“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Signorelli said as he gave her his giant hand for a shake. “We were on our way to my office when I received a phone call from Evangelisti. That magistrate seems to think that because I am the principal heir to our family’s fortune, my work at Il Quotidiano delle Valli must just be something I do to pass the time. Perhaps he also thinks that I’m prepared to do anything and everything to help that idiot brother of mine out of a sense of family solidarity. You know, he actually called me to ask that I intimate to Felice to drop this whole thing about Item Number 78C. He’s out of luck. Understand that I belong to a disappearing species in Italy: I’m for a journalism uninfluenced by the powers that be.”
He paused, giving the narrator—who relies on critics’ benevolence with regard to his work—time to point out that these statements are the dottore’s own, and he alone is responsible for them. Then Alberto Signorelli added:
“On top of that, Francesco is a fucking moron. And I don’t know what he’s up to at his research center, but I smell a rat. So, what is this Item Number 78C?”
“A red marker. Now, the piece of paper with the words ‘The Worker Bee Revolution’ on it, found near Bertolazzi’s body, was written in red marker. It would be interesting to know whether any fingerprints or DNA were found on this marker. Did Evangelisti tell you anything about this piece of evidence?”
Alberto Signorelli slapped his thigh with a triumphant expression.
“Ah, well yes, he told me that the item unfortunately disappeared from the shelves of the court’s records office, and he emphasized that we mustn’t press the point; they would certainly get it back, but a pointless little scandal could delay Operation Edelweiss, which was aimed at preemptively eliminating any threat from the ecoterrorists, who could still consider my brother’s research center a target. He also told me how he was in favor of the concept of ‘preventive detection,’ a crime prevention method that consists of individuating the dangers posed by certain organizations, even before they actually become dangerous, and intervening based not on what people have done but on what they are likely to do. I told him in that case I should be arrested immediately, because I often feel like strangling my wife.”
“Did he laugh?”
“He laughed. The idiot thought I was joking!” boomed the director of the Quotidiano delle Valli, eyeball- ing his conversation partner.
When Simona didn’t bat an eyelash, he added:
“He also told me in confidence that they brought you in on the investigation in order to keep an eye on you.”
Simona smiled.
“You know, I had my suspicions.”
Again, the esteemed director slapped himself squarely on the thigh.
“I like you, Commissario! I’ve always sworn by full-figured women.”
Simona chose not to reflect on this compliment.
“Is that why you wanted to speak with me? To warn me?”
“To warn you and tell you that I won’t pass on a big story to protect my idiot brother. You have the Quotidiano delle Vallis support.”
Simona pushed back a white wisp of hair that was covering her eye.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, Signor Signorelli, but my involvement in this case will be limited to my having pointed out the importance of a piece of evidence to your reporter. As for the rest, I have faith in his capabilities and in his willingness to fight . . .”
“Capable and willing to fight—he’d better be, that asshole, if he wants to eat! But you’re right, there’s more to him than meets the eye. Maybe I’ve underestimated him. At any rate, this whole Operation Edelweiss thing is ridiculous. Those weapons . . . everyone in the valley is laughing about them. Discovering hunting rifles at the homes of the valley’s inhabitants is an absolute joke! Everyone hunts here, including beekeepers . . . That doesn’t change the fact that those men died. If I understand correctly, you don’t intend to continue investigating?”
“It’s not my place. Tomorrow morning I’m leaving for a vacation under more peaceful skies, accompanied by my husband.”
“Shame . . .” said Signorelli, sizing her up with a movement of his large nose that was reminiscent of a boar in search of strong, appetizing odors. “Shall we take you back to your hotel?”
Simona could feel the strain from the walk in her legs and gladly accepted.
* * *
When she was back in her room, she felt a tremendous sleepiness weighing her down, and as soon as she lay down on the bed, she fell asleep.
When she woke up, it was four in the afternoon. She had slept five hours straight. She had an incredible ability to take refuge in sleep and linger there, at any hour of the day, when the world around her seemed dark and hostile. A shame that she didn’t have the same gift as a commissario friend of hers who solved enigmas in his sleep.
