The nun was visibly shaken. Stefania could only look at her, waiting for her to resume speaking.
“When I reached the middle of the meadow, and my father was shouting desperately and trying to stanch Margherita’s wounds with his clothes, Karl Dressler was still alive, but Margherita was dead. Her dress was soaked with blood. The partisans were yelling and my father’s men were silent. Dressler lay on the ground, wounded, blood oozing from his chest. In one hand he clutched the locket. He couldn’t breathe. I’m not quite sure what happened next. My father had him carried away by his two men. He was in despair, and had threatened the group of partisans. ‘I’m going to make you pay for this!’ he yelled at them repeatedly.”
“What happened next I can tell you myself, Mother,” Stefania said softly. “Your father had Dressler taken back inside the cottage, more precisely to the nevera below. Minutes later someone finished him off with a shot to the base of the skull. The cottage was then loaded with explosives and blown up.”
21
The drive back was like heading into the coming summer.
Sister Maria hadn’t been able to hold back her tears as she remembered the terrible moments of her sister’s death, her father’s torment, and the misfortune that would plague the Cappelletti family from that moment on.
In the end the nun had been right when she’d said that it would be the dead who buried their dead. The protagonists of the story were almost all deceased. Margherita, Karl, the colonel. And her father, her mother, her brother Giovanni, and poor Battista. Reopening the case on the basis of these new elements would have only meant causing new pain and suffering to persons who had already suffered enough. But Stefania had found out what she’d been keenest to know—that is, what had happened that night on the mountain. Karl and Margherita could now rest in peace.
On her way home, while still at the wheel, she rang Camilla to make sure that she and her mother were okay. It was starting to get unbearably hot, and the feeling of the air coming through the open car window and the wind ruffling her hair made her think of her adolescent years, the festive atmosphere of going on field trips with her schoolmates, that sense of plenitude one feels only during times when everything is within reach.
She felt light.
For a moment she thought of calling Giulio and telling him everything. Then she decided that she would wait a day or two to do so. The story was over, after all.
She called the office to say hello to Piras and Lucchesi.
At the gates of Como she decided not to stop, and so headed straight for the road to the lake.
At Cernobbio she turned onto the low road.
Once past the Piccolo Imperialino at Moltrasio, she pulled up, parked the car, and went into to La Vecchina, the café just behind the dock.
She ordered a panaché and a slice of tart fresh from the oven.
She was in a good mood. A flyer posted just below the bar announced the feast of Saint John in the third week of June, an event that officially marked the start of the summer season by the lake.
She paid the bill and went out. After crossing the street, on the other side of which was a broad square of fine white gravel, she started walking along the lakeside promenade.
It was a gorgeous day. At that time of the afternoon, the lake, from her perspective, looked emerald green, as the sun’s rays glanced off the gentle water and all the vegetation of the surrounding hills was mirrored off its surface. Near Carate Urio, the motley colors of the painted buildings in the old quarters shone bright, with their green shutters and an unbroken suite of azaleas and oleanders, bougainvillea and jasmine, peering out from the balconies.
Her thoughts turned to the festivals slated for the following month, and she remembered when, as a little girl, her father and mother would take her down into town to see all the preparations for the festivities.
She remembered the enchanted, fairy-tale atmosphere, and all the different kinds of boats, dozens and dozens, gathered behind the Lavedo promontory at Lenno, not far from the Isola Comacina, and all the men and women attentive to every detail so that the historical reconstruction to be unveiled that evening, before the fireworks, would ring true.
And then the delicate movements of the boats in the gulf of the Zoca de l’Oli, the extras mingling with the fishermen, the whole town working hard to make the event a success.
It was about a month away, maybe a little more.
All around, along the paths and cobbled streets and outside the front doors, there would be a buzz of tourists and curious onlookers. Some would be strolling with their families, while others would be seeking a last-minute reservation at one of the many local restaurants. The youngest would exchange furtive glances and promise each other eternal love behind the walls of abandoned houses.
Long successions of lumaghitt, little candles arranged along the streets and walls, on the balconies of houses and on windowsills, ready to be lit after sunset for that one time a year, would provide the ideal frame to the celebration.
