more work than ever, both in the abattoir and in the meat-curing plant. There was talk of speculations on the stock market going badly, but nothing has turned up in reports from colleagues who operate in the financial sector.”
“What about Paride’s son? They say he’s a complete wastrel.”
“People exaggerate. He’s a spoiled brat who squanders money on cars and gets up to various kinds of mischief, but I don’t think he’s any different from other rich men’s sons.”
“Well then, what is there to investigate?” Soneri said, with a touch of relief in his voice. “I said as much to the mayor. It looks to me like a familiar situation. A village where gossip is rife and now it has a couple of mysteries to feed on.”
Crisafulli wriggled uncomfortably in his seat, unconvinced but incapable of putting his doubts into words.
Maini, Rivara and his son were all silent too, giving Soneri the unpleasant feeling of being under observation. The maresciallo rose to his feet, picked up his cap and stretched out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure,” he said, but there was no concealing his disappointment. “Drop by the police station some time.”
The commissario watched him leave, marching out as though he were on a parade ground. He thought about how deeply feelings counted in an enquiry. The problem was that even if your feelings kept you focused, they were liable to evaporate under cross-questioning. As he saw Crisafulli disappear in the mists on the piazza, he imagined his state of mind. He himself had often been in that same condition of anxiety, expecting something dire to happen. It was like waiting for a sneeze that did not come, feeling a symptom without an illness or groping for a handhold before a fall.
His stomach rumbled, causing him to jump to his feet. He looked over at the others and saw the bar in a new light, as if he had just awoken from a deep sleep. He remembered he had had only a light lunch of parmesan and prosciutto, and decided it was time to move on to the Scoiattolo.
Half the dining area was sunk in darkness. Two men were immersed in an intense conversation at one of the few tables which had been laid. Sante had the same worried air as that morning and displayed the same awkward concern. After finishing off their dish of wild boar and polenta, the only other two diners left. Sante was now fluttering nervously around Soneri like a planet on an irregular orbit. Finally, he sat down opposite him, looked hard at him and asked, “What did you do with your mushrooms?”
The commissario was taken aback by the question, particularly since it was spoken in a whisper, as though they were in a sacristy. “I threw them into a ditch,” he said lightly.
He had the impression that Sante breathed a sigh of relief. “People believe that they’re a warning of evil times, and with this business over Palmiro… I’ve never believed all that nonsense myself, but you’re the first person who’s found ‘trumpets of death’ this year, and on the very day he put a rope round his neck.”
“I never thought of you as superstitious. They’re just mushrooms like any others. And they’re very tasty,” Soneri sought to reassure him.
“A lot of people here in the village pull them out of the ground the moment they see them. They say it brings good luck and wards off misfortune.”
“Rubbish!”
Sante stared at him, doubtful but desperate to be convinced. Soneri took out his cigars and offered one to Sante. They lit them from the same match, turning them slowly around the flame and then sitting in silence to savour the aroma. For the moment, no words were needed, but the silence soon became oppressive, and sitting face to face became embarrassing. If Sante chose to remain there, he must have a reason, but Soneri had no inkling of what he wanted to say. Once again, he was dealing with impressions, the very things which tormented Crisafulli. He was sure there was something Sante wanted to talk to him about, but he knew that if he asked him, he would immediately deny it, leaving the commissario, like Crisafulli, burdened by feelings but having no proof.
The arrival of Ida from the kitchen put an end to the awkwardness.
“Not much doing this evening,” Soneri said.
“Everybody’s in such a rush. There’s not been much work for a few weeks now, but I’ve no idea why.”
“A dead period.”
“Well, who knows? There really never are dead periods, it just looks as though people have given up eating. There are even fewer lorry-drivers around. You would swear they’ve changed their routes.”
“And this all happened only recently?”
The two of them looked at each other in silence, until Ida took the initiative. “The problems started when word got out about the Rodolfis.”
“What have they got to do with it?”
“They’re very important here, for the economy especially.”
Soneri nodded, while Ida looked at her husband with growing anxiety. She was clearly in a hurry, but to do what? Sante peered at her nervously, but something prevented him from speaking.
“The money…” he began, but the words seemed to choke him. He blushed and his voice trailed off.
His wife was obviously keen to take up the story, but she bit her tongue. Respect for deep-seated traditions meant that it had to be the husband who did the talking. Sante made one more attempt, but seemed to be restrained by the complexity of what he had to say as well as by some sort of shame. Finally, his wife burst out, “Come on, tell him the whole story.”
Under pressure, the man started to mumble. “I’ve been trying to tell him ever since he arrived.”
The commissario made a gesture to encourage him to go on.
“It’s to do with money,” Sante said.
Another gesture from Soneri, meaning to convey that he had guessed as much all along. “Money or sex,” was the endlessly repeated mantra of Nanetti, head of the forensic squad: that’s what it always came down to.
“In this village, everyone knows everybody else, there’s trust…” Sante began again, following a delicate line of thought which was probably so intricate it could not be set out without some confusion.
Ida gave her husband an angry look, and Soneri too found himself becoming impatient with this stopping and starting, but Sante still needed a long run up before he was able to leap forward.
“We all trust them,” he said, picking his way with great care.
“The fact is, we gave him some money,” Ida said, with an abruptness which sounded like a slap in the face.
Her husband was grateful for her help. “Have you ever heard of ‘nursemaid’ money?” he asked, finally free of embarrassment.
Soneri nodded. “A form of loan.”
“That’s right,” Sante said, pointing with a finger as though the money were lying in front of them on the table.
“And now you’re all worried about your money?”
“We still have trust, but all these rumours…”
“Did you give him a lot of money?”
Sante looked up at his wife, furrowing his brow as though he had endured a stab of pain.
“Yes, a lot,” he said, without specifying the amount. “And we weren’t the only ones,” he added, as though that were an excuse.
“Who else?”
“Many people, more than you could imagine. But there’s no point in you trying to draw up a list, because they’d never tell you.”
“Why should they not?”
“People never talk about their own affairs.”
“But you have.”
“You’re from these parts, even if you’ve no idea what life around here is like nowadays. Besides, we’re relatives, distant relatives, but still relatives.”
The commissario nodded again, knowing he would never have been able to trace the contorted links between the families.
“In spite of that, it’s not easy for me to talk. It’s that the very thought…”
“I don’t see why.”
“Because I feel I’ve made a wretched mess of everything,” Sante burst out, with despair in his eyes.
“You told me you still had trust. Have you lost it now?”
“As long as Palmiro was there… He was the same as us. He spoke in dialect. But now…?”
