The Ancient Curse

13

LIEITENANT REGGIANI’S Alfa Romeo pulled up in front of the Semprini farmhouse just before eight. Fabrizio came to open the door and invited his visitor to sit down in the kitchen. The coffee was already perking and bread was toasting in the oven. Reggiani wore jeans and a dark blue suede jacket which did not quite disguise the bulk of the regulation Beretta nestled under his armpit. He sat and watched Fabrizio from the corner of his eye as he took the bread out of the oven and set out butter, jam and honey.

‘You are scary-looking,’ he said. ‘Looks like you spent the night in hell, actually.’

‘Yeah, well, I guess you could say that,’ replied Fabrizio without much emotion. He poured the coffee and sat down. ‘Take more if you like,’ he said. ‘There’s a full pot.’

‘Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?’

‘I worked for hours and hours – all night, actually – without ever taking a break. That’s why I must seem a little out of it.’

‘That much I know. My guys are posted outside twenty-four seven. Nothing else to report?’

‘Nothing else.’

‘So what have you concluded after all this work?’

‘I’ve translated Balestra’s inscription, but no one is to know that. I just needed to understand what it said.’

‘Can you let me in on it?’

‘Not yet.’

‘So why did you call me?’

‘Because I need you to come with me. To the tavern at Le Macine.’

‘To see that woman.’

‘Yes. I want to ask her what Montanari couldn’t tell me in time, before . . . that thing ripped out his throat.’

‘Which is?’

‘Where the seventh fragment of the inscription is.’

‘And that’s something that should interest us? Aside from its purely archaeological value, that is.’

‘No. I wouldn’t have knocked myself out this way for that reason. Archaeology takes time, usually. Do you know who that woman is?’

‘Yes. I’ve looked into it. She’s a widow who runs the place and usually serves at the bar. A normal person.’

‘Does this normal person have a name?’

‘First and last. It’s Ambra Reiter.’ Reggiani finished the last sip of coffee and lit up a cigarette.

‘It’s an early one today,’ observed Fabrizio as he put the cups in the sink.

‘I’m tense, all right? I’m preparing for the operation. You do remember I promised you no more than two days?’

Fabrizio didn’t reply. He dried his hands on a dishcloth and said, ‘Shall we go, then?’

Reggiani got up and went out to the car. Fabrizio locked the door behind him and slid into the passenger seat. ‘She has a strange name,’ he said. ‘What else do we know about her?’

Reggiani turned on to the regional road. ‘Not much for the time being. She’s been here for about five years and for a while she worked as a housekeeper in a house here in Volterra. I’m trying to find out where she’s from but I haven’t got very far yet. I’ve heard she dabbles in magic – innocent stuff, reading palms, tarot cards, that kind of thing.’

It took them longer than Fabrizio expected because Reggiani’s car was very low to the ground and he had to slow down at every bump and pothole. He seemed to be taking his time, driving slower than necessary. Maybe he wanted to allow time for conversation, but Fabrizio was quiet most of the way, absorbed in his thoughts, and his companion did not disturb him.

When they arrived in the courtyard at Le Macine the place was deserted. A northerly wind had cleared the morning mist and was scattering the dry oak and maple leaves, along with scraps of newspaper and bits of cement bags. A heap of freshly moved earth sat at the end of the courtyard near a digger, along with piles of bricks on one side and bags of cement and lime on the other, piled behind a fence of corrugated sheet metal.

‘Work in progress, I see,’ commented Reggiani. ‘Business must be going well.’

He got out of the car and walked towards the building, followed by Fabrizio. He knocked on the door, which swung open at the touch of his hand. They entered and looked around in the semi-darkness. The room was empty, the chairs upside down on the tables, the stagnant air saturated with an indefinable smell in which one could make out a whiff of incense mixed with the aroma of some exotic cigarette.

‘Anyone here?’ asked Reggiani. No answer. ‘Anyone around?’ he repeated, raising his voice.

‘Wait,’ said Fabrizio. ‘I’ll take a look in the kitchen.’

He went behind the counter and inspected the room at the back. The stovetops were clean, the floor had been washed, the back door was locked and bolted.

He called out again, ‘Is there anyone here?’

A spooked cat raced between his legs, miaowing loudly, crossed the room in a flash and escaped outside.

