He came to the point where he had to turn off the straight, asphalted road and go to the left along the road to Valle Ortica, which was narrow and dusty. Although it was late morning, there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary: no signs of the army, of ambulances or of trucks with first-aid equipment, as he had envisaged. Everything was deep in winter torpor, except for the wisps of smoke from the chimneys of the occasional peasant’s house.
The milestones at the road’s edge showed Goro fifteen miles away, fourteen, thirteen, but still no sign of movement or alarm. Giovanni inspected the steep slopes in vain for signs of the break, for the white scar of the landslide.
He arrived at Goro about midday. It was one of those strange villages that still exist in abandoned valleys which seem to have been left a hundred years behind; bleak and unfriendly, shut in by gloomy mountains without foliage in summer or snow in winter; nonetheless the summer haunt of three or four desperate families.
The small central square was empty when he arrived. Odd, Giovanni thought to himself, could they possibly all have fled or locked themselves in their rooms after such a catastrophe? Unless by any chance the landslide had happened in a village nearby and they’d all gone there? Pale sunlight lit up the front of a small hotel. Giovanni got out of the car, opened the glass doors and heard loud talking, apparently that of a perfectly happy group at the table.
The landlord, in fact, was having lunch with his large family. There was plainly no clientele at this time of year. Giovanni apologized for his intrusion, introduced himself as a journalist and asked about the landslide.
“Landslide?” repeated the landlord, a large, coarse, friendly man. “We don’t have things like that here. But if you’d like lunch, take a seat by all means—in here with us, if you don’t mind. The other room isn’t heated.”
He insisted that Giovanni should sit down with them; meanwhile, taking no notice of the visitor, two boys, who must have been about fifteen, were causing great merriment among the assembled company by their references to certain family matters. The landlord insisted that Giovanni should stay and assured him that he wouldn’t find a meal ready anywhere else in the valley at that time of year; but Giovanni was beginning to feel uneasy; he intended to eat, of course, but first he wanted to see the landslide. How come they knew nothing about it here at Goro? The editor had given very specific directions.
As the discussion continued, the boys sitting at the table began to take note. “The landslide?” asked a child of about twelve, who had gathered what they were talking about. “Of course, but that’s higher up the valley, at Sant’Elmo”—he was shouting in his delight at being better informed than his father—“It was at Sant’Elmo, Longo told me about it yesterday!”
“What do you suppose Longo knows about it?” retorted the landlord. “You keep quiet. What do you think he knows? There was a landslide once when I was a child, but much lower down than Goro. You may have seen it, about six miles from here, where the road . . .”
“But there was one, I tell you!” the child insisted. “At Sant’Elmo it was!”
The argument would have continued had Giovanni not interrupted: “Well, I’ll go as far as Sant’Elmo and have a look.” The landlord and his sons went out on to the square with him, obviously fascinated by the car, which was a recent model of a kind never seen there before.
It was only three miles from Goro to Sant’Elmo, but to Giovanni they seemed endless. The hairpin bends were so steep and violent that he had to reverse constantly and try again. The valley became darker and bleaker. The sound of a distant tolling of bells gave Giovanni hope.
Sant’Elmo was even smaller than Goro, even more broken-down and poverty-stricken. It was now a quarter to one, but either because of the deep shadow of the surrounding mountains, or because of the very gloom produced by such desolation, it seemed almost nightfall.
By now Giovanni was really worried. Where was this landslide? Surely the editor wouldn’t have sent him off so urgently without being sure of his facts? Might he have made a mistake in giving the name of the place? Time was passing rapidly, if he didn’t hurry he wouldn’t have anything ready in time.
He stopped the car and asked directions from a boy who seemed to understand immediately.
“The landslide? It’s farther up,” he said, pointing. “It takes about twenty minutes.” Then, seeing that Giovanni was about to get back into the car, he added warningly: “You can’t go by car though; you’ll have to go on foot, it’s only a small path.” He then agreed to act as guide.
They left the village, climbing a steep muddy mule track which ran crisscross over the shoulder of the mountain. Giovanni had trouble keeping up with the boy and was too breathless to ask questions. But what did it matter? Soon he would see the landslide, he would
