“It’s not weird, Purple,” Diego says. “I like playing with him. And I’m sure he likes to hear it too. If he really is in the woods with everyone else, I think he’ll enjoy your arrangement.”
“Oh, he’s in the woods.” Viola’s eyes are glassy. Whenever she talks about that boy, she gets choked up.
Diego nods, smiles. “If it’s okay by you, Purple, I want to try a few variations to bring out a few passages. Send me the file so I can listen to it when I have more time.”
“Send it to me too,” says Arturo as he passes the towel over his hair. He can sweat like a fiend in the span of fifteen minutes. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to double up on a few passages for more thrust. Give it a more progressive sound. Don’t you think?”
“Go for it,” says Viola. “I have to work on the guitar solo now. I have to record two different tracks.”
“So how will we perform it live?” Arturo asks.
“Live? I didn’t think we were going to play any more live shows. We only have three months left together. We have to finish this song, record it once and for all, and upload it to YouTube. That’s my focus.”
Three months until the end of Lilith. The last ninety days, more or less, of the band that got them through their teenage years.
Viola checks the time. “It’s still too early for the other thing,” she tells her friends.
“I have a few sandwiches in my bag,” says Arturo. “We can wait here. In the meantime—”
Before he’s done speaking, Diego interrupts with a riff from “Seven Nation Army.” His eyes are half-closed, his head bobs, and he looks like a wayward antenna that’s swirling around to avoid losing a signal it just captured from outer space.
Viola smiles. She wants some distortion in the song. She presses the pedal, looks at the red light on the overdrive, and touches the strings of her Stratocaster.
Arturo has the expression of a Maori warrior. He extends his arms, spins his drumsticks between his fingers. He waits for the right moment. When it arrives, he nods to the others and pounces on the drums.
The White Stripes song explodes.
FIVE
“So, so, so, we’re coming up to the night of March eleventh.” Deputy prosecutor Annalaura Lorenzon has resumed browsing her notes. During the break, she had stepped out to smoke a couple of cigarettes. She lit the second one with the butt of the first. Grazia observed her through the window. Her coat was draped over her shoulders, and she was on her phone the whole time. Grazia sent a few messages to Viola, to warn her that she’d be late, but her daughter hasn’t responded yet. She’ll have to make another dinner alone, and she’ll probably smoke some more weed. Grazia should be there with her, to talk about what is happening to her, but Esposito can’t stand in for the Marshal. She checks the time again, but her phone falls to the ground as Scalise turns to her. Grazia smiles and apologizes as she picks it up. “The night from which,” continues the deputy prosecutor, “as is evident from the statements you already issued, you recall nothing. Or has something come back to you, by chance? For example, how did you get that cut?”
Giulio touches the bandage on his left eyebrow.
“My client has a problem with alcohol,” says Colletti.
“Well, Counsel, here we’ve arrived at the crux of the matter. Could you specify what kind of problem it is and if there’s any documentation of it?” asks Lorenzon.
“Rodari can’t tolerate alcohol,” Colletti explains, looking through his worn leather briefcase. “He never could, because he never drank it. These are very personal matters, however, and I’m not sure if my client . . .”
Giulio nods.
“Okay,” Colletti continues. “Rodari lost his father when he was nine. A car accident—drinking and driving.”
The memory of that day has a specific color. White. His father hadn’t come home. The phone call. The carabinieri’s car coming to take his mother away. They’d found him. The car had been buried in snow.
“You know what happened, right?” his aunt Amanda had asked. She had the poufy hair and black eyeliner of a rock ’n’ roll chick. “You’ll have to be strong, but you’re already a little man, I can tell. Would you like a slice of cake? And after the snowplow comes we can go for a little spin, okay? Let’s just do what we want. We can get in the car and drive, without knowing where we’re going, see where the day takes us. How does that sound?”
“The trauma from his father’s death is why he never drank alcohol. So his issue didn’t reveal itself until one day, at a party, when he agreed to drink for the first time in his life. He was twenty-five years old. The next morning he knocked on the door of a farm to ask where he was. During the night he had traveled twelve miles. But that memory was reconstructed later, with the time and help of a psychologist. Because Rodari didn’t remember a thing about that night. In technical terms, it’s called lacunar amnesia. There are articles and studies about it that I look forward to producing as soon as possible, following the appointment of a psychiatric consultant. It’s the opinion of this defense that on the night of March eleventh, the same thing occurred, as a result of, let’s say, a conspicuous intake of alcoholic substances, due to my client’s emotional state. This evoked the same reaction that he had before, in his body, leading him to be completely removed from what happened that night. I certainly don’t need to remind the deputy prosecutor that the burden of proof is not up to this defense, and that it’s the prosecution that must corroborate its accusations against my client, including drinking alcohol, leaving his house, following attorney Alberti, attacking her, killing her, and then finding the lucidity necessary to hide her body and conceal any evidence that could be attributed to such criminal acts.”
“Don’t get too excited, Counsel,” snaps Lorenzon. “It’s yet to be determined if he concealed all the evidence.”
