He heard a sigh at the other end. “Just think how many better places there must be that you’ve never been to.”
“And why should I change if I’m comfortable where I am?”
“One of these days I’m going to come and check up on you,” she said in a good-humoured way. “Is there something up? You don’t seem quite yourself.”
“No, no, it’s not what you think,” Soneri mumbled, but his denial did not carry conviction. “It’s just that everybody here is talking about a man who’s supposed to have disappeared and then turned up again. Nobody has any idea what’s going on, so there’s no end of rumours and counter-rumours. They know what I do for a living, and they’re all keen to get me involved.”
“Isn’t it you that’s getting curious?”
“Well, maybe a little. I want to talk about mushrooms, but everyone I meet is determined to raise this other subject,” the commissario said.
“Who has disappeared? Someone important?”
“Paride Rodolfi, the salame and prosciutto manufacturer.”
“Good heavens! So he is important. I know the lawyer who looks after the company’s affairs, and I can well believe everybody’s talking about it. Everybody there has some connection with the Rodolfis. They either work for him, or they’re suppliers.”
“I know, but the fact is…” the commissario’s voice trailed off because he had suddenly lost his train of thought. He realised he had no idea why this business seemed so odd to him.
“Tell me,” Angela said.
Soneri outlined the facts, chiefly to clarify them to himself. “Some posters have been put up to say that Rodolfi is alive and in good health, but no-one had ever said he was dead in the first place. They all assumed he’d gone off somewhere.”
“Whenever someone disappears, there’s always a suspicion that they might be dead,” was Angela’s tentative explanation.
“Certainly, but even after these posters have gone up, noone’s still really sure whether he’s alive or not. One or two people claim to have seen him, but nobody will swear to it.”
“Good God, Commissario,” Angela murmured, “I’ve never heard you so confused. I hope it’s only because of the heavy meal you’ve just had. Go for a walk and clear your head and then try to get some rest.”
“I have the feeling that they all know more than they’re letting on, but since I don’t have any facts to go on, I’m getting steadily more puzzled myself. I’m not thinking clearly.”
“Do you want my advice? Steer clear of the whole thing. Go for a walk in your mountains and let them look for Rodolfi by themselves — if he really is lost.”
At half past two, the village was still sleeping off its brodo di carne. Soneri went up to his room, put on his wellington boots and slipped out without letting Sante see him go. Just this once, being familiar with the woods and feeling totally at home among them, he was happy to follow Angela’s advice. He took the road to Montelupo intending to climb for a couple of kilometres and then turn into the beech groves. He felt the need to stretch his legs and clear his lungs, so he set off at a relaxed pace, turning back from time to time to watch the village grow smaller behind him. He raised his eyes to the hills only when he reached the reservoir, where there was a small, familiar fountain. The mist was not so much higher above him, no more than ten minutes’ walk away. At Boldara, the point where the road ends, the first wisps began to float around him, and from there on he walked into and out of the swirling greyness of mist and low cloud carried on the wind. Only when he took the path through the beech woods did everything close in on him. The trees and brush all around him, the thick mist pressing down from above and the black earth beneath his feet made him shudder. He was uneasy as he made his way along a tunnel of trees which grew darker with every step. He had the sense that he was not alone. Birdsong and the squeals of hedgehogs alternated with the sound of a large animal not far distant in the woods. The mist and the breeze carried the sounds deceptively in all directions.
He had walked quite a distance before he began to feel warm. His heart was beating wildly and he was gasping for breath. Were his cigars presenting their bill? He looked down at his boots encrusted with mud and understood. At every step, he was carrying what looked like a kilo of earth. He scraped the boots clean on moss- covered roots. In less than an hour, he reckoned, it would be dark. He went on a little way, but stopped when he heard the sound of breaking branches. It might be a wild boar, he thought, and for a moment he feared it might charge him, but the beast, without emerging onto the path, could be heard racing down a gulley which cut across the slope to seek shelter in the thickets.
As he was setting off again, a shot rang out. Its echo swelled across the valley like thunder. The bullet passed no more than ten metres ahead of him, allowing him to hear its whistle and the crack of the branches it struck. Instinctively, he crouched on the wet forest floor, waiting for a second shot which did not come. He stayed in that position for a few moments, wondering if the shot was aimed at the boar or at him, and deciding that thinking about it was going to get him nowhere. Twenty minutes later, he came out onto the road, and even before emerging from the mist he heard the band striking up on the piazza below.
2
According to tradition, on the feast of San Martino things were taken from houses as a joke and left somewhere in the village where they could be rediscovered. All the various objects which had been spirited away the night before were piled up in a quiet lane behind the church. There were farm implements, bicycles, hats, cars and even a pony, which was feeding quietly from a nosebag. A man was cursing as he attempted to pull an old scooter out of a tangle of rubbish, but just as he had succeeded and was about to move off, the town band turned up and the street was closed off.
Soneri waited until the majorettes and bandsmen, decked out in uniforms, hats and sequins, had passed by. He could not understand why the sound of drums and trumpets in all their solemnity always made him laugh, but as he was thinking this over, Maini emerged from the disorderly crowd shuffling along behind the band, took him by the arm and led him into the body of the procession.
“So you’ve had a go, eh!” he exclaimed, glancing down at Soneri’s mud-covered boots. He had forgotten to change but no-one in the village would notice.
“I went to stretch my legs and get a breath of fresh air,” Soneri said.
“How far did you get?”
“Up past Boldara, towards Montelupo.”
“You’ve got guts,” Maini said.
“Is there someone from around here who goes shooting in the mountains?” the commissario asked, abruptly.
The din from the band gave Maini an excuse for taking his time. “Did you hear anything?” he asked.
Soneri nodded, without turning to face him.
“Where?”
“I have just told you where.”
“But do you know where the shot came from?”
“I only know it wasn’t more than ten metres away when it went whistling past. There must have been a boar in the gulley, judging by the noise coming from there.”
“These mountains have become very dangerous. I don’t know what’s been going on recently.”
“There’ve always been poachers in these parts,” the commissario said without much conviction.
“During the day? With this mist, in a hunting reserve?” Maini’s tone was incredulous.
“In the mist you can do anything you want. It gives you cover.”
“True enough, even for a murder. Nobody can see you.”
Soneri felt a tremor run up his spine, but he said nothing. They were back on the piazza after walking around some of the streets where old women at the windows looked down at the band. A big stall was serving torta fritta and salame to a crowd gathered hungrily around it. On the other side of the piazza, some volunteers from the tourist office were roasting chestnuts. Delrio, clearly displeased, came up to join them. He was wearing full
