“Are they out looking for him already?” the commissario said.
The old man nodded. “The carabinieri and teams of volunteers are out on the hills.” Magnani stood rooted to the spot, lost in his own thoughts. None of the others said a word, and the silence was expression enough of their disconcerted astonishment. Soneri went out into the mist now swirling across the streets of the village like clouds on mountain tops. The trepidation among the people standing under the flickering light of the lamp-posts on the piazza was almost palpable. The Comune was open and people were walking up and down under the narrow colonnade at the entrance. An ambulance with its emergency lights flashing, but proceeding very slowly, passed by.
“Either there’s no-one inside, or else for the person they’ve got on board there’s no point going at speed,” said Rivara, who had also come out of his bar onto the street.
“An hour ago someone said they’d heard a shot,” Maini said.
“Where did it come from?”
“From the direction of Gambetta, near the Croce path, but I couldn’t say if that’s true or not. Other people didn’t hear anything.”
“Are you saying it could have been a rifle shot from…?” Rivara asked, but he seemed afraid of finishing the sentence.
“It could’ve been anything.”
A man in a wheelchair, wrapped in a heavy blanket, was repeating that they should talk to him, because he knew where Palmiro normally went. “We used to go hunting together,” he kept repeating, but no-one paid him any attention.
“What about the dog? Maybe he could lead them to where he is,” Rivara said.
“Perhaps, but he’s an old dog and seems worn out.”
“He could easily have got lost in this mist,” Magnani said.
Everyone standing there waiting in the swirling fog was afflicted by the same sense of impotence. A carabiniere car swept past and drew up outside the Comune. Another set of headlights cut through the darkness in the direction of Rivara’s osteria. Four young men from the village got out.
“Were you not needed?” Rivara asked.
“There’re too many people there already,” replied the driver. “They need people who know these woods. It’s a foreign land to me.”
“How are they getting on?”
“They’ll never find him in this mist, at night time. It’s insane. They’ll end up losing somebody else.”
“They can’t just leave him to die of exposure.”
“He won’t be feeling the cold any more by now,” said another of the young men from the car.
“The mist is much thicker up there,” the driver said. “If you don’t know your way, it’s a struggle even to stay on the road.”
“Are they working in teams?”
“A carabiniere truck went up and parked alongside the reservoir, near the aqueduct. The others have their radios.”
Maini shook his head. “They’re not going to find him tonight.”
“You never know,” Rivara said. “There are some people who know the woods like the back of their hands. And Palmiro, if he’s still got any strength in his legs…”
“The carabinieri are relying on Ulisse, who’s been wandering about Montelupo for forty years.”
“Wouldn’t he have had a mobile?” Soneri said.
“Palmiro!” Rivara exclaimed, taken aback by the sheer naivety of the question. “He wouldn’t have anything to do with those things. He still did his accounts with a pencil! No, Palmiro is one of the old school. He reckoned you had to deal with pigs with your bare hands. He would grab them by the ears and turn them over as though they were sacks.”
“And when the mood took him, he wouldn’t think twice about giving you short weight.” The words were spoken in acid tones by a squat man called Ghidini. His teeth were yellowing from the endless cigarettes he rolled himself.
An awkward silence fell and Soneri had the impression that the speaker had touched a delicate nerve. His words had brought to the surface a feeling no-one else would have dared to give voice to.
“We should go up there,” Rivara said.
“To do what?” Maini said. “Either Palmiro comes back under his own steam or he stays in the woods.”
“Maybe he’s found somewhere to spend the night,” Ghidini suggested. “In one of those huts on Montelupo, or in one of the shelters for drying out chestnuts.”
“Those places are full of Albanians,” Rivara said.
“That’s nonsense,” Maini said sharply.
“They must be. The huts are always full of cans and bottles, and every so often someone builds a fire.”
“Well, Palmiro won’t have gone out without his double-barrelled gun,” Ghidini said.
“Just as well,” Rivara said. “There are so many strange individuals on the mountains nowadays, and who knows what they’re up to.”
Soneri looked up towards Montelupo, but he could see nothing, not even the outline of the great mountain that loomed over the village. At that moment another car pulled up and the mayor, instantly recognisable, got out. He had a deeply worried expression.
“Well then?” Rivara said.
The mayor stopped. “Nothing, there’s no sign of him.”
Once again the man in the wheelchair started shouting they should take him with them, but once again no-one paid him any heed.
“Ulisse hasn’t found anything?”
“Montelupo is very big,” the mayor said, removing his hat for a moment to straighten his hair. He was sweating in spite of the cold.
“And what about that rifle shot…” Ghidini said.
The mayor turned towards him with a venomous look. “I know nothing about it, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“They heard it before it got dark, and by that time Palmiro…”
The sentence was, as ever, left hanging. The mayor glared again at Rivara with irritation, but then his expression softened, and he spoke in a more measured tone: “It could be anything, if that’s what you mean.”
“They heard it as far away as Gambetta, over towards Croce,” Maini informed him.
“It seems somebody is deliberately putting rumours about,” the mayor said.