She called to order a snack of prosciutto and local cheese, accompanied by an excellent Piedmontese beer. While she was eating she glanced at the dark screen of her television and decided to leave it that way.
Later, after slaloming through the lobby to avoid the group of reporters, she set herself up on a chaise lounge at the far end of the hotel garden, underneath a bougainvillea buzzing with insects. She immersed herself in “The Worker Bee Revolution.”
The text began as follows:
The specialists who have written on colony collapse disorder point out that the sudden disappearance of the worker bees is much worthier of attention when dead bees aren’t found in the area surrounding the beehive. It can be broadly deduced that they went elsewhere to die. And what if they did not? What if, rather than going off to die, they regrouped and went to live somewhere else, away from that place of exploitation and pollution, where they were exposed to the disease that is the hive? And what if the disappearance of the bees were actually mass desertion? What if the bees we believe to be dead were living elsewhere, like the Maroons who once fled the plantations where they were reduced to slavery, in Haiti or in the other Caribbean islands? What if the bees have gone into hiding?
“That’s good reading you have there,” said a voice that Simona recognized immediately.
Minoncelli crouched down, bending his large frame so that his blue eyes could meet with those of Simona.
“Oh good, it’s you!” exclaimed Simona. “Do you know that they’re looking for you?”
“Yes, I know. I plan on going to the court tonight with my lawyer. This entire operation is monstrous, as well you know.”
Simona inspected that hunk of a man and his undying smile.
“I don’t know. I’m not going to criticize my colleagues. There was, after all, an attempted attack . . . and there have been several deaths . . .”
“As far as the attempted attack is concerned, you must excuse me for having my doubts. It serves the purpose of supporting the ecoterrorism theory and putting an end to the League’s protests against Sacropiano’s experiments in the valley once and for all. We don’t know exactly what kind of shady dealings they’re running in their laboratory, and thanks to this whole mess, maybe we never will. It wouldn’t be the first time a fake terrorist plot was used to stamp out dissent . . .”
“That’s what we call a conspiracy theory.”
“You’re not going to tell me that conspiracies don’t exist in Italy?”
Simona looked down to protect herself from the influence of that truly intense gaze.
“Who wrote this?” she asked, indicating the pamphlet with a quick movement of her chin.
“I don’t know anything about it. We received a pack of them at our headquarters. We thought it was interesting, though it is fairly unhinged . . . As you can see, there aren’t any names on the front.”
As he said this, he pulled the cover of the pamphlet, which was still in Simona’s hands, back into place.
It was in this position, him crouching near her, their hands very close together and holding the same book, that Marco Tavianello surprised them.
“Am I interrupti
ng something?”
CHAPTER 8
AS AWKWARD AS THAT MOMENT WAS, Simona was saved from yet another inconvenient misapprehension, taunting, a man-on-man boxing match, and other trials that have assailed the majority of living creatures since the dawn of sexual reproduction, by her spontaneous reaction: When she saw her husband standing there, fuming, she burst out laughing. Then she threw herself into his arms.
“Marco! I’m so happy to see you!” she cried.
“I’m not interrupting?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, you Neapolitan macho! This is Giovanni Minoncelli.”
The two men shook hands.
“Well, finally!” exclaimed Marco. “The last time we tried to meet you, we found a dead body at your house. But aren’t they looking for you? Don’t tell me that my wife has let herself enter into an illicit friendship with a fugitive?”
“I’m going to present myself at the courthouse with my lawyer shortly, but first I wanted to say a few words to your wife . . . and to you, if you’d like to listen.”
The two men sat down on two metal chairs next to Simona, who had settled back into her lounger. Minoncelli repeated what he had just said to the commissario, and Marco, considering the possibility that Operation Edelweiss served primarily to protect Sacropiano’s experiments, refrained from hinting at conspiracy theories, as his wife had done, and said simply:
“It’s not impossible.” But he added, “Do you have an alibi for the night of the attack?”
