The Book of Hidden Things

by Francesco Dimitri

  ‘You’re right. Where Art’s dad kept the wine.’

  ‘I bloody loved making it.’

  Every year Art’s dad made wine for his family, and we helped, by squashing the grapes with our naked feet, jumping inside a wooden press. It was messy and noisy, the only good thing about the end of summer.

  ‘The door was outside, right?’ I say.

  ‘I think so.’

  It’s at the back, close to the kitchen door. It doesn’t have a lock, or any electricity, just a torch on a nail at the mouth of the staircase. Mauro picks up the torch and we go down stone steps, worn and slippery. It’s positively cold, a stark contrast with the burning heat outside. I take a long breath, hoping to find the smell of grapes I liked so much. I gag and cough. Rather than grapes, I inhale a stink I know all too well, of blood and shit and bacteria gone nuts. It’s how bodies smell when you slice them open.

  The staircase ends in a simple square room, with a table at the back wall. On a rack are neat rows of sharp-edged implements. Some are butcher’s tools, others are smaller; at a glance, I make out three surgical-quality scalpels. Dark stains are splashed on the table and the floor. An apron, covered in more brown splashes, hangs next to the rack.

  I close my eyes and pinch my nose. This can’t be happening. This can’t be Art. This is a place of hope, laughter and sweet grapes.

  ‘It’s a slaughterhouse,’ Mauro whispers.

  13

  In the trullo we don’t find anything remarkable that I hadn’t already seen. Mauro knows even less than me about BDSM (I wouldn’t necessarily have bet on that). He’s not shocked; after the slaughterhouse, what’s in the trullo has all the emotional impact of a stamp collection. As for the slaughterhouse, I don’t know. It’s common enough for country folk down here to butcher their own animals. Admittedly, it’s far less common to drag them down a staircase and use surgical implements on them. I refuse to think about that right now. I can’t afford to freak out.

  We search the car, where the only thing of interest is a fat bag of weed stuck in the glovebox. I pocket it – Art wouldn’t want to see his produce go to waste. Then we move to the fields, the part we’re dreading. We start from the tall marijuana plants. They’re green and strong, even though they’ve not been attended for a while (Art always said that marijuana is easy; a five-year-old can grow it). From there we move to comb the vineyard. When we finish it’s mid-afternoon and so hot I could melt. Mauro and I are shirtless and sweaty.

  ‘Nothing here,’ he announces.

  I shake my head. We don’t need to add what we both think – thank God. When you find a slaughterhouse in your mate’s basement, you kind of expect to find, on top of that, a mound of freshly dug dirt in his garden. It’s one of those cases where no news is good news.

  ‘Gelato run?’ I suggest.

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’re a god among mortals.’

  I leave Mauro and Fabio at the house and drive to the closest gelato parlour, a few miles towards town. I buy a tub of chocolate gelato with three paper spoons, and head quickly back to Art’s, racing against the inexorable melting of my cold, sweet booty. A Mercedes slows me down. I curse it. This lane is too narrow for me to overtake, and all I can do is make puppy eyes at the polystyrene tub and pray the gelato won’t be a puddle by the time I arrive.

  The Mercedes turns into Art’s lane.

  All the alarms in my head go off. I fumble for my mobile, then I remember there’s no signal here. I follow the car into the lane. The sun beats on my face, blinding me. Even with my shades on I can’t see who’s driving. I press on the pedal – let the fuckers know I’m on them. They might be random guys who took a wrong turn. Well, a little scare won’t hurt them.

  The Mercedes stops. I stop too, unsure of what’s next.

  Suddenly the Mercedes comes back to life – in reverse. A scenario goes through my mind: the sturdy Mercedes hitting my parents’ humble Fiat, making an accordion of it and squashing my body like a mosquito. I press on the pedal and yank the wheel to the right, and I get out of the lane and into the field. The Mercedes misses me by a whisker. I hit a rock, hard, and something in my poor car makes a loud noise, and I come to a sudden halt.

  ‘Fuckers!’ I shout, turning my head and unlocking the belt, ready to fight.

  The Mercedes doesn’t stop. It continues its run in reverse, and it’s gone.

  Fuckers.

  I have their number plate.

