“If Rodolfi goes bust, the mayor’s days are numbered. Here everything is linked to the pig-farming business, and even politicians come out smelling of pork and salame,” Maini explained.
Ghidini raised his right hand, rubbing his thumb against his index and middle finger, the universal sign for money and wealth, a gesture which was at once eloquent and ambiguous. Soneri, innocent of professional involvement, was happy to remain a bystander. The now-customary silent pause followed, and just when it seemed that someone was about to launch into a speech, the first fireworks went off. Everyone turned towards the houses huddled around the church and peered into the mist as it took on different colours moment by moment. The explosions came slightly later, delayed like peals of thunder.
“Do you think that’s such a good idea?” Maini said, referring to the fireworks.
“The mayor has decided it might help him get his bearings if he’s lost,” Delrio said.
“Assuming, of course, that Palmiro can see them,” Ghidini said.
“Even if he can’t see them, at least he’ll hear them,” Delrio said, staring at the flashes which appeared as opaque as coloured ice in a granita.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Rivara said. “Sounds can be deceptive in these mountains, and can produce the very opposite effect from what you would expect.”
“Palmiro knows what he’s doing, and anyway he’ll see the lights,” Delrio said, waving his hand in the air as a Roman candle was set off, its colours floating in the milky air.
“It’s like being back at war, when Pippo and his reconnaissance plane circled the skies,” Ghidini said.
Just then a sequence of bangs, similar to a burst of machine gun fire, rang out, followed by a loud report, like a deep cough issuing from enormous, tubercular lungs.
“We’d got used to the occasional gunshot…” Rivara said.
Each man’s expression was grim and frowning but indecipherable. The bar owner, shivering in the damp air, broke up the meeting by suggesting they repair inside. They trooped in silence into the brightness, and still no-one spoke. Only a few stragglers and a couple of stray dogs were left on the piazza, but the solitary light in the Comune remained switched on while the last flashes from the fireworks died away, falling into an abyss of dampness. When the church bell struck eight, Soneri realised it was time for dinner, but just then his mobile rang. He went outside to reply, aware of the watchful eyes of the others gazing at him, as though he were a priest celebrating Mass.
“Is the mist as bad as ever?” Angela asked.
“In more senses than one.”
“I deduce from that reply that the Rodolfi affair is beginning to intrigue you.”
“There’s more than one Rodolfi affair now. The father has gone missing as well.”
“Palmiro?”
“How do you know his name?”
“Who doesn’t know him? You’re forgetting that I’m a lawyer. It was he who created the company.”
“You think I didn’t know that?”
“Well then, you must know that he can eat fire, he’s as strong as a bull and afraid of nothing.”
“I know, I know.” The commissario cut her off sharply. “Anyway, right now he must be afraid of the dark and the cold, because he’s lost somewhere on Montelupo.”
“What is Montelupo?”
“It’s the mountain facing the village. It’s no place for day trippers, beautiful as it is in its own way. It’s got a sinister feel because of all the legends associated with it.”
“They’re overdoing their disappearing act, these Rodolfis,” Angela said.
“It’s going to be a difficult business finding him. In this fog, either he makes his own way back or he stays up there for good.”
“If you go climbing tomorrow, instead of finding mushrooms, maybe you’ll find the old man.”
“If this mist doesn’t lift, I might get lost myself.”
“No, you’re like a cat. You always find your way home.”
“I keep seeing myself as a boy, when I used to go searching for mushrooms with my father.”
“If you go on like that, you’ll only get depressed.”
“He would teach me the names of the trees, but he wasn’t given time enough to teach me all of them.”
“Possibly Palmiro won’t manage to teach his son all the tricks of the trade either.”
“He might still turn up, but there’s a really bad feeling abroad in this village.”
“They’re afraid the whole pack of cards will collapse. Anyway, you have work to do, Commissario.”
“Yes, tomorrow, on Montelupo, among the beech trees,” Soneri said.
When he went back into the bar, he was struck by the silence. All that could be heard was the plaintive tinkle of the videogame machine and the smack of billiard balls as two boys moved round the table.
“Are we going to have to wait up all night?” Maini asked the commissario.
“There’s nothing we can do. We’d be better off going to bed,” Ghidini said.
Rivara offered them all a drink, and they lined up at the bar like a detachment of soldiers, until their attention was diverted by the crackle of Delrio’s radio.
“The ambulance? It’s already here in the piazza. The doctor? Of course he’s here. The one on stand-by duty.” The radio crackled once more. “Yes, we’re on full alert… You heard a voice?… Ah, you’re not sure?… Well, we’re ready in any case.”
“They say they think they heard a voice, but it might have been the cry of a wild beast,” Delrio advised his companions.
“There are some that sound almost human,” Rivara said.
“Such as cats on heat,” Ghidini added.
“You can never be sure of anything,” the commissario said.
“It’s not like being in the city. Sometimes these mountains seem to have been put there just to confuse people,” Maini said.
“It’s got nothing to do with the mountains, for God’s sake,” Soneri said.
“It could have been Palmiro calling for his dog. He can’t have known it had long ago made its way home,” Maini said.
“He was as fond of that dog as he was of his son,” Volpi said.
“And the dog was more faithful,” Ghidini said.
Soneri grew ever more uncomfortable listening to the conversation, laden as it was with allusions which escaped him. It was clear that there were layers of hidden meanings in the talk, confirmed by nods and little grins and winks. It was like a mime show put on for him, or like listening to a foreign language and it made him aware of a growing distance between himself and the people here with whom he would have liked to re-establish a fraternal cameraderie. He had deluded himself that he could easily re-enter the community, but now he felt as isolated as he felt in the questura, and as perhaps he always was.
He noticed that the conversation had stopped and that Maini and the others were staring at him. The same silence as before fell over the group. The waiting became more and more oppressive. He lit a cigar, more to mask his embarrassment than from any genuine wish to smoke. That intolerable silence was broken by the sound of a car screeching to a halt in the piazza. The youths who had been there a short time previously came running into the bar.
“Palmiro is home,” the driver announced.
The tension evaporated in an instant. Rivara stepped forward. “Who found him?”
“No-one. He made it on his own. He bumped into the carabinieri at the reservoir and asked them if they were looking for him. Apparently, he didn’t even want them to give him a lift back.”
“Palmiro’s made of iron!” Volpi said.
“They’ve made us waste all this time for nothing,” Delrio grumbled. He picked up his radio-phone and bellowed into it, “OK?… It’s all over?… Can we go now?”
He stood there listening for some time, while the others spoke in whispers so as not to disturb him. When he shut down the connection, he found all eyes trained on him.
“The fireworks did the trick. He says he saw them and was able to get his bearings, but he claims he would’ve found the road even without them.”
“He must be nearly dead with exhaustion.”
“I suppose so, but it’s pitch black up there and they’ve only just found him.”