Minoncelli shook his head.
“No. Evangelisti let me go, and I went home without meeting anyone.”
Marco shook his head before calmly offering his take on the situation.
“In that case, my wife will have to arrest you.”
The beekeeper jumped up from his seat.
“What are you talking about?”
“What are you saying?” asked Simona, sitting up in turn.
Marco stayed in his chair but reached out his hands, his palms facing forward.
“Calm yourselves. Think about it for a second. If you want us to help you, Minoncelli, we have to operate within the strictest confines of the law; that way Evangelisti and the rest—everyone behind him, the Services, and the other authorities—can only praise us for intervening. If we arrest the main suspect for the attempted attacks, I don’t see how they could keep us from sticking around here and butting in a little while longer . . .”
Simona had kept her eyes on him from the moment he began his response.
“What’s gotten into you?” she grumbled. “I’d like an explanation. I thought you’d come back to take me to Salina . . . because, well, I don’t know . . .”
She went silent, though she couldn’t resist shooting a sideways glance at the handsome beekeeper.
“Well,” cautioned Marco, “if you don’t know, it’d be better not to discuss it. It just so happens that I made a few phone calls on my way back, and I realized this case was getting to be of interest to many of us, including those who, like you and I, are rather sick of the Services’ dirty little games.”
Ah, thought Simona, he called his brothers in the Freemasons. That was the only thing missing from this affair. But she stayed quiet.
“Listen to me,” he said to Minoncelli. “You can trust me. You have more powerful allies than you even know. Not everyone in the upper echelons of the government agrees with what’s happening at Sacropiano’s laboratories. Do you have a vague idea of what they’re up to?”
Minoncelli shook his head.
“Bertolazzi didn’t want to tell me. Yes,” he said in response to Marco’s thunderstruck expression, “we were in touch. He didn’t make it known officially, in the interest of keeping his job. But after talking with us and reading up on the bee problem, which wasn’t his area of expertise, he ending up seeing things our way. He was even worried toward the end; he would say to me, ‘You don’t know what they’re doing,’ referring to Sacropiano’s research. He wouldn’t say any more than that because he said it was too dangerous, but he encouraged me to continue fighting his company. When we occupied his villa, he and I had arranged it beforehand in secret—no one else in the League knew. He told me that we’d find some documents in his desk that would show what they were plotting at the Sacropiano laboratories. But because things went the way they did, I didn’t have time to go through the desk in question. They told me he was dead, the carabinieri came for me, and the occupation was cut short. I’m guessing that Sacropiano has gotten hold of the documents by now.”
“All right,” Marco said firmly, “we’ll take care of it. One way or another, we will find a way to make this corporation tell us what it’s up to. Do you agree to let Simona arrest you?”
Minoncelli flashed his broad, irresistible smile.
“Well!” he said, turning toward the commissario, “I’ve never been handcuffed by a beautiful woman before. I’d love to try it!”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” the commissario shot back in the same tone. “I don’t bring handcuffs on vacation.”
Then she stopped smiling. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marco’s face turning purple. He inhaled deeply, unclenched his fists, and said, “Let’s go. Simona, you’ll have to call Calabonda to tell him that we’re bringing Minoncelli to him.”
The maresciallo answered on the second ring, listened to what the commissario had to tell him, and blurted out, “I’m busy. But I’ll send a car to get him. It’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The beekeeper’s journey across the park and over to the police car in the company of Signor and Signora Tavianello did not go unobserved. There were shouts and mad dashes from the cameramen and photographers who had abandoned their equipment to enjoy the pool for a minute. Ciuffani ended up in a shrub in an attempt to find a shortcut that would allow him to beat his colleagues. Marco unloaded some of his nervous energy by dealing a few blows to people’s stomachs with his elbows. Right before he was handcuffed by a carabiniere and loaded into the car with a hand guiding his head, Minoncelli shot Simona a look in which she perceived, for the first time, fear and dismay.
“I hope I can trust you,” he said.
