“I want at least five. I’m one of three, all boys. I want three boys and two girls. But I’m a little worried about the girls, because when they get older you have to deal with the boyfriends, and I think I’ll be a jealous father, jealous of anyone who gets too close to my daughters . . . you get me, boss?”
“Yep. That’s the way it goes.” And maybe that idiot goes around bragging that he sells weed to the Marshal’s daughter. That’s what they call her: the Marshal. Maybe they do it out of respect for her femininity, with her being a woman, and a mother. Anyway, it sounds like the title of one of those old Alvaro Vitali movies.
“Five children, boss. So no matter how bad it turns out, at least we can have our own soccer team. What do you think? We could—” The car slips in the snow.
“Careful!” Grazia grabs the door handle. “If you want to set up house around here, you have to learn to drive in the snow, because there’s only one plow in the whole province and it doesn’t run more than once a week. You have to go slow, in a low gear, and definitely never hit the brakes like that.”
“I apologize, ma’am.”
“And I told you not to address me so formally when we’re alone. We’re not Fantozzi and Filini, for God’s sake.”
“Okay, boss. I apologize.”
“Go slow. The Gherarda Hotel is coming up, let’s try to make it there in one piece.”
As they approach the hotel, the car from the provincial police carrying Giulio Rodari, the man accused of murdering his ex-girlfriend and hiding her body in a jealous rage, appears around the curve. Aggravated homicide and concealment of a corpse. Grazia already knows. He had been another one of her classmates, like Solfrizzi’s father. Giulio, though, had been a good guy. Which makes the whole story seem a bit absurd. Someone like him losing his head that way. But he did have stalking complaints against him. Witnesses too.
The cars arrive practically at the same time. This will make Scalise happy, since it gives the impression of extreme punctuality and coordination. Barbara, Rodari’s mother, is standing outside the hotel, along with the Kurd who works for her. They’ve closed the winter season early so they can accommodate Rodari and handle things with a measure of calm.
The driver for the colonel of the provincial police gets out of the car and opens the door for him. Scalise adjusts his uniform and drapes his coat over his shoulders. Grazia and Donato walk over to greet him.
Rodari is the last one out of the car. The others all notice that they’re staring at him and look away in unison, while Grazia only notices after it’s too late and turns to observe Barbara. She’s already thought about how a mother might feel in all this. Her eyes are glassy, perhaps frightened, as she approaches her son, embracing him. And now she can’t hold back her tears. Grazia only realizes after the fact that this will make her cry too. It’s a mother thing . . . but it’s a sign of weakness that she shouldn’t have displayed in front of Scalise. She takes out her handkerchief and blows her nose, trying to dab at her tears without being too obvious.
“Let’s go inside, I just baked a cake,” Barbara says, wiping the sleeve of her jacket across her eyes.
“A cake? Great!” says the driver who accompanied Scalise, before receiving a glare from the colonel.
“Come on, you can’t say no to a good cake,” says Barbara.
“Especially one of the Gherarda’s cakes,” Grazia adds.
“So go get your cake,” Scalise says.
The snow muffles their footsteps as they approach the entrance.
As soon as Akan opens the door, a big orange cat leaps out.
“Beautiful cat, my compliments,” says Scalise. “My wife is a cat lover. We have two, but I’ve never seen one that big.”
“We have three,” says Barbara. “They belonged to my sister, Amanda.”
Akan waits for everyone to enter, looks to the sky, which is dense, with a foreboding pallor, and closes the door.
It’s the day of shortcuts. Viola puts on her helmet and calculates that the shortest route to her destination passes by the Gherarda—the hotel where her mother went this morning to see that guy who killed his ex and who is staying there until the trial. So she has to take another route and make sure to hide her scooter in a place where it can’t be seen from the road.
She walks the path as she puts on her heavy gloves over her open-tipped ones. She doesn’t anticipate any issues.
Turn the key, press the button. She gives it some gas, and the wheel skids underneath her. But for someone who has learned to drive on these roads, it’s no problem. Nerves of steel, no hard braking, and so on.
After a few minutes the scooter is already climbing the old road, the one no one takes anymore because it’s blocked farther down. Everyone knows why, but it’s one of those things people don’t like to talk about. And this makes her nervous. Because sometimes she has the impression that people behave like this when they want to forget about certain things. And in the end it’s the people who are forgotten. Everyone has the right to be happy, but that’s the jerkiest way to go about it.
When she arrives at the fork, she stops. Everything around her is white. To the left the road slopes upward, and from there she can stop and go on through the old woods by foot. To the right the road goes down to the bridge.
The bridge that no longer exists. The void in its place. A void that, four years ago, swallowed the lives of seven people. Michele was among them. The fourth member of Lilith.
Rodari went upstairs. He said he needed to shower and lie down for a few hours. The four officers are sitting at one of the bar tables, and each has a plate with a slice of apple cake.
“It’s a fairy tale,” says the driver of Scalise’s car. “But you shouldn’t close the hotel. The season is good this year, you can still ski in March, the lifts are open, and . . .” Too late, again, he notices the commander.
