The man shook his head.
“He was from Brescia …” was all he could say, but then, after a pause, he added: “Maybe he was injured and ended up in the Po as he tried to make his escape. They’re mountain people and they drown easily.”
“But the body was never found …”
“Normally the river always restores what it has taken, but around here they say that someone who has not learned to swim when he’s alive doesn’t float when he’s dead.”
Soneri tried to imagine what was going through the old man’s mind, what he was watching in that mist he had been observing day after day as though it were a screen on which a nostalgic film of past years was being projected.
“Very few people know what happens in the mist,” he said. “And the question is whether those few people have any inclination to tell. In this case the matter is closed.”
It was not the first time that Soneri found himself facing the irremediable. Death was the most unwavering of all forms of reticence. “Perhaps that’s why there are so many rumours going around …”
The old man repeated the jerky gesture with his hand. “There are some people who even say that maybe one of those who was there did not die,” he said, apparently to fill the silence.
The hypothesis aroused Soneri’s interest and once again set his imagination working overtime, but not at the same rate as that of the old man who the moment he stopped talking began once again to observe with a sort of avidity the grey emptiness that surrounded him. Soneri too did his best to absorb himself in an imaginary film, staring into a space stretching from somewhere above the low roofs of the houses before them to unfathomable depths in which it was possible to glimpse everything or nothing. He was trying to stage in his mind all that might have occurred under the main embankment on that land won back from the water, where everything appears precarious.
The ambush, shadows facing shadows, the rounds of gunfire shot at random at ghosts made of air and little else, the awareness of the dying that they were falling without knowing the identity of their killers, the flight in any direction for refuge in the same mist which had made the ambush possible, then the silence after the gunfire in the damp air which had served to muffle the shots, the attempt to listen for the enemy in every blade of grass that rustled, the stumbling over corpses, and the undergrowth growing more dense in a world of dancing wisps of mist. Anything at all could have happened, including the possibility that one of them had not died and so …perhaps then the ferocity perpetrated on the bodies should not be attributed to Fascist vengeance. But after seeing the body of the Kite savaged by the torture so minutely described in the partisans’ bulletins, who could give credence to any conflicting hypothesis? Eyes pushed in by relentless punching, face swollen and dark like garnet-coloured quince and made to look like sausage meat. And finally the burns, the fingernails wrenched out, the testicles a bloody mess.
Certainly no-one had been identified. It required the intervention of the entire Garibaldi detachment to decide which corpse was which. The pike could not have done worse in a month. And then there was the question of the man from Brescia who had disappeared. A missing body represents an unsolved case, always and everywhere. He was thinking of all this when he turned gently to the old man and saw him concentrate on that unmoving grey.
“What do you think happened?”
“It always seemed strange to me.”
“You don’t believe that it was the Blackshirts?”
The old man shook his head. “They only did those things in their barracks. They wanted to look bold, but in fact they were shit-scared. They were terrified, and anyway, in ’44 they knew their time was up.”
Soneri made no reply and the silence seemed to him deep enough to enable him to hear the sound of the specks of ice falling one by one on the dry leaves. He rose to his feet quite abruptly, as he always did. The old man was startled and turned to look and see where he was. The mist over his eyes must have been populated by something new superimposed on his recollections. When he felt the commissario’s hand on his shoulder, he turned rapidly and tried to stare at him with eyes which were now filled only with apparitions.
“You know how to peer into the depths,” Soneri said, preparing to leave. It was a sentence which might have seemed foolish or jeering, but that was not how it was meant.
He parked outside the Italia to let it be known he had arrived. Up on the embankment, looking down at the boat club, he felt a kind of resentment. He felt alienated from that world which seemed to be betraying him, but as he thought over all that was going on, some form of childish pride filled his breast and made him feel as though he were reverting to his childhood days. He climbed back down towards the centre where, in front of Anteo’s niece’s bar, the labourers were hard at work fixing up the facade of the building which had been blackened by the flames. The woman stood looking on in the same pose as when she was behind the bar, arms folded to support her heavy breasts.