“But why ignore the possibility?”
The mayor’s brusque shake of the head was an invitation to Maini to let the subject drop. He turned to Soneri, who had been taking it all in.
“Maybe you could help us,” he said finally.
“The carabinieri are already involved. Once you’re outside the city boundaries, it’s all their territory,” the commissario said.
The mayor looked deeply discouraged. “This is a very strange case and the maresciallo…” but he could not finish that sentence either.
“What does Crisafulli know about anything?” Ghidini sneered, putting into words what was in the mayor’s mind. “They should send a senior officer.”
“If it’s a really serious case, they’ll send someone,” Soneri said.
The mayor turned back to him, but his expression was still downcast. He was uncertain what do to and he was looking for support. Silence fell once more. All the while, the mist was rubbing against the houses, a different mist from the mist in the cities: more swift-moving, rougher, more dense
“When all’s said and done, nothing has actually happened,” the commissario said. “What do you want me to get involved in? One man who hasn’t come home, maybe because he had a quarrel with his wife? Another who got lost in the mountains, probably while hunting wild boar, illegally?”
“Could be,” Ghidini said.
“Or is there something more to it?” Soneri said.
Silence again, the unsaid hanging constantly over their conversation.
“Nobody understands a thing,” Maini said.
The mayor, however, seemed to absorb what was being said, and assumed an official pose, as though he were about to make a speech. “The commissario is quite right. After all, nothing has actually happened yet.”
No-one was sure if the word
had slipped out or if the mayor had said it on purpose. That “yet” seemed to have been uttered expressly to make the tension grow. And indeed it did grow, causing Soneri to lose patience.
“Speak clearly. If you know something more, tell us,” he snapped.
The mayor looked at the group one by one, as though to give the impression that he could not speak freely in public. He shied away from saying whatever was on his mind. “Perhaps we’re getting needlessly worked up,” he said, turning away.
For a few moments a kind of electric charge hung in the air, until the car of the municipal police drew up on the piazza and Delrio got out. “We’re getting nowhere,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned sideways on his car and lit a cigarette.
“You’d be as well calling it off. At this hour, what’s done is done,” Ghidini said.
The policeman gave a shrug. “We have a duty to do all we can, assuming he’s still alive.”
“But surely you’d hear him shouting,” Rivara said.
“If he has any voice left.”
“Did any of you hear a shot from the direction of Gambetta?” It was Ghidini who spoke.
“No, not a shot. But something else,” Delrio said.
“Great big animals,” sniggered Rivara.
“Who knows? It’s hard to make out.” Delrio was being deliberately ambiguous.
“Maybe a two-legged animal.” Rivara refused to let the subject drop.
“In this mist… It must have been a wild boar,” Delrio said.
“Let’s just pretend it was a couple of boar. No reason to be afraid of them,” Rivara said, in an attempt to be ironic.
“Can Ulisse not help you?” Maini said.
“He’s checking the paths lower down the hill, but he’s moaning about having the carabinieri at his back. He says they are more trouble than the mist.”
The policeman’s radio crackled, and he put it to his ear. They were asking him to keep the ambulance in a state of readiness for dispatch to the reservoir. At the far side of the piazza, a light could just be made out at the window of the office where the mayor was waiting for developments. The four youths who had arrived a short time before made off again, the headlights of the car cutting twin circular openings in the darkness.
“He’ll be shaking in his boots,” Ghidini said, pointing to the one lighted window.
He received only grunts in response, but it was clear they had all understood and were in agreement. Soneri looked quizzical, but Ghidini and Rivara only smiled.
“Why should he be shaking?”
“If Rodolfi goes bust, the mayor’s days are numbered. Here everything is linked to the pig-farming business, and even politicians come out smelling of pork and salame,” Maini explained.
Ghidini raised his right hand, rubbing his thumb against his index and middle finger, the universal sign for money and wealth, a gesture which was at once eloquent and ambiguous. Soneri, innocent of professional involvement, was happy to remain a bystander. The now-customary silent pause followed, and just when it seemed that someone was about to launch into a speech, the first fireworks went off. Everyone turned towards the houses huddled around the church and peered into the mist as it took on different colours moment by moment. The explosions came slightly later, delayed like peals of thunder.
“Do you think that’s such a good idea?” Maini said, referring to the fireworks.
“The mayor has decided it might help him get his bearings if he’s lost,” Delrio said.
“Assuming, of course, that Palmiro can see them,” Ghidini said.
“Even if he can’t see them, at least he’ll hear them,” Delrio said, staring at the flashes which appeared as opaque as coloured ice in a granita.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Rivara said. “Sounds can be deceptive in these mountains, and can produce the very opposite effect from what you would expect.”
“Palmiro knows what he’s doing, and anyway he’ll see the lights,” Delrio said, waving his hand in the air as a Roman candle was set off, its colours floating in the milky air.
“It’s like being back at war, when Pippo and his reconnaissance plane circled the skies,” Ghidini said.
Just then a sequence of bangs, similar to a burst of machine gun fire, rang out, followed by a loud report, like a deep cough issuing from enormous, tubercular lungs.
