The Hawthorne Season

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The Hawthorne Season Page 11

by Riccardo Bruni


  “What about Rodari’s surveillance?”

  “Secondary, Marshal. Absolute double priority. Do your best, Marshal Parodi. The force is counting on you.”

  Grazia gently places the phone on the table and looks around, half expecting to see someone come out from under a table and ask her to smile for the audience watching at home. What was that show called? Ah yes, Candid Camera. Scalise is that type. The kind of guy who the comedian on Channel 1 used to impersonate, back in the days of Teo Teocoli.

  The phone display lights up. The battery is dying. She opens the drawer, but the charger is gone.

  Donato has just left the Fioralba minimart with his bag from the deli counter: two half-filled baguettes with sausage and pistachio, one can of orange juice for him, and a soda for the boss.

  The plow hasn’t passed yet. A car that’s been spinning its wheels is stuck in the middle of the road while another guy is instructing the driver on how to best get out. Donato knows them both and is trying to remember their names when he hears someone behind him call his name. He turns and finds himself facing Falconi and his cowboy hat.

  “Hello, Mayor.”

  “Are they still stuck?” Falconi asks, pointing to the car. “This snowplow thing is a disaster. We need more of them here.”

  “We do . . .”

  “And what about the investigation, those vandals, anything yet?”

  “Well, they didn’t kill that fox.”

  “What do you mean? It cut its own head off?”

  “Remember—” But then his phone rings. “Sorry, just a second. Hello?”

  “Donato, I have to go home and get my charger. You get all the men assembled in the meeting room, and I’ll see you there to discuss the new, absolute double priority.”

  “Boss, what men? Are you okay? Have you been talking to Scalise again?”

  A scooter hurtles down the county road. The snow doesn’t faze its driver. A skull sticker on a black helmet. A backpack with purple writing: PURPLE RAIN.

  Dorina walks along the edge of the road in her boots lined with rabbit fur. She has a new pair that she bought last year, but she’s never worn them, because the old ones are more comfortable now that they are molded to her feet. And she likes the fact that an old thing can be better than a new one.

  She’s removed her hearing aid; she doesn’t need it now anyway. She hears just fine without it. Like she told the doctor, she only wears it as a precaution.

  Today, she’s going to the Gherarda on foot. The mist is parting for a timid sun, which, according to the weather forecast in the paper, will grow radiant within a matter of hours. The front page also had a photo of Giulio in handcuffs. But it’s best that she forget all this for now, or at least for a while, because it’s Wednesday, the day she cannot lose her concentration. The day of the duel.

  Buraco day.

  But first she has to go tell Barbara what she heard at the Fioralba minimart. Because it’s good to know what kind of company you’re keeping.

  “I’m taking the car today, if you don’t mind,” says Adele. Marcello is turned toward the window again. His face is frozen, a prisoner of his grimace. The Romanian already came to clean him up, and she’ll be back soon to finish the housework. “I have Buraco, remember? Today is Wednesday. It’s still Wednesday. When you’re waiting for one day to come, time passes so slowly, don’t you find?”

  “Yes, Adelina, it’s just as you say.”

  “You don’t mind if I leave you alone a little longer today, do you, darling?”

  “Of course not, I have my trusty old TV to keep me company.”

  “I’m stopping by the pharmacy for some candy to take to the Gherarda. Do you need anything?”

  “Don’t worry, the Romanian will take care of everything, she’ll be here in a few minutes. You go, though. Don’t stay here, otherwise she’ll stand around talking to you and she won’t get anything done.”

  “See you later, then. Don’t wear yourself out too much.”

  Adele goes down the stairs, exits the door, and looks up to the window from the street. On the other side of the curtain, she can just make out her husband’s frozen face, deformed like plastic melted by the sun. She raises her hand and waves at him with a smile, happy to be living in that world where her husband can still see her and talk to her.

  Grazia enters the house. The wicker basket is in front of the washing machine. In her bedroom, she moves the nightstand away from the wall and unplugs the charger from its socket.