“When do you plan to open up again?” Soneri said.
“In two weeks, if everything goes according to plan,” the woman replied, without turning towards him.
“That telephone call …” the commissario said, “I mean the one from that man who was looking for your uncle …and who spoke dialect very well but was not sure of his Italian …you said he had a foreign accent, maybe Spanish …or Portuguese.”
Showing no interest, the woman made a movement with her chin as if to say: “So what?”
“I want to get it right. He said that he was looking for Barbisin?”
The only reply he received was a kind of gesture of assent, once more with her chin, and an expression of mild irritation.
“I’ve explained it all to you, haven’t I? He didn’t speak in dialect all the time. When I picked up the phone and said ‘Hello’, he hesitated for a moment and then asked in Italian if that was the Tonna household. Maybe he thought he’d got the wrong number. I asked him if it was my uncle he was looking for, and then he began to speak in dialect.”
“Did you answer in dialect?”
“No, I have always used Italian. I hardly ever speak in dialect,” she said, with an edge of contempt in her voice towards customs which no doubt reminded her of the peasant origins she preferred to leave behind her.
“When was the last time your son sailed with the old man?”
“He’s right there, go and ask him,” the woman said, growing more and more hostile and pointing to the boy standing under the scaffolding.
Soneri walked over to where the boy was, lighting a cigar to calm himself. He smoked as he listened to the labourers cursing the frost which made their hands numb.
“When was the last time you went on the river with your uncle?”
“A week before he died,” the boy said. “I remember it well because we went down together and then went to my mother’s house. That happened only once a week.”
“Did you ever notice anything unusual when you passed other boats on the river?”
“On the Po, people always behave in the same way. They exchange a few words or signs of greeting. There’s hardly ever time for more than a couple of words.”
“Did your uncle have that sort of time?”
“Generally it was other people who asked him something and he would answer them. He had a reputation as a good sailor and his advice was always useful.”
“Was there anyone who avoided you, or who would not greet you?”
The boy looked about him as though unsure whether to reply. “The communists,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Who?” Soneri said, even if he already guessed all he needed to know.
“People like Melegari and that other one … What’s his name? Vaeven. If we’d had a smaller vessel instead of a barge, they’d have rammed us.”
“Did they move about a lot?”
“We met them several times. Sometimes with other people.”
“Did you recognize these other people?”
“No, the
y always kept their distance. They have a magano which can move very fast.”
“One person or more?”
“Almost always one.”
“Were they fishing?”
“Who knows? I’ve never seen them fishing, but I think they travelled quite far. They used their boat instead of a car. I don’t think they had a licence to drive a car.”
“What about Barigazzi, did you ever bump into him?”
“He doesn’t move about very much,” the boy said, shrugging. “And he nearly always stays close in. He’s only got an old boat.”
“And what do you plan to do with the barge now?”
“As soon I can I’ll ask the shipyards to give me an estimate, because I’d like to anchor it at the jetty and convert it into a bar for the summer season. It’s the only way to make use of it now.”
Soneri stood in silence. He imagined the barge with its engine shut down for good, a stopping-off point for couples on a trip up the Po, and he thought of certain former colleagues who had ended up as porters in blocks of flats to supplement their pensions. At his age, he was only too aware of the prospect of hard times ahead. To chase away those grim thoughts, he turned suddenly towards the boy, taking the cigar from his mouth as he did so. “Maybe it would be better to sell it as scrap.”
It was getting dark and a freezing fog was coming down once more from the skies. Under the arches, he took out his mobile and called Juvara. “Check up on the records of the telephone company and see if you can work out where that call to Tonna’s niece came from. The one made a week before they killed him.”
“No problem,” the ispettore said. “Have you seen what the prefetto told the newspapers?”