  14

  My front right wheel is wrecked. I note down the plate number on my phone before I forget it, then I leave the car and run down the lane. Mauro and Fabio come to meet me midway, both shaken. I guess theirs is the grown-up reaction, not mine. If it weren’t for the damn wheel, I’d chase the Mercedes and beat the crap out of whoever is on board. I shake the polystyrene tub. ‘Those assholes were after our gelato.’

  ‘How’s the car?’ Fabio asks.

  ‘We’ve got to change a wheel.’

  Mauro starts, ‘What the hell…’

  ‘Gelato first,’ I stop him. ‘You gotta know your priorities.’

  ‘We’ll eat while working,’ Fabio says.

  ‘No hurry.’

  ‘Say the Mercedes guy comes back.’

  ‘I’m counting on that.’

  ‘Say he comes back with friends.’

  I pause, then concede, ‘I don’t like it when you’re right.’

  ‘Yeah, me neither.’

  While I open the boot to get the jack, Fabio and Mauro throw themselves on the gelato. I set the jack under the car, recounting the details of my brief rendezvous with the Mercedes. ‘I took the number plate, for what it’s worth.’

  Mauro hands me the gelato tub and a spoon, saying, ‘I can trace the vehicle’s owner.’

  ‘That easy?’

  ‘I have a guy.’

  ‘You couldn’t wait to say that, could you?’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ Mauro says. I can’t believe I wrenched half a joke out of him. I pass the tub to Fabio, and Mauro helps me to take the new wheel out of the boot.

  Fabio scoops gelato saying, ‘I’ve seen the typewriter.’

  I start to dismantle the wrecked wheel. Fabio and Mauro aren’t any good with cars; I’ll do this quicker on my own. ‘Did Mauro tell you about the… basement?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Fortunately, we found nothing else in the fields,’ Mauro says. ‘No trace of Art’s dog, either.’

  I ask, ‘Any wisdom in the books?’

  ‘Some,’ Fabio replies, and his voice means, a lot. He takes a piece of paper out of a pocket and holds it out. I stop what I’m doing to look at it. At its centre, it’s typewritten:

  THE BOOK OF HIDDEN THINGS

  A FIELD GUIDE

  I seize it and turn it over. The other side is filled with Art’s minute handwriting. I need to bring the piece of paper closer to my eyes to discern what’s on it: a sequence of numbers and brief notes, separated by small dashes.

  27: the dunes on that beach are especially rich in broom. –

  32: see if it’s true that salt marshes were already there in the XIst century. I should touch upon that in TBOHT.

  ‘Art’s note-taking system,’ Fabio explains. ‘Not exactly user-friendly. He’d write down on a piece of paper the numbers of the pages of a book that caught his interest, with either a quote or a brief note, and then keep the paper inside the book. There’s a piece like that in almost every book in this house.’

  I pass the paper to Mauro and go back to the wheel.

  ‘And The Book of Hidden Things is…?’ Mauro asks.

  ‘Something Art was writing. He took an awful lot of notes, like, “Good for The Book of Hidden Things”, or, “Remember this for TBOHT.”’

  ‘So Art’s Project is a book?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘Like when he did the Metamorphoses?’ The comic book that convinced Art to screw up his big chance with Stanford. It got him rave reviews but
the money wasn’t great. Not that Art had any fucks to give about either.

  ‘It’s not a graphic novel. It’s non-fiction this time.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Art didn’t leave any drafts lying around. I can only go by his notes, and from that, I guess…’ Fabio’s voice trails off. ‘The Book of Hidden Things is about Casalfranco’s countryside, plus religion.’

  I’m screwing in the bolts – ten minutes and we’re good to go. ‘Art loathed both.’

  ‘It’s a good theme for a book. This countryside is overflowing with churches, chapels, shrines, so on and so forth. Art was focusing on a handful of places, which he was using, if I get it right, to illustrate a general point about the connection of physical spaces and, ah, spirituality.’

  ‘You’re telling me Art moved back to a place he hated to write a book on folklore? While setting up a torture chamber in his trullo and a God-knows-what in the basement?’

  ‘Art wasn’t well,’ Fabio says.

  ‘Carolina said the Project was related to the first time Art disappeared.’

  ‘Ah, but there is a connection: the olive grove. I found some old registers Art borrowed from the town library and never returned. You guys want to guess who owns the grove?’

