“All right,” said Stefania in a determined tone, “but up till when was it used? And who used it?”
“Nobody, as far as I can remember. Those cottages and huts up there were only used for summer grazing. Our farmers would take the animals up there in summertime, but the rest of the year they would sit empty. Anyway, that particular cottage, I don’t think I ever saw it in one piece, and I’ve been going by that area for more than thirty years.”
Stefania did a mental calculation. The caretaker’s memory only went back, at the most, to the early 1970s.
“And before that?”
“You’ll have to ask somebody else about that. When I first came to work here in ’71, the old caretaker took me around to show me all the huts that were still in use. The ones rented to local peasants. There already wasn’t anything there.”
“And does the business manager know anything about it?”
“It’s only since my husband died that we have someone overseeing the administration of the different properties,” Madame Durand intervened. “Before that he saw to everything himself.”
Germaine Durand had been following Stefania’s conversation with the caretaker with a bored expression, twice looking at the pendulum clock beside the fireplace.
“I guess the former caretaker’s been dead for a while,” Stefania said with a note of irony in her voice.
“Yes, for more than ten years. Did you know him?”
“No, I just did the math.”
Without realizing it, she’d made a faux pas. And a bad one.
Stefania felt as if she were in a blind alley—or rather, that these two people had led her down a blind alley. She smiled, cleared her throat, set the coffee cup down, and stood up. She cast a last glance at the portrait of Margherita.
“I don’t know how to thank you for making yourself available to me, Madame. And for the coffee, too. But now I really must go. Sorry, again, if I inconvenienced you. There are still a few formalities to be finalized, but we can talk next week, if you’re going to be in Italy for a few more days yet.”
Madame stared at her, then asked in an indifferent tone:
“A few formalities?”
“The usual stuff, paperwork. Required procedure, as we call it. It’ll merely involve signing a statement declaring you have no idea who the person found in the cottage might be. Inspector Carboni might even have you look at a few objects. Formalities, in short.”
“Objects?” asked Madame Durand.
Stefania realized that the fish was finally biting, and she congratulated herself for her well-calculated bluff. Were Carboni to find out, he would certainly give her a tongue lashing.
“Some of the man’s personal effects, found with his remains. No cause for any concern, of course.”
Germaine Durand eyed her with an indecipherable expression.
“We’re at your disposal, Inspector. See you soon.”
The butler saw her to the door. Armando, in the meanwhile, had stopped off in the study, together with the lady of the house.
You’ll see me soon, all right, Madame, thought Stefania. You can be sure about that.
7
When she came through the front door it was past seven thirty.
“Where’ve you been?” said Camilla. “We’ve already had dinner.”
Camilla and her friend Valentina were playing video games lying on the rug in their little bedroom, amid an indescribable chaos of clothes and shoes.
“I thought you were having a clothes war. Too bad, because I brought you these,” she said, showing the boxes with pizza. “I guess me and Grandma will have to eat them ourselves.”
“Pizza? I guess we could still have a taste. Well, not me, but let Vale have a taste, because I think Nutella for dinner is something new for her. Okay, Mommy?”
“Okay, I’ll get it ready in the kitchen.”
“Can’t we eat it in here, so we can keep playing?”
“Cami, the only thing that’s missing in this room are pizza crumbs and oil stains on the clothes and inside the shoes, then we’ll be all set. I’ll be waiting for you in the kitchen.”
She left the room to keep from laughing, then went into the kitchen to set the table for four. The moonlight coming in through still-open windows in the hallway sparkled on the surface of the lake, which was stirred up by the wind.
Her mother was in the kitchen watching TV with the sound turned off, the radio on, and the cat dozing on the windowsill. The pans on the stove still gave off a scent of roast beef and potatoes, leftovers from lunch. Stefania lay down on the sofa beside the window, letting her thoughts caress her. She felt serene.
The following day passed quietly.
Late to rise, breakfast with maritozzi from the Manzoni bakery in Menaggio—hers plain, the girls’ with whipped cream and marrons glacés. Grandma was busy at the oven all morning, preparing a traditional roast lamb with potatoes. The scent of rosemary and garlic filled the kitchen. They all had lunch together and then, before fatigue and sleep got the better of them, they went for a short walk to the little park with tennis courts, where there was a small, charming café. Sitting at a table outside, they watched the motorboats come and go in the lake area between the Isola Comacina, which was right in front of them, and the gulf of Sala Comacina. Guido called to know how things were going and to say hello to his daughter. Later that afternoon they drove Valentina to her grandparents’ house in Gravedona, in the Alto Lago district. The drive back was very slow, due to the heavy traffic of tourists’ cars that had invaded the local lakeside establishments.
When they got home it was getting dark. Nobody felt hungry for a proper dinner. A cup of broth for everyone, a little chat with Grandma about minor matters in town, while Camilla, who had spent the afternoon running and jumping around, fell asleep in front of the TV with cartoon images on the screen. Stefania struggled to carry her in her arms to her room. Time was flying and Camilla was growing up. In just a few years she would no longer be a little girl.