The commissario replied that he had not, but he could sense trouble ahead.
“He said that the police will be investigating the trafficking because it’s highly probable that that was the motive for the Tonna murder.”
“They can investigate to their heart’s content!” Soneri said angrily. And when Juvara said nothing, intimidated as he was by the commissario’s tone, the latter made an attempt to sound cordial and said: “Cheer up, I’ll call you later.”
He walked back to the jetty. The road was white with hoar frost, while from the skies flakes continued to fall as slowly as the flow of the current when the water level was low. He went down towards the yard, took the track leading to the fishermen’s cottages and then turned to the stairs leading to the moorings. Melegari’s magano was not there, but the ropes which had been thrown on to the concrete quay were clearly in evidence. The other boats, including Barigazzi’s, had been covered with tarpaulins. Along the riverbank, a row of stakes had been driven in to measure how quickly the water was falling.
He returned towards the yard just as the big light was being switched on. He was passing the fishermen’s cottages when his mobile rang. In the silence, he had the impression that his “Aida” had put the whitened branches and the buildings on stilts on the alert.
The commissario put the telephone to his ear. He knew from the number that it was Juvara.
“I’ve checked. The call you asked about came from the Fidenza district, from Zibello. I didn’t go through the official channels, but I was able to make use of our mole inside the company.”
“Did he tell you the time?”
“It lasted from 7.44 to 7.46.”
Soneri ended the call as he reached the yard. He walked round the club and as he was about to go in he saw the carabinieri van pull up. Aricò was wearing a coat down to his knees, and he seemed to be in uniform.
“Being in the newspapers at last has done wonders for you,” Soneri said.
“Orders from above, the television people turned up today,” the maresciallo mumbled.
“Did you tell the journalists how Tonna was killed?”
“You don’t believe this story of the trafficking of illegal immigrants?”
“The trafficking, yes, I believe that.”
The maresciallo fell silent, deep in thought, before adding: “I don’t really believe either that …”
“The magistrate spoke to the press and now it seems that everybody has embraced this idea of the traffickers’ revenge,” Soneri said.
“They’ve cottoned on to the one certain fact. Put yourself in their shoes. What would you do? These two murders have remained unsolved for some time now. If nothing else, this story will help to calm public disquiet.”
Unwittingly, Aricò had put his finger on the wound. The only certainty was the trafficking, and to make matters worse, it originated largely from the commissario’s own investigations.
“Have you managed to reconstruct the traffickers’ organization?” Soneri said, feeling annoyance grow inside him as he spoke.
“We’re nearly there. We’ve only one or two points to verify,” he said. Pointing to the door of the club, he went on: “I’ve come to piece together the barge’s movements in the last month from here to other ports along the river.”
“It won’t be too difficult. They keep meticulous records,” Soneri said distractedly.
Aricò frowned. “They used to keep meticulous records, but it seems that for the last two months they forgot to keep any account at all of the river traffic. But it shouldn’t be too difficult to put it all together, granted that so few of them carry any cargo,” he said in a tone in which the commissario detected something halfway between seriousness and malice.
“Who worked the river apart from Tonna?”
“Melegari and the one called Vaeven. Whose boat is registered in the name of a fishing co-operative, which – it transpires – is inactive. At Torricella there’s not much indication of activity but I’ve sent an officer to check the registers in the ports in the provinces of Reggio, Mantua, Cremona and Piacenza. Over the last month, it seems that the magano has moored on several occasions in each of them, but here it’s put in only three times.”
“He has to be involved in the same line of business as Tonna,” the commissario said and began to move on. But he had only gone a couple of steps when the maresciallo said: “Don’t you want to come in?”
Soneri thought, and then said, “You have more important questions to ask.”