  She slips it into her pocket as she passes by Viola’s bedroom door.

  Viola’s bedroom.

  She knows she’s not allowed to enter. Not unless Viola is inside. It’s the law that governs the life and good relationships in the house.

  However.

  The door isn’t locked. And the law was established before her private life fell into an abyss of twenty-four-hour shifts. And if her daughter is a druggie, she has to find out as her mother first before she catches her as the police. And it won’t be the first time she conducts a search without a warrant.

  Her daughter’s room is an anthology of different ages. The bookshelf is lined with stuffed animals from when she was small, Winnie the Pooh and Tigger, old cassette tapes, books, notebooks, diaries, CDs everywhere, DVDs, tangles of wires. Her drawing notebooks. She was good. On the wall there’s a poster of a rock band that looks like a bunch of satanic serial killers, and another old poster with the animals of the forest. On the bedside table there’s an old edition of Spoon River, the poems of Masters. She reads it often. Maybe they remind her of the boy who gave her the guitar. Maybe she thinks she can hear his voice in those poems, talking about life without the anxiety of having to live it. Viola lost a friend who was dear to her, and her mother sometimes has the impression she didn’t do enough to help her “work through the loss,” as the psychologist who came to the country after Bridge Day said. This is what happens with survivors of a disaster. And it’s as if all the inhabitants of the countryside were just that: survivors.

  In front of the nightstand are the boots she uses for her hikes and a backpack with a drawing of a huge spider at the top. It makes quite the impression. The boots are wet. She must have been in the woods again. Strange. They’re very wet. She must have returned not long ago. Grazia moves the backpack to open the drawer and hears that noise.

  At first it’s just an instinct. An idea that crosses her mind without taking a precise shape. Then it comes together. Viola draws very well. Viola was just in the woods.

  Grazia takes the backpack. She puts it on the bed, noting the placement of the objects inside so she can reproduce it exactly after her warrantless search.

  And she finds it.

  A can of spray paint.

  How did it take her this long to realize? Everything is becoming clear. There is even a final detail, crystal clear and right before her eyes. It’s in the poster, the one with the animals of the forest. Grazia approaches it, spray paint still in hand, as if she were transported by some mystical force.

  There’s the owl, there’s the wolf.

  And there’s the deer. It doesn’t have the demonic expression she saw on the other one, but other than that, the shape is identical to what the Spirits of the Woods drew.

  THREE

  The gnome says that sometimes the best way to find something is to stop looking for it. So Giulio shaved, put on his fleece, cleaned his desk—putting the envelope with the photographs and newspaper clippings from Bridge Day on the nightstand—and organized his drawing notebooks with his sharpened pencils.

  The new history of the gnome involves a house on the tree, a father who has to leave, a child who gets lost in the woods, his brother who looks for him, and a father, the same one as before, who eventually returns. The stories of the gnome always have a circular structure. They offer the comfort that everything will make sense in the end.

  Giulio takes the pencil and starts with the tree. The gnome says that trees have deep and solid roots, not
like people, so it’s best to start there. The tree has a hole, and looking out of the hole is an old owl. The gnome likes old owls. And there are two big branches that support the house, which has a staircase that goes down to the ground. Butterflies? A few, blue and yellow, maybe? Baby birds? Up high, on the left, a mama bird flies by with her three little ones behind her. A squirrel? Why not, running on a branch, perhaps, with its inevitable acorn in its claws. Patrizia? I don’t know, I remember I was very angry from the shame she made me feel when she left that bar and took me home instead of insulting me and having me arrested. Did you bring her home? I was clinging to her, in my bedroom. That’s where I was clinging to her. The image is clear, reflected in the mirror. Now I see it. It’s like the gnome says: to find something you have to stop looking for it.

  “Get off me, you’re hurting me,” says Patrizia, who had dragged him up the stairs and into his apartment. Now it’s clear.

  Giulio looks at the owl’s eyes as they look out at him from inside the large tree. They seem to smile. He drops the pencil, walks over to the bedside table, and picks up his mother’s envelope. He dumps its contents onto the bed and searches for the clip with Patrizia’s photo. Something is returning from the land of oblivion.

