The Hawthorne Season

by Riccardo Bruni

  Katerina quickly closes the text, but she can’t conceal her smile of contentment.

  “An admirer?” Marica asks.

  “Just a marketing text.”

  Sara does not exist. Sara is a married man who showers her with attention and has a plan for them both. A plan that she likes, because if it works, she can finally leave this place that’s so pathetic it makes her long for where she came from. Sara is a man who is about to make a lot of money and who has promised her a new life in Santo Domingo. He’s already shown her the house in Sosúa Bay, with palm trees that line the Caribbean beach kissed by the Antilles sun.

  “What about your hands?” Marica asks.

  “Emerald on those too.”

  THREE

  Deputy prosecutor Annalaura Lorenzon is sitting across from the suspect.

  Colonel Scalise called Grazia to attend the interrogation “as head of the suspect’s surveillance under house arrest.” Scalise sometimes speaks like a police report. Grazia has the feeling that he only does it with her, because he’s not entirely at ease with a woman marshal. As soon as they entered, he took her aside, assured her he was dealing with the “organic problem that he verified and of which I was only recently notified,” and then advised her not to mention it to the deputy prosecutor because they’re not “arguments inherent to the investigation activity to which the prosecution is party.”

  Giulio looks tired, despite having tried to make himself presentable. He’s wearing a jacket that’s a little too big, and his hair is disheveled.

  Grazia looks at him, trying to be discreet. She can recall how he looked in high school. It’s strange, how she hadn’t thought of him for so long, and yet she used to have such a weakness for that dazed boy who drew strange things. Elves, warriors, sorcerers, beautiful women who lived in imaginary worlds. He filled entire notebooks. One day he had given her a portrait: her in a fantasy heroine costume. Back then she never wondered where she’d be in twenty years. It seemed impossible that she would become a woman, a wife, a mother. Two out of three in the end isn’t too bad. But the last thing she could have expected from life was that she would be feet away from Giulio Rodari, overseeing his surveillance as a suspect under investigation for murder and the concealment of a corpse.

  And in fact, now she’s in charge of an entire empty police station, with a daughter who probably smokes weed with someone she might even be sleeping with, a house that’s always a mess, those cursed dishes in the sink every morning, no social life, no relationship on the horizon. She’s forced to be in this room by a superior who is embarrassed about working with a woman while her life slips along toward the wrong side of forty. Amen.

  “Marshal Parodi, everything all right?” Lorenzon’s voice seizes her and brings her back to the Gherarda dining room, converted for the time being into an interrogation room.

  “Excuse me, ma’am . . .”

  “As I was saying, could we have a summary of your surveillance activities?”

  “Of course, ma’am. I can email it later.”

  “It’s not ready?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “I understand.” The deputy prosecutor’s last glance before diving back into her files is directed at Scalise.

  “Okay, Rodari, let’s get to it.” The deputy prosecutor adjusts the glasses on her nose. “I’ll quickly cover some information, you correct me if necessary. So then.” She takes a sheet of paper scrawled with pen and begins to read. “You and Patrizia Alberti met in 2011.”

  “Not exactly,” says Giulio.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We already knew each other, of course. She lived here for a while.”

  “Did you already have a relationship?”

  “No, but out here in the country—”

  “Everyone knows everyone, I know. But that’s not what interests us here, Rodari. I’m referring to your relationship, understand? In any case, we say that in 2011 you met again and that you already knew each other in passing due to the fact that you both come from the same town. How’s that?”

  “Continue,” Giulio’s lawyer intervened, clutching the knot of his tie.

  “The occasion of your new encounter was the calamitous event that transpired in your local community that November. The collapse of a bridge that killed seven people traveling on a bus. One of the victims, Carmela Giomi, was a cousin of attorney Alberti’s mother, which is why she decided to represent the victims’ families during the preliminary investigation, with the intention of lodging a civil suit. A suit that could not take place, since the investigation was shelved, as the investigators couldn’t find any objective case for liability.”

