I turned to Annelise. “Darling?”
“You’re a bastard,” she said.
The flight lasted less than a quarter of an hour. There was no wind at that altitude and no clouds to obstruct our view. From up there, the landscape was worthy of Clara’s little screams. Even Annelise, once she was used to the noise of the turbines, had to admit that it was enchanting. As for me, I was too engrossed in enjoying my daughter’s expressions of wonder to think about the Beast.
Or all the gorges hollowed by streams down there.
We landed in a swirl of snow and ice. We unloaded the rucksacks, I said goodbye to the pilot, and the helicopter set off again, leaving us alone. At an altitude of 3,000 meters.
“Is this the castle of the King of the Elves?”
The Vittorio Benedetto refuge on the Sasso Nero was a slice of history made up of bricks, stone, and lime. It was built by the pioneers of Alpine mountaineering and bore the marks of time. Those walls had saved God knows how many thousands of lives in the course of their 120-year history. Soon, they would be knocked down because the melting of the permafrost had undermined the foundations. It was sad to think that this place would no longer exist.
Now that the helicopter had disappeared over the horizon, the silence was unreal. Around us, there was only sky, snow, and rock. Nothing else. Annelise’s eyes were sparkling.
I gave her a pat on the cheek. “Minus twenty-five, darling. This is what Papà Bear calls ‘cold.’”
“Shall we go, Papà?”
A black-clad old man had peered round the door. His eyes were little more than cracks and there wasn’t much hair on his head. A slight smile appeared on his weasel face.
“You’re Signor Salinger,” he said, taking my rucksack. “And you’re Annelise, Werner Mair’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“And you must be Clara. Do you like my house, du kloane Clara?”
Clara stared for a few moments at this strange character, who really did look like an elf, then, instead of replying, she asked a question. “Do you live here?”
“I’ve lived here for more than thirty years.”
“So you’re the King of the Elves?”
The man looked with delight first at me, then at Annelise. “I think this child has earned herself a double ration of dessert. Come, please.”
Apart from the King of the Elves and a couple of attendants—goblins, according to Clara—there was nobody else there. The castle was all ours. Clara was very excited, and Annelise no less so.
I was proud of myself.
We ate early, as you do in the mountains. A gigantic portion of polenta and mushrooms, speck, sautéed potatoes, and the purest water I’ve ever drunk. Maybe it was the altitude, or maybe the joy of being up there with the people I loved most, but that water went to my head. What happened after dinner was interminable, but in a good sense. We stayed on, talking to the manager of the refuge and his helpers.
He was lavish with his anecdotes, each more incredible than the last. Clara hung on his every word. Often, she interrupted the narrative to ask for more details, and instead of becoming rattled, the manager seemed happy to have such an attentive audience. At eleven, we toasted with grappa and got ready for the final part of my surprise.
I made Clara and Annelise put on a double layer of sweaters and padded jackets and, equipped with torches, we went out into the night.
A few steps were enough to project us into another world. A world of absolute vastness and beauty. We sat down on the snow. I took the thermos of hot chocolate and passed it to Clara.
“Would you like to see something magic, sweetheart?”
“What kind of magic?”
“Look up there.”
Clara raised her head.
No light pollution. No smog. Not even a cloud. We could have grabbed the stars one by one.
Annelise leaned on my shoulder. “It’s wonderful.”
I didn’t reply. There was no need. But I recognized that tone. It was the voice of the woman who had chosen me as her partner. Not diffident, not on the defensive.
Simply in love.
“You know something, Clara?”
“If you don’t tell me, I don’t know.”
“What you’re looking at is the treasure of the King of the Elves. He has no money, he doesn’t even have a car. He only has two suits in his wardrobe, but he’s the richest elf in the world. Don’t you think so?”
“Is this where the stars hide, Papà?”
“It could well be, sweetheart, it could well be.”
We sat there looking at the stars until my watch showed it was midnight.
We toasted again and hugged one another. Clara gave me a big kiss on my cheek and laughed at the echo the kiss set off. She said it was the mountain wishing us good luck.
We went back into the castle much richer than when we had left it.
* * *
Annelise never noticed anything. The trick was simple: take the sleeping pills every evening before going to bed. That meant no nightmares, no screams, nothing suspicious.
In the meantime, I made an effort to be the most caring husband in the world and a father worthy of the name. I continued lying to Annelise about the drugs, but I did intend to keep my promise. I would forget about the Bletterbach killings, I would enjoy my sabbatical year, and I would get better.
It was important. For me. For Clara and Annelise. And for Werner. My wife’s father didn’t say anything, but I could see reproach in his eyes from a distance of kilometers. I don’t know how much Annelise had confided in him—I think little or nothing, knowing her—but there was no way of escaping his eagle eyes.
Ever.
I spent the first week of January sledding with Clara. I won’t hide the fact that, at my age, I was enjoying myself like a schoolboy. Behind Werner’s house was a sloping open space over which the bright red sled ran like a rocket. It wasn’t dangerous, because the slope ended in a gentle undulation that made it possible to brake quite safely.