“There’s no evidence to conceal because—”
“Says you, not me. However, I don’t think anyone can deny us the great pleasure of a psychiatric opinion. So we’ll defer the matter to the preliminary judge and see how we proceed. In the meantime, however, so I have a little more information, could you tell me, Mr. Rodari, anything about what you remember about that night? Do you remember, for example, your confrontation with Alberti’s neighbors?”
“In part,” says Giulio. “I remember trying to break down her apartment door.”
“But you had had a set of keys to that apartment, in the past.”
“I still had them. But Patrizia changed the lock.”
“And why was that?”
“Because I entered without her permission and I—”
“Excuse me, but what does this have to do with anything?” asks Colletti.
“Counsel, we’re just trying to clarify this point, but if you prefer we can bring your client straight to the judge in handcuffs.”
“I tormented her, it’s no secret,” says Giulio. “She filed a report against me. Stalking. I went to her apartment in the evenings, I sent her messages nonstop, I followed her. I made her life a living hell.”
“And this you remember because you were sober, evidently.”
“Madam prosecutor, excuse me, but—” Colletti tries to intervene.
“Look, Counsel, allow me to point something out. When you spoke of this presumed—what did you call it?—lacunar amnesia, you said that Rodari, who was twenty-five at the time, spent the whole night walking. He didn’t just stare at the ceiling until it passed, or am I wrong? So the fact that he doesn’t recall what happened on the night of March eleventh, because he decided to get wasted, doesn’t mean that he spent the whole night tucked away in bed, waiting for his hangover to pass. Because before the time lapse of which he alleges to have no memory, he did a whole series of things that are relatively indicative of his state and his intentions with regard to the victim. And if you interrupt me again while I try to clarify this point with your client, we can bring him to the judge and let him try. Have I made myself clear?”
Colle
tti loosens the knot on his blue tie.
“I’d drunk a lot,” Giulio continues. “I was trying to knock down the door, and that’s when the neighbors came out onto the landing. The Castagninis. I knew them because I spent a good amount of time at Patrizia’s. They told me she wasn’t home, or something like that anyway. I started shouting that they needed to mind their own business, and I think I may have scared them.”
“You said, ‘Mind your own fucking business or I’ll kill you,’ or so says Mr. Castagnini,” the deputy prosecutor cites, reading from a sheet in front of her. “Do you remember that?”
“I may have said something along those lines.”
“And that’s not all you said. You said, ‘I’ll kill the lot of you, first her, then you, and then I’ll kill myself.’”
“A plan he didn’t follow through on, obviously,” notes Colletti.
“What does that have to do with it?” asks the deputy prosecutor.
“He said he was going to kill himself, but he didn’t.”
“So?”
“So I’d say it changes the value of the neighbors’ testimony regarding his plans.”
“We’ll leave it to the judge to determine that, Counsel. Now, let’s proceed. Please, Rodari, go on. With whatever you remember, of course.”
“Patrizia always hung out at the same place, The Garden, so I went there. On the way, I think I stopped off for a drink in a couple of bars.”
“If you can remember which ones, maybe we can reconstruct your trail and call them to verify your story,” says the deputy prosecutor.
“I’ll try.”
“Go on.”
“When I got to The Garden, I started to scream.”
“According to the security officer, you said, ‘Let me in or I’ll kill you.’”
“It’s possible.”
“And then what?”
“Then everything blurs. I remember Patrizia’s scent, her perfume. Chanel No. 5, like Marilyn. She loved that fact. Advertising in general has that effect. I remember the taxi, I think, a disgusting vanilla Little Trees air freshener. Plastic. My unmade bed. My pillow. Patrizia’s voice, insisting she wanted to call emergency services. I heard her talking angrily to someone on the phone. The last thing I remember is seeing the bottle of antidepressants on the bedside table and trying to remember how many I’d taken.”
“You were drinking with your medication?” asks the deputy prosecutor.
“My doctor prescribed them to treat my obsession.”
“Go on.”
“That’s more or less everything. The next morning, when I opened my eyes, the carabinieri were there. Someone had called them because Patrizia never made it back to the bar. And she wasn’t at home.”
“It was Leonardo Maccari, do you know him?”
“The one who called?”
Colletti brings his hand to his forehead.
“Do you know him?”
“The tennis player . . .” Giulio looks to his attorney. “You knew about him, right?”
“Giulio, I . . .”
“I need a new attorney.”
“Giulio, let it go . . .”
“My lawyer hid this information from me.”
“Rodari, calm down,” says the deputy prosecutor. “What do you mean? What information?”
“If Patrizia had a relationship with this person, I need to know about it.”
“Maybe we need to suspend—” Colletti says.
“It was him. Don’t you get that?” says Giulio.
Grazia can’t move. She’s glued to the chair. Rodari seems like he’s out of his mind. Maybe it’s better if Viola eats out of a can at home for the time being.
“He followed her, and when she went back downstairs, he attacked her,” says Giulio.
“His motive being . . . ?” asks the deputy prosecutor.
Giulio stops. Grazia can read the expression in his eyes. It’s as if he had suddenly hit a wall.
The deputy prosecutor checks the time. “Let’s stop here,” she says. “We’ll be back soon, in the next few days. I have to evaluate a couple of things. Do you really want to appoint another lawyer?”