‘Strange, isn’t it?’ said Reggiani. ‘Looks like no one’s here, but the door was open . . . Listen, I say we come back later. I don’t like being in other people’s houses when they’re not around. Even though I’m in plain clothes, I’m still a carabiniere officer and—’

‘Did you call?’ a voice suddenly rang out behind them.

They spun around and found Ambra Reiter, who had seemingly materialized out of nowhere. She was standing still in the middle of the room and her face was wan but showed no emotion.

‘I’m Lieutenant Marcello Reggiani,’ said the officer with a bit of embarrassment, ‘and I think you’ve met this fellow here, Dr Fabrizio Castellani of the University of Siena.’

The woman shook her head slowly as if awakening from a dream. ‘I’ve never had the pleasure. Nice to meet you. Ambra Reiter,’ she added, extending a hand.

Fabrizio couldn’t help but blurt out, ‘Excuse me, I don’t know how you can say that. I came in here the other day and you served me a drink. Remember? When I tried to pay you said, “It’s on the house.” And you were at La Casaccia just a few minutes before that animal massacred Pietro Montanari.’

The woman regarded him as if he were raving. ‘Animal? Pietro Montanari? Young man, are you sure you’re talking to the right person? Lieutenant, would you mind explaining what this is all about? Are you here on official business, and if so what am I being accused of?’

Reggiani tried to explain. ‘Absolutely nothing, ma’am, but my friend here says—’

Fabrizio interrupted him. ‘She’s the one who calls me at night and has made explicit threats about what will happen to me if I don’t cut short my research.’

The woman looked at him in seeming amazement. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything about any research and I don’t even know you. You’re either crazy or you’ve mixed me up with someone else.’

Reggiani realized that they wouldn’t get anywhere under these circumstances and he gave Fabrizio a look, as if to say, ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Fabrizio nodded and followed him out, but before he left he turned to look the woman in the eye, to catch her off guard, to see if her expression would give her away. He saw nothing but the face of a sphinx, but before he looked away he noticed she had yellow mud on her shoes.

‘Damned witch,’ he said as soon as they were outside. ‘I swear to you I saw her here the other night. We had a conversation, she threatened me . . . You don’t believe me, do you?’

Reggiani lifted a hand to calm him down. ‘I believe you, I believe you, but relax for a minute, will you? The only thing I can do is put someone on her. If she’s who you say she is, she’ll betray herself sooner or later. The only problem is time. That’s what we’re short of.’

They were about to get into the car when Fabrizio thought he heard a rustling. He turned just in time to glimpse a child rushing to hide behind the corner of the farmhouse. It looked like the same boy he’d spotted the last time he’d been to Le Macine. ‘Wait!’ he tried to call out, without much conviction, but the child had gone.

He got into the car. ‘Did you notice her shoes?’ he asked as soon as Reggiani had started it up.

‘They looked like normal shoes to me.’

‘They had yellow mud stuck to them.’

‘So?’

‘I’m an archaeologist. I’m quite familiar with the stratigraphy of the soil in this area. It’s the same as the mud we saw piled up by the digger.’

‘Right.’

‘Do you know what that means?’

‘That the woman’s been walking around in this area.’

‘No. She appeared out of nowhere, behind us. If she’d come from outside we would have seen her or heard her. I think she came from underground. More precisely, from a depth of two metres, give or take a centimetre. Now, if I—’

Reggiani slowed down, came to a stop and pulled on the handbrake. ‘Wait. Let me guess. You want to get yourself into more trouble. Listen to me. Don’t get any strange ideas about sneaking around at night to do underground reconnaissance, or anything of the sort. While this creature’s on the loose you’re not moving unless you’ve got company and unless I say so. If you want to stay alive.’

‘Who’s moving?’ grumbled Fabrizio. ‘Sergeant Massaro is always just around the bend in his grey Uno. Almost always . . .’

Reggiani drove off again, intending to drop Fabrizio off at his house on the Semprini property. Neither did much talking, as each was oppressed by his own nightmares.

‘Know how long we’ve got to go?’ asked Reggiani, turning off the engine. ‘To the start of operations, that is?’

‘A few hours?’ asked Fabrizio.

Reggiani checked his watch. ‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a load of problems pulling together the necessary men and vehicles. But in thirty-six hours’ time, not one minute later, the operation will get the go-ahead. If I can do it any sooner than that, I will.’