  “Get the fuck out or I’ll have you arrested.” The security guard at the bar where Patrizia is. Giulio can’t stand, but he does scream that he’s going to kill everyone there. She follows him out. The taxi, the stairs of his apartment. He grabs her, clings to her, so he doesn’t fall. He doesn’t want to let her go.

  “Get off me, you’re hurting me,” says Patrizia.

  “Leave, then. Why are you even here?”

  “You’re ruining your life, Giulio. Why have you reduced yourself to this?”

  “You should know, you had your part in the spectacle.”

  “This is the last time, Giulio. The next time I’m calling the police and you’ll really be in trouble. They could arrest you, you understand? I don’t want to live like this anymore. Why are you doing this to me? You shouldn’t have stooped to this, you shouldn’t be drinking, it’s dangerous. I’m calling emergency services.”

  “No.”

  “Stop it.”

  Giulio is about to say his no again, but he falls to the ground. Patrizia helps him up and drags him onto the bed. His pillow. His head aches, and he presses his hand to his forehead, blood on his fingers.

  “I scratched you with my ring, I’m sorry,” says Patrizia. Then she lowers her voice as she speaks with the emergency operator. Her voice moves away, is gone.

  Giulio looks at the mirror. The wound on the eyebrow, there it is. It was Patrizia, yes, but not because he was attacking her. It’s not a trace of his aggression and a woman’s desperate attempt to defend herself. It was just an accident.

  He needs a splash of cold water. He goes to the bathroom, turns on the tap, and rinses his face. As he towels off, he sees the carabinieri’s car pull up under the window. Just the boy, this time. His shift. He goes back to the bedroom. Stop looking for it, says the gnome.

  The room is too hot. He wants to let in some fresh air, ventilation. The window faces the opposite side of the road, where the woods behind the Gherarda begin. Giulio opens the window. A cool breeze enters. There’s a timid hint of sunshine, somewhere, reflected on the icy snow. Giulio inhales, filling his lungs with cold air. And suddenly, the big orange cat leaps inside. It must have climbed up the ladder. It circles the room and then chooses one of the pillows on the bed.

  “Go right ahead, sit down.”

  “Um, Rodari,” whispers a voice from under the window. Giulio turns and looks for it. He finds it. “Give me a hand, Rodari. I’m in trouble.”

  Katerina is back home after her trip to the perfumery. She’s pulled off her white cowgirl boots and socks, and now she’s resting with her feet up, her emerald-green toenails on the table in front of the TV. There’s a show on with a crazy lady who can’t throw anything away. She saves everything: boxes, bags, packaging, everything. She lives buried in the house in the midst of that useless stuff. She’s going to die from suffocation.

  Before stretching out on the sofa, Katerina opened a packet of smoked salmon that cost twenty euros per ounce, a box of miniature toasts, salty butter, and a bottle of Carpenè Malvolti. She’ll be leaving soon, and she has to relax, especially because anxiety is terrible for her skin.

  She watches that lady buried in her own home and thinks of the sun shining in Sosúa Bay, lined with palm trees along a Caribbean beach kissed by the Antilles sun. That’s how it was described on that website, so it must be true. He won’t be a highflier, but at least he knows how to take initiative, and he won’t die buried in useless crap in a sad and shabby bar like other people in this shithole.

  Álvaro Soler’s voice bursts from the gold-plated iPhone resting on the glass table.

  Yo quiero que este

  Sea el mundo que conteste

  Del este hasta oeste

  Y bajo el mismo sol

  The name that pops up is Sara, and the profile picture is a kitten playing with a daisy.

  Ahora nos vamos

  Sí juntos celebramos

  Aquí todos estamos

  Bajo el mismo sol

  Before she answers, Katerina takes the remote control and lowers the volume on the TV.