When she returned to the living room, it was empty. Her mother, too, had gone to bed. The house was now enveloped in silence. It was a good silence, made up of familiar sounds: the ticking of the pendulum clock in the hallway, the drip of the faucet in the kitchen, and, in the distance, the sounds of the valley, which during the day were drowned out by the noisy bustle of the household.
The bells began to ring at the sanctuary of the Madonna del Soccorso, which stood on a nearby hilltop and was reachable only on foot, by way of a tortuous path dotted with Stations of the Cross, one of the most ancient Sacri Monti in northern Italy and a destination for tourists and the devout in all seasons. Stefania counted the chimes and was surprised to learn how late it was. It was Easter, but for who knew what reason it made her think of midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.
For years Stefania had been promising herself to go to midnight Mass. But with each passing year she postponed it, perhaps because going to midnight Mass alone was like admitting one’s own failings.
This time, however, was different. She no longer had any doubts.
This year, I really will go, come hell or high water. This was her last thought before falling asleep.
Easter Monday morning arrived without any hurry.
Camilla would be going to see Monica, a friend from elementary school who lived a short distance away in Ossuccio. She wouldn’t come home until late afternoon, and for once it would be her friend’s parents bringing her back.
Stefania got up late and was in a good mood that morning.
After seeing to her household chores, she looked in the closet for her Invicta backpack. She made a sandwich and grabbed an apple, a pair of binoculars, a novel by Camilleri, and a pack of Muratti Lights. She went out to the section of the street that led uphill, taking a small path that cut through the planted fields behind the house, and went up towards the Sacro M
onte.
Halfway up she stopped for a moment to take in the lake and the mountains. From that height she could see the presqu’île of the middle basin from Lezzeno to Bellagio. She could clearly make out the Ponte del Diavolo and the secluded Villa Lucertola below it, and then, towards Bellagio, the Villa Melzi d’Eril, and the Spartivento point that divided the lake into its two main bodies.
Past Bellagio, on the Lecco side, she could just glimpse Varenna and, a short distance to the north, the mountains of Valtellina and their pure-white glaciers. To the south, on “her” side, lay the tiny Isola Comacina, the monumental Lavedo di Lenno, a sort of natural promontory that hid Villa Balbianello from view. Reinvigorated by this natural spectacle in all its splendor, she instinctively headed for the trail to San Benedetto.
She knew the trail well, having traveled it many times in the past. And every time she did, once she rounded the corner of the rocky ridge plunging straight down into the valley, she would stop and admire the stark and vaguely sinister silhouette of the Santuario della Madonna del Soccorso, just above.
That day the church’s silhouette against the spring light looked to her like some sort of miracle. She closed the top button of her jacket and resumed her climb. She didn’t feel tired. In fact, she felt as if she were gaining strength and youth at each new turn.
A little more than an hour later, she’d reached her destination. Sitting down in the sun in a clearing near the church, she rested her back against the outer stones of the apse, which were as ancient as the mountains themselves.
She savored the silence of the place, quietly collecting herself, inhaling the scent of resin from the woods behind her. The dry heat of the stone, the sharp profile of the stone-tiled roof—everything in this secluded place called to mind a distant past, and one could easily lose oneself in it, cradled in that evocation of remote epochs. The peace of such places penetrated to the innermost regions of her soul.
For years she’d felt an unspeakable aversion to crowded churches on high holy days, with the people all noisily gathered in the churchyard, and the bother of having to say hello, smile, and listen to anecdotes she cared nothing about. All the distraction made it hard to collect herself. On the other hand, whenever she had the chance she would go up to the Madonna del Soccorso, where a sixty-year-old priest would say Mass to some fifteen or so people. Collecting herself in meditation felt natural to her in such a place, perhaps because the long climb up the Sacro Monte put her in a state where she felt like a pilgrim from some past century, or more simply because the place and the austerity of the church made it impossible to feel otherwise.
San Benedetto was instead a sort of piece of the Middle Ages that had remained intact into the twenty-first century. It celebrated Mass only once a year, due precisely to the secluded site where it had been built many centuries ago, right in the middle of the valley, squeezed between two mountains in absolute silence.
Only the sound of cowbells in the distance, or sometimes of ax blows or, in summer, of sickles, and a few lone voices in the fields and huts, shepherds calling their dogs, laughter along the footpaths . . . But these things did not disturb; on the contrary, they kept you company. As her father had once said many years earlier: “In these mountains you’re never alone, and never shoulder to shoulder.”
Stefania remained engrossed in the silence for a few minutes, eyes closed, feeling the sun on her skin, smelling the chimney smoke coming from who knew what refuge. She was just about to nod off when she heard some hurried steps behind her. Before she knew what was happening she found a yellow Labrador jumping all over her noisily, sniffing her neck and trying to open her backpack with its paws.
She’d never been afraid of dogs. And the animals realized this and let her pet them. This one, however, though perfectly harmless like all Labradors, was too large a specimen to be wandering around alone without a leash.
“Tommy! Tommy!” she heard its owner calling.