  I say, ‘Not particularly, no.’

  ‘It’s the Church, Casalfranco’s chiesa matrice to be precise. In practice, Don Alfredo.’

  I bury my head in the work I’m doing, to hide my surprise. ‘With all the things people said at the time, nobody talked about that.’

  ‘Well, of course the Church didn’t want to be involved with Art’s disappearance.’ He pauses. ‘Or Don Alfredo is more involved than we think.’

  ‘I know where you’re going, Fabio, and I’ll stop you right there. I don’t care for him either, but he’s not a child fiddler.’

  ‘Yeah, because a paedophile priest would be totally new.’

  ‘Don Alfredo never…’

  ‘Don Alfredo was never found out, which is different. A hell of a lot of priests all over the world weren’t, until a little time ago, and there’s many more who never will be.’

  ‘That’s a strong allegation,’ Mauro says.

  ‘Look, I’m just saying that a kid went missing in a priest’s property in a period when we know for a fact priests were using kids as their playmates. Art’s family could have told Don Alfredo all sorts of things in confession, or other people told things about them, it doesn’t matter. He’s the senior priest, he knows everything.’

  Mauro says, ‘He might have had something which kept Art’s mouth shut.’

  Fabio nods. ‘Then Art’s parents died and Art came back to Casalfranco, to have a go at him.’

  ‘And he started writing a book?’ I ask.

  ‘He wasn’t well!’ Fabio repeats. ‘How many times do I need to say that? Art wasn’t fucking well. He kept a slaughterhouse in his basement, for Christ’s sake! He was looking for a way to get back at Don Alfredo, and he got sidetracked, discovering an interest in landscape and religion. A new phase began. That’s Art through and through.’

  ‘He healed a girl,’ I say. ‘Supposedly.’

  ‘It’s religious obsession all the way down. I’m sure Jesus meant it when he proclaimed himself as a messiah, and I can see Art climbing on a soapbox in a piazza and proclaiming that actually, now that he thinks of it, he’s one too.’

  Mauro says, ‘It doesn’t explain the abattoir, the dungeon. Or what happened to Art this time.’

  ‘It explains what happened then and that’s a start.’

  I stand up, covered in grease and dirt. ‘We’re good to go,’ I say. ‘Are you still up for tonight?’

  15

  I walk to the church through stone alleys, all crooked, with their uneven pavement and their white houses that seem forever to be crumbling down but never do. The church itself is a tall Romanesque building in a tiny piazza, with a front rose window and two lions guarding the door. Before entering I pat the head of the lion on the right, as I’ve done since I was a little kid. I step inside, into the silence and darkness, and inhale the smell of incense. It never fails to make me feel safe. I dip a finger in the holy-water stoup, trace a cross on my forehead, and bow in the direction of the tabernacle.

  The church is nearly empty; my only company is two elderly women, small and withered, with black shoes, black gowns, black cardigans, and black veils over their heads. The House of God belongs to them more than me. Until I reconsider my shagging choices, I’m not allowed to receive Holy Communion – I’m excluded. It hurts. It’s a beautiful thing, to know that the son of God accepted incarnation, suffering and death for us, and that we can share His body and blood. His body and bollocks, Fabio would say. He’s at ease with Mauro’s faith, but not with mine, first, because Mauro’s is more superficial than mine, second, because of where I stick my penis. He says, Priests go on preaching that you’re a perv. I know, I know. Many priests are like that. Not all though. The Church is not about priests, anyway, it’s about Jesus Christ, and I could share a couple of ideas about how he and his disciples entertained themselves on Palestinian nights.

  My Lord, I pray. Is Art with you? I’m sure You opened to him the doors of Heaven. He was a good man, You know that, of course You do. He was always there for his buddies. Always pushing us to be the best we could be. He didn’t believe in You, but You don’t mind, do You? All that matters to You is what lies inside our hearts, and Art’s heart was gold. He was too smart for his own good, but isn’t it sad, my Lord, that Your children made a society where being too smart is a bad thing? My Lord, I promise that I’ll do my best to give Art the justice of men, the only justice in our hands.

  Speaking of which.