  “Twice,” says Giulio.

  “What’s that?”

  “The prosecutor shelved the case twice. After the first time, the judge accepted attorney Alberti’s request”—this is the first time Giulio has referred to her in this way—“and ordered the prosecutor to reopen the investigation.”

  “Which led to nothing, right?” asks Lorenzon.

  “Does this have anything to do with the investigation at hand?” Giulio’s lawyer asks.

  “Right now, no. Not at the moment.” The deputy prosecutor begins to read again. “Since Giulio Rodari and his mother, Barbara Tantulli, also lost her sister, Amanda Tantulli, in the accident, they both agreed to be represented by attorney Alberti.”

  Only one week had passed since Bridge Day, as the newspapers had begun to call it. Giulio was looking out the window in the small waiting room of the law firm that contacted him. It was raining. Raindrops all along the windowpane. The door opened behind him. Patrizia.

  “Hi, Giulio, thank you for coming. Come on in.”

  “Is that right?” Lorenzon’s voice.

  “What was that?” asks Giulio.

  “Are you listening to me, Rodari? You do know what we’re talking about, here, today, do you not?”

  “My client is very shocked, ma’am, please take that into account.” Alberto Colletti’s voice is calm, relaxed. The deputy prosecutor doesn’t like him, it’s obvious. Giulio has the feeling that Lorenzon isn’t so opposed to the idea of a man killing a woman and a woman sticking it to him, and that all these little men standing between her and this story are just annoying obstacles that she wants to swat out of the way.

  “Let’s resume, if we all agree,” Lorenzon says. “Could we say the occasion of this meeting was the beginning of the relationship between attorney Alberti and the suspect?”

  “Ma’am,” Colletti says.

  “Excuse me. Between attorney Alberti and Rodari. A relationship that went on for four years, but not in the form of a stable domestic partnership”—the deputy prosecutor seems to say it with a good amount of reproach—“and that attorney Alberti decided to end in August of last year, just before going on vacation in Greece with some colleagues.”

  That night they had gone out for a pizza. They had decided to sleep together at Patrizia’s. Giulio had a couple of DVDs. They had just left the restaurant when the abyss opened at his feet.

  “Do you mind sleeping at your house tonight?” Patrizia asked.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Sometimes I have the impression that you don’t listen to me. That you live in a world where reality doesn’t penetrate. Giulio, what were we saying before?”

  “You’re going on vacation with your friends.”

  “Giulio, I was saying we need to take some time.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I want to be alone for a while. I don’t know if I still believe in us.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the same thing I’ve been trying to talk to you about for a long time and you keep ignoring me, Giulio. Look, I’m sorry, really, you’re a great person . . . oh, sorry, I never thought I’d say that. The fact is . . . well, I don’t know exactly. I don’t think I need to have a specific reason, maybe it will take time for us to understand why it didn’t work out. B
ut I need to not see you for a while. And if you can go to my place and get all your things while I’m in Greece, that would make everything a lot easier.”

  Patrizia returned from Greece two weeks later.

  When Giulio sees her name come up on his phone, he decides not to answer. Not right away, at least. He needs to be able to explain the difficult concept of emotional blackout that he’s still sorting out. It came to him so suddenly, as he was in her apartment collecting his toothbrush, pajamas, bathrobe, instant coffee, some sweaters, a pair of trousers. He could fit it all into one bag. That was the thing that freaked him out. That their entire story could all come down to one bag and be carried away just like that, without the slightest disturbance. The fact is that every thunderstorm has a first drop of rain. As soon as it hits the ground and fragments into so many smaller drops, it already contains the potential of the destruction that will follow. The little bag, leaning against the front door. Giulio felt something like a calling. He turned. The apartment was perfectly in order. It was as if he had never been a part of it. Patrizia continued to call his cell, knowing sooner or later he’d have to answer. He needed to explain to her that at first he only intended to leave a sign of his presence, something that couldn’t be deleted so easily, like a white eraser across a pencil stroke. But then something happened. The raindrop. The blackout. The apartment devastated, only fragments of which remain in his memory. As if Giulio Rodari had left those rooms, leaving behind another Giulio Rodari to destroy everything in his path. “Maybe you should talk to that Giulio,” he whispered, watching his silenced phone, with the display of Patrizia’s smiling face in that picture they took during a weekend in Paris when she had accompanied him to deliver a job. “I know it seems strange, love, but it’s like it wasn’t me,” he continued to whisper to her image on the illuminated display. “It’s like it was a totally different person.”