As the car departed and they fought off the microphones, Marco mumbled to his wife, “All right, now that we’ve gotten rid of that asshole, can we finally go on our vacation?”
Simona stared at her husband. He didn’t seem to be joking. She answered her cell phone, which was ringing. It was Calabonda.
“It seems you are still indispensable,” the carabiniere said to her. “I’m at the hospital. I have permission to speak with Mehmet Berisha, but he says that he will only speak in your presence. He only trusts you, because you saved his life. And also because, in his words, ‘you at least, when he speaks, understand it.’”
“All right, I’m coming,” Simona said. Then she met her husband’s gaze, cleared her throat, and stammered, “That is . . . hmm, yes, perhaps . . . oh, very well, fine.” As she ended the call, she locked eyes with Marco. “I’m coming. See you soon,” she finished. “Will you come with me?” she asked Marco.
He shook his head.
“I came here to get you, not to conduct an unauthorized investigation. Let me remind you that I’m retired. I’m leaving tomorrow. And this time, if you don’t come with me, I’ll spend my vacation alone.”
And he turned away.
* * *
The air conditioning in the crowded hospital room at Ospedale Civile Edoardo Agnelli was out of order, but Mehmet Berisha, in spite of the heavy sheet and the fact that his leg was in a cast and in traction, seemed to be the only one unfazed by the heat. Evangelisti, sitting on an adjustable chair upholstered in gray plastic, kept unsticking his sweat-soaked back from the backrest and fanning himself with a sheet of paper that had wilted from the temperature. Calabonda, leaning against the bathroom door, had removed his cap and was looking inside it with a gloomy expression. The interpreter, sitting on a stool by Mehmet’s bedside, was dripping with sweat, as was the car
abiniere responsible for taking down the deposition, who had set up a laptop and printer on a rolling table with an adjustable top.
“Good morning, miss,” Mehmet said to Simona in English as she settled against the post from which his leg was suspended at the foot of the bed.
“Good morning, Signor Berisha,” she answered. “We’re ready.”
The shepherd nodded and started talking. Speaking in a monotone, he explained that he had been in a romantic relationship with Maurizio Bertolazzi, the engineer, for two months, and that he suspected he was cheating on him with Giovanni Minoncelli.
“How did you come to have these suspicions?” asked Calabonda.
The interpreter translated and Mehmet Berisha shrugged. He said something that included the word “gay.” The interpreter, an abundantly mustachioed carabiniere from an Albanian community in Aspromonte, Calabria, seemed surprised. He questioned him, and Berisha answered.
“What is he saying?” inquired Evangelisti.
“He says he knows Minoncelli is gay,” responded the mustachioed man, “because he and Bertolazzi ran into him in a gay bar in Turin.”
Simona ran a hand over her head and got mad at herself for the feeling of disappointment that suddenly washed over her. How were Minoncelli’s habits any of her business?
“The deposition will continue,” added Evangelisti, “and you,” he said turning to face the carabiniere- interpreter, “limit yourself to translating. Don’t intervene in his statement.”
Berisha explained that he had noticed after the town hall meeting that Minoncelli and Bertolazzi were always finding secluded spots to chat, and that Bertolazzi would have a smitten look on his face. He knew that look well, he did . . . And then, three days earlier, Bertolazzi had called him to cancel a date; they were supposed to meet at his villa in Torre Pellice and spend the night there. Berisha went to his lover’s house anyway. The lights were out in the windows and he waited all night for the engineer to return. In the morning he decided to go to Minoncelli’s house. When he got there someone whose face he didn’t see was driving away from the beekeeper’s property. It wasn’t Minoncelli’s car, but Berisha thought maybe he had gotten a new one. At any rate, the shepherd walked toward the house, tried the doorknob, and seeing as it wasn’t locked, went in. He went to check out the bedroom; the sheets were rumpled and he thought he picked up on the smell of sex. As an incredible anger built up inside him, he grabbed the telephone and hit the redial button. It was Bertolazzi’s cell phone number.
The Sudden Disappearance of the Worker Bees Page 12