“We sneaked cigarettes back then too, and I always stole them from you.”
“On Saturday night we’d go to Ghino’s for pizza. Ten thousand lire for a ham and mushroom pizza and a beer full of foam.”
“Ghino’s, where the food is bad and the prices are better,” says Grazia, as if she were reciting an ad.
They smile. They smoke. The night envelops them.
“And I also remember eating here at the Gherarda,” says Grazia. “In the summer when the woods belonged to us. Some nights seemed endless. Do you remember the bonfires?”
“It’s strange, back then I wanted to leave here so badly, and instead it was the best part of my life.”
“You can always come back.”
“Yeah, if I don’t end up in prison for the next forty years. But I don’t know if the Gherarda will be here by then.”
“Where’s it going?”
“It really does seem impossible, these woods without the Gherarda.”
Grazia feels the caress of smoke in her throat and feels that sense of abandon from so many years before.
“Doesn’t it seem strange to you?” asks Grazia.
“What?”
“The two of us, here. More than twenty years have passed, but it feels like we just spoke yesterday, at the end of summer holidays.”
“They say old classmates have that effect on each other.”
“Do you think kids nowadays are anything like how we were back then?” Grazia asks.
“Are you talking about your daughter?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“I don’t know, I don’t have much experience in that field.”
“Her father was a married man.” She wants to tell him. And the moment is odd enough to be the right one. “When I realized I was pregnant, he said he’d pay for the abortion, he’d take care of everything. I thought about it a little. And every time I look at Viola, I feel guilty for having let it cross my mind. For having had those moments of uncertainty that could have made her not exist. I feel guilty for the instant that my fears could have won out. And now I can’t even find ten minutes to talk to her. Does that seem normal to you?”
“I don’t think there are many normal things in life, after a certain point.”
“That’s a good one. I’ll use it later.”
“Do you remember the Calabrian?”
“The math teacher?”
“He always said we were a generation of degenerates. Because we were born in the seventies when everyone was doing drugs.”
“My God, it’s true . . . he had that horrible face . . . and his accent was so thick you couldn’t understand a word he said . . .”
Giulio hunches over, crosses his eyes, and curls back his lips, baring his teeth. “Degenerates, I say!”
Grazia can’t stifle her guffaw. Her laugh is peculiar, noisy. Giulio looks around guiltily, as if they might wake someone up. Grazia puts her hand in front of her mouth, as if she would make less noise that way.
They laugh awhile longer, as the moment of warmth between them slips away.
Then they finish their cigarettes and say goodbye.
Giulio lingers for a few minutes to watch the patrol car pull away. The cigarettes have made him nauseous. He reaches out, grabs a handful of fresh snow, and puts it in his mouth to calm his stomach. In the book he read about quitting smoking, it said that nicotine is water soluble and can be flushed out of the system by drinking a lot of water. The guy who wrote the book is long dead from lung cancer.
Why didn’t anyone tell him about the sale?
Sitting on those steps, he thinks of the storm he has to face, as Akan called it. He thinks about the preliminary letter of intent that he found by chance, looking for something else. He thinks about the few times he returned to the Gherarda in all these years, and he thinks about how he knew it was there, how he knew that returning here was one of those things he’d never want to give up, knowing about Ulysses syndrome and his inevitable return journey. He thinks about that white space in his memory, amnesia like a thick cover of snow hiding something terrifying.
NINE
I’m the black cat. I’ve already died, many times before.
The first time, I didn’t make it one freaking year. All those beautiful white lights racing toward me and I flung myself at them to see what they were. I still remember the blow. It took me days to come back to life.
The second time I died it was because of that damned wild boar. Cats don’t attack wild boars. Wanna know why? Because no cat has ever survived to tell the tale. But that horrible beast, stupid as a river stone, was convinced that he could snuff around with his ugly snout just beneath the tree I liked to climb so much, because there’s a pointy-beaked bird who always makes its nest up there. I already had my claws in her by the time she tried to get in between me and her eggs. That day I climbed the tree to find myself a snack, and when the boar passed under me, with its sweaty and stinky neck, I had an overwhelming desire to sink my claws and teeth into it. You should hear how those nasty beasts howl when they feel pain. Then he bucked like he was possessed until he threw me off, stabbing me with one of his tusks. But do you know what? I climbed that tree a few more times, and I ate my eggs whenever I felt like it, while that wild boar hasn’t shown its ugly snout around here again. I like to think it learned its lesson or that it ended up in one of those pasta dishes that the man with the whiskers at the Gherarda likes to cook and who offers me a little snack from time to time.
Not long ago I was perched in my favorite tree, licking my whiskers and watching all those fat people stuffing their faces around the fire. And my associate, the one with the orange coat, didn’t miss the opportunity to put on a few pounds himself. I was a little triggered because I hadn’t had the chance to swipe at anyone all day long, especially since everyone who knows me keeps me at arm’s length because they say I’m looking for a fight. Go figure. So as soon as I saw the squirrel, I pounced right away. Not because I was still hungry. But because I love to hunt. Chase, catch, and mangle. Nothing makes me feel more alive.
