would satisfy the investigators and confirm what everyone wanted to hear: the suicide of four drunken women. Soprani’s words gave it the seal of approval.
“Well done, White Wolf. Perfect, a good starting point, the video confirms a lot of our suspicions. Now we have to prove whether it was suicide or an accident. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Suicide or accident. Marzio couldn’t believe that was what had happened. And what if it was murder? A rebellious thought hidden under the covers of his mind. Never to be revealed, even under torture.
Undaunted, Soprani ground out his plans.
“However, since we are under the spotlight of the media, Inspector Santoni, be meticulous in carrying out the investigation. Even excessively meticulous. Do not overlook any clues. Use DNA. It’s very popular nowadays. Take a fine-tooth comb to each space, the walls, the room, the objects, the town, the people, see, compare, analyse. DNA. The magic word. Let’s drown all of Valdiluce in it. To gratify all the journalists longing for a murder case who will strip us naked. Public opinion must always be satisfied.”
7
It was truly an awful time in Valdiluce.
Soprani had given the go ahead for the most formidable investigation, which he always did when he was struggling with an important and dramatic event. The ‘fine-tooth comb’. Everyone would have to answer for everything. A shopkeeper, for example, would have his invoices, licences and accessibility checked. It was a way of turning the place upside down. The ‘fine-tooth comb’ would set neighbour against neighbour as they each tried to defend their privileges. Thus were grassing ups and betrayals born, and if there was a mark against someone, a suspicion, it would certainly end up in the net Soprani had ordered laid.
The town was full of detectives roaming, questioning, poking about, checking every detail of private, public, fiscal, ethical life, and every dark corner was subjected to the most scrupulous analysis. The policemen were advancing like bulldozers, crushing all secrecy and putting the screws on people to discover if there was anything unusual hiding behind the death of the four girls. In the centre of the square there was the forensic police’s circus tent, a large mobile laboratory.
DNA testing became a ritual for everyone. The inspectors analysed, overlaid and cross checked the genetic traces of the inhabitants of the town with the traces found in the room of death. Everyone in Valdiluce spoke about it now with familiarity. It was a contamination that reached into many families. If there was any doubt about the paternity of someone’s son or someone’s wife’s faithfulness, they resorted to Genomax, a private DNA testing company. The requests had become so numerous that the owner had used the opportunity to set up a nice little business: next to the forensic lab he had parked his own camper, which was much the busier of the two in those days. ‘Genomax DNA analysis. Results in thirty-six hours: one hundred and twenty euros. Results in twenty-four hours: two hundred euros.’ The tests were carried out as if they were blood donations. What no one could learn from the police, they would learn from Genomax. Several local urban legends had already come into existence.
“Mario the street sweeper has found out that his son isn’t his, and he’s filed for divorce.”
It was as though all mysteries could be solved with DNA. Fear, curiosity, a desire to know: did the impurities collected from a husband’s underwear contain the humours of his wife or of another woman? A line of investigation, completely separate from the one into the death of the four girls yet running parallel to that of the police, had been formed which involved everyone to some degree. There was the risk of other problems in the town. Soprani ordered Genomax to get out of Valdiluce. The camper left the town, but Genomax let everyone know that they continued to be available for home analysis. Thus the tension between wife, husband, children and lovers continued.
The office of bio-detective Marzio Santoni resembled an alpine shelter. Scattered here and there were walkie-talkies, computers and two-way radios to connect with the slopes and cableways. The skis he used in an emergency were propped up in the corner. Posters of Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn, a photo of a police helicopter, climbing skins to be worn under the skis, a huge picture of two deer with monumental horns.
Many people from Valdiluce began to rush to the office, and a long line formed, everyone wanting to talk to Marzio to communicate ‘important or extremely important information.’ Poor Kristal tried to stem this vociferous tide, and the door opened and closed like the curtain of a theatre.
“Inspector, people are scared. Try and understand, they want to talk to you…”
“Tell them to watch the news on TV. That way they’ll know the truth.”
“It’s not easy. They’re worried about the investigation, worried the policemen are going to discover something.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe they haven’t got everything in order. Tax evasion, fraud…”
“It’s the result of Soprani’s ‘fine-tooth comb’. It’s working.”
“It’s as if the death of those four women has taken the lid off the pot. All these policemen asking questions… People trust you, they hope you’ll understand them. You’re a friend to everyone.”
“How many irregularities have you come across?”