“They say when it snows during the days of the blackbird, the snow stays on the ground until late April,” says Barbara, who understands the situation and is trying to help the indiscreet carabiniere.
“The blackbird?” asks Scalise.
“The last days of January,” says Barbara. “According to tradition, they’re the coldest days of the year. Legend has it that a lady blackbird once spent them in the shelter of a chimney dirty with soot, and ever since then the females have been darker than the males.”
Scalise seems to be struck by intuition. “Your son wrote about it in one of his gnome books, right? I’m sure I’ve read that.”
Barbara smiles. “We closed a little early,” she says, turning to the driver, “so we could dedicate ourselves to some matters that have been pending for a long time. And it just so happened to come in handy, with regard to my son’s affair. He wouldn’t have been able to stay here if the hotel were running.”
“Obviously,” confirms Scalise, glaring at the driver, who shoves a piece of cake into his mouth and slowly chews. “I saw the forecast: it’s going to snow in the next few days,” the colonel resumes, when the silence gets too long for his taste. “You’re not ever scared of the isolation? I’ve heard the roads get blocked with snow.”
“We have a snowmobile,” says Barbara. “Akan knows how to drive it. Thank goodness for him. I can’t even drive the car. I have an old Ford that belonged to my sister, but without Akan, it never would have left the garage.”
“I’m sorry about your sister. Your son told me what happened,” says Scalise.
“Thank you. Anyway, I don’t think we’ll be going out much. We want to focus on the tasks at hand so we can make up for the lost weeks in the summer season, when this story will be behind us.” The carabinieri remain silent. “I know, my timeline is optimistic. But I think the deputy prosecutor will soon realize that she’s mistaken.”
“I hope you’re right,” says Scalise. “Meanwhile, you’ll have all of the local officers at your disposal. I thought I’d see them all this morning, but obviously the others felt the duty to remain on the job. Isn’t that righ
t, Marshal Parodi?”
It takes Grazia a few seconds to realize the colonel isn’t joking.
“The others?” asks Donato, a moment before realizing it’s better to stay quiet.
“The others, of course. What’s wrong with that, Marshal? I thought it was a given.”
Grazia rests her fork on her plate, wipes her mouth with her napkin, and tries to find the best words for her response.
“Colonel,” she says, “there are no others.”
“Yes, I see they aren’t here, Marshal. It’s good that they’re so dedicated to their work, and I’m not one to get my panties in a bunch, but this is my first time up here and I expected to meet all of you. Don’t worry, just let them know I’m grateful for their constant attention to their duties in this delightful, remote corner of our province.”
“Look,” says Grazia, “I think there’s been a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“Yes, Colonel. It’s not that they’re not here right now. It’s that they don’t exist. Esposito and I are the only ones manning the station.”
Silence.
“Anyone want another slice?” asks Barbara. Grazia smiles at her for trying to break the tension.
“How is that possible?” asks Scalise.
“Marmora got his transfer and went back home to the Marche. D’Arrigo didn’t get the transfer he put in for, but he was sent to Palermo. Chelli applied for a mission abroad, and he’s completing the prep course. Friguglia is on sick leave.”
“How sick is he?”
“I don’t know. He’s been sick since I was assigned to the station. Maybe he has issues answering to a woman commander.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Parodi. I’ll address this myself. But why didn’t you report the situation?”
“Maybe they never passed it along to you, Colonel, but I’ve been sounding the alarm for a while now.”
“Of course, I imagine. Who doesn’t complain these days? Isn’t that right, Ms. Barbara? I’ll bet even you had to make a few mistakes before you learned how to make such an exquisite cake, am I right?”
“Even colonels can mess up sometimes, huh?” chirps the driver.
Grazia captures the flash of absolute anger across the colonel’s eyes. The driver doesn’t seem to realize that the return journey will be the longest and most wrenching of his career. She realizes that she shouldn’t concern herself with Esposito’s plans for staying or his intentions to reproduce.
A sudden noise catches everyone off guard. It seems to come from the wall, maybe from the ceiling. A metallic sort of cry.
“Pipes,” says Barbara. “It happens. One of the things we have to fix. I think my son is trying to shower.”
Grazia hopes Barbara doesn’t start crying again, because then she’ll start too. She hates the way she can’t help but feel for everyone and everything: it makes her feel fragile, and as a woman in uniform she is at risk of embarrassing herself in front of her superiors. Scalise wasn’t the one to put her up for her job. Nor does she think he ever would have.
FOUR
There is a clearing at the foot of the cliff called the Sasso del Corvo, or the Crow’s Rock, after its elongated shape that’s reminiscent of a beak. And there is a small cave, just there, where they say that a murderous highwayman has been hiding for some time. It’s not very deep, but deep enough to house voices, legends, stories, folklore, and local hearsay about satanic masses and immigrants gone missing. Sometimes there’s a big owl that flies around these parts. There are also those who say this place lies at the exact center of the old woods, where the forces that inhabit it are most concentrated. Spirits. According to ancient pagan beliefs, which date back to before the construction of the village church down below, when people born in these parts die, their souls take up residence in the woods, waiting.