I chased that damned squirrel all over creation, but in the end it jumped from one tree to another and escaped me. At that point I realized I’d ended up right in the middle of the old woods, and that’s not the kind of place you can wander without your wits about you. So I tried to rest a little behind that cabin, on top of the wood stack. I always go there when I want to sit and be still. That old man was always there. A big, tall vagabond who walked around in the woods with that strange tool in his hand. Anyway, I was there when I saw them coming. All black clothes from head to toe. In short, people who do things in secret. I think they’re damaging things. So I like them. They were about to do something fun, but at some point the car came and they had to stop. They stuck around for a while, hidden in the trees. Then they seemed to have an idea, and one of them left. But they made a big noise. So then I knocked down some wood, and those two idiots who got out of the car thought the first noise was me too. The woman, Viola’s mother, approached and said I scared her. You get the picture. Then she stretched out her hand, and I just knew she was about to do one of those annoying things like pass it over my ears or some crap like that. That’s when the green lights appeared. I don’t know what they were, but I don’t usually like green. So I stayed where I was, because I was curious about what those guys in black were up to.
When those two people who got out of the car walked into the woods to follow the green lights, the others came out of the trees and started to get the cabin all dirty. With the color red that I love so much more than green. Because it’s the color of blood.
When those two people who got out of the car came back, they didn’t realize that the people dressed in black were still there. They had just hidden among the trees, but their clothes were so black that only a cat—a black one at that—could see them. They stayed there, frozen, waiting for those other two to get back in the car and leave. Crazy stuff. Then they circled back around again fo
r good measure.
My associate—not that tubby cat with the orange coat that will rub against anyone for a crumb of cake, but the other one—says strange things are happening here. That crazy old man I liked has disappeared, and no one knows what happened to him. There are these strange guys dressed in black who go around at night doing strange things. And there’s something else. My associate, the one with the white coat, sometimes says strange things, and it’s not that he knows exactly what he’s saying, but he does say that something stinks around here and that something terrible has happened and that, if his whiskers aren’t deceiving him, something else is going to happen too.
And he says he’ll tell you about it.
PART THREE
REVELATIONS
I’m the white cat. I’m the evil one.
ONE
The morning is cold. A thick fog blurs with the snow, erasing the boundary between earth and sky all around. The huge beech in the middle of the Gherarda’s meadow is as white and motionless as a skeleton. A wood and ice sculpture looming over anything else in view.
Barbara’s eyes rest on it as she drinks her morning tea, standing in the entrance to the Gherarda. The aroma of rose hips and black currants. She had risen early to gather the silence and put it away for the raucous days to come. Her heavy coat zipped up to her chin, her shawl, her soft woolen gloves warmed by the cup, softening her stiff fingers.
Soon, the snow will be gone and the meadow will begin to bloom again.
She drinks the last sip, places the cup next to the door, and walks around to the back, by the oven. She faces the chimney: no more smoke. She collects the ash inside the oven with an iron trowel and places it on a kitchen cloth that she pulls out of her coat pocket. One, two, three, four trowelfuls in all. She refolds and knots the cloth so the ash can’t escape and goes back inside.
When she passes the barroom door, she smells coffee.
Giulio is sitting at the table with a cup resting in front of him. He doesn’t seem to have slept much. His eyes are still sunken.
“Up already?” she asks.
“Are you doing that for her?”
Barbara looks down at the cloth with the ashes in her hands.
“It’s strange, you know, but sometimes I have the feeling she’s talking to me.”
“That’s not strange. I don’t think. But you shouldn’t feel obligated to do all this. The oven, the ashes, and now you’ll go into the woods and you’ll pour your four fists, one for fire, one for wind, one for the earth, one for water. And you’ll do other meaningless things because that’s what we do when we don’t know how to handle the void people leave behind. For example, I talk to a gnome.”
“Maybe you should talk to an actual person.”
“I took the green envelope. I thought I wanted to help myself remember.”
“But now you’re not so sure?”
“No, no I’m not. I don’t know if it’s such a great idea for me to remember this stuff.”
“You didn’t hurt her, Giulio. You don’t have to be afraid of that.”
“Is that what Amanda said?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Barbara places the cloth with the ash behind the counter and goes to sit next to him. “If you could remember what you did that night, you could help your attorney prove it wasn’t you.”
“And what if it was me?”
“It wasn’t.”
“Did you ever hear about that guy who got up during a commercial break on TV to kill his whole family with a shotgun?”
“Is this something you heard from the gnome?”
“No, the colonel of the carabinieri told me on the ride here. The gnome is more naïve. He thinks you can shut out the orcs.”
“You can’t?”
“I found the photo that was hanging over there. The frame is fine.” Giulio seems to be studying it in his mind. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
Barbara smiles, softens her eyes, and nods. “I know. The frame is fine. You can get used to some things, others you just pretend not to think about. And then there are others still that call for more effort. Sometimes you just need to be able to turn away from them.”
