‘Like a white tiger, for instance?’
‘No, that’s just a lack of pigmentation, what we commonly refer to as an albino. I’m talking about a deep mutation of the genes that results in distinctive physical characteristics, particularly in terms of shape and size. Veterinarians in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries came up with the term to describe a calf with two heads or a goat born with one horn instead of two. Today we can get similar results through genetic manipulation, but sometimes the same thing occurs by chance, spontaneously.’
Fabrizio fell silent for a few moments as he looked out of the window. The weather was overcast and humid, and the light filtered in dimly through the window. Inside the cafe-goers came and went, took a look at the paper, even stopped to play a hand of cards. Everything seemed normal and yet the people around him seemed suspended in a false, temporary dimension: like extras in a film that he didn’t know the beginning or the end of. He saw their lips moving but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. They seemed to be hampered in their actions, to be moving in slow motion, as if the atmosphere of the cafe and the city itself had become as dense as water.
‘Are you listening to me?’ asked Sonia, placing a hand on his arm.
‘Yes, of course. It’s the coincidence that’s not explicable. The live animal is identical to your virtual reconstruction. If you had seen it, I would have thought it had conditioned your work.’
‘Chance events,’ said Sonia in a less than convinced tone, ‘can really surprise you at times.’
You could see that she didn’t believe what she was saying, but Fabrizio pretended to agree. He paid the bill and they left to walk over to the museum. They parted at the entrance, Sonia heading downstairs and Fabrizio climbing the stairs to his second-floor office. He ran into Francesca as she left the restoration lab and raised his eyebrows as if to ask, ‘Anything new?’
The girl shrugged and shook her head.
Fabrizio entered his office, gathered his notes and returned to the library. He’d had an idea he wanted to check out, so he headed straight for the museum catalogue and turned to the section about excavations to search for details on how the statue of the boy had been discovered. He began to read avidly, taking hurried notes now and then. When he finished, he realized that it was lunchtime and that he was alone in the library.
He looked over his notes and consulted the description of the excavation site. The brief report referred to a property owned by the Ghirardini counts, reminding Fabrizio of Signora Pina’s story about the palace in town, but did not give a specific location. Strange, this lack of precision in such a serious scholarly publication.
He went to the catalogue of topographical maps, picked one out and photocopied it. He placed it in his briefcase and walked towards the exit, stopping on the way to pick up his messages. It was almost two o’clock and he walked over to Pina’s trattoria, after stopping to buy a couple of newspapers.
‘What will you have to eat, Doctor?’ asked the signora solicitously.
‘Some vegetables will be fine, with a little prosciutto. And mineral water.’
‘I’ll bring you a nice light lunch,’ Pina said approvingly.
Fabrizio took the newspapers he’d bought from his briefcase: a national daily and a local paper. In the former all he found was a short piece in the middle somewhere with the headline ‘Mysterious deaths in the Volterra countryside – police investigations turn up no leads’. About twenty lines followed, containing very little information; the victims were identified by their initials.
Nearly half a page was dedicated to the case in the local rag, although it spoke of two, not three, deaths. Reggiani must have managed to keep the reporters away for the time being. The article reported the two murders at length, but it was evident that whoever had written it didn’t know the details and that he’d been fed a line about a settling of accounts among Sardinian shepherds who frequented the area. People without family ties to the locals whose passing would not be a strong blow to the community.
Although the authorities had succeeded in keeping the situation quiet, holding back on the truth, with all its traumatic implications, the fear hovering through the city streets was palpable. People gathered in small clusters, speaking in low tones. The news would soon be out; there was no way to keep it under wraps for much longer.
He felt guilty about Francesca. He had asked her for such a huge favour but had hardly spoken to her since. He hated to think he’d involved her in such a dangerous situation and realized it was best that the two of them not be seen together too frequently. He promised himself to call her as soon as he could.
‘Here you are, Doctor. Vegetables and prosciutto,’ said Signora Pina, putting two plates on the table along with a bottle of mineral water.