Viola is sitting on her backpack, leaning against a large rock emerging from the cover of snow. She’s holding an iPhone set on record. She holds it straight out in front of her and moves it all around, as if she were trying to pick up a signal. Sounds. Voices. The breath of the woods, they call it. Maybe it’s just the wind rustling the dry beech branches. Maybe it’s just a load of crap, suggestions that awaken the old stories they heard as kids. But the iPhone’s recording app signals something: it’s recording a sound. Even if Viola can’t hear it, something out there is producing a sound. That’s what the old stories refer to. And it’s the imperceptible sound that she needs for Lilith’s song.
She’s been here for an hour, give or take. She’s recorded a bunch of small files of a few minutes each.
She hits pause and props up the smartphone against the rock.
Her eyes are tearing up, which happens to her often in these parts. She wipes them with her fingerless gloves, which reveal her fingernails, painted black. Her skin is pale, and the dark makeup on her eyes and lips makes her look even more pallid.
She looks around at the still landscape as she fidgets with seven silver earrings on her left ear.
The day is perfect for recording the breath. Now she has good material to work with. There’s little time to spare, because before the end of school, before their exams and all the rest of it, Lilith will break up. They even decided on the date: June 21. Summer solstice. Lilith, the wind, and the rain. It will all end with spring.
Viola takes the phone and checks her calls. Nothing from her mother: it’s all going smoothly.
She opens WhatsApp to write a message to Arturo.
I got some good material, can I come mix?
She places the phone back against the rock. She digs into her pocket and pulls out her pouch of Old Holborn blue, places the tobacco in a rolling paper, which her agile fingers roll quickly, her tongue passing along the edge to close it. Viola lights the cigarette and exhales a mouthful of blue smoke that dissipates in the frosty air. Her sadness has passed, leaving the strange sense of comfort that this place grants her in a way that few others do.
A message notification.
My house is your house, my parents are out. See you tonight.
It’s time to start compiling the song.
Giulio is sitting on the edge of the bed. The hood of his bathrobe covers his head. His eyes are fixed on the floor. This is his old room, in the separate part of the hotel his family used as their residence.
“Giulio, I don’t want to see you anymore. You scare me, do you understand?”
They’re sitting at a table near the concession stand in the park. Patrizia is wearing her usual sweet perfume. They’re only at the beginning of the crisis. They’ve just sat down; she hasn’t even sipped the spritz they brought over. The ice melts as the water fizzes. After she tells him she’s afraid of him, she’ll get up and leave. Giulio will stay, observing her pendulating strides. He’ll feel a lacerating sensation as she walks away, as if that motion were tearing her out of him. His body is hit with an electric jolt, the need to destroy everything in his sight. The table, Patrizia’s spritz, his alcohol-free lager, the little bowl of potato chips, the one with the olives, and all the rest of that sore thumb of a concession stand that looks like it belongs in a park on the moon.
He needs to breathe. Slowly. He needs to see a doctor to get some strong medication. He’s unwell. Really unwell. And this is just the beginning.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes are focused on that concession stand. And everything that came after. The nights spent outside Patrizia’s apartment. The r-r-ring of her phone into the void. The messages he sent, those cursed check marks that turned blue when she read them, and so why didn’t she respond? It won’t kill you to answer me for once, bitch. There it was. The breakdown of language. The first sign of his emotional unraveling. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stares into the abyss that swallowed him.
Is there a cure?
In this room in his mother’s hotel, the floor is wood. The planks were arranged at regular intervals. From the exact center of each one begins the next.
On the day they went
to the park, the carabinieri arrived at the concession stand and restrained him. Patrizia had only been gone for a few minutes when he lost his mind. The bar manager is wielding a broom in an attempt to defend himself. The other customers have gathered around him. A couple of tables have been flipped over. Pigeons peck at the potato chips among the pieces of glass scattered on the pavement. Even passersby have stopped to look at that crazy guy.
“The bar manager accepts compensation and withdraws his lawsuit, sir, but you need to calm down.”
The carabiniere isn’t wearing a hat.
The bathrobe is damp.
The wood planks are all parallel.
Giulio raises his head. He looks around. What happened? This had been his room, years ago. Opposite the bed there is a desk, and above it are shelves with books. A whole shelf is taken up by the complete collection of The Fantastic Adventures of Teo the Gnome. He cannot believe he ever managed to write so many. Those old country stories, legends about the woods he heard from his aunt Amanda, the witch.
My name is Theophrastus Grimblegromble, but you can call me Teo, if you please. I have a red beard and a nice green hat.
The concession stand in the park was his tipping point. The spritz glass with the melting ice, the last thing he recalls being intact.
Then the rest came.
The abyss.
“Sir, a complaint was lodged against you pursuant to article 612-bis, do you know what that means? Persecutory acts. Stalking. She’s not messing around now.”
To be a gnome, to be able to disappear.
And then, toward the epilogue, the final chapter of the tragedy.
“Sir, what happened the other night?”
The void. White. He hasn’t a clue what happened. He has a hole of at least four hours and a cut on his eyebrow and no idea how it got there. Whenever he tries to explain, the listener has that expression. The expression that says they don’t believe a single word he’s saying.
The Hawthorne Season Page 3