The eastern side of Welshboden, on the other hand, was another story, and I was categorical with Clara: no sledding on that kamikaze trail. There the slope was steep and ended in the forest, where big trunks asked for nothing better than to make mincemeat out of my princess. Even I was afraid of that descent. So: verboten.
The days at Siebenhoch passed in a joyful routine. I played with Clara. I slept soundly. I had a good appetite, and the bruise on my face was a fading yellowish stain that would soon disappear. I made love with Annelise. Yes, we’d started again. Cautiously at first, then with increasing passion. Annelise was forgiving me.
I went down to Siebenhoch as little as possible, just to do shopping. I bought my cigarettes from the petrol station in Aldino. I never again set foot in Alois’s store.
Every now and again, I would think about the Bletterbach, but I would force myself to dismiss the thought. I didn’t want to lose my family. I knew that Annelise’s threat wasn’t dictated by momentary fear or anger. In any case, I had no intention of putting it to the test.
On January 10, I made the acquaintance of Brigitte Pflantz.
* * *
There was no lack of choice on the shelves. There were various kinds of brandy, cognac, bourbon, vodka, and grappa. I’ve never been much of a one for vodka, and as for grappa I could count on the special reserve at Werner’s house, so I’d ruled them out from the start. Annelise didn’t like cognac, and I wasn’t crazy about it either, but bourbon every now and again . . .
I heard a woman’s voice, but not what she’d said.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked, turning.
“Am I disturbing you?”
She had stringy blonde hair falling on both sides of her face. The make-up around her eyes was smudged.
“No, I was lost in thought.”
“It happens,” she said.
She kept looking at me. I noticed she had big, nicotine-stained teeth. Her breath smelled of alcohol, and it w
as only ten in the morning.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, making an effort to be nice.
“You really don’t know who I am?”
“I’m afraid not,” I replied, embarrassed.
She held out her hand and I shook it. She was wearing leather gloves. “We’ve never met in person. But you know who I am.”
“I do?”
The intensity of her gaze made me uneasy.
“Of course you do. I’m an important person. From your point of view, Salinger, I’d say I’m central.”
The dark gloves went back into the pockets of an overcoat that had seen too many winters.
“Can I call you Jeremiah?” she asked.
“You’d be the only one, apart from Werner and my mother.”
“It’s a beautiful name. It comes from the Bible. Did you know that?”
“Oh, yes . . .”
“‘Why criest thou for thine affliction? Thy sorrow is incurable for the multitude of thine iniquity: because thy sins were increased, I have done these things unto thee.’”
“I’m not a great fan of religion, Signora . . .”
“Signorina. Call me Brigitte. Brigitte Pflantz.”
“All right, Brigitte,” I said, grabbing a bottle at random and laying it in my cart. “Now, if you don’t mind . . .”
Brigitte blocked my path. “You shouldn’t talk to me like that.”
“Or what? The wrath of the Lord will come down on me for a thousand years?”
“Or you’ll never know what happened in the Bletterbach.”
I froze.
She nodded. “That’s right.”
Something clicked in my brain. “Günther Kagol’s fiancée. That Brigitte.”
“Some people say you’re planning to make a film about it.”
“No, I’m not,” I replied brusquely.
“A pity. I know lots of things. Lots and lots of things.”
For a moment, I was tempted. But I resisted. “Nice to have met you, Brigitte.”
I rerouted my cart and left.
* * *
That evening, after dinner, I replied to a couple of e-mails from Mike. Then I opened the folder marked “Stuff.” I moved file B over to the recycle bin. I stared at it for a few moments.
Then I put it back in its place.
It didn’t mean anything, I told myself. But I didn’t want to delete it.
I wasn’t ready yet.
* * *
Sledding. Snowball fights. Trying new recipes. Making love with Annelise. Taking sleeping pills. Sleeping without dreaming. Then all over again, from the top.
On January 20, I decided to do without the sleeping pills. No more nightmares.
The same on January 21. And 22, 23, and 24.
I was in seventh heaven. I felt strong. Refusing to play along with Brigitte Pflantz had made me more aware of the struggle. Every morning, I would wake up and say to myself, “You can do it, you’ve done it once, you can do it again.”
On January 30, one of the coldest days of the year, there was a knock at my door.
The Krün Family Home
It was Annelise who opened the door. I was busy tidying the kitchen. Washing dishes is one of the few occupations that really calms me down.
“There’s someone to see you.”
I knew at once that something wasn’t right. Annelise’s tone was icy.
I turned, dish soap up to my elbows. “Who . . .?”
Standing in my kitchen, with his hat in his cold-reddened hands, was the last person in the world I’d have expected to see.
“Hello, Max,” I said, letting the water run over my hands. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Actually,” he replied, “I’d like to offer you a coffee. And I’d like to show you a few things concerning that business we . . . spoke about. It won’t take long.”
Annelise’s face turned red and she left the room without a word.
Max looked at me, embarrassed. “I hope I didn’t . . .”
“Wait here,” I murmured.
Annelise was sitting in my favorite armchair. She was looking at the blanket of snow and at Clara, who was building her umpteenth snowman.
“What more does he want of you?” she hissed.
“To apologize.”
Annelise turned to look at me. “Do you take me for an idiot?”
