Before long they arrived in Mezzagra. Here, fifty years ago, the course of history was decided. They stopped in front of the Bonzanigo Villa, in which Mussolini had spent his last night in the arms of Clara Petacci.
“Are you going to take me to the gate of Villa Belmonte now?”
“Did you know that every year, on April 28, hundreds of nostalgics come here to pay homage?”
“Yes, I saw them once. I feel sorry for them—but I also find them sort of endearing.”
“They make me feel angry. Not because I agree with them, mind you. But because I just can’t understand what they’re doing there, in front of that villa, when everyone knows that Mussolini was killed in Bonzanigo and not in Giulino.”
“Don’t tell me that you, too, believe in the theory of the double execution? You have a marked soft spot for conspiratorial hypotheses.”
“No, the simple fact is that all you need is to be a little familiar with these places and with the people who still remember to know what actually happened at the time. And just to put an end to the discussion, he wasn’t killed at four o’clock in the afternoon together with La Petacci, but in the morning, in the courtyard of the De Maria house.”
“And Claretta?”
“Claretta was bumped off shortly afterwards, right where we are now, with a burst of machine-gun fire in the back, as the Duce’s corpse was being carried away.”
They got back in the car and went as far as Lenno, where they left it in a parking lot and headed off on foot. They crossed the national road, passing under a stone bridge.
“Okay, see? We’re already on the Regina road. There are a number of stretches in this area that still follow the original routes. The road passes near the lake, through the inhabited areas or sometimes below them. It passes by villas and churches, and looks out on the lakeshore. When I was little I used to come here often in summertime. It was always shady, and along the first stretch there were a lot of hazelnut bushes.”
“Like these?”
“Yes, but the nuts aren’t ripe yet. By August they’ll turn large and round. We used to crack them with stones and eat them.”
They walked in silence. As they advanced, the sounds of the road became increasingly faint. Whenever Stefania traveled that road she felt as if she were entering another dimension and going back in time.
“What a smell!” said Valli. “And what a wall!”
“Look up,” Stefania replied. “Those are extremely tall laurel hedges, and a bit farther down are some huge larches and magnolias, and whole expanses of ferns. What you’re smelling is a scent of laurel and resin, and underwood. This wall here in front of us is the enclosure wall of Villa Monastero, which has the same name as the more famous one on the opposite shore. Take a good look at it. It has always reminded me of life passing and changing, and of the past returning.”
“A simple wall has that effect on you?”
“Look at these stones at the base, how big they are. Two meters of massive wall, and yet down there you can see smaller rocks differently arranged. There must have been a door here, or a gate, since we can still see the squared stones. It must have been an entrance that at some point was closed up; if you think about it, at one time there must have been a lot of people coming and going here. Can you picture it? People going to the monastery, carts, animals, fishermen coming up from the lake with their baskets of fish.”
“Are we already so close to the lake?”
“If you listen carefully you can hear the waves, the lake waters lapping and splashing. Back here there even used to be a water fountain—the water was very cool and used to pour right out into the mossy surroundings through the head of a mythological animal. When we were kids we always used to stop here and drink. Now it’s dried up. Almost all the fountains have disappeared. In a minute we’ll be at the villa’s main gate. You can even see inside a little. You come to a point where the garden’s wall and the walls of the house are so close that you can touch them both at the same time. There’s a kind of dark, narrow, very high fissure. We found it sort of scary.”
“Stefania!”
She shook herself out of it and smiled.
“You’re right. Maybe all this talk of walls and stones bores you. You want to stop for a minute? Right here, down below, there’s a little strip of shore with sand. There’s not much in the way of beaches around here. It’s all so small, you know, like being inside a miniature painting.”
“Made to the measure of man.”
“The men who used to go boating on the lake even when the breva was blowing cultivated the little bit of land that was there. Others went into the monastery, still others went up into the mountains with their animals. Whoever had any, that is. Owning animals in those days meant being well-off. Who knows how many children have run through this way? Imagine all the cats sleeping on these warm stones in summertime. Do you smell that scent? That’s algae. A lot of people say it bothers them, they say it smells bad. Actually it’s only lake water, lying stagnant. It’s probably been that way for millennia.”
“Stefania!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll shut up now, for ten minutes at least. Let’s go down to the lake. Here, be careful, it’s a bit slippery. This way. Give me your hand.”
“But there’s not enough room for two people to sit down.”
“That’s only because we didn’t make a reservation. Otherwise there would be tables and chairs ready for the occasion.”
“Well, if need be, I can suffer and hold you in my arms.”
“Gallant as ever.”
They laughed and sat down side by side with their backs against the low wall, letting the sun caress their faces. Before them the lake waters sparkled and glistened like silver.
“It’s beautiful here,” said Valli.
“Isn’t it?”
Stefania opened her eyes for a moment and caught Valli looking at her face. She didn’t mind. It didn’t bother her the way it did with all other men.
