The Book of Hidden Things

by Francesco Dimitri

  ‘Lots and lots.’

  Something in her voice. I can’t quite place it – but there is something. Guilt? It could be. I suspect Anna and Fabio slept together at some point. I never asked and I don’t want to know. It is in the past, when we were all young and stupid. I’ve never cheated on Anna, but that doesn’t make me a saint.

  I say, ‘Those photos will make your colleagues… talk.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  I love this woman; there are many things in my life which I am not sure of, but I am sure I love this woman with everything I have, more than I will ever love anybody else, our little girls included. She’s the most marvellous gift Art ever gave me. ‘How did you find Fabio, anyway?’

  ‘Not well. Even though, and I’m going to say something horrible now… perversely, this trouble with Art might be helping him. It gives him something new to focus on. Something unexpected, off-scale.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say, after a pause.

  ‘And how are you holding up?’

  I scout around the basement with my eyes. ‘Sincerely?’

  ‘Go, man.’

  ‘What we found out about Fabio bummed me out.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’ That something again. I should find the courage to tell her, It’s okay, stop feeling guilty for things far away in the past, but that would mean admitting to my suspicions, and I am not ready for that.

  ‘I thought he had a perfect life. He followed his dream, and won it all! Success, money, a glamorous job which didn’t involve finding creative ways to let people get away with not paying taxes.’

  Anna sighs. She’s heard those lines so many times. ‘You can quit your job whenever you want, Mauro. You should. We’ll figure something out when you stop being a drama queen.’

  How? I want to shout at her. How can I possibly quit my job? We have two daughters, two balls-and-chains sucking away from us the best years of our life, and they need clothes and doctors and holidays and toys, and the money you make is not enough, and our savings would be gone in six months, tops, and in six months we’ll figure out we’re fucked.

  I say instead, ‘Fabio followed his dreams, Hollywood-style, and he’s not happy. I did the opposite, I acted responsibly, and I can’t say I’m happy either. Either you go for it or you’re a good boy and follow the rules, it’s all the same in the end. Is there a way, any way, to win at life?’

  ‘I am happy,’ she replies after a bit.

  ‘There,’ I say. Hidden behind cobwebs and a row of old bicycles, the unmistakable shape of the instrument that failed to change my life. ‘I found it.’

  5

  It is all about computers now, but to score in the nineties, playing guitar was still the way to go. Honestly, though, I got started on the guitar not because of the girls, but because of a song, Led Zeppelin’s ‘Babe I’m Gonna Leave You’. It spoke of adventure, rambling. It filled me with a longing for things I had never known; I was too young to have memories to be nostalgic about, and I couldn’t wait for those memories to come. I had a longing for nostalgia, and I started playing guitar because I wanted to play that particular song.

  I wasn’t half bad, if I say so myself. The other kids stuck to the basic chords (E minor, C major), using them invariably for each and every song they were asked to play, from ‘Wonderwall’ to ‘Lemon Tree’, regardless of the actual chords they were supposed to use. I discovered that I liked music for music’s sake. I put time and effort into learning my chords, and if the girls were impressed, that was great, but impressing them wasn’t the point of it.

  Notwithstanding that (or exactly because of that), it paid off. It was the night of the tenth of August, the feast of San Lorenzo, the summer after the table-football tournament when I’d embarrassed myself making a move on Rita. With a large group of friends, we lit a bonfire on a fine sandy beach. The plan was the same as every year: spend the night at the fire, drink beer, smoke weed, and look for the shooting stars that on the feast of San Lorenzo fill the sky like silver confetti. Southern kids still carry on the tradition, even though lighting bonfires on the beach is technically illegal, and if they catch you, the coastguard will fine you – or maybe accept a bribe to go away. Joyless bastards.

  The main action was around the fire, with two guitar players, and a gaunt bongo drummer as awful as them, putting on a show. I was sitting off at a distance, facing the black sea, practising the chords for a Santana piece, I don’t remember which one. I sound terribly pretentious, but I wasn’t striking a pose, I was just playing.

  ‘That’s cool,’ Art said.

  He sat down next to me with a beer.