Fabrizio smiled. ‘See where arrogance gets you? The other police forces not good enough to ask for help? Come on, Marcello, don’t play the tough guy with me. There’s got to be some flexibility built into that deadline. If I should need another two or three hours, say, half a day . . .’

Reggiani wiped his brow. He looked like he hadn’t slept much the night before either. ‘I trust that won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘I hope you realize I’m not fooling around here. When you mobilize for an operation like this one it’s down to the minute. Let’s get this straight. Although I hope it won’t be necessary, I’m not going to bicker over minutes.’

Fabrizio lowered his head. ‘Driving out there just complicated matters, didn’t it?’ he said. ‘I never would have thought she could lie so brazenly, without letting out the tiniest bit of emotion. But that yellow mud is an important clue, you’ll see. Goodbye, then. I’ll be in touch soon.’

Fabrizio walked into the empty house and thought he should call Francesca, but the realization that he hadn’t spoken to her for so many hours discouraged him. He didn’t want to have to justify himself or get into an argument. He wasn’t sure what to do next. Ambra Reiter was the only person who knew where the missing fragment of the inscription was, if Montanari had been telling the truth. And there was no way that she was going to tell him. Maybe there was no other option than to go in with the big guns, to let Lieutenant Reggiani run his operation, in the hope that that would solve matters. But Fabrizio couldn’t resign himself to that.

He immersed himself in reading his translation and felt the dark vision of the night before encroaching again. Had it been extreme fatigue, the pills he’d taken to stay awake, or the influence of what he’d read or thought he understood in the inscription that had projected such images into his mind?

He felt oppressed by a sense of deep discouragement. The surveillance that Reggiani had provided to protect him made him feel like he was in prison. He couldn’t move independently in any direction. He felt tormented by the confusion flooding his head, by that strange mix of reality and hallucination that hadn’t left him, not even after awakening. It felt like he couldn’t shake off the effects of a powerful drug. He’d experienced the feeling once before, in Pakistan, the only time he’d tried opium, out of curiosity. It had put him in a strange, black mood that hadn’t left him for days.

Every now and then he looked over at the phone, thinking that he really should call Francesca, hoping that she might be the one to call him. Time stretched out in an unreal way. It seemed like months, or years, that he’d been living in this nightmare, this claustrophobic, agonizing situation.

He suddenly felt like simply walking out. He wished he could start up his car and just leave, forget about everyone, abandon the research that had brought him to Volterra, erase the inscription carved into the bronze slab by Aule Tarchna. He could find another way to make a living; become a high school teacher or a journalist.

But then he realized immediately that he didn’t want to leave Francesca, didn’t want to leave Marcello Reggiani or even Sonia, who was down in the basement of the museum assembling his monster. She must be well along by now. And above all he didn’t want to leave that sad little boy who now had not only a face but a name, Velies Kaiknas, and a story, a story that felt to Fabrizio like it had happened the day before.

A light knock on the door made him jump. Was he hearing things? Who could be at his door, with the police outside? A soft knock, again.

‘Who’s there?’ he said nervously, as his eye moved to the rifle glittering on the rack.

There was no answer. He got up and moved to the door. There was no one there.

‘Who is it?’ he repeated tensely.

And then he looked down. There was a little boy who looked like the kid he’d seen at Le Macine. Skinny, slight, with huge, expressive eyes.

‘So who are you?’ he asked in an amused tone.

‘My name’s Angelo,’ he answered. ‘May I come in?’

Fabrizio stepped aside and let him in. The child went straight to the table, sat down and put his elbows up as if he were waiting for something.

‘Are you hungry?’ asked Fabrizio. ‘There’s milk and biscuits.’

The boy nodded yes.

‘How did you get here?’

‘Emilio brought me. He delivers mineral water to the tavern. I like driving around with him.’

‘How did you know I lived here?’

‘Once I saw you going in the gate while I was riding around in Emilio’s truck.’

‘Do your parents know you’re here? They’ll be worried. How about if we give them a call?’

Fabrizio put his hand on the phone. The boy shook his head hard.

‘You must have parents . . .’

‘I live with my stepmother and she beats me for no reason. I hate her.’

‘Maybe you don’t do as she asks and she has to punish you.’

The little boy shook his head again but said no more.

‘Why did you come all this way? You know I saw you at Le Macine.’

‘Because I want to dig like you do. I want to be an archaeologist.’

‘How do you know what I do?’

No answer from the child.

‘Was she the one who told you? Your . . . stepmother? Or did you hear her talking to someone about me?’