  “Hello? My love! This afternoon at your place? Are you alone, my little puppy? Do you want to do dirty-dog things to your little bunny? Do you have a surprise for me? You know how much I love surprises . . . And listen, how much longer do I have to wait? . . . He’s strange, he keeps looking at me funny, I think he’s going insane . . . I can’t even think about it, it disgusts me to even imagine it, he always smells of booze, he sweats like a pig . . . My love, I want to get away from here with you. How much longer? . . . But can’t you get them to give you all that money first? . . . Well, hurry, then. I’m afraid I’m going to die buried in all this crap . . . Okay, I’ll come to your place this afternoon . . . I thought of a game I could play with you . . . No, no, you have to wait.”

  She turns up the volume on the TV, takes a slice of the Scottish salmon, and places it on top of a miniature golden toast. The lady who filled the house with all that crap is crying now, saying how she no longer wants to live that way and wants someone to help her throw everything out. But it would be better if she just burned down the house and moved somewhere else. Actually, it would be even better if the lady went up in flames with the house. Who comes up with these shows?

  She crunches on the toast and changes the channel.

  Barbara is doing inventory in the pantry with Akan when she hears the doorbell. It’s Dorina.

  “You won’t believe what I just heard at Fioralba!”

  “What?” Barbara asks, preparing a barley coffee with orange rind for her friend.

  “Rachele, can you believe her? She was there all yakety-yak with Ms. Panciardi, talking about Giulio. I heard them loud and clear.” She takes off her coat and drapes it on a chair. Barbara checks her ear. She’s wearing her hearing aid—for the better. It’s the day of Buraco, and when she doesn’t wear it, it can be embarrassing to ask her repeatedly whether she wants tea. “They said he has his aunt’s genes, can you believe it? They said, ‘Of course he went nuts, it’s all Amanda’s genes.’ But they stopped right away, mind you. As soon as they saw me, those two vipers.”

  “People talk, Dorina. They always have. And those pictures in the paper don’t help.”

  “So you got the paper, then?”

  Barbara hands her the cup of barley coffee with orange. “You shouldn’t distract yourself with this, Dorina. I don’t want to lose to Mirna and Adele, not today.”

  “But did you hear her last night? ‘We were busy. We went to town to pick up a new electric oven.’ I detest that woman. And then, did you notice how much she went on about her husband? ‘Eugenio this, Eugenio that, Eugenio is the mayor and he’s soooo busy.’ I can imagine. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose. When she’s wit
h us. I think she loves being the one who has a husband.”

  “What a horrible thing to say, Dorina!”

  They look at each other in silence for a moment. Dorina tries to hold back. Barbara gives up first and bursts into laughter.

  Underneath the window there’s a man wearing a black helmet.

  “Who are you?” asks Giulio.

  The guy takes off his helmet. It’s the girl, Grazia’s daughter, the one from the other day at lunch.

  “It’s me, Viola,” she says.

  “Are you lost?”

  “The patrol car is here.”

  “Did you rob a bank?”

  “Have you any tea and sympathy? If he sees me, he’ll tell the Marshal and I’ll be in for it. Last thing I need right now.”

  “Bad situation, worse than mine.”

  “Can you help me up?”

  “I don’t think so. Remember? I’m on house arrest.”

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “And I have stuff to do.”

  “I’ll stay out of your way. I have stuff to do too.”

  The girl pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket and checks the time.

  The phone.

  “Do you have internet on that thing?” Giulio asks.

  “Yeah, but I also have a USB adapter with unlimited Wi-Fi.”

  The lumberjacks are back at work. At Bar Fuga, only Gerri has remained with his thirst and the hungry, singing slot machines, and Ghinozzi, who is rummaging around in a bag and lining up a long row of small coins on the counter to pay for his Campari with orange.

  “You have to be careful with that one, Gerri. She’ll use you and lose you,” he says, counting a handful of five-cent coins. “You always need change, right? These coins are weighing me down.”

  “What are they saying about us?” asks the bartender, staring at the trail of heat left by his fingers on the cold steel counter.

  “You can’t imagine yourself?”

  “They used to say the same things about my father, but they weren’t true.”

 

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