Darkness would enfold the town in the absolute calm of the Tramezzina. Little by little the lake and the Isola Comacina would take on the colors of the feast. The boats would begin to move like hundreds of colorful dots across the mirrorlike surface of the lake outside the house. Amid the general silence the isola would begin to glow red, at first gradually, then in a dance of light, until it was completely aflame. The speaker would narrate the historic events that gave rise to the legend, with Barbarossa as protagonist.
At that moment the fires would begin to rise in the sky, lighting up the entire surrounding area as in daytime.
And from that day on, for the rest of the summer and well into October, the lakefront would become an unending succession of celebrations and festivals, solemn masses and evening dances, with the old folks listening to the music to the scent of sausages and grilled fish.
Stefania felt happy.
She wanted to leave behind the investigation, her daily routine, the customary workaday irritations. She could feel the summer on her skin.
Looking up at the lake, she dialed a number on her cell phone.
As Luca answered at the other end, she heard a noise behind her.
Turning around, she saw, as if by magic, a hydroplane fly through the sky before her, in an endless series of revolutions.
AUTHORS' NOTE
There is no actual Villa Regina, of course, on Lake Como, just as there is no Cappelletti Durand family.
The villa described in this book is, however, the fruit of ideas taken from a variety of historic villas in the area of the Tramezzina, an amalgam of elements borrowed from Villa Sola (in Bolvedro), Villa Balbiano (in Ossuccio), Villa Carlotta (in Tremezzo), Villa Balbianello (at Lenno), and Villa La Collina (in Griante).
This being a book of fiction, the authors have taken some narrative license as well. The main instances of this involve the following:
—the toponym San Primo, which in the book refers to a mountain pass near the Val d’Intelvi, in reality is the name of a mountain located on the opposite side of the lake, more precisely at the top of the peninsula that includes Bellagio;
—the real distance separating Villa Regina (in its imagined location) and Lanzo d’Intelvi (an actual place located at the level of the Val d’Intelvi and the Swiss border) is much greater than stated in the book;
—the restaurant La Tirlindana (in Sala Comacina), a well-known establishment appreciated the world over, is very much the way it is described in the book. The menu presented here, however, contains a few elements and dishes more broadly connected to the traditional cuisine of the Lake Como area;
—the church and parish of Santa Eufemia have no direct correlative in the actual urban area of Como.
NOTES
sciuri: Lombard dialect for signori—meaning, in this case, upper class.
missoltini: A shadlike fish from Lake Como.
&nb
sp; maritozzi: Currant buns typical of the Lombard region.
repubblichini: The term repubblichino designates a supporter or functionary of the so-called Repubblica di Salò, the puppet government set up by the occupying Nazis in 1943. After the Italians had overthrown the Fascist regime and deposed Mussolini that same year, the Germans invaded and sprang the disgraced dictator from his prison in a spectacular raid, appointing him figurehead of the quisling government, which had its seat in the town of Salò in the Alpine lakes region of northern Italy.
Black Brigades: A Fascist paramilitary militia formed after the establishment of the Nazi puppet government in Italy in the second half of 1943.
the eighth of September: September 8, 1943, was the date of the official announcement of the so-called armistice—in reality an unconditional surrender—whereby the nation of Italy would cease all hostilities against Allied forces. The Germans, however, already controlled the northern half of the peninsula and sprang Mussolini, who had been deposed and arrested some six weeks before, from his mountain prison just four days later, on September 12, guaranteeing more than another year of Fascism and bloodshed for Italy.
Spizzico: Spizzico is an Italian fast-food restaurant chain.
Dr. Valenti: In Italy, anyone with a full university degree is considered a doctor, and Stefania Valenti’s position as commissario di pubblica sicurezza requires a university degree.
Toc, etc.: Toc is a polenta preparation rich in butter and cheese. Cipolle borettane are Italian pearl onions, often served in a balsamic vinegar sauce. Alborelle in carpione are small freshwater fish fried and served with a sauce of olive oil, garlic, leek, celery, bay, carrots, onions, white wine, and white wine vinegar.
*R. De Felice, Storia degli ebrei italiani sotto il fascismo, new expanded edition (Turin: Giulio Einaudi Editore, 1993), 610–11.
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Shadows on the Lake Page 27