  “Rodari?” Lorenzon’s voice. “Attorney Colletti, do you think your client could deign to give us his attention? It’s not like we’re here telling bedtime stories, you know? I’m sure we all have better things to be doing.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Colletti says. “I think it’s best if we take a little break. Maybe they can bring us something to drink, what do you say? Giulio, are you with us? Can we get something to drink?”

  Grazia looks at him.

  He seems detached. Sometimes it seems as if he were somewhere else. Is this what happens, then? Does a person flip a switch and become a monster? One flick and an infinite darkness takes over? Did he really kill Patrizia? The attorney sitting beside him shakes him, doing everything he can to keep that priggish smile on his face. Giulio looks like he’s coming back from a long, arduous journey. The deputy prosecutor is staring at him with stone-cold eyes.

  “Sorry, I was distracted,” he says, looking around as if he were lost.

  The station phone vibrates. Grazia pulls it out of her pocket. It’s Donato. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, chief, remember that fox?”

  “What fox?”

  “The head they found at GeoService.”

  “Donato, I don’t think now is the time to—”

  “It was already dead, I think.”

  “You know, we’re in the middle of an important interrogation here and I—”

  “I was at Bar Fuga, and there were these guys who were talking, and one of them said something about wild animals crossing the road, how they get disoriented by the snow. And he said that just the other night, on his way home, he hit a fox. He got out of his car to check that it was actually dead. That animal’s abdomen was cut open like it had passed through a meat grinder. He ended up moving it to the edge of the road so that no one would have an accident trying to brake on the ice if they saw it in the way.”

  “Very interesting, Donato. Draw up a report. In the meantime I’ll be here . . .”

  “So the Spirits of the Woods didn’t kill the animal, per se, but they used it to demonstrate how man can harm the creatures of the forest when he’s too distracted. This changes our approach to the investigation, don’t you think?”

  “Donato, seriously, there is no spirit in the woods, and I don’t think we need to launch an investigation for a prank with everything else we have . . .”

  “What I mean to say is that I don’t think they’re evil.”

  “Are you listening to me? What were you doing at the bar? Did they make you drink?”

  “The guys gave me some kind of strange hot chocolate.”

  The Fuga’s famous chocolate liqueur, a kind of baptism by fire for newcomers. An alcohol content that would down an elephant.

  “Donato, where are you going?”

  “I’m coming to you. I realized I need to talk to Scalise personally.”

  “No! Negative, go back to the station.”

  “But I think—”

  “That’s an order from your commander, Officer. Go back to the station.”

  That damned fox was the last thing they needed.

  FOUR

  The committee meeting is particularly animated. Maybe it’s the cinnamon that excites them, or the tea they’ve consumed by the gallon, most often with a dash of rum. Outside it’s snowing.

  Mayor Falconi is like all politicians: only concerned with his own interests; yes, but he promised he wouldn’t authorize the project; yes, but besides that, are we ready to organize an armed resistance or not?; Mayor Falconi can only object in the presence of well-founded security reasons—it’s written right here; here? where?; in this thing I got online; a resistance armed with what, specifically?; if you got it online, it could be a buffalo for all we know; yes, but then why isn’t the mayor here?; he’s afraid of being seen with us; I say we appoint a security committee to deal with enemy attempts at infiltration; there’s still some tea left; when we occupied the Bruschi theater . . . ; oh, stop it; I’m serious, they gave me a citation for that stupid theater; there’s no more tea, but there’s still some rum; we should go to Brussels; you’re delusional; if there’s no agenda next time, I’m not coming; the EU is in Brussels; they can stop them; I found the Environmental Protection data online.