Giulio doesn’t answer. His eyes are empty again, lost in a blind alley.
“We’ll let you know,” Colletti says.
The deputy prosecutor collects all the files into her bag and leaves, followed by Scalise, who gestures to Grazia just before he walks out the door.
“I recommend, Marshal, that you assign extra surveillance to your men.” Her men. A total denial of reality, Grazia thinks as she nods, hoping that Donato is no longer feeling the effects of the chocolate liqueur and that he’s forgotten about that absurd story of the fox and the Spirits of the Woods. “Keep me apprised,” Scalise says, turning to leave.
SIX
It’s the Evening of Bread. The large stone oven, lit from the day before, has reached the ideal temperature. It stopped snowing a few hours ago, and the inhabitants of the village and the surrounding countryside have arrived, each with a bowl or cloth full of yeasty dough.
Akan has lit the fire under the grill next to the oven, because the Evening of Bread is a ritual that can go on for a long time and the waiting should be diminished. As usual, in the beginning, there was only a bit of bread with olive oil, garlic, and salt, but then everyone brought something with them and the grill was quickly filled with sausages, ribs, bacon, and even some hamburgers, offered by the most considerate guests, who are convinced that Akan is an observant Muslim who doesn’t eat pork. In fact, religion is not among the things that he has managed to save from his own wreckage. Such a pity.
The voices start to blend with layers of laughter and traditional songs, refreshed between glasses of red wine.
Barbara is standing by the oven, her face red from the flames that leap out every time she opens its iron door. Every now and then she looks at Giulio’s window in the other part of the hotel. His light is on.
“I find it shameful,” says Dorina, standing beside her, after a long silence. She seemed to be meditating. The Evening of Bread should bring with it only good thoughts, but she obviously couldn’t resist.
“What?” asks Barbara.
Dorina doesn’t answer. “It’s shameful is what I think,” she repeats.
Barbara puts her hand on Dorina’s arm and gestures toward her ear. Dorina snorts, looks around as if preparing to commit an unthinkable offense, and with the speed of a weasel, she slips in her hearing aid.
“Now,” says Barbara again, “what is it that’s so shameful?”
“These people. When it comes to the committee, we can’t even get ten people. When it comes to fraternizing with sausages, they all come running and never leave.”
“Dorina, haven’t you been attending the committee meetings?”
“What do you mean?”
“We can’t agree on anything as it is, and there aren’t that many of us. Can you imagine if all these people showed up?”
“The truth is, they’re all ignorant. Most of them wouldn’t notice if they built a nuclear power plant in the middle of the woods. Just a few trees would be enough to fool them into thinking nothing has changed in their lives. And the cycle of grilling and hangovers would continue.”
“Have you been talking to your daughter?”
“Why?”
“Because whenever you’ve heard from her, you’re always in a sour mood.”
“She mentioned that loan again,” admits Dorina. “I think she wants to go through with it.”
“Are you worried?”
“Wouldn’t you be? The only thing I can offer as a guarantee is my house.”
“Everything will be fine.”
“Did you hear about that retirement home? The one they opened on that farm? You can live there if you turn over your apartment to them. But I don’t think they accept apartments that guarantee another mortgage.”
“How long have you been thinking about living in a retirement home?”
“I
’m not thinking about it, but if I needed to do it, my pension and savings wouldn’t be enough.”
“You know what?” asks Barbara, reaching for two glasses of wine and handing one to Dorina for a toast. “To hell with the banks, Dorina. If anything happens, you can always come and stay here, give me a hand with that chestnut tree, the best one in the mountains. What do you say?”
Dorina smiles. She clinks her glass with Barbara’s. They drink.
“A toast, how beautiful!” It’s Falconi, the mayor.
Barbara turns. Next to him is Mirna, wife of the first citizen and her eternal rival at the Buraco table.
“Welcome,” says Barbara.
Mirna places her cutting board next to the oven, removes the cloth, and takes the dough in her hand. Barbara opens the iron door and positions the bread with the spatula. She checks the other loaves: she retrieves the one that’s ready.
“Assunta, I believe this is yours.”
A huge woman with a rib in her hand approaches. She takes the bread, wraps it in a cloth, and slides it under her arm.
“Next year, I’ll bring the nice black mazzafegato sausage my brother makes,” she says, throwing the bone to the ground next to the oven, where the big orange cat is waiting. The bone barely touches the ground. The cat snatches it and scurries away.
“Don’t give him any more, that cat is so fat it’s scary,” says Barbara.
“At the committee today someone was hoping you’d be there,” Dorina says to the mayor.
“We were busy, dear.” Mirna speaks up before her husband can even open his mouth. “We went to town to pick up a new electric oven.”
“The committee will be meeting again in a few days,” Dorina says. “We wanted to know how things are going.”
“Dorina,” says Mirna, “don’t you find it a bit like asking a doctor to visit you after hours? I mean, Eugenio is the mayor, and he has so many things to do that maybe you should go visit him in town instead of asking him to go out of his way for your committee.”
“That committee exists for our woods.”
“Do you think it’s the only one, dear?”
The Hawthorne Season Page 8