“When you want to move on, just give me a whistle.”
“There’s no hurry. There are so many things to see here, and anyway, I like to go slowly, when possible. Time passes so quickly, as a rule, and here it seems to slow down a little. Let’s hold on to it for ourselves.”
“I accept.”
Valli lit a cigarette, and Stefania, too, reached out for her backpack.
“Want one?”
She opened her eyes in surprise. He was offering her a cigarette. She hesitated for a moment, then took one, closed her eyes again, and brought it to her mouth. For the time it took to smoke a cigarette, she listened to her heartbeat.
It was a pleasant sensation, one she was no longer accustomed to.
After the cigarette, they went up and down trails and pebbled footpaths, coming out sometimes on the lake side, sometimes on the mountain side. They crossed the national road a few times, but only for brief stretches. After Lenno, they came to Ossuccio. They passed through the Romanesque Oratorio of Santa Maria Maddalena, entering through the great portal, then walked parallel to the lakeshore opposite the isola.
“See how small this branch of the lake is here? The isola is so close you can even swim to it. And you can see all the details from here: the staircase leading up to the church, the footpath circling around everything. The sparse little wood up on top.”
“Is there time to go onto the isola? That would be nice. I’ve never seen it before from so close.”
“Maybe after lunch. Provided we can find someone willing to ferry us over in their boat.”
“Lunch? Did you really say ‘lunch’?”
“I just meant this afternoon.”
“Too bad. It wasn’t a bad idea.”
“Don’t tell me you’re already hungry, Luca.”
“Then I won’t, if you care so much.”
He smiled.
; “All right, now we’re going to travel down another part of the Regina road in this sort of tunnel, after which we’ll go down to the church of San Giacomo, and then, if you behave, we’ll have lunch at La Tirlindana.”
“I wonder how old this passage under the house is.”
“Smell that? These shadows smell of cellars and mildew. There used to be chicken coops and rabbit hutches here, and you could hardly breathe. Now there are tavern doors and garden gates. But the charm has remained. And there’s one last thing I have to show you before we go home. We’ll go down this way and walk along the torrent, and that’ll take us right there.”
“You mean Beccaria’s tomb, which you mentioned earlier?”
“No, that’s between Ossuccio and Sala Comacina. What I’m going to show you is instead a kind of common denominator in the stories of many people who lived at different times and in different circumstances.”
“You stopped smiling the moment you started talking about it.”
“Here we are. This is Villa Regina.”
Valli stood there looking at the broad façade, the long lane, and the great gate.
“So this is the Villa Regina?”
“The one and only. We’re looking at the rear, the part with the servants’ and caretaker’s quarters. Seen from the front, it’s even more magnificent, but you can see that side only from a boat, or from the shore when the water is low. Or if you circle round that bit of wall down there, like we used to do when I was a kid.”
“It’s probably not advisable now. But you were right. It’s very beautiful.”
Stefania pressed her face up against the gate and looked at the large white water lilies in the fountain.
“There are other villas just as beautiful and more along this part of the lake. But this one has a history. Many people have lived here. Margherita, in the final years of her very short life, and her father, Remo. And Maria, the sister, whom I’ll be meeting on Monday. . . . In short, the Cappellettis who came before the ones who live there now, a family of bankers, lawyers, and senators, half Swiss, half American. Not to mention the war, the Germans, the fleeing Jews. Did I tell you I came here to meet the current owner, Madame Durand?”
Valli looked at her and smiled with forbearance. Apparently he wasn’t that keen to resume the discussion about Villa Regina.
“It’s an ancient villa,” he said. “Over its five hundred years of history it was bound to have a few owners with storybook lives, and who knows how many adventures. You, without knowing, have entered their lives, and so they all seem like extraordinary characters to you. But who knows how many similar stories one can find in places like this?”
“I don’t doubt it. But it’s not, you see, because they’re people out of the ordinary. And anyway, I’ve never felt any fascination for the wealthy or powerful. The point is, something happened here that I haven’t yet been able to understand. It’s right there before my eyes, but I can’t decipher it. A few pieces of the puzzle are missing.”
“Not for long, Monsieur Poirot. But for now, shall we leave Villa Regina to its glories and mysteries and go eat some fresh fish?”
“Only if you promise me some boat-shaped pastries afterwards.”
La Tirlindana was one of the best-known restaurants in the Tramezzina.
It was in Sala Comacina, right in the middle of the bay, opposite the Isola Comacina. Small in size, it was well ensconced in the old part of town, a cluster of houses all huddled together. One got to it after wending one’s way through a labyrinth of little cobblestoned streets, or else directly from the lake. The small square in front of the restaurant, used as a terrace for customers’ tables, was equipped with a landing dock. It was a quiet spot, with a subdued atmosphere, that served as the setting for a sumptuous menu of lake fish that changed daily.
That day, Mario, the owner as well as chef of the restaurant, had prepared some of his specialties.