She was right. What was that “business” Max wanted to talk to me about if not the Bletterbach killings?
“If you want, I’ll throw him out without a second thought. But I also owe him an apology.” I kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll keep my promise. I don’t want to lose you.”
Was I really convinced I’d be able to keep a safe distance?
That Max and I would shake hands like two civilized people and when he brought up the subject of the Bletterbach I would cut short the conversation, thank him, and return home with a clear conscience?
I think I was.
I was sincere and that’s what persuaded her. But wasn’t there a voice inside me, a bothersome voice that, as Annelise lightly stroked me, implored me to kick Max out of the house and get on with washing the dishes?
“Do what you have to do, Salinger. But come back to me. Come back to us.”
* * *
“Let’s take mine.” Max pointed to the Forest Rangers’ Land Rover.
“Max,” I said. “If you want to apologize, I accept your apology. And I want you to know I’m really sorry I stuck my nose in your business. That was a mistake. But I have no intention of talking to you about the killings. I promised my wife I’d forget all about it, OK? It’s water under the bridge.”
Really?
Then why did I feel my heart pounding? Why couldn’t I wait to get in the vehicle and start listening to what Max had to tell me?
Nine letters: “obsession.”
Max kicked a heap of snow and shook his head. “I hit you that night because I realized you’re in this Bletterbach business up to your neck. And if you got to the point of having to make promises to Annelise, that means you’re in it worse than I feared. Don’t lie to me, Salinger. I can see it in your face, as clear as day.”
There wasn’t a single word that didn’t correspond to the truth. Part of me was still hooked on the Bletterbach killings. Sooner or later I’d start to dig, to investigate, to ask questions.
And what would happen to my family then?
Was it at this point that I gave in?
No.
I continued lying to myself.
“You’re wrong.”
“Don’t talk bullshit, Salinger. It’s what you’re hoping for, that I’ll give you more information, gossip, clues.” Max approached and pointed a finger at me. “And it’s what I intend to do. I’ll show you so many blind alleys I’ll put you off once and for all, so that you don’t end up like Günther.” A sigh. “Or like me.”
“I promised, Max.”
A weak protest. The troublesome voice was muffled. Distant. Almost like weeping.
“Come with me and you’ll be certain you won’t break that promise.”
I turned toward the big windows of the living room. I raised my hand to wave at Annelise’s silhouette. She did the same. Then she disappeared.
“Why?” I asked in a thin voice.
“I want to spare you thirty years of pain, Salinger.”
* * *
There wasn’t much traffic, just a couple of jeeps and a black Mercedes going in the opposite direction. We passed Welshboden, and at a crossroads Max turned onto a dirt road that climbed between the trees.
It was just after two in the afternoon when we got to the Krün family home.
“Welcome to the land of my ancestors.”
“So this is where you grew up?”
“Did Verena tell you that?”
“She told me something about your childhood. She told me about Frau Krün.”
“For me she was Omi, Grandma. She was an inflexible woman, but she was also fair, and she wa
s very strong. We were poor, and to make sure I lacked for nothing Omi had to be hard with everybody. She was a widow bringing up an orphan. In the village, they took her hardness for arrogance. It wasn’t easy to see that there was something different behind that attitude. My grandfather’s death had broken her heart, but what remained was full of love. She had a huge heart, my Omi.” Max granted me a smile. “Come.”
The Krün family home was a mountain maso with a tiled roof that could have done with decent maintenance. Beneath the eaves you could see the remains of swallows’ nests. A twisted apple tree framed the front door, which squeaked a little on its hinges.
The interior was devoid of light.
“No electricity,” Max explained, lighting an oil lamp. “I have a generator, but I prefer to keep it for emergencies. I’ll make some coffee, if you’re OK with that.”
Once lit, the house took on a less spectral aspect. Above the fireplace was a damp-stained photograph.
“Little Max and Frau Krün,” Max said, as he made the coffee. “Please sit down.”
Apart from the table and a couple of chairs, the only other furniture in the room, the Stube—which was what they called this kind of all-purpose large room in Alto Adige (kitchen, bedroom, living room, all gathered around the ceramic stove that gave its name to the space: the Stube itself)—was a pair of metal filing cabinets.
Max saw where I was looking. “Thirty years of investigations. Testimonies cross-checked. Evidence collected. False leads. Possible suspects. Thirty years of a life spent collecting nothing. Thirty wasted years.”
“A nice slice of cake that tastes of nothing.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “You spoke to Luis?”
“I guess the style is unmistakable.”
“Here’s something that not even Luis has the courage to say: Kurt, Evi, and Markus aren’t the only victims of the Bletterbach. There’s also Günther and Hannes. Verena. Brigitte. Hermann. Werner. And me.”
I stared at the flames in the fireplace. I followed the trail of the sparks, which Clara called “little devils,” until I saw them burn themselves out on walls blackened by God knows how many years of smoke and flames.
Max sighed. “I’d close my eyes and hear Kurt’s voice. Or Evi’s footsteps on the floor, or Markus’s laughter. And when I opened them again, I’d see them. They were accusing me. You’re alive, they’d say.”
Beneath the Mountain Page 16