  Barbara isn’t here. She’s sitting with them, next to the window, and she’s caressing the orange cat, who is purring at her, but her mind is in another room. She had wanted to attend the interrogation, but the deputy prosecutor wouldn’t allow it. And she didn’t insist that much, since Lorenzon was already so annoyed by the committee meeting. That woman is a very rigid person.

  “Barbara, as hostess, would you like to be the committee spokesperson? We’re thinking of appointing officers so that we can have a defined organizational chart.” Having abandoned his dream of having an agenda, Fralassi has moved on to the distribution of roles, proposing himself as secretary.

  “Where have you been?” Gerri’s back in his place, behind the counter at Bar Fuga. The lumberjacks are back in the woods, and the bar is deserted. The incessant music from the slot machines penetrates from the other room. The slots are hungry. They want tokens and loneliness to swallow with their multicolored and smiling faces. The old bar floor is a slurry of melted snowdrops.

  “I was at the spa, like I said,” says Katerina, sitting at a table. “Do you think it’s too dark?” she asks, examining the emerald polish on her nails.

  “You left here three hours ago.”

  “So? What is this now, are you clocking my time?”

  “I wish you’d give me a hand around here sometimes.”

  “Why?” Katerina looks around at all the empty tables. “Too many customers? Look, give me a prosecco, keep yourself busy.”

  “Why don’t you get it yourself?”

  “So that’s how it is. You brought me to this country to make a kitchen maid out of me? You want me to skip the ball to become a servant, eh?”

  “You did all your dancing in a strip club.”

  “Fuck you, Gerri.” She gets up and leaves, slamming the door behind her.

  Gerri guzzles anot
her glass of cool white wine. To swallow that “fuck you,” however, he’ll need another. He sends it down, smothering those forty-five candles that lit in his stomach and burned like hell. He enters the slot room. The music seems to grow louder. On one screen, a smiling watermelon invites him to play. But Gerri came to look for something else. His birthday gone unnoticed has triggered something. A mechanism that turns back time, and one that’s increasingly difficult to escape. When it happens, there is nothing he can do but cash in and see how long he can stay on his feet.

  Here it is on the wall, his picture from so many years ago. Regional archery champion. Minus twenty pounds and a failed marriage. He liked being an archer. Watching the arrow go exactly where he sent it. Being at one with it. Feeling a little like Kevin Costner in Robin Hood. Then his focus changes, and the glass covering the photo reveals the image of the present day. He hadn’t even noticed he’d been crying. Defeat burns. No victory can ever make up for the pain of certain losses. He can’t even remember the last time they had sex, he and Katerina. The fact is, she likes it too much to have gone without it all this time. And he has a growing suspicion that she’s doing it with someone else. That’s what they’re saying around town—he’d bet on it. They said the same thing about his father. But this shouldn’t have happened to him. To the young archer, this wasn’t supposed to have happened.

  “It’s really a great song, Purple.” Diego calls Viola by her Italian name in English. His eyes are still red and glassy like two colored marbles, but he looks like he’s starting to come out of it.

  “The first time I heard it, I knew right away that . . .” Viola’s voice wavers, and she has to stop. With an infinite delicacy she passes the cuff of her sweater over the Fender plate, wiping away the invisible particles of dust. “I know it’s weird, but I want Michele to be in this song. It’s important. This guitar was his.”

  The presence of Lilith’s fourth member is a nearly palpable void. In reality, Michele has never been part of the band; Diego and Arturo barely knew him.