‘Won’t you join me?’ asked Fabrizio.
She plonked her considerable derriere on a chair and leaned two large breasts on the table. At twenty she must have had the whole male population of Volterra turning as she passed.
‘There’s no life in this town once the tourists have gone!’ she complained. ‘At the weekend, if you’re lucky, a few stragglers from Pisa or Colle Val d’Elsa, but otherwise this place is dead. Will you be staying in Volterra long, Doctor?’
‘At least a few more days. Maybe a week or so. It depends on my work.’
‘I understand . . . but we certainly could use more young blood like you around here. You’re such a nice young man and you know so many things.’
‘Listen, Signora Pina, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you remember telling me about the lights?’
‘Ah, you’re making fun of me now, but I assure you—’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I’m serious, really. I was wondering whether you’ve seen them again. Last night, for instance.’
‘Good Lord! How did you guess?’
‘Guess what?’
‘That I saw them again last night. Quite late at night.’
‘I see. What time was it, if I may ask?’
‘It must have been . . . Look, I was about to close. And so it was well after midnight, it must have been about one, I’d say. That’s right. About one.’
‘And what did you see exactly?’
‘I told you. I saw lights blinking through the grating that covers the air vents over the cellar. Not very bright or anything. You could barely see them, actually. But, thank the Lord, my eyes are still good.’
‘Did you notice anything else? I don’t know, suspicious noises or anyone coming or going?’
‘No, I don’t think so . . . Wait, I did hear the sound of an engine, like a delivery truck or something of the sort. But there’s always one of those around.’
Fabrizio remembered he’d heard the sound of a car engine the evening that he left the Rovaio site and that he’d heard the same thing last night as well, before he spotted the bicycle heading down the road towards his house. Nothing but a meaningless coincidence, naturally.
‘May I ask you a favour, Signora Pina?’ said Fabrizio. ‘If it happens again, could you call me? I’ll leave you my mobile number.’
‘If it happens to be one o’clock in the morning?’
‘Why not? I always work until late. You won’t be disturbing me at all.’
He scribbled his number on a paper napkin and handed it to Pina, who deposited it between her breasts.
‘And what about this other business of the murders?’ she said in a low voice and with a hint of complicity. ‘Have you heard about them?’
‘Murders? What murders?’ asked Fabrizio, feigning ignorance.
‘Goodness, you don’t know? The tomb robbers they found butchered in the fields near Contrada Rovaio and in the Gaggera bush. Everyone in town knows about these murders and you know nothing? I thought you were on top of things over at the Antiquities Service.’
‘I’m not with the Antiquities Service, Signora Pina, and I haven’t heard about any murders. Are you sure? It’s not just gossip?’
&n
bsp; ‘Gossip! Around here people know who has a cold and who doesn’t. These men were found with their throats cut. Or worse. I’ve heard things that would make your skin crawl. Well, whoever it is, they’re certainly doing you people a favour – it’ll be a while before anyone dares to roam the countryside with a drill looking for tombs. No one wants to end up the way they did.’
‘Don’t believe everything you hear, Signora Pina. It will just ruin your day. In any case, you’re in no danger, are you? You’re a cook, not a tomb robber. By the way, how much is it for lunch? And remember, if you see anything . . .’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Pina, ‘I’ll let you know immediately. That’s eight fifty for everything, Doctor. I always give you a good deal.’
Fabrizio paid the bill and went to where he had parked his car. He decided to drive home. No one seemed to be following him; maybe Reggiani had ordered protection for him only at night.
Fabrizio pulled up in front of the farmhouse but didn’t go in; he didn’t feel like going straight back to work. He couldn’t shake off a strange sensation. He’d been living in an unreal atmosphere for days and he continually felt tempted to leave and forget about everything, find a new line of work completely. Why not? He kept experiencing little twinges of regret over Elisa, the girl who had left him and obviously hadn’t missed him at all, seeing that she’d never called once. He felt attracted to Francesca but wasn’t head over heels, wasn’t on fire like he’d hoped, wanted, yearned to be. Underneath it all was this annoying sensation of melancholy and depression. Basically, he felt alone and didn’t expect that this would change any time soon.
