Soneri listened in silence to the hubbub, with images previously seen a thousand times chasing each other around in his head. In the early stages of an investigation, everything was always so confused and contradictory, and that did not mean that the outlook was necessarily any clearer at the end. He had no wish for this to become “his” case, so he took advantage of a lull in the exchanges to move away. He was determined to remain an onlooker.
The darkness, made more impenetrable by the mist rolling down from the hills, had in the meantime enveloped the village. He walked towards Rivara’s osteria with the intention of ordering a glass of Malvasia, but when he saw how crowded the place was, he walked on towards the old district. As he passed in front of the Olmo bar, he looked in and was reassured by the atmosphere of mid-week calm which reigned there. This was the bar frequented by the village elders, and it seemed to have grown old with them.
He went in and leaned on the bar to light his cigar. At the table directly in front of him, four men were silently engrossed in a game of briscola.
“Fireworks tonight,” one of the men said. The others shrugged without raising their eyes from the cards.
“Who do you think the coffin’s for?” one asked.
“As long as it’s not for us.”
Soneri was struck by the stoic indifference of the card-players, but he felt himself being observed. He turned round and recognised Magnani, the owner.
“If you’re here, it means something really has gone badly wrong,” were his words of greeting.
“You’re wide of the mark this time. The only investigations I’m doing are in the undergrowth,” Soneri said.
“In that case you’re going to have your work cut out,” Magnani warned him, as he filled two glasses of white wine without waiting to be asked. He raised his glass. “Here’s to your good health and to the investigation.”
“To my health, then. I’ll take nothing to do with any investigation.”
Magnani stretched out his hands, palms open. “I meant your investigations into the state of the mushrooms.”
“What can you tell me?”
“I’ve never taken much interest in them. They tell me that this year the outlook is grim after the dry summer we’ve had. You could search higher up in the hills, where it’s always a bit cooler. Assuming there are any left, that is.”
“They’ve picked the lot already?”
Magnani made another eloquent gesture with his hands. “There are some who are up there every day.”
“They’re not afraid of the gunfire?”
Magnani stared hard at Soneri, and in that one moment a complete understanding was established between the two. “It’s a big, high mountain and there’s space for everybody.”
“Where do you go for the licence?”
“The usual place, the Comune,” Magnani said before adding: “You’re looking well. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Nothing has changed here either,” Soneri replied, looking around the bar with its dated furniture and the wallpaper peeling where the chairs had rubbed against it.
“That’s not true. Everyone here’s growing old. After a while, the years begin to take their toll.”
“You’re an institution.”
“So is the cathedral. And we’re about the same age.”
The four men continued their game, interrupting the silence only for brief comments on the hands they were dealt.
“The one advantage age gives you is that you can stand back and look at what’s happening without getting too upset. And I’m really keen to see how it’s all going to end,” Magnani said.
“Do you mean here in the village?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Do you believe there is something behind this disappearance?”
“I think somebody is cheating, and that this little game is likely to end badly,” Magnani said, looking at the cards which were piling up in the centre of the table. “I have the impression we’re sitting on a powder keg.”
Soneri listened to the old man’s words and remembered how confused he had been when he had tried to explain to Angela what was going on. He was just as confused now, but every time he tried to seek explanations, everyone became evasive, so it was no surprise when Magnani said, “There’s so much going on… it’s not easy for someone who doesn’t live here.”
The door opened, letting in a gust of wind and rain. An elderly man, slightly out of breath, stood in the doorway and, raising his walking stick in front of him, announced, “Now Palmiro’s gone missing as well.”
The four men around the table let their cards drop and turned round quickly. The elder Rodolfi was evidently much more popular than his son.
“What is this? Some sort of plague?” Magnani muttered.
“He went out this afternoon for a walk with his dog, but it turned dark and there has been no sign of him since. The dog came back without its master.”
“Are they out looking for him already?” the commissario said.
The old man nodded. “The carabinieri and teams of volunteers are out on the hills.” Magnani stood rooted to the spot, lost in his own thoughts. None of the others said a word, and the silence was expression enough of their disconcerted astonishment. Soneri went out into the mist now swirling across the streets of the village like clouds on mountain tops. The trepidation among the people standing under the flickering light of the lamp-posts on the piazza was almost palpable. The Comune was open and people were walking up and down under the narrow colonnade at the entrance. An ambulance with its emergency lights flashing, but proceeding very slowly, passed by.
“Either there’s no-one inside, or else for the person they’ve got on board there’s no point going at speed,” said Rivara, who had also come out of his bar onto the street.
“An hour ago someone said they’d heard a shot,” Maini said.
“Where did it come from?”
“From the direction of Gambetta, near the Croce path, but I couldn’t say if that’s true or not. Other people didn’t hear anything.”
“Are you saying it could have been a rifle shot from…?” Rivara asked, but he seemed afraid of finishing the sentence.
“It could’ve been anything.”
A man in a wheelchair, wrapped in a heavy blanket, was repeating that they should talk to him, because he knew where Palmiro normally went. “We used to go hunting together,” he kept repeating, but no-one paid him any attention.
“What about the dog? Maybe he could lead them to where he is,” Rivara said.
“Perhaps, but he’s an old dog and seems worn out.”
“He could easily have got lost in this mist,” Magnani said.
Everyone standing there waiting in the swirling fog was afflicted by the same sense of impotence. A carabiniere car swept past and drew up outside the Comune. Another set of headlights cut through the darkness in the direction of Rivara’s osteria. Four young men from the village got out.
“Were you not needed?” Rivara asked.
“There’re too many people there already,” replied the driver. “They need people who know these woods. It’s a foreign land to me.”
“How are they getting on?”
“They’ll never find him in this mist, at night time. It’s insane. They’ll end up losing somebody else.”
“They can’t just leave him to die of exposure.”
“He won’t be feeling the cold any more by now,” said another of the young men from the car.
“The mist is much thicker up there,” the driver said. “If you don’t know your way, it’s a struggle even to stay on the road.”
“Are they working in teams?”
“A carabiniere truck went up and parked alongside the reservoir, near the aqueduct. The others have their