The voice was familiar, and when Tommy’s owner appeared at the edge of the clearing, Stefania recognized him at once. After all, if she’d headed off for San Benedetto, there must have been a reason, however unconscious. She started to walk away. She didn’t want it to look as if she’d gone in that direction in the hopes of meeting anyone.
“Don’t be afraid, he won’t harm you. Don’t worry.”
It was too late to leave. She had to stop and turn around.
“Good morning, Valli. Long time no see. I think maybe it’s time we dropped the formalities . . .”
He smiled in shock, seeming happy to see her.
“Good morning. What are you doing out this way?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
They looked at each other and started laughing, remembering the words they’d exchanged at the café opposite the pier.
“Still running off, I see.”
“Now I’ll stop for a spell. Tommy was the only one who wanted to come out with me today, but he’s made me run the whole way. I’m out of breath.”
He took off his backpack and sat down beside her, heaving a sigh of relief. Tommy was also tired. Moments later he lay down at their feet, whimpering with satisfaction.
“It’s very beautiful here,” said Valli.
“Isn’t it? I really like it, too. I come here whenever I get the chance—just to think, or just to have a few quiet moments alone.”
“So I’m intruding.”
“You’re not intruding at all, Luca. In fact I’m glad to see you, especially because I’m hoping you have a light.”
Valli smiled and took out a box of wooden kitchen matches. Stefania thought again that he had a nice smile. She noticed his hands as he was holding the match: they were large and protective.
They smoked in silence. Then, suddenly, Valli asked:
“Everything okay, Stefania?”
Stefania looked at him with a combination of astonishment and gratitude. In any other circumstance she would have reacted rather stridently to what could have seemed a deliberately nosy question.
Smiling wanly, she replied: “Things could be better, actually.”
Valli waited for her to decide to continue.
A few seconds passed, then Stefania added: “At certain points in a person’s life, work becomes particularly important—it becomes a kind of acid test, a confirmation of many things, a means of escape. But I don’t want to bore you. I’m working on a case at the moment for which no concrete hypothetical solution has emerged yet.”
“A normal police detective, Stefania—I mean a good, scrupulous investigator, not a character in some mystery novel—even while doing her job well, that is, in conscientious, dedicated fashion, can still sometimes find herself unable to conceive a solution at the drop of a hat. And sometimes, in professional life, one never actually finds any solution at all, however hard one may try. I don’t think there’s anything strange or bad about that, do you? And anyway, I doubt it’s the only case you have on your hands at the moment.”
“There’s no lack of scam artists, petty thieves, hoods, and purse snatchers, if that’s what you mean. But when faced with someone who was killed, for whom justice was never done, my self-assurance starts to totter a little.”
“I don’t think it’s the first time that’s happened in human history. Isn’t justice in God’s hands, after all?”
“It’s also in mine, if you’ll forgive the lack of modesty. And I’ve managed to do absolutely nothing about it so far, and that upsets me. I find it unbearable.”
“Are you referring to the case you came to see me about?” asked Valli.
“That’s right. A few aspects of the case have been brought to light. But details are useless if you don’t have the whole picture. In the present instance, all that’s missing—so to speak—are three things: who he was, why he was killed, and by whom.”
“But the first time we saw each ot
her, actually all you wanted from me was information on the mountain pass project and the family who owned the land where the work is taking place. That means, therefore, that since then, you’ve been following a specific lead.”
“In reality, the initial hypothesis was rather banal: a man’s remains were found in a ruined hut privately owned and belonging to a certain family. I tried mostly to figure out whether this family knew anything about the affair and whether they were in some way involved in it. And thanks, in part, to your help, I was able in the end to talk to that family.”
“And so . . . ?”
“For the moment the signora hasn’t given me any useful information. And so we’re back to square one.”
“Maybe you’re on the wrong track. Maybe the investigation will continue on other fronts—or rather, on additional fronts. No?”
“That’s precisely the problem. At the moment I have no other leads. And anyway, I’m convinced, you see, that there is some relationship between that family and that corpse—a connection, a precise link. I think the family knows more than they’re letting on. Just some sixth sense of mine: I can feel it, but I have no proof.”
Stefania looked at the sun-caressed valley with a slice of lake in the distance, then said in a soft voice:
“Don’t you see? It’s as if I already had the pieces to a puzzle in my hands. I have them all, but I have no model to show me how to begin to put it together. What image do I want to reconstruct? Which piece should I start with?”
She fell silent for a moment, as Valli seemed to be thinking. Then she added:
“Sometimes I wonder whether I’m just being presumptuous: a classic case of the detective’s delirious sense of omnipotence. Maybe I just like to think that this is really the way it is and I’m unconsciously neglecting to explore other avenues because I know they wouldn’t lead anywhere.”
The silence was broken only by the sound of a match being struck. Valli had lit another cigarette. Stefania thought that, for an environmentalist, he really was one of a kind. Then, before even smoking half of it, Valli stubbed it out against a rock and put the butt in a pocket of his backpack. Then he turned to Stefania and said:
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