“That’s not what I wanted . . .”
“Don’t worry. Listen, why don’t you work a little? Don’t you have that deadline? Try to use the gnome for something useful. I’ll ask Akan to make a roast for lunch. Hello? Are you there?”
Giulio takes her hands, still in the gloves. It’s been a long time since he’s held her hands in his. They’re hard, knotted. For a moment, Barbara feels a wave of shame at how time has reduced them, and she almost withdraws. But then she receives the gesture, smiling.
“Gnomes are creatures of the woods,” Amanda once said, many years before. “And the woods take care of them. So when they’re in danger, it protects them and helps them to disappear.”
TWO
“All I’m saying is that some people should mind their own business.”
Aurelio Magliarini, otherwise known as Maglio, the son of Giovagnolo, who was the first head lumberjack in the area and master carpenter in a glorious bygone era, is leaning on the counter at Bar Fuga with his first spiked hot chocolate of the day. Beside him there are the other lumberjacks on shift, ready to climb into their van and drive ten miles into the forest to saw through tree trunks.
The subject of interest isn’t yet in the newspaper, which is still publishing Giulio Rodari’s face on the front page. In this one, he’s handcuffed and being escorted from prison. He looks overwhelmed. The caption promises new, succulent revelations about the case. But they’re discussing something else that happened in the countryside today. The new fact has already circulated and rebounded. A monstrous deer with bloody horns and a threat written along the entire facade of the GeoService cabin.
“Of course if they left it to you, there wouldn’t be any trees left,” says Vannone Ghinozzi, owner of the Ghino di Tacco restaurant, named after the brigand of whom he is a descendant, even though his claims in this regard are somewhat nebulous. For the past few years, his son—a two-hundred-fifty-pound boy known to most as little Francesco—has looked over the restaurant while his father prolongs his mornings by visiting Bar Fuga for a friendly debate.
“All right, Ghinozzi. Maybe we should all come work for you, what do you say?”
“When your dad used to do your job, my friend, he only had five men and they worked all year round. Now you use more workers to do the same cutting faster, but you send them all home when it comes time to sort out the trunks.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I do. You want to do what your dad did, but you want to make more money at it, so you cut corners. Simple.”
“Go fry up some mushrooms at your restaurant and relax. When my dad owned the company, everything cost less and he didn’t have to lose his mind trying to make sense of where and when he could and couldn’t cut. I have five workers sitting at home, and until they see a paycheck they won’t be coming to eat in your restaurant. And if things keep on like this, there will only be empty houses left. As if there weren’t enough around here already.”
“So you realize you’re just like those guys who want to destroy the forest. The people around here used to take care of the woods because it was their world, not because they were looking for cash. And so now we’re opening our doors to those guys who want to bury mafia trash in our woods. Don’t you get it?”
“And now we have the mafia to worry about. People like us never end up building waste treatment plants like that, you know? There are people who are trained to do certain things. What kind of knowledge does a chef have? All I know is that you use oil for frying and then you dump it in the bucket behind the restaurant. That pollutes the countryside too, you know that?”
“Behind the restaurant is where we’ll dump your head. Look—”
But everything is interrupted when Katerina makes her entrance. Blonde hair loose over a pink cropped
down jacket, jeans so tight they look like a second skin, immaculate white cowgirl boots, and a Prada buckle seemingly designed to be seen from a spy satellite.
In a few strides, to the tune of the ticktack of her heeled boots, she arrives at the counter. The only concession she makes to the others is a smile that slips away without much conviction.
Her dark-green fingernails scrape at the register’s keys that open the cash drawer. She shoves a pair of banknotes into the pocket of her jeans, with a rise so low that her lace panties peep out, taking the breath away from all of the men who witnessed it. She closes the drawer, and in the resonance of its ding, the door to the bar slams shut in her perfumed wake.
“She’s up early this morning,” says Ghinozzi.
Gerri forces a smile, but the reality is that he would like to chase her and drag her back to the counter by her hair. I’ll show you what hair is good for on someone like you, he thinks. And then he’d add a nice “ugly slut” if it weren’t for his childhood spent in school camps at the Camaldolese monastery. Instead, he follows her with his eyes, through the glass door of Bar Fuga, and watches as she approaches her white Alfa Romeo Giulietta and opens the door. And it occurs to him, for the first time in years, that an archer never loses his aim.
“You see, Marshal, GeoService would like to clarify this, and I’ve made myself available to do the clarifying.” Scalise’s voice is affected and theatrical; on the phone it’s even more obvious. Reminiscent of Vittorio Gassman, the actor. As she listens, Grazia sees him standing next to the speakerphone, upright as a general looking out toward the enemy camp before battle. “Crimes against private property are never tolerated well by the community. And the last thing we want is a disgruntled community, for which reason this mission will remain our preeminent concern.” Pre—what? What on earth is he saying? “Therefore, dispatch all your men without delay.” Everyone? Really, Colonel? “And give this matter your utmost attention.”
The Hawthorne Season Page 10