The osteria was almost empty. The only ones left while the last act of “Falstaff” blared out were Soneri, whose glass was almost filled with cherry stones, and the landlord who was seated sideways at the bar, staring into the middle distance. In that pose, he resembled the old man in San Quirico, and the commissario’s thoughts returned to the tedium of waiting when, quite suddenly, everything happened as in a scene in a melodrama. Verdi’s music ended on a long drawn-out sharp and a fortissimo of brasses, sinking the osteria into silence and leaving Soneri and the landlord staring at each other intently. Just as “Falstaff” was replaced by “Aida”, the commissario pressed the answer button, said “hello” and heard a whisper at the other end as the old woman passed the telephone to her husband.
“I’ve heard it,” he said.
Soneri did not speak for some seconds and just as he was about to reply, the old man hung up.
As was his habit, the commissario rose immediately to his feet, and the landlord seemed to understand exactly what he was about to do. He gave a good-bye wave, and the look he received in reply seemed to convey an awareness of what was going on.
Outside the cold was as intense as ever, but the Bonarda countered it quite satisfactorily, filling him with a lucid euphoria indispensable for nights like the one ahead. In the fog, it was as ever a struggle to find the way to San Quirico. The road he had chanced on in the afternoon now seemed impassable in the wall of mist that the bonnet of his car had to plough into. After a while he found himself suspended over the countryside, and for a moment had the impression that he was motoring among the clouds. He crawled along in second gear, his fog lights incapable of picking out the verges, and every curve brought the fear that he was about to plunge down the slope.
He left the car not too far from the old man’s house, thinking of him lying in his bed listening to the sound of the engine being switched off at the roadside, seeing everything in his mind’s eye, as he was now obliged to follow every scene in life. The commissario wondered if the old man had heard his footsteps on the road as he passed under one of the few lamp-posts in San Quirico. He certainly could not have heard him when he almost bumped into the gate of the house opposite the spot where the mysterious car’s tyre marks stopped.
Soneri took out his torch to examine the tracks to make sure they were fresh. The sharp definition left him in no doubt. The old man’s hearing was very keen. The house was as silent as a graveyard. There were no footprints in the pathway leading to the front door, which was still barred by a metal guard to protect it from the damp. The shutters too looked as though they had been closed for some time. He inspected the camper van but there was no sign of any movement, so all that remained was to check the back of the house. It gave on to a kitchen garden with some fruit trees overgrown by creepers. And then he noticed some ten steps leading down to a cellar door.
He took out and cocked his pistol and stood for a few seconds in front of the door, the sound of his knuckles rapping on the wood announcing the beginning of a long night. No-one replied, so he went on knocking again and again until his patience ran out, at which point he took to beating on the door with his open palm, causing it to shake on its hinges.
At last, he heard the sound of footsteps dragging, and in the faint light there appeared before him a stout elderly, bearded, slightly stooped man wearing an expression of tired resignation.
Soneri stepped over the threshold, meeting no resistance from the occupant of the house, who moved to one side, just sufficiently to give the appearance of surrender. The commissario went in, stopping beside a table beneath a flickering bulb. The old man closed the door unhurriedly, as though having welcomed an expected guest, and when Soneri introduced himself, he responded with a simple nod of the head. His demeanour was grave, respectful.
In a dark corner of the room, an electric heater was blowing warm air, while on the other side a bed with a walnut headboard stood out amid the rustic poverty of the greying, rough-plaster walls of the cellar. The commissario sat down and the other did likewise. Seated at the same level, they looked into each other’s eyes. The man, with his long beard and wrinkled skin, called to mind a well-seasoned radicchio, but what most took Soneri aback was the submissiveness he displayed towards him, a submissiveness combined with awareness.
They sat for a few minutes face to face in an unnerving silence. Now that he was able to observe him from close up, it was plain that the old man showed all the signs of hypertension: dark blotches on the cheeks, a bulbous nose the colour of cotecchino, the sheer mass of a body perhaps capable of explosions of rage, even if now he was sitting motionless, waiting. There was no question that waiting was the right tactic, particularly since Soneri was unable to find the words to begin.
“Was all this necessary?” he finally managed to say, realizing as soon as the words were out that they were born more of curiosity than of a line of inquiry. The inquiry was now over, but the sense of strangeness and of deviation from normal codes of behaviour remained. There were occasions, like the one he was living through at that moment, when stripping off the official uniform to assume the guise of the confidant was unavoidable. After all, the old man had no choice and was perhaps not even seeking a way out, as was clear from his state of resignation, in which Soneri perceived a sense of liberation, perhaps even of pride.
“Was it necessary?” he insisted.
The other man swallowed hard, but made no reply, not because he lacked the will to speak but because a pressure in his throat from having too much to say prevented his feelings from finding coherent expression. He had no more idea where to start than did Soneri, and so hesitated for a few seconds before coming out with an introduction dictated more by emotion than by reason. “If you had gone through what I have…”
The pronunciation of the words with a Spanish accent was confirmation enough.
“How many years have you lived in Argentina?”
“Do your own sums. From ’47.”
“A lifetime.”
“True. I lived my life there.”
“Except for your youth.”
The old man wiped his forehead with his right hand and in so doing revealed a forearm with a tattoo of a hammer and sickle. “I’d have been happy to have done without that youth. I have lived two lives. I died and was reborn.”
“Resuscitated,” Soneri corrected him. “You have remained the same person.”
“Unfortunately, a man carries his past on his back. Your blood is diseased by it forever.”
He pronounced these last words more firmly, almost with finality. A rage which had remained undiminished over the decades seemed to exert a profound influence on his thinking.
“The disease still holds sway.”
The old man looked at him with a mixture of amazement and irritation. “Much less now. I have done what I had to do. But if you imagine that that’s enough… I have even asked myself whether it was all worthwhile, seeing that it still has me in its grip… Only time can allow hatred to subside, and my time is almost up. I have only just managed to achieve what I had promised myself for all these years.”
“You should have thought of yourself as well.”
The old man considered that point for a moment, then shrugged. “It was worse for others. If I got away, it was because I did think about myself. I had nothing here. I’d have had to get out whatever happened. I made up my mind after the reprisals against my family.”
The allusion to the reprisals caused Soneri to run over the facts — particularly the encounter between the embankments — in his mind. He looked hard at the old man and noticed a glint in his eyes, as bright as the flash of a short circuit. “That battle on the floodplain made everything clear to me,” he said. “At the beginning, I just could not formulate any hypothesis, because everything came up short against the one fact — the people who had a motive for revenge on the Tonnas were all dead, including you. But when they recounted to me how that battle in the mists had really gone, and when I found out about the disfigured bodies and the missing corpse of that Fascist…at that point I worked out how it might have gone. What I have never managed to resolve is why you, considering that you were officially dead, did not act immediately at the end of the war. After all, many on your side wasted no time in ’46.”
The old man raised his head proudly, but then dropped it just as suddenly with a sigh.
“Do you believe they wouldn’t have found out? I was the man who had the best of all motives for making them pay, and I had the reputation of being a hothead. Some of them already had some inkling
…and anyway, the Party would never have forgiven me. Don’t forget that I had gone to the lengths of disfiguring the body of a comrade, and that they had previously disciplined me when I was in the Garibaldi brigade.