“We’d got used to the occasional gunshot…” Rivara said.
Each man’s expression was grim and frowning but indecipherable. The bar owner, shivering in the damp air, broke up the meeting by suggesting they repair inside. They trooped in silence into the brightness, and still no-one spoke. Only a few stragglers and a couple of stray dogs were left on the piazza, but the solitary light in the Comune remained switched on while the last flashes from the fireworks died away, falling into an abyss of dampness. When the church bell struck eight, Soneri realised it was time for dinner, but just then his mobile rang. He went outside to reply, aware of the watchful eyes of the others gazing at him, as though he were a priest celebrating Mass.
“Is the mist as bad as ever?” Angela asked.
“In more senses than one.”
“I deduce from that reply that the Rodolfi affair is beginning to intrigue you.”
“There’s more than one Rodolfi affair now. The father has gone missing as well.”
“Palmiro?”
“How do you know his name?”
“Who doesn’t know him? You’re forgetting that I’m a lawyer. It was he who created the company.”
“You think I didn’t know that?”
“Well then, you must know that he can eat fire, he’s as strong as a bull and afraid of nothing.”
“I know, I know.” The commissario cut her off sharply. “Anyway, right now he must be afraid of the dark and the cold, because he’s lost somewhere on Montelupo.”
“What is Montelupo?”
“It’s the mountain facing the village. It’s no place for day trippers, beautiful as it is in its own way. It’s got a sinister feel because of all the legends associated with it.”
“They’re overdoing their disappearing act, these Rodolfis,” Angela said.
“It’s going to be a difficult business finding him. In this fog, either he makes his own way back or he stays up there for good.”
“If you go climbing tomorrow, instead of finding mushrooms, maybe you’ll find the old man.”
“If this mist doesn’t lift, I might get lost myself.”
“No, you’re like a cat. You always find your way home.”
“I keep seeing myself as a boy, when I used to go searching for mushrooms with my father.”
“If you go on like that, you’ll only get depressed.”
“He would teach me the names of the trees, but he wasn’t given time enough to teach me all of them.”
“Possibly Palmiro won’t manage to teach his son all the tricks of the trade either.”
“He might still turn up, but there’s a really bad feeling abroad in this village.”
“They’re afraid the whole pack of cards will collapse. Anyway, you have work to do, Commissario.”
“Yes, tomorrow, on Montelupo, among the beech trees,” Soneri said.
When he went back into the bar, he was struck by the silence. All that could be heard was the plaintive tinkle of the videogame machine and the smack of billiard balls as two boys moved round the table.
“Are we going to have to wait up all night?” Maini asked the commissario.
“There’s nothing we can do. We’d be better off going to bed,” Ghidini said.
Rivara offered them all a drink, and they lined up at the bar like a detachment of soldiers, until their attention was diverted by the crackle of Delrio’s radio.
“The ambulance? It’s already here in the piazza. The doctor? Of course he’s here. The one on stand-by duty.” The radio crackled once more. “Yes, we’re on full alert… You heard a voice?… Ah, you’re not sure?… Well, we’re ready in any case.”
<
br /> “They say they think they heard a voice, but it might have been the cry of a wild beast,” Delrio advised his companions.
“There are some that sound almost human,” Rivara said.
“Such as cats on heat,” Ghidini added.
“You can never be sure of anything,” the commissario said.
“It’s not like being in the city. Sometimes these mountains seem to have been put there just to confuse people,” Maini said.
“It’s got nothing to do with the mountains, for God’s sake,” Soneri said.
“It could have been Palmiro calling for his dog. He can’t have known it had long ago made its way home,” Maini said.
“He was as fond of that dog as he was of his son,” Volpi said.
“And the dog was more faithful,” Ghidini said.
Soneri grew ever more uncomfortable listening to the conversation, laden as it was with allusions which escaped him. It was clear that there were layers of hidden meanings in the talk, confirmed by nods and little grins and winks. It was like a mime show put on for him, or like listening to a foreign language and it made him aware of a growing distance between himself and the people here with whom he would have liked to re-establish a fraternal cameraderie. He had deluded himself that he could easily re-enter the community, but now he felt as isolated as he felt in the questura, and as perhaps he always was.
He noticed that the conversation had stopped and that Maini and the others were staring at him. The same silence as before fell over the group. The waiting became more and more oppressive. He lit a cigar, more to mask his embarrassment than from any genuine wish to smoke. That intolerable silence was broken by the sound of a car screeching to a halt in the piazza. The youths who had been there a short time previously came running into the bar.
“Palmiro is home,” the driver announced.
The tension evaporated in an instant. Rivara stepped forward. “Who found him?”
“No-one. He made it on his own. He bumped into the carabinieri at the reservoir and asked them if they were looking for him. Apparently, he didn’t even want them to give him a lift back.”
“Palmiro’s made of iron!” Volpi said.
“They’ve made us waste all this time for nothing,” Delrio grumbled. He picked up his radio-phone and bellowed into it, “OK?… It’s all over?… Can we go now?”
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