‘Do you at least like me a little?’
Fabrizio would have preferred to be somewhere else and instead he heard the words he’d been rehearsing when she was in the shower slip out: ‘Francesca, my love…’ He held her close in the darkness as the rain beat down on the canopy over the front door and an intense odour of moss and wet wood flooded in from the nearby forest. He felt like he’d never want to leave her, that the smell of her hair and the taste of her lips were the only warmth and the only pleasure that life could give him.
He kissed her and ran off under the rain towards his car.
IT WAS POURING and every now and then a flash of lightning lit up the countryside like daylight. Further west, towards the sea, lightning bolts were streaking the sky, but the continuous rumble of thunder was muted by the distance. There was practically no one out at this time of night, in such weather, and Fabrizio fingered the tape he had in his pocket, thinking of the message it contained. Words from a long-ago era, words that formed a dreadful message, to judge from the director’s self-imposed isolation and the extreme reaction he’d had that day Fabrizio had told him about the Phersu.
He turned down the Val d’Era road and had soon arrived at his house on the Semprini farm. The front courtyard and backyard were illuminated by the outdoor lights and the old bricks in the low walls gleamed in the rain. He stayed just long enough to safely deposit the tape Francesca had given him and to take his rifle from the rack, then he got back into the car and drove off in the opposite direction.
At that same moment, Lieutenant Reggiani was stretched out in an easy chair in his apartment, watching an Almodovar film on TV and drinking a whisky on the rocks. He was relatively relaxed, given the circumstances, and jumped when the phone on the side table rang.
It was Sergeant Massaro. ‘He got home ten minutes ago, went inside for a moment and then drove off again.’
‘You’re following him, aren’t you?’
‘He’s just half a kilometre ahead of me.’
‘Well done, Massaro. Don’t lose him. If there’s any reason for alarm, call me and call the squad car.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But where’s he headed at this time of night in this storm?’
‘No idea, sir. He’s actually just turned right towards La Casaccia, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Right. I think I know what he’s thinking, then. Anyway, you stay on him, understand?’
‘Roger that, sir,’ said Massaro, switching off the speaker-phone in his Fiat Uno.
Fabrizio pulled off the side of the road, got out his topographical map, examined it under the dashboard lights and then picked up his binoculars. He pointed them in the direction of the open countryside to his right. La Casaccia, about 300 metres away, was an old country estate connected to the local road by a lane full of potholes that had filled with water during the storm. At the end of this path was a courtyard surrounded by the main house, which was old and dilapidated, another building, where the tenant farmer must have lived, a shed with a collapsing roof and a stable with a hayloft, also in a state of disrepair. The overwhelming impression was of neglect and disuse, and the houses would have appeared uninhabited had it not been for a couple of lit bulbs dangling on the outside walls and for the light filtering out from a window on the ground floor of the tenant’s house. Fabrizio was close enough to see the inside of the room and the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a man of about fifty inside, sitting at a table with a plastic tablecloth, a flask of wine and a half-empty glass in front of him.
Fabrizio heard a dog barking and the sound of a chain running back and forth over a wire strung between the two buildings. A car was driving up and the dog was letting his master know. Who could it be so late at night in such an isolated place?
The vehicle looked like an old van. It stopped in the middle of the courtyard and a woman got out. At first, Fabrizio could not make out her features, but then the door opened and lit up her face. It was the woman from behind the bar at the Le Macine tavern!
Fabrizio realized immediately that a lot of his questions were about to be answered but unless he got closer he would miss whatever happened. He searched through his pockets and backpack for something he could pacify the dog with, but found nothing, not even a crust of bread. He aimed his binoculars and found himself witnessing – although he could not hear a word – an argument that soon degenerated into a violent quarrel. The woman stormed out, slamming the door behind her, got back into her van and drove off.
Strangely, during the whole time that the woman was inside, maybe ten minutes or so, the dog had never stopped barking. On the contrary, his yapping had become so fierce and insistent that Fabrizio could hear him distinctly, even at this distance. The dog continued to bark for a couple of minutes after the vehicle had disappeared, then stopped. Fabrizio could hear the chain sliding back and forth for a while, then nothing.
He decided to pluck up his courage and approach the man inside the house. He started up the car and drove it down the little lane with only his parking lights on. He stopped at the edge of the courtyard and got out as the dog started barking again and running up and down the muddy yard. Almost immediately the door opened and the man appeared as a dark shadow in the doorway.
‘Are you back?’ he shouted. ‘Get out, I told you! Get the hell out of here!’
‘My name is Fabrizio Castellani,’ was his answer. ‘You don’t know me, but-’
He was not given the opportunity to finish.
‘Get out!’ repeated the man, and this time it was clear that the order was directed at him.
‘I’m not a thief or a prankster,’ started up Fabrizio again, ‘and I need to talk to you, Mr… Montanari.’
‘I know full well who you are,’ responded the man. ‘You’re the one who doesn’t understand. Get out. Leave here. Get as far away as you can, if you don’t want to come to a nasty end. A horrible end.’
Fabrizio felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Hearing the same threat twice in the same day from two people, under such disturbing circumstances… that phrase suddenly struck home with all its ominous implications. He felt alone and defenceless, the potential victim of a mess of his own making. He struggled to control himself and, after a moment of hesitation, took a few steps forward. The chained dog instantly charged at him, barking furiously, but when it was almost upon him, it stopped in its tracks and began to yelp as though it recognized him. Fabrizio, prey to so many conflicting emotions, managed nonetheless to stay calm and not take to his heels.
‘I’m not afraid,’ he said in a firm voice. So firm, in fact, that he even convinced himself.
The man approached and looked him over from head to toe. He turned to the dog, which was still whimpering softly, as if waiting to be petted, and then back to the young man. He shook his head and said, ‘You’re crazy, all right… but, if you have to, come in.’
Fabrizio followed the man inside the house and found himself in a bare room with peeling, mouldy plaster. A light bulb hung from an enamelled iron plate in the middle of the room. On one of the walls was an image of the Immaculate Heart of Mary printed on a piece of cardboard that was curling at the edges with the damp. On the other walls were more sacred images, a little incongruous under the circumstances: St Rocco with a dog licking his wounds, and St Anthony the Abbot, with a horse, rooster and pig. Opposite the door stood a small cupboard topped by a glass case. Sitting on the cupboard top was an old phone, greasy and dirty. A table with two straw-bottomed chairs and nothing else. A strong odour of mildew saturated the room, a wretched place that reeked of abandonment.
Fabrizio’s gaze was drawn instinctively to the glass case and on the shelf directly over the telephone he noticed several fragments of archaeological objects, in particular some bucchero pottery with traces of a painted swastika motif, the same as he had found near the tomb of the Phersu.
‘You’re a tomb robber,’ said Fabrizio, looking straight into the man’s eyes with an affirmative rather than interrogative tone, and deliberately addressing him with the familiar
‘In a certain sense.’
‘You’re the one who found the slab with the inscription.’
‘I did.’
‘And you turned it over to the NAS. Why? For the money?’
‘It’ll make a nice nest egg.’
‘But you won’t be getting any of it until you say where the missing piece is.’
‘So they say.’
The man filled his glass and gestured at his guest to offer him some as well. Fabrizio declined politely with a shake of his head.
‘Where is it?’ he asked.
The man gulped down the wine in a single go and poured himself some more. Fabrizio was close enough to