“A lot. Too many. The bartender has confessed that he adds illegal dyes to the Ginpin, the butcher that he’s passed off frozen Romanian meat for fresh Italian meat, the greengrocer that he sells Russian porcini mushrooms which are probably radioactive, the restaurateur that he doesn’t give receipts to the groups that come up in the buses, the grocer that he waters down the extra virgin olive oil with low grade stuff, the supermarket that they sell stuff that’s past its sell-by date—”
“Okay, I get it, I get it…”
Marzio would have to throw a whole town into jail. Even if it hadn’t revealed anything useful for the investigation, Soprani’s ‘fine-tooth comb’ had provided an X-ray of a small town that lived completely outside the law. In that collective confession there was also an attempt to cleanse themselves, a catharsis of horror. By unveiling their transgressions they would all be relieved of their sleepless nights: defrauding their neighbour was a bite that itched in the darkness. Perhaps they would be m
ore respectful of the law in the future.
“You deal with it, Kristal. Listen to all of them, don’t open a file on them yet, intimidate them with the threat of fines, but keep your eyes open – maybe there’s a mortal sin hidden behind some silly bit of carelessness. Above all, make them confide in you.”
Kristal too, had a secret thought to communicate to him. He smelled of Kinder – despite being so thin he ate a lot of chocolate. He kept a collection of the stuff in a drawer: milk, dark, with hazelnuts, with chilli.
“Can I tell you what seems strange to me? Don’t get angry if I’m wrong.”
“Go ahead.”
“There are people in Valdiluce that I don’t like.”
“List them for me.”
“The priest.”
“Because he’s a fat man with a long beard?”
“The petrol station attendant.”
“Because he’s a voyeur, a gossip and one of our informants?”
“The mayor.”
“Because he’s a mayor?”
“Inspector, are you making fun of me?”
“No. Keep on investigating, they’re all people who could have a connection with the four girls.”
Marzio stood up. Outside the window, clouds as swollen as pregnant bellies were blowing past. Surely it must snow soon. He opened the office door: there were people standing at the end of the corridor. He realised immediately who they were. He waved aside the line of people waiting to be questioned to make room for those four pale, confused and restless looking men.
“Come on, let them pass, move out of the way please.”
They could only be the husbands of Elisabetta, Stefania, Flaminia, Angela. They entered together.
“They said that you had to question us too.”
Marzio was very gentle. It was a difficult situation. Partly because of his personal embarrassment: one of them was Elisabetta’s husband. Each had already given their alibis to the investigators – none of them had left Vissone on the Sea, so they couldn’t be in any way involved in the investigation.
“Let me offer you my sincerest condolences. I don’t think we need to ask you for any further information for the moment. Please carry on with your business in complete autonomy.”
In jacket and tie and with the thin, clean aura of someone who has always done an intellectual job, the smartest of the four was certainly the husband of Angela, the teacher, while it was difficult to find anything that connected the other three, dressed in normal clothes, anoraks, heavy pants, woollen hats – dressed the way city people dress when they go to the mountains, smelling of mothballs – to Elisabetta, or Stefania, or Flaminia.
“I am at your complete disposal…”
None of the four asked questions about the investigation, why their four wives had committed suicide, what could have happened in Bucaneve apartment twelve. Mute, their eyes seemingly switched off by the tragedy, they watched Marzio. Resigned. No tears. Beyond being traumatised by the horror of the events, they looked almost relieved.
There was no doubt that the four women hadn’t loved their husbands. Nor did the husbands seem particularly upset. It was a circle without a heart. They hated each other reciprocally. Death had freed them from responsibility, separations, divorces, arguments. An atrocious sense of satisfaction floated over them, as if destiny had smoothed out rancour and conflict, leaving behind no sense of guilt. All saints. Saint Elisabetta, Saint Stefania, Saint Flaminia, Saint Angela, the sainted spouses. Marzio noted that, ironically, the four had gathered beneath the poster of the horned deer. The lewd pairing of cuckolds and the horns they were supposed to wear in popular tradition gave him some slight amusement.
“Unless you have any questions, obviously, you are free to go.”
They left with great pleasure. Marzio continued his meetings – after the husbands it was the turn of the lovers. They too were demanding to communicate ‘extremely important information.’
Arturo the chemist was the first. Bivouacked in his silence, he fiddled with his fingers on the desk. Marzio had never seen him so tense.
“Inspector, I let Angela have some Psicontral without a prescription.”
“What?”
“Psicontral is one of the most dangerous and powerful antidepressants on the market. You need a prescription signed by a psychiatrist and countersigned by a hospital.”
“And why did you do that?”