Stefania and Luca sat outside and ordered sparkling Chiarella water and a carafe of white wine.
The menu called for antipasto alla Comasina, with Toc and missoltini, cipolle borettane, and alborelle in carpione. As a first dish, chestnut ravioli with plums and sausage.
Valli ordered a gratin of whitefish with golden pancetta and a sampler platter of local cheeses.
Stefania kept to things she knew best.
When it was time to accompany Valli back to his car, Stefania felt a little sad.
“Well, here we are,” she said, smiling, “back at the starting point. I hope it wasn’t too boring for you wandering around the lake.”
“It was fantastic, seeing all those places and the lake through your eyes.”
“I enjoyed being with you, too.”
She immediately regretted the statement and the tone in which she’d said it.
“If you want,” she continued, “now that summer’s on the way, we can go on other walks. There are so many things to see in these places, if you know what to look for.”
“If you don’t have anything better to do these days—that is, even tomorrow—a cup of coffee and a chat in town would do me just fine, as long as you don’t have other engagements.”
“It’s certainly a nice idea. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll be in Bergamo, and I don’t know what time I’ll be back. But I’ll be free on Tuesday.”
“Then I’ll call you Tuesday morning.”
“Okay. Good-bye, Luca.”
“Bye, Stefania.”
Stefania turned and crossed the street to head home. But when she reached the corner, she instinctively turned around. Valli was still sitting motionless in his car and looking in her direction. She waved and then turned back around, and at that moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him touch his lips and blow her a kiss.
14
Back at the office after a visit to the courthouse for a deposition, Stefania found an e-mail from Montalti waiting for her. It was from a few evenings before.
Dear Inspector,
The mortal remains of Karl Dressler have safely reached their destination. They are now resting in our family vault, as our uncle Heinrich would have wanted. We thank you again, and who knows whether we may not meet sooner or later. Deep down, we miss Italy, and I must admit that before I die would like to see Villa Regina again, assuming that’s still what it’s called.
I’m writing to you to let you know that we have officially informed the municipal government of Leipzig of the decease of Karl Dressler and his present burial place. We have provided them with all the documentation that was sent to us by the Italian courts. I don’t expect much to come from this act, but our legal counsel tells us that this official statement on our part may finally lead to a serious search being conducted to find the Dressler family. And the results could be more satisfying than was the case in the 1950s, at the height of the Cold War. Should any important information emerge, I will not fail to let you know.
Cordially yours,
P.M.
Stefania thought for a moment about Montalti, his sensitivity, his sense of honor and commitment, which she seldom encountered in the circles closest to her. She certainly wasn’t expecting anything concrete to come out of this, but the mere fact that someone so far away could become interested in this case put her in a good mood. She promised herself to write him back to thank him in turn.
Her thoughts then turned to the conversation she would have that afternoon, face-to-face, with Maria Cappelletti. She felt as if she were about to play her last card, and she knew she couldn’t afford to waste the opportunity.
It wasn’t quite eleven yet, but she already felt like heading out. She put the box with the pertinent exhibits in her purse, slipped furtively out the service exit, went to Via Italia Libera, where her car was parked, got in, and headed off towards the Bergamasca, on her way to national route 342. As soon as she was out of town she started to relax. She felt like
a thief making off with the loot.
In the end it was rather like a holiday. Why all the fuss?
Clearly Carboni and especially Arisi would not have approved of her going to Bergamo and bringing along the material evidence to a case already closed. The fact was that for her superiors that evidence should already have been locked away in a file and labeled, buried in some cabinet and already gathering dust. In a way they had all, in their minds, already closed the case. Everyone except her. And since nobody else would lift another finger to seek justice for Dressler, she might as well try.
She would put everything back in its proper place before evening, and nobody would be any the wiser. That, at least, was how she saw it, and the idea that something might go wrong hadn’t even crossed her mind.
She drove on serenely, passing through first the Como province and then the villages of the Brianza Lecchese. She reached her destination in less than an hour and a half. It was still early.
She stopped in the town’s central square and went into a small bar full of old men to ask for information as to the best road for getting to the institute. She was the only female customer in the establishment and felt the others jovially eyeing her, but she got all the information she needed in just a few minutes.
She learned that the institute housed almost fifty chronic psychiatric patients of all ages. The youngest often came into town accompanied by orderlies to have coffee, ice cream, or to buy cigarettes. The lady running the bar told her this last detail after seeing Stefania light one up, adding that the patients were treated very well but that the nuns’ rules were ironclad: long walks, no alcohol, gym classes, every sort of physical activity, early to bed every night and up at seven.
“The nuns run the show in there, even though there are only ten of them and they’re not so young anymore,” she said. “But they run a tight ship.”
“Only ten?”
“Well, aside from a dozen orderlies, four psychiatrists who come and go, a social worker, and the service staff. But it’s the nuns that manage the place.”
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