  ‘You didn’t bring any for me?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope. No time for booze. You have to keep on playing and entertain me.’

  ‘I’m not your monkey,’ I said, distractedly playing a few notes.

  ‘You’re really good, man. You could be a rock star.’

  ‘As if.’

  ‘Money, fame, girls, which part don’t you like?’

  ‘The part where I starve.’ It was the summer before our last year of school. We were starting to think about what to do next, where to go. We were starting to worry that we would make the wrong choice. ‘The part where I become a pathetic never-has-been and I hate the music that ruined my life, which is how 99% of wannabe rock stars end up.’

  ‘You shouldn’t focus on those who fail, but on those who succeed.’

  ‘And how many of those are there, Art?’

  ‘You only need one: yourself.’

  ‘I’m the responsible type.’

  ‘Fuck being responsible!’

  ‘Even if I were a good enough guitar player, which I’m not, I just… don’t have it in me.’ It was painful to articulate what I thought. ‘I’m the sort of guy who mums like more than their daughters do. The music biz is not only about the skills, it’s about the attitude. You have to look the part. And I look the part of the reliable uncle, the paunchy one who gets drunk at Christmas and tells corny jokes.’

  ‘You smoke weed.’

  ‘And that’s as far as it gets. Not very sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll.’

  ‘Sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll, that’s right!’ Art laughed. ‘Actually, you got the essentials covered. Weed is a drug, check. You’re a natural born rock ’n’ roll guitarist, check. And about the sex…’ Art got to his feet with a flourish. ‘Let me show you how cool your life could be.’

  ‘Wait…’ I tried, but he was already running back to the bonfire. That was Art for you: a force of nature, unstoppable and, as often as not, unintelligible. I wondered what had happened in the seven days in which he hadn’t been with us. I wondered if I would ever know.

  Art started a conversation with someone, hidden behind the flames, then pointed in my direction, and the second person started walking towards me. Her outline shone from the flames behind her, her hair waved in the night breeze. Anna was coming, looking like a spirit of the fire. She was wearing an extra-large sweater, covering her legs all the way down to her knees, with sleeves too long for her. She was the cutest thing I had ever laid eyes on.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ she said.

  I couldn’t even look at her. I looked at the sea, black as the night at the bottom of a cave, but full of the reflections of the stars. I didn’t look at her and I didn’t reply, because I was too shy. That, Anna would reveal to me years later, made me come across as mysterious and aloof, a moody artist to die for.

  She asked, ‘Will you play a song for me?’

  ‘Why?’ Which, again, was said out of awkwardness, and sounded kick-ass. We all have our lucky nights; we have to hold on to them, to survive the other ones.

  ‘Art says you’re good, and Art knows his music.’

  Was there anything Art didn’t know? ‘Are you into music too?’

  ‘Piano, not guitar. Mostly jazz.’

  ‘You like Petrucciani?’

  ‘My favourite.’

  ‘Cool.’

&n
bsp; ‘Are you playing or not?’ she said. ‘You get to pick the song.’

  Without giving it too much thought, I started the chords of ‘Babe I’m Gonna Leave You’. It would become a running joke with Anna, that a song called ‘Babe I’m Gonna Leave You’ was my soundtrack of choice for our first date. In my defence, I didn’t know it was a date. The notion that Anna might have wanted to date me was as alien as a walk on the dark side of the moon, especially after my clumsy attempt, the previous summer, at kissing her friend.

  She sat down, facing the black sea and the shooting stars. She didn’t say a word; she listened to my tune, and I played on.

  6

  The cappuccino they brew in this bar is fabulous, and they bake their own brioches, fluffy and not too sweet. It’s been the most famous breakfast in town since before I was born. Shame about the décor change; they recently refurbished the place with transparent plastic tables and chairs, giving it a look which would be fresh if these were the eighties and Casalfranco was New York. When I arrive, Fabio and Tony are already sitting in the small room in the back. At another table the bongo drummer from that bonfire all those years ago sits, with a plump woman who’s probably his wife. He pretends he doesn’t recognise us and I reciprocate the favour.