He clambered over the embankment in big strides, and turned into the colonnaded street. From Il Sordo he heard a tipsy “Rigoletto”, perhaps a consequence of the singer’s second bottle. There was only one table occupied, all British by the sound of them; perhaps they had been on a Verdi pilgrimage and had lost their way in the mist. The landlord had no problem in making himself understood in sign language, since he was accustomed to doing so with those who spoke his own language.
Soneri ate his pumpkin tortelli and stracotto d’asinina and then, after some gesticulating, succeeded in having the landlord cut and parcel up some pieces of culatello and some slivers of well-matured parmesan, which he slipped into the wide pockets of his duffel coat. He went out, leaving both Rigoletto and the Duke of Mantua behind him.
Out on the grass of the embankment, the cold seemed even more biting than in the town. In front of him he could see the fishermen’s cottages and, further down, the port with the moorings, and over to the right the boat club whose great light was, at that distance, no more than a blur in the mist. Thinking over the conversation with Aricò put him in a better mood. The meal helped too, especially now that he was losing the calories in the battle against the freezing cold. He had no means of knowing if the magano would turn up, but it was worth waiting at least until after midnight. Was this yet another voyage which would leave no trace in the club’s records?
He wrapped his coat more tightly around him, put on a woollen cap, checked that his mobile was switched off and began feeding himself with pieces of parmesan and slices of culatello at the rhythm of someone poking the fire. Shortly after eleven o’clock, he saw the lights of the club being switched off and heard stray snatches of conversation between people moving from the yard towards the embankment. He thought he could make out the shadows o
f four people as they climbed towards the elevated road: perhaps Barigazzi, Ghezzi, Vernizzi and Torelli going home to bed.
When the town bell struck twelve, the commissario contemplated giving in to the cold. Ten minutes later, he tried to rise, only to find his legs stiff and all feeling gone from his feet. The hoar frost had covered him all over like icing on a cake, but before he had taken a few steps he began to hear a distant rumble, and as it became louder he clearly recognized the diesel engine of Melegari’s magano.
He saw the prow light as it drew up to the mooring, and then heard a muffled thud as the craft bumped against the tyres on the coping stones. A man leapt ashore to take hold of the hawsers. When he came into the strip of light emanating from the prow, the commissario saw that it was Vaeven. The engine and the light were then both switched off and Soneri waited for Melegari to disembark, even if in the darkness he would find it difficult to make out his imposing bulk. Shortly afterwards, lighting his way with a torch, Melegari appeared with a third man of robust build, slightly bent and with a shuffling gait. Soneri believed that this was the man he had seen between Barigazzi and Dinon near the fishermen’s cottages a couple of evenings earlier.
As the three made their way towards the club, the commissario kept watch on them for as long as he could. He could only make out shadows, but for the moment what interested him was the direction those shadows were taking. They proceeded slowly and would shortly disappear from view at the point where the road curved round parallel to the embankment. Perhaps he would hear their footsteps crunch on the gravel hardened by the frost. He thought of following them, but he risked being given away by the frozen grass, so he decided to let them move off but to keep them in sight until they reached the yard, when he could move on to the road and track them in the fog.
It was some time before they reappeared. He had the impression of hearing first footsteps and then the sound of something bumping against a wooden object, perhaps an oar striking the hull of a boat, and then nothing until he saw Melegari and Vaeven striding back towards the yard. The yellowing light of the huge lamp now lit them up very distinctly, but the third man was no longer with them. He must have gone into one of the cottages whose door could not be seen from where Soneri was, even if it seemed to him impossible that the man would spend the night in such a place. He went down towards the path, slipping on the icy embankment as he did so. The fog and the dark made it difficult to explore that chessboard of gardens and yards which acted as antechambers to the fishermen’s cottages. All he could see were pieces of old furniture piled up, fenced plots that might have been gardens, and a few upturned boats. He did his best to compare his memories with the kind of photographic negative he now saw. What had become of that stooped, apparently elderly man who dragged his feet as he walked?
River of Shadows: A Commissario Soneri Mystery (Commissario Soneri 1) Page 19