growling. Even Baldi stopped for a moment to listen to the chorus from the hunting pack.
“They’re over at Bragalata. They’ve been moving very fast, so they’ll get tired of it quickly.”
There was only one table without upturned seats, and Baldi sat on top of it. “The one good thing to come out of this is that all those foreigners who used to go up and down to La Spezia have cleared off. They’re afraid of being picked up.”
Baldi got to his feet and took two glasses and a bottle from the bar which now had nothing on it. He poured a measure for himself and one for Soneri. “Your father had a tough hide. He liked the mountains. He applied for a job in the woods, but it didn’t work out. You needed someone to put in a word for you, so they ended up with people from the Veneto or the South.”
“You needed the party card, or else a letter from the parish priest,” Soneri said.
“And your father was a red, and not only that, a partisan in the Garibaldi brigades.”
“Didn’t the Rodolfis care about these things?”
“They certainly did! They were always hand in glove with the priests. Every sacristy or church in need of restoration could count on their support. It was all bluff, of course. Palmiro was only interested in money, and Paride was even more of a phoney.”
“So how come my father…”
“I’ve never understood that.”
“Paride’s wife gave me to understand that…” The commissario could not go on. Anger gripped him by the throat.
“She’s mad,” Baldi cut in. “She married for money, but the moment she discovered it was all coming crashing down, she went right off her head. And then Palmiro’s death…”
“Did she get on well with him?”
Baldi burst out laughing, his eyes sparkling with malice. “Get on well with him! Everybody for miles around knew she was in his bed. Paride was living up at the Boschi house, leaving Villa del Greppo to her and Palmiro. It was obvious it was going to end up that way. A woman like her needs to feel reassured and protected, and Palmiro gave her all she wanted. In spite of his age, he was still full of vigour. Paride could hardly give her security. He didn’t feel secure in himself.”
“But he knew?”
“Of course he knew, but he didn’t give a damn. When he felt the urge, he’d pick up one of those women available in rich men’s clubs. A quick encounter, no time wasted.”
Soneri was about to ask more about his father, but he was interrupted by a shot. Others followed in quick succession, like an irregular burst of machine-gun fire. Each shot was separate and distinct.
“That’s a real battle now.” Baldi rose to his feet and went to the window looking out towards Bragalata. “They must have found the Woodsman, but he fired first.”
“Are you sure?” Soneri said, coming to join him. He looked over the grey wasteland of rock, below which a green undergrowth of myrtles flourished, with the beech wood further down.
“The first shot was from a Beretta. Then there was rifle fire.”
Silence fell again for a few moments, then another round of shots rang out from somewhere among the tangle of beech trees.
“Rifles. Like in the war.”
“Have they got him, do you think?” Soneri said.
“It’s strange that he fired fist.”
“They probably told him to surrender and he reacted.”
“Could be. He wouldn’t think twice. Or maybe he’s got one of the carabinieri.”
“Why would he do that? He has to keep out of the way. If he shoots one of them, it’ll make them the more determined.”
Dolly came to the window and sought out Soneri’s hand.
“She’s agitated, and that tells you there’s electricity in the air. Animals sense these things before we do. They can smell our fear,” Baldi said.
There was not another sound to be heard. Even the dogs had stopped barking.
Baldi was unnerved by the sound of the gunfire and moved away from the window, but the commissario remained, listening intently. Dolly was sitting beside him, but she was clearly uneasy and even looked as though she wanted to run away.
“The dog senses something,” Soneri said, looking anxiously around the room.
“Maybe she’s picking up a voice, or the noise of the carabinieri moving in the undergrowth. We’ll never see them in the woods from here.”
The commissario moved back from the window. The sun was high enough in the sky to melt the frost on the roof, so water was dripping steadily. Baldi, still shaken, was staring into his glass with the expression of a man in a drunken depression. He got up and started packing away things which were still lying about. The commissario was making an effort to interpret the deep silence which had fallen after the shots, but failed to make sense of it. He was on the point of rising to his feet, even if only to escape the sense of impotence which had come over him, when Dolly, starting to bark, stopped him.
“Someone’s coming,” Baldi said. He relaxed when Ghidini appeared in the doorway.
“They’re on friendly terms,” Ghidini said, grinning at Dolly and his lagotto. “Is she on heat?”
Soneri shrugged to indicate that he had no idea.
“Where have you been?” Baldi said.
“Where the battle is raging.”
Baldi could not hide his curiosity.
“The Woodsman has fucked them all up, good and proper,” Ghidini said. “I was over at Groppizioso, on the slopes looking out over Bragalata, when I saw the carabiniere detachments coming up. I got my dog to stay quiet and moved off the path. They stopped to have a bite to eat near the drying plant at Pratoguasto, sitting in a neat circle like school kids, each one with his picnic box open between his legs. At that point, who should appear from behind the Macchiaferro waterfalls but the Woodsman himself? He didn’t want to pick them off there and then. He fired at a beech tree and the splinters flew all over the carabinieri. Then he disappeared up the gorge and out of sight.”
“But they must have fired thirty or forty rounds.”
“Yes, but at mosquitoes. They had no idea where he was.”
“That was a stupid thing for him to do. Now they’ll call in reinforcements,” Soneri said.
“That’s the Woodsman for you,” Ghidini said. “He’s in a rage because they’ve put guards on his house in the Madoni. They even smashed one of the huts where he kept all the cheese he’d got in August.”
“This is going to end in disaster,” Baldi said.
“One of the carabinieri has been taken to hospital already,” Ghidini said.
“Who?” Soneri asked.
“God knows, but he was shot by one of his own men. They’re not well trained and don’t know about the use of firearms. In the chaos, one of them must have slipped and the gun went off.”
“Is he seriously injured?”
“I don’t know. He was holding his arm, and then he must have fainted. A rifle shot could go right through you.”
The commissario got up. The sun was shining through the window, and had formed a halo round the Bragalata peak. It was a call which Soneri was, as ever, incapable of resisting. He bade farewell to Baldi and shouted to Dolly who was fighting off the amorous approaches of Ghidini’s lagotto. Ghidini himself followed Soneri out, and when he turned towards him, the commissario could not help noticing Ghidini’s embarrassment.
“There’s something I’ve got to tell you. I should’ve told you ages ago, but it seemed too trivial.”
The commissario took out a cigar and matches.
“It was something the Woodsman said about your father.”
Soneri’s attention was so concentrated that he allowed the match to burn out in his hand.
“He said that Palmiro was very grateful to him for resolving some question during the war, but he didn’t want too many people to know about it. It was to be a secret between the two of them and only a few others. The Woodsman was one of those few.”
