uniform.
“Don’t tell me that you’ve got to work today as well,” Maini said.
Delrio shrugged. “More problems.”
“What’s up?”
“One of those damned things…” he said, waving his hands vaguely in the air. “It’s beyond my understanding…”
“There are many things like that,” Soneri said.
Delrio gave him a quick look, as though he wanted to enlist his help. “Last night was very peculiar, even for San Martino’s,” was all he said by way of explanation. He was referring to the custom of flitting, or stealing things as a practical joke.
“The young nowadays carry off things we would never have touched,” Maini said.
“It’s the first time anyone has ever taken a coffin,” Delrio said. “The thing is that nobody noticed, because it was covered by the Ghirardis’ marquee. It was only when the pony started tugging at the canvas that the coffin came to light.”
“Where have you put it?” the commissario asked him.
“Where do you think? In the graveyard chapel.”
“Is there an undertaker near here?”
“The nearest one is about twenty kilometres away,” Maini replied.
“No-one has ever stolen a coffin,” Delrio said again. “The people in this village are all cheerful and good- natured.”
This time it was Soneri’s turn to shrug.
“Nobody’s going to tell me all this was dreamed up on the spur of the moment last night,” Maini said.
The smoke from the roasting chestnuts mixed with the smoke from the fried food. They were passing in front of the stalls where people were queuing up to buy polenta and vin brule, when the band re-formed and struck up another number.
“See that? People having good-natured fun,” the commissario said.
Delrio glowered, supposing Soneri was laughing at him. He moved off in the direction of the band just as the lights went on, in response, it seemed, to how far down the mist had come.
“He’s a worried man,” Maini said, indicating Delrio, as he was swallowed up by the crowd. “In fact, in spite of appearances, everyone in the village is a bit worried.”
“I know. It’s because of the Rodolfi case,” Soneri said.
“Everyone’s livelihood depends on them, and in spite of all their faults…” His voice stuttered to an embarrassed halt.
“Have you heard anyone criticising them?” the commissario asked.
“No, no — apart from the usual chatter. You hear rumours here and there… some bits of their business… But there’s so much jealousy around here. Anyway, who knows how much they’re worth? They can toss their money about…”
“Yes, they can toss it up in the air, or add yeast to make it rise like torta fritta,” the commissario said, as he gazed at the squares of batter swelling up on contact with the hot oil in the pan. Maini was watching too and smiled, but then turned serious once again. “But the coffin… what do you think about that?”
“I think an empty coffin is always waiting for someone to fill it.”
Maini looked down and changed the subject. “If you’re planning to go up there tomorrow morning, you’re as well setting off at first light. These are the shortest days of the year.”
“And the mushrooms are well hidden, unless you know precisely where to go looking for them,” Soneri said.
“In the woods, nothing’s that precise. You have to search about, like when you’re looking for a place to pee.”
Soneri stared at him for few moments, noticing the frown on his face. He had been in the village only a few hours and already the tension in the air had got to him. Now that he was plunged into that stressful atmosphere, heavy with unanswered questions, his hopes for a carefree break were already vanishing. Perhaps Angela had been right when she said that worries live inside us, not outside, because we can never be wholly impregnable. And he knew he was too impressionable.
Fortunately he was distracted by the priest at the head of the procession, cutting his way through the crowd milling about in the piazza. His only followers were elderly ladies, while the altar boys around him had the look of young men who had just been served with their call-up papers.
“More like a funeral,” was the acid observation of Volpi, who had just come over from the roasted-chestnut stall.
“At least you won’t find the priest changing his home,” said an ancient at Soneri’s shoulder, repeating an old joke, trotted out each year, about flitting from one house to another on San Martino.
No sooner had the procession moved on than the mayor appeared alongside the commissario. “Good to see you back. You’ll be here for…” he started to say, but could not get the words out.
Soneri noted the embarrassment on the man’s face, so reassured him. “I’m only here to pick mushrooms.”
The mayor smiled. “Well, you know, with all these mysteries…”
“I’ll steer clear of mysteries for at least ten days.”
“Someone’s been putting about rumours, whispers, gossip. It’s a set-up. Let me assure you that nothing has happened. A minor mishap which has been blown up into a big story.”
“You’re all great fans of the Rodolfis, but you worry too much,” Soneri said, with a touch of irony.
The mayor studied him warily, to make sure he was taking him seriously enough. “It was a mistake to put up those posters. It’s not the first time he’s gone missing.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Going round sticking up posters is…” Soneri said.
“Yes. It was an odd thing to do, and it only heightens suspicion. They should have left well enough alone.”
“It would be better still if he were to appear in public,” the commissario suggested.
“Certainly, certainly, but he never was particularly sociable. You can understand it, a busy man like him…”
“What do you plan to do? Maybe you should just try to calm things down.”
“And what do you think I’m doing? I’m getting out and about as much as I can. I speak to anybody and everybody, but these mountain folk are so distrustful. You should know that, shouldn’t you?”
“It seems someone saw Rodolfi this morning, or last night.”
“That was Mendogni, but now he’s not so sure. He saw a man who might have been Paride Rodolfi, but he couldn’t swear to it.”
Soneri stretched out his arms. “Send for the carabinieri!”
“On what grounds? Because a man has failed to return home? I’ll get charged with wasting police time.”
“Talking about wasting police time,” the commissario said, looking over at the piazza where Mendogni, surrounded by a crowd of people anxious for news, had made an appearance.
The mayor went over to question him, speaking over those who were already talking. He dragged Soneri with him to witness what looked like a public interrogation.
“They tell me you’re not certain whether it was him or not.”
“When I first saw him, I was almost certain,” Mendogni mumbled, annoyed at having to repeat his story yet again. “But if you ask me if I am a hundred per cent certain, I’d have to say no. Do you know the path that leads to Campogrande? It’s not that close to the Greppo villa.”
“Who else could it have been?” someone asked.
“How should I know?” Mendogni said. “There are so many folk coming and going to that house. You see big cars driving up and there’s no way of being sure who’s inside.”
The mayor was growing increasingly agitated because Mendogni’s words, far from calming people down, were making them more suspicious. Another voice cut in. “Biavardi’s daughter says he’s still not come back, and that it’s a whole week since they had any news.”
“They must have had some reason for putting up all those posters,” someone else said.