It was even stranger that he should be caught up in such superficial thoughts after what he’d seen the night before. Perhaps it was a natural reaction, he told himself, a defence mechanism to head off the stress before it became overwhelming. He raised his eyes to the dense grey sky that couldn’t decide whether to let through a ray of sun or dump a bucket of rain, then walked down the lane to the point where he had heard the beast prowling, hunting him down, the night before.
It seemed like all that had happened a century ago. Everything was peace and tranquillity now, and each time he took in a little bit of the scene he felt that he was snapping a photograph. Another strange sensation he couldn’t explain. He walked along the stream to the road to look at the spot where the animal had laid into that poor wretch. There were still brownish stains on the asphalt, broken branches on both sides of the road and a strange odour in the heavy air, or maybe he was imagining it. He felt relaxed now, surrounded by green foliage and silence.
He returned to his car parked in the courtyard, took the briefcase with the books he’d borrowed from the library from the passenger’s seat, went into the house and immersed himself in his studies.
When he started getting a bit tired, he stood up to stretch his legs and saw that it was already late in the afternoon. He remembered the messages he’d picked up before leaving the office and went to see if there was anything from Francesca. At the bottom of the pile was a sealed envelope, which he opened. All it contained was a typed address.
He was upset, but oddly not surprised, and realized it could be only one thing. In his mind he could hear the voice on the telephone. He took the topographical map he was using for his work, a military 1:25,000 chart, and identified the locality, a place he was not familiar with. Then he got into his car and set off. After a time on the regional road, he turned off into the countryside, driving along a dusty track. Every now and then he’d turn on his wipers, but there was less rain hitting the windscreen than dust in the air and the end result was a series of long reddish, semicircular streaks on the glass that prevented him from seeing out. Unfortunately there was no cleaning fluid because he’d forgotten to replace it. He had a feeling that he was being followed, but it was impossible to be sure.
He could feel his heartbeat quicken as he neared the place he’d circled on the map. When he spotted it in the distance, a kind of renovated farmhouse with a yellow neon sign in the window, he had to stop for a moment to catch his breath and calm down. Thousands of thoughts went through his mind, including either calling Reggiani or turning back entirely. But then he reasoned that all he had to go on was an address in an envelope: it could be anything at all, or maybe even a mistake. After all, it was only a tavern or a cafe; a bed and breakfast or something of the sort.
He parked on the left, joining three or four other vehicles of various types and a couple of old bicycles. He got out of the car and walked towards the entrance, but all at once heard a rustling noise coming from a hedge of laurel bushes behind the building. He wheeled around, feeling jumpy, and caught a quick glimpse of a little seven- or eight-year-old boy with short, fine hair gathered in clumps on his forehead who seemed to be watching him from behind the corner of the house. He looked remarkably like the boy he’d seen slipping behind the door at the Caretti-Riccardi palace in town. Fabrizio tried to call out to him, but he was gone in a flash.
Music wafted out of the tavern, an instrumental melody with flutes and kettledrums that blended with the low buzz of people chatting. Fabrizio went in and found himself in a big room with an uneven terracotta floor and plastered walls decorated with improbable frescoes of pseudo-Etruscan inspiration. An even less probable dancer in an Etruscan-style outfit was weaving between the tables to the notes of the New Age music. There weren’t many guests, perhaps a dozen or so, all dressed on the shabby side. They looked mostly like the English or German couples who rented the farmhouses dotting the countryside. The scene was so trite and so dreary that the overall effect was unsettling.