  I hope I’m doing the right thing tonight. I’m not condoning evil, my Lord, I’m only trying to do good. Lend me Your strength and let me keep my moral compass. You know how lost I can be, without Your hand guiding me. Protect me and my friends tonight, my Lord. Protect us.

  Protect us from evil tonight.

  16

  The fires blaze in the distance. They shine yellow and orange beyond the olive trees, in the absolute darkness and flatness of the land. The moon is a sharp-edged crescent; the flames reach out to it, like hands striving to grab it for savage purposes.

  ‘Kill the engine,’ Fabio says.

  ‘We’re not close enough.’

  ‘Kill it!’

  I pull over at the edge of a field of olive trees. Ours is the only car for a good few miles, and when I turn off the engine and the lights, we might as well not exist either.

  ‘Can you hear that?’ Fabio whispers.

  A rhythm of drums and human voices, faint, as if coming from another world.

  ‘Holy fuck,’ Mauro says, under his breath.

  I say, ‘You guys can still sit this out.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. But what the hell is that?’

  ‘No idea. Fabio, can you reach in the glove compartment? I brought a pick-me-up.’

  Fabio fishes out a bottle of rum. He takes a sip and hands it to me. I drink a little and turn towards the back seat, to hand the bottle to Mauro.

  ‘It’s going to be fine,’ I say, starting the car again. ‘Rocco wouldn’t send us here if it wasn’t safe.’

  I take one or two wrong turns, lanes giving on to open fields, and have to double back. I tried to convince my mates not to come with me, honestly, but they wouldn’t hear reason. ‘What did Anna say about tonight?’ I ask.

  Mauro replies, ‘She’s understanding but not that understanding. I cobbled together a story about an acquaintance of Art we wanted to talk to.’

  I bite my tongue. Lying to your partner? Not good.

  I finally find the right lane, an unpaved stretch of road cutting through barren fields. The drums are so loud now I can hear them over the engine. Two men are standing at the end of the lane. One gestures us to stop. They both carry guns, holstered, but in plain sight. Another field behind them has become a temporary parking lot
. I stop the car, kill the engine, and roll down the window. I put my hands on the wheel. Fabio and Mauro take my cue and keep their hands visible too.

  The men approach us from both sides of the car. ‘Ccè bbuliti?’ the one on my side asks, in thick dialect. What do you want?

  ‘I’m Rocco’s in-law.’ I hope it’s the right answer.

  ‘Elena’s brother?’

  I’m a little taken aback by my sister’s name. ‘Yeah.’

  He looks in the car. ‘And you guys?’

  ‘I’m Fabio.’

  ‘Mauro.’

  The man seems satisfied. ‘Elena wasn’t sure you were all coming.’

  ‘They wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ I say.

  The men let us pass, and I park the car next to a grey BMW. They search us, with detached competence, then point us towards the fires. ‘Have fun,’ they say.

  17

  The music is a taranta played on tambourines and harmonicas. The fields beyond the car park, Mediterranean scrub with occasional olive trees, are ablaze. Three bonfires burn tall, at a distance from one another, forming a large triangle. There’s a lot more fire than that; everywhere I look, I see oil lanterns on bamboo sticks. The flames are the only source of light for miles. They throw shadows around, of people, shrubs and knobbly trees, and those shadows twirl with the shifting of so many flames. The shadows grow big and small. They change. They melt into one another, skimming across human skin and vegetation, only to move away soon after. They are a living duplicate of our world of flesh and bones, a duplicate which is no less real, and no less able to reach out, and hurt, than the original.

  The air is thick with smoke and the bitter aroma of jummarieddi. A short man with a sunburnt face sits at a huge pit filled with burning coals, where he is roasting meat on long skewers. Jummarieddi are the most intensely scented thing humankind has ever put on a grill, with a flavour to boot. They are among the last survivors of a less tame age. To make them you take the entrails (kidney, liver, everything goes) of a freshly slain lamb, or a goat as a second choice, wash them with water, salt and lemon, and season them with more salt, pepper, bay, parsley, and basically whatever herb you happen to have in your back garden (where chances are you’ve just killed the animal). Then you roll everything in the lamb’s peritoneum, stick the roll on a skewer, and put the skewer on hot coals. An acquired taste, people not from here define jummarieddi, but only when they’re being polite. You don’t find them much in tourist restaurants. They make my mouth water.