cheerfully murder their husbands the minute they get home. And don’t even talk to me about young people! To get the rest of my flock interested, I’d need to be a car salesman or a banker.”
“Bankers are not everybody’s favourite at the moment,” the commissario said.
“Oh, wait a while and it’ll pass. Money is all they think about nowadays. And here am I devoted to the care of souls.” The priest gave a bitter laugh before adding with an onrush of pride, “But I’m not giving up. They’ll all come back to join the flock, I’ve no doubt about it. This catastrophe is the first sign that the things of this world will pass away and that sooner or later every human being has to settle his accounts with his Maker. His real accounts, I mean. Take Palmiro Rodolfi. He only cared about power, but at the end, all of a sudden, he realised it was all in vain. He settled his accounts alright, but the outcome was terrible.”
“The outcome is always terrible, for everybody.”
“That’s not true. It’s true only if you believe you can settle everything in this world.”
“Were you getting the chapel ready for Palmiro?” Soneri asked.
The priest looked him straight in the eyes and nodded.
“But he committed suicide.”
“God’s mercy is infinite. We will pray for him too. I happen to believe that his final act implies repentance, do you not agree?”
“Perhaps. He no longer had the strength to show himself to those he had betrayed, but neither did he have the strength to show himself to God and beg forgiveness. This might mean he did not recognise him.”
Don Bruno paused in silence for a moment, then said, “We’ll never know what went on, but the Almighty Father does.”
The commissario reflected that this was true of his own father as well. Perhaps he would never know what went on between him and the Rodolfis.
“I heard you came to look for mushrooms.” This time it was the priest who changed the subject. “Your father shared that passion.”
“So did you,” Soneri said.
“Once upon a time, yes, but now my legs have let me down.”
The priest was short but had heavy bones. Only the metal-framed glasses undermined the image of a man of the mountains and woodlands. He was bow-legged, like a jockey, but the bend was due to the weight of his body.
“Who told you I was here to gather mushrooms?”
“Priests get to know everything, sooner than the carabinieri, who in fact come to us for information.”
“Were you summoned to the police station?”
Don Bruno made a gesture which was half fatalism, half resignation. “They’re not aware that we have precise obligations.”
“They didn’t actually ask you for the name of the person who had confessed to the crime?”
The priest laughed. “Hardly anyone comes to confession nowadays. Maybe that is because we obstinately continue to take an interest in other people and go round sticking our noses into their business.”
“And they have no idea which saint to pray to.”
“I understand they are following a definite lead.”
“Yes. Revenge for the fraud. But so many people have the same motive,” Soneri said.
“There’s also the question of the gunfire that was heard on Montelupo on the day after the feast, and which you can still hear occasionally,” the priest said. “But it could have been a poacher. There are so many guns around.”
Soneri looked puzzled but said nothing, so the priest went on. “I’m afraid they’re closing in on the Woodsman. They started digging up things from his past and they’ve uncovered something about an old rivalry over a woman. They must have some sort of proof.”
Soneri could not help thinking that if he had been in charge of the case, he too would have wanted to know more about the Woodsman. But then, why had he sent his daughter to make that appointment?
“Who called you in? Was it Bovolenta?”
“Yes. Crisafulli’s been sidelined.”
“What did he ask you?”
“Are you involved in the investigation?”
“No, I’m on holiday, but everything here brings up personal issues.”
“Of course. You’re part of this community.”
“Not any more, Don Bruno. In part because I’ve been away for years and in part because I’m finding everything different from how I remember it.”
“Bovolenta is expecting some assistance. He likes to appear sure of himself, but he admitted to me that he cannot fathom this village. It’s different for you. You’re from here.”
“The less I get involved, the better for everybody. My father worked for the Rodolfis, remember.”
“Of course, and I gather he had a good relationship with them.”
“What do you mean, a good relationship?”
“He didn’t see them just as employers. He was happy to work there and was fully committed to the company.”
“I was only a child then, and later I went off to study in the city. I don’t know much about my father’s work,” Soneri said.
“Neither do I, but I heard that’s how things were, at least until he threw it all up and moved into the city himself. But there’s no point in asking me what brought that about, because I simply don’t know. Perhaps there was some kind of argument, or maybe he just made up his mind it was time to go. Maybe he got fed up with village life. Or maybe he saw a better opportunity.”
The commissario thought of his father’s work as an accountant, but also of his love of the woods and of Montelupo and found it difficult to imagine that life in the city would have been in any way better for him. He found his father’s past more and more difficult to understand. He realised they had never spoken about his time as an employee of the Rodolfis. At most, he had thrown out a couple of hints, free of rancour or nostalgia. Any time he mentioned it, he used the phrase, “when I was under the Rodolfis”. Soneri found himself regretting for the hundredth time opportunities missed.
“Have you seen the Woodsman again?” Soneri said.
“He never comes down to the village, and if he did he would not come to church.”
“I know. He’s not a believer.”
“It’s not his fault. Palmiro wasn’t either. The pair of them were brought up in the Madoni hills among the beasts, and the only object was survival. It’s not much different now.”
“He lives like a savage and yet he’s the master of Montelupo,” Soneri said, with a trace of envy in his voice.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Up there many strange things go on, and they’re getting stranger by the day. On a clear night, you can see lights that look like fires flare up in the clearings, but they go out quite suddenly only to reappear further up. There are lots of people living on Montelupo now, and they’re liable not to be officially registered.”
“Foreigners. They come and go from Liguria,” Soneri said.
“Not only foreigners. There are all sorts who turn up there. They come from far and wide and they don’t look like holidaymakers.”
“When do you see these lights?”
“At night, if there’s no mist. All you need is patience, and keeping your eyes peeled. I’m not a good sleeper.”
“Have you reported this to the carabinieri?”
“I told Crisafulli some time ago, but he gave me the same answer as when I spoke about the gunfire. There is nothing he can do about it.”
Dusk was falling rapidly and Soneri regretted he had not made better use of that sunny day. Don Bruno got into his old Fiat, leaving Soneri to stroll back to the piazza. He arrived as the streetlights were being switched on. A stronger light suddenly cut through the twilight, shining a bluish beam onto the surrounding houses. The carabinieri’s Alfa Romeo was coming up the street from the new village on its way to the police station. Soneri