The boy said nothing. He seemed intent on dipping biscuits into his milk. Then Fabrizio noticed that he was looking out of the corner of his eye at the blown-up photograph of the lad of Volterra.

‘Do you like him?’ asked Fabrizio.

The boy shook his head once again and then, a few moments later, said, ‘So, can I stay?’

Fabrizio took a seat opposite him.

‘I’m afraid not. A child has to be with his family. I’d like you to stay here, but then your mother would come looking for you. She’d talk to the carabinieri, you know? They’d call it “abduction of a minor” and you go to prison for that.’

‘Better to be in jail than with her,’ said the boy.

‘Not you. Me. I’m the one they’d put in jail for kidnapping a minor, and that’s you. You see?’

The boy shook his head again and Fabrizio sighed. How could he refuse to help this sweet child who seemed to have no one caring for him?

‘Angelo, listen . . . you have to try and understand,’ he began again.

The boy got up. ‘I’m not going back to her,’ he said. ‘I’ll run away.’

He started towards the door. He acted like a little man; no crying or betraying any sign of weakness. Fabrizio’s heart swelled.

‘Wait!’ said Fabrizio. ‘Where do you think you’re going? Hold on a minute. Listen, for reasons I can’t explain right now, the carabinieri come by here really often. If they see you here with me, they’ll start to say, “Who is this kid and where is he from and who are his parents?” and so on and so on.’

He suddenly thought of Francesca and was pleased to have an excuse for phoning her.

‘OK, wait. I have an idea. I have a lady friend who could maybe take care of you for a little while and then well decide what we should do, all right? You stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.’

He went out into the corridor, where there was another phone, so Angelo wouldn’t hear him. Francesca answered on the first ring, at her office in the museum. ‘I figured if you weren’t dead, you’d turn up sooner or later. I thought you were dead.’

‘I’ll tell you everything as soon as I see you. In the meantime, I have an emergency to deal with that might even help us out in the long run. A little boy has just shown up here. He lives with that woman at Le Macine, who he says is his stepmother. He’s run away because she mistreats him. I think he may know something . . .’ No answer. ‘Francesca, I’ve succeeded in translating that thing, but I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. I have to see you, as soon as possible.’ Dead silence on the other end of the line. ‘Francesca, please,’ he added.

‘All right. But you could have called me. Even just to say hello.’

‘You’ll understand when we see each other. Please, Francesca, come right away.’

‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

Fabrizio hung up and went back into the kitchen, but the child had gone. Nothing more than an empty glass on the table and a few crumbs.

Fabrizio dashed outside and searched all around the house, calling loudly, but Angelo was nowhere to be found. Fabrizio couldn’t believe he’d got so far away in such a short time. Feeling defeated, he sat on the stone bench by the front door and waited for Francesca.

‘Sergeant Massaro is right out there in his grey Uno,’ said the girl as soon as she arrived.

‘I thought so. Come on in, please.’

Francesca continued to act a little peeved at first, but after she’d taken a good look at Fabrizio’s face, she realized there was no point in staying offended. He was pale and his eyes were shiny as if he had a fever. She watched his hands shake as he passed her a cup of tea.

‘I translated the inscription,’ he said. ‘I’ve been working on it since the moment I left you. That’s why I guess I don’t look so good. Actually, I’m exhausted . . . but unfortunately, without that missing segment, I don’t know what’s likely to happen next.’

Francesca shook her head, regarding him with an air of affectionate condescension. He was still seeing ancient curses everywhere.

Fabrizio told her about his fruitless trip with Reggiani to the tavern at Le Macine and then about the sudden appearance and disappearance of the little boy.

‘If I try to leave in my car, Massaro will set off on my heels. You could hide me in the back of yours and we could drive down the regional road and see if we can find him somewhere. You didn’t see a little boy walking all alone as you were driving here?’

‘No. I would have noticed.’

‘Then he didn’t head back home. He must have gone in the opposite direction. I’m afraid he’ll get lost. That he might meet up—’

‘Yeah, I get it,’ Francesca said, cutting him short to banish an ugly premonition. ‘OK, let’s get moving.’

Fabrizio left the light on in the kitchen, then slipped out and crouched down on the floor of the Jeep, hiding until he was out of sight of his guardian angel. They drove several kilometres before he had to admit that if the child had set off in that direction, it would have been impossible for him to have wandered so far