“Mario Gennaro.”
“Is there not a managing director, or a chairman?”
“The chairman was Palmiro Rodolfi, and the managing director is his son, Paride.”
“And where is he?”
“To be honest, I have no idea. His wife is still saying he’s in their house in the woods, but I think she’s been lying to us from the outset. Either that, or she doesn’t know herself, considering her stormy relations with her husband. Apparently they went weeks without seeing each other. Their lawyer thinks he might have gone somewhere to resolve this question of the bonds. He believes the company has money in a foreign account in one of those countries where you don’t pay taxes, and he has gone to sort things out.”
“Is it possible that no-one knows anything? Have you spoken to the people who work for the Rodolfis?”
“They say that everything’s above board, and they do seem extraordinarily calm. I had a quiet word with the managers of the branches of the banks in the village and they all insist that the Rodolfi company is in solid shape and that if it gets more funds, it will be in a position to start expanding again. As recently as yesterday, they were selling bonds issued by the company and they were going like hot cakes.”
“It’s either one hell of a mess or else it’s a bubble,” Soneri said.
“At the moment, it’s a bubble, but I’m going to leave it to Bovolenta. That way, if it bursts, he’ll scuttle off, keeping his head down. If it’s a mess, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces,” Crisafulli said, winking at Soneri.
The commissario had believed he was dealing with one of life’s innocents, but now found himself facing a Neapolitan on the make.
The fragrance of the atmosphere in the Olmo was a pleasing mixture of the wood fire and the unfiltered cigarettes Magnani was smoking as he dozed behind the bar. This time there were more people there, some leaning their backs against the wall as if they were in the piazza in summer. When the commissario came in they all fell silent, like schoolboys at the appearance of the teacher. Their expressions were a combination of respect and distrust and that made him feel even more of an outsider in the village where everything made him think of his parents and his childhood. He looked around at faces he recognised, but on which time had laid a crust of suspicious hostility.
“No shortage of customers this evening,” Soneri greeted Magnani.
“In these parts, there’s no hospice so the Olmo takes its place,” Magnani sniggered, with a touch of bitterness. “As for me, I’m half-way between the two.”
The commissario waved away this solemn line of thought.
“I’m not much younger than your poor father,” Magnani said.
The phrase struck Soneri. He saw himself once again as a boy in a bar full of young people, holding in his hand the chocolate ice-cream his father would buy him on Saturdays. He bent almost double, as though he had just been punched, and anxiety brought on a pain in his chest like an ache from a bruise, leaving him struggling for a moment to catch his breath.
Magnani noticed this and remained silent, waiting for it to pass. In the room, all the others had gone back to chatting or playing cards.
“This is the first day there’s been no talk of the Rodolfis,” Magnani said, to take Soneri’s mind off his sorrows.
“Has the son been seen?”
“His wife has. She was at the pharmacy and it seems she said Paride would be back in a matter of days. He had to leave suddenly to attend to some urgent business, but he would rather have spent a few days on his own after his father’s death.”
“He’s got problems repaying some loan or other,” the commissario said.
“Huh, that’s a risk we all run…” but he stopped short as another thought darkened his mood. “Last night, three youngsters were killed in a village near here.”
“What happened?”
“Car accident. They were out their minds with drugs. Is there a more stupid way to die?”
“They had their whole lives ahead of them…” the commissario said, in a fatalistic tone. “And then they take some of that stuff…”
“So I’ve heard. I blame the immigrants who’ve brought us nothing but trouble.”
“They can only sell what other people want to buy. I didn’t know that sort of thing went on here.”
“They’ve got everything they could want, but they get bored. The television does their heads in. They’ve never walked as far as the woods in their lives, and they won’t even think about taking up their parents’ businesses. As soon as they can, they’re out of here, and the only ones that stay are the idiots, and not all of them either.”
He broke off to take some wine from a glass he kept under the bar, but he had worked himself into a temper. “Montelupo’s going to the dogs. There’s no-one left who’s willing to clear the ditches, to attend to the drains or look after the woodland. Instead of going to gather firewood, they switch on the gas. Do you know what it is? They have too much money and they spend it on things they could get for free, whereas the rest of us,” he continued, sweeping his hand around the room, “we’re not capable of anything any more, and we spend day after day yapping about nothing. That’s our curse, and we’ll die of it.”
“There’s still the Woodsman roaming about on Montelupo.”
Magnani’s face lit up. “He’s the only one who’s got any spunk, but he’s surrounded by that rabble of foreigners. They should all be sent packing.”
“I don’t believe they ever meet up. Neither side is much good at conversation.”
“They might not meet up, but he doesn’t like them just the same. The woods are for working in. They’re not a hiding place.”
“I go searching for mushrooms. That’s not work.”
“Oh yes it is. There are men who earn their living looking for truffles, although this year…” Magnani said, shaking his head.
“All you can find this year are ‘trumpets of death’,” the commissario said.
“Nobody here eats them. They bring bad luck.”
“Talking about deaths,” Soneri said, changing the subject, “did anybody ever find anything about that coffin that turned up on San Martino?”
“No, nobody came forward to claim it. After a while the priest said it was cluttering up the chapel and that it had to be moved somewhere.”
“So what became of it?”
Magnani appeared flustered and unsure of himself. He started to say something but then stopped. Faced with the commissario’s calm but unflinching look, he muttered, “They put Palmiro in it.”
It occurred to Soneri that there might be something more than coincidence at work here, but Magnani started up again: “They took full advantage… a beautiful casket, glossy chestnut wood… it was the daughter-in-law who gave permission, but it seems Paride was in agreement as well.”
The commissario shook his head. The whole story seemed grotesque. Something ugly was unravelling, beneath the appearance of normality.
“It seemed a funny business to me too,” Magnani said, guessing at what was in Soneri’s mind. “But if you think about it, there’s nothing really out of place. There’s a coffin without an owner and nowhere to put it. There’s a corpse which has to be buried. Why not put the two together? There are some people in this village who bought their coffins ten years ago, and in the meantime they use them to store wheat.”
“It all seemed so random,” Soneri said. “What’s so strange is that the facts all line up, like the pearls on a necklace, and in real life that never happens.”
Magnani shrugged. “Come on… when the devil gets to work…”
Soneri shook his head once more to indicate his resolute scepticism, then, as with Baldi, he asked Magnani, “Where can I find the Woodsman?”
Magnani waved his hands about. “Where would you find a buzzard? The skies might be bigger than Montelupo, but it is easier to hide on Montelupo.”
“There must be one or two places where he is more likely to turn up?”
“I’d try the area round Lake Bicchiere, or Malpasso. Or you could try the cabins in Badignana.”
“They’re all quite a way off.”
“He tramps around, and he has his own dens, where occasionally he spends the night. He’s like a wild animal.