  When they finally leave, Fabio takes his phone and shows me a Facebook profile. ‘Silvana: Concetta’s daughter. She’s FB friends with half of Casalfranco.’

  Tony grabs the phone to look at a picture, with me peering over his shoulder. I can’t make out the background, only Silvana’s halo of curly hair, her eyes like lullabies, her flawless skin. Even in such a crappy photograph, her beauty is almost painful.

  ‘Wow,’ Tony says. ‘She’s so hot she’s burning away my awful condition. Rejoice! I will be healed any moment now.’

  Fabio takes back his phone, selects another photograph. ‘And that’s the dog.’ A white shaggy dog resting in the sun, eyes closed, an expression of delight on his muzzle. Who knows how much time he had left before being hung from a tree, to die slowly in a stifling hot olive grove.

  Tony tucks into his second brioche, and says, ‘We have la Madama.’

  ‘This is a girl who would obsess anybody,’ says Fabio.

  An idea comes to my mind, and I start talking, to give it form. ‘Listen: we took it for granted that Art’s first and second disappearances were connected, but what if they aren’t? Not directly. Let’s say that Art comes to town to write his book, and he meets Silvana. She wants nothing to do with him. But he starts obsessing over her, calling her madama. Perhaps he stalks her.’

  Tony stiffens. ‘Art wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Art is not the guy we used to know, Tony, none of us are. Anyway, Saverio finds out what Art’s doing and decides to protect his sister. Maybe Silvana sends him, or maybe it is his initiative. Be that as it may, he gets mad, he gets out of control, and he… kills Art.’

  ‘So why did he come back to Art’s, the other day?’

  ‘To be sure there was no evidence left. Prints. Stuff.’

  ‘It’s a good theory,’ Tony admits. ‘But it doesn’t explain everything.’

  ‘A lot of the details might just be because Art was being Art.’

  Fabio says, ‘You’re saying it was Art who killed the dog.’

  ‘Our mate set up a cosy little abattoir in his basement. Clearly things had got a little intense, towards the end.’

  ‘What about the other dog?’

  ‘What other dog?’

  Tony slaps a hand on his forehead. ‘Art’s! The dog he treated like royalty, remember? I totally forgot about it.’

  I open my mouth, ready to reply, and realise I have nothing to give. ‘Fine, I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘Maybe Saverio killed it too? Wouldn’t be too strange. The best we can do for Art is to tell this theory to Michele, and forget about it.’

  Fabio says, ‘This doesn’t clear Don Alfredo. It was him, twenty-two years ago, and he’s got to pay for that.’

  ‘One thing at a time,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not Saverio’s biggest fan,’ Tony says, ‘but we need to talk to the girl first. Get a clearer idea of the situation, before pointing the Corona at him.’

  ‘Saverio won’t let us anywhere near her.’

  Fabio shakes his phone. ‘On Facebook, she says where she works.’

  7

  It is walking distance from the bar. In Casalfranco, everywhere is walking distance from everywhere else – another thing I miss, especially when I am stuck in traffic first thing in the morning. We stroll down the main street, passing by two different churches, a nunnery, and then under a stone archway named after San Gregorio. We reach a funeral parlour whose window showcases an oak coffin, a plastic floral arrangement, and a black granite gravestone watched over by a weeping angel. A sign assures customers that the sculpture is, despite all evidence, tasteful and discreet.

  Casalfranco has a flourishing funeral industry, not because people in Salento die more than elsewhere, but because they spend a fortune on funerals. When you die here, you die as lavishly as you can, so as to give the townsfolk one last chance to speak nicely about you. This shop is the oldest one in town. The owner, who happens to be my dad’s cousin, inherited it from his dad, who started it just after World War I. He had seen enough death on the front to come back convinced that funerals were a solid business, and definitely better than agriculture. It wasn’t seasonal and didn’t involve breaking your back in the fields – what’s not to like? The worst-case scenario, say, a new war, could only improve business. Given that fascism then happened, and then World War II, I guess you could say he was proven right.