“Saturday night, we were in the shop after I’d closed up. Just messing about and being silly. We were tipsy on Ginpin. She asked me to make love to her with my white coat on. It was a fantasy of hers. We had fun, it was nice, then Angela started rummaging about on the shelves looking through all the medicines. She was like a chemist herself, she knew all of them. When she saw the box of Psicontral, she shouted with pleasure like a little kid and asked me to give it to her. I said no, but then she put my thing in her mouth again. I let her talk me into it. ‘Please, it’s the only thing that makes me sleep. If you don’t give me it, I won’t be able to sleep tonight because I’ll be thinking about having to say goodbye to you’. ‘But you need a prescription for Psicontral’. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve used it plenty of times’. The umpteenth time she asked, I gave in. I gave her two packets. You don’t think that it was that that caused it, do you? Mixed with the alcohol, it could have had unpredictable side effects. It would have been an explosive cocktail. And the other three women might have taken it to sleep too. And their sleep turned into a tragedy. It’s a dangerous drug. I wonder if it was my foolishness that caused this terrible thing.”
Had the Psicontral disturbed Angela’s mind, altered her sense of reality so much that she’d turned on the gas? It was a persuasive hypothesis that might decide the direction of the investigation. But Marzio tried to reassure the pharmacist. He looked as though he were in a bad way.
“I realise that we’re all emotionally involved. Let’s wait for the results of the autopsies.”
In addition to his sorrow, which was certainly not the sorrow of love, Olinto, the owner of Ginpin, expressed a single anxiety.
“White Wolf, before they start picking through my life, I want you to know that I’ve always paid my taxes, except for the odd occasion.”
“Always or not always?”
“How can you always pay your taxes? If I’d declared everything, the only company in Valdiluce – the one that gives the town employment and pride – would have closed down.”
“Look, Olinto, let’s pretend this conversation never happened, I have no memory of you confessing to not having paid your taxes but it must remain on your conscience. Be warned, though, that when everything has calmed down, I will be asking the finance police to check your accounts.”
Olinto came out of the office with his head down, penitent but unconvinced. Osvaldo from the ski rental came in, accompanied as always by his setter, Dik. He wanted to unload himself of his fears. Only to Marzio, who he’d known forever. Dik licked White Wolf’s hands then lay down at his feet.
“It’s the first time that I’ve cheated on my wife. It was Stefania who seduced me. She came to the shop, she asked me for a pair of boots, I don’t know what happened to me. I saw her bare feet, beautiful, pale. I caressed them, it must have had an effect on her. She made me take my shoes off. They were a bit disgusting without socks, but she lost her head. She started kissing them and we went into the storeroom… It’s all her fault, I had nothing to do with it. I was seduced. My wife mustn’t find out, I’d be ruined. You know what Morena’s like, she’s a nasty piece of work. Promise me that you’re not going to tell my wife and that it’ll remain a police secret.”
“As far as I’m concerned, nobody will know, but people saw you with Stefania and Dik at the Pino Rosso and at the La Casina restaurant. We know what you ate – fillet with porcini mushrooms and strawberries with ice cream. The light in your shop was often on until late, there were moans and whispers…”
Osvaldo was pale. In his animal primitiveness, he’d thought he’d been
careful. He was like a cat hiding under a bed with its tail sticking out, in full view of everyone.
“You shouldn’t be surprised, Osvaldo. We receive about ten anonymous letters a day, where every detail of everybody’s life is reported scrupulously. Mine too.”
A whiff of fear touched his nose.
“You know what my wife’s like, she’ll kill me…”
“Come off it. Calm down. And stop thinking about it.”
Osvaldo left gloomily, as though storm clouds were amassing over his head. Marzio was alone. It was one o’clock and a pleasant silence was growing, accompanied by the scent of fir wood furniture. White Wolf put his hands behind the back of his neck, stretched his legs out on the desk and gently rocked his mind as though it were in a cradle. It was a way to relax.
It was true that Morena, Osvaldo’s wife, actually was dangerous. She was as ugly and powerful as a tank, and Marzio had got to know her well back when he was a lad. At the time, when he’d been sixteen, White Wolf had worked as a blueberry picker. The only male in a group of seven women. With the rasp, a sort of wooden comb, he had to pull down two hundred pounds of blueberries a day. Before becoming a nurse at the hospital of Vicosauro, Morena, thirty years old then but already looking fifty, had been the chief blueberry picker. They started at dawn and knocked off at sunset. Hard work, and not much time for talk, but sometimes, for no clear reason, things took an unexpected turn, maybe because of the weather, or the moon, or some elf of love firing his arrows from the woods.
“Do you know you’ve got a really nice arse, White Wolf?”
Marzio had turned as red as a tomato, bent his knees to stop his trousers from pulling tight over his backside and concentrated all his shyness on his rasp, increasing the speed of his blueberry harvesting. Morena continued teasing him.
“Don’t waste your energy, you’re going to need it later.”
“What do you mean, later?” asked White Wolf in a faint voice.
“You’re a man and we’re women. Use your head, Marzio – it’s not going to be knitting, is it?”