He turned towards the bar, a Formica faux-wood counter covered with a pane of glass that had long since lost any transparency. Behind the counter was a woman of forty or fifty who was still attractive, although her get-up was so bizarre it was difficult to say for sure. Heavy necklaces and long earrings dangled at her neck and ears. Her hair was dyed a deep black, but the intense, magnetic look of her eyes and the marked wrinkles at the sides of her mouth gave her a harsh, almost bitter expression. Fabrizio wondered how the customers could seem so much at ease with this harpy behind the counter.
In the few moments that had passed since he entered, Fabrizio had regained control of his emotions as he realized that the tavern, albeit grotesque, inspired a certain sense of calm and security, although he felt out of place among the regulars. He approached the counter, drew up a stool and asked for a glass of white wine.
The woman stared straight into his eyes as she poured. ‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ she said. ‘You look like a nice boy. I’m sorry you’ve got yourself into such a mess . . . You risk meeting a nasty end, you know that, don’t you?’
Fabrizio refused to let himself be intimidated. He hung on to that sense of calm that he’d struggled so hard to create, but he could feel anxiety worming its way in. He swallowed a gulp of wine, set the glass on the counter and said, ‘So you’re the one who’s been calling me.’
‘Forget about everything and get out now,’ insisted the woman, her right hand tight around the neck of the bottle. ‘Leave now and . . . you won’t pay. It’s on the house.’
Fabrizio did not lower his gaze and continued sipping at the wine. ‘Don’t think you can frighten me. I’m an academic and I’m not impressed by any of this,’ he said, tipping his head back towards the room. ‘This masquerade only makes me laugh.’
‘Foolish boy,’ said the woman. ‘Don’t you realize that opening what’s under the ground is a dangerous game? You and those like you – you don’t understand that you can reawaken buried tragedies, reopen cruel wounds. You’re like a child, happy playing with soil until you find an unexploded bomb from some war of the past. A bomb that can blow up in your hands and tear you to shreds . . .’ She stared at him intensely, with a sarcastic smile. ‘Boom!’
Fabrizio couldn’t help but start, though he immediately regained his composure. ‘I’m only doing my job,’ he shot back. ‘I’m not interested in a
ny of this foolishness.’
The woman shook her head. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. That I’m a hysterical bitch with a head full of rubbish. That’s too bad for you.’ She put the bottle down and lit up a cigarette, breathing in deeply and blowing the smoke out through her nose. The fumes surrounded her face and thick black hair, making her look like Medusa. ‘Will you leave the boy in peace?’ she asked in an expressionless voice.
‘It’s not a boy,’ said Fabrizio. ‘It’s a statue. Archaeologists study statues . . . among other things. That’s all. Please don’t call me again. You’re disturbing my work.’ He pulled out his wallet and put a note on the counter.
‘I told you, it’s on the house,’ repeated the woman. And the tone of those apparently banal words made them sound like some obscure threat, a final sentence, in the way that you would offer a last meal or a last cigarette to a man condemned to die.
Fabrizio felt suddenly unsure of himself. He wanted to bring up the creature that was stalking the woods of Volterra, but he didn’t have the courage to say another word. He hesitated a moment, with his hands resting on the counter and his head low to avoid those eyes, but then he swallowed the last of his wine and got up, leaving the money on the counter.
Their conversation hadn’t lasted long, but as he crossed the room he noticed that the dancer had gone and the few remaining customers were keeping their voices low as they sipped at their wine. Fabrizio walked towards his car, but all at once the outside lights flickered off and the neon sign advertising the tavern went out, plunging him into total darkness.
Before his eyes could adapt he heard a low growling coming from his left and he realized he was dead. He dashed in the direction of the car; its light colour made it slightly visible on the other side of the courtyard. But he never reached it. A light blinded him and he felt a strong impact, an intense pain in his head and side, then nothing more.
When he opened his eyes again he saw a ghostly image in front of him, a face illuminated from below by the beam of a torch, but the voice he heard reassured him. ‘My God! I saw you at the last moment. You were running straight for me! I braked, but you were already under the wheels. How do you feel? Don’t move. Wait, I’ll call an ambulance.’
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