  I push the door open. Remo, my father’s cousin, is sitting at a mahogany desk. He is the only person inside the shop, which is dark and subdued, as you would expect. I have not seen him in ten or more years. He still sports a thick black moustache, pepper with only a trace of salt, a prominent belly, and very little hair. He wears a dark suit and a white shirt, and is playing with a tablet, enthroned in a court of model coffins, headstones and funeral paraphernalia. He grew up among the gadgets of death, and maybe this is why he fits the environment so perfectly. He raises his head when we enter.

  ‘Remo!’ I say.

  He frowns, then recognises me and says, ‘Mauro!’ He begins a smile and immediately recants. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nobody died, Remo, don’t worry.’

  I see relief passing through his soft body. ‘I’m sorry. Mine is the sort of business where you don’t want to see family walk in.’

  I answer with a smile. ‘Do you know my friends, Fabio and Tony?’

  ‘Are you Angelo’s son?’ he asks Fabio. ‘Angelo, the teacher of Classics.’

  Fabio says, ‘The retired teacher. But yes, that’s me.’

  ‘I was taught by your dad. You look exactly like he did then.’

  ‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’ Fabio jokes.

  ‘Angelo knew his way around the ladies,’ Remo replies, good-humoured. ‘I hear you know yours too, with your photographs.’

  ‘It’s only a job, really.’

  ‘Best job in the world.’ He gestures at a coffin, making clear he is just messing around. ‘I spend my days with dead people, you spend yours with drop dead gorgeous girls. Does that seem right to you?’

  Fabio laughs at the cheesy pun and says, ‘I could teach you photography if you want.’

  ‘It wouldn’t sit well with the wife, bless her. Are you guys having coffee?’

  ‘If it’s going,’ Tony says.

  Remo chucks a capsule into a white Nespresso machine. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asks while the machine starts.

  ‘Is Silvana here?’ Fabio asks.

  After a few seconds Remo hands me the first cup of espresso. ‘Is she your friend?’

  ‘Actually no, we’ve never met. A mutual friend showed me some photographs of her.’

  ‘Don’t tell the wife I said so,’ Remo chucks a second capsule in, ‘but Silvana’s a real looker, is
n’t she?’

  Something in his demeanour has changed. His cheerfulness is wary, skin-deep. Suddenly, he wonders – but about what?

  ‘Exactly. I mean to ask her if she’d model for me while I’m in town, for a book I’m doing. I won’t steal too much of her time, I promise.’

  Remo hands Tony his coffee. ‘Have you tried calling her?’

  ‘We don’t have her number,’ Tony says.

  ‘I do, but I’m afraid it won’t do much good.’

  Remo’s good humour is faltering. I don’t like this. ‘I thought she worked here.’

  ‘She quit. Five days ago.’

  It takes a moment to sink in, and when it does, I realise a simple truth, and it scares the hell out of me. Art was a weirdo and a loner. Silvana is (or was?) a young, fetching, photogenic woman. The shit-storm we would be calling on our heads if we were implicated in her disappearance would be catastrophic. We have to get out of here before we hear a single word more, and forget about Art. It is not selfishness. It is self-preservation.

  ‘Why is that?’ Tony asks, his voice coming from another world.

  Remo waits for the last cup of espresso to fill, and hands it to Fabio. ‘In a way, it came out of the blue,’ Remo says, ‘though only because I couldn’t see the signs. Silvana was a good employee. Hard worker. Never stolen a penny, wonderful manners with the clients, nothing to complain about. I paid her well. Good personnel are hard to find.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Fabio asks, impatient as always.

  Remo shrugs. ‘Last week Silvana came into the shop and said she was quitting, just like that,’ he snaps his fingers, ‘and could I give her the money I owed for the last month, immediately, please, in cash. That knocked my socks off. I asked her what the problem was, and she said she didn’t have a problem, she was only quitting, and she was sorry, but could I pay her immediately, please, and cash. And, listen to me, the girl was terrified; she had an expression on her face I’ve seen on girls whose father has died leaving mountains of debt and no rope to climb them. Not worry, not upset, but unadulterated fear.’ Remo pauses. ‘She’s an adult by law, though. I paid her and asked her to stay in touch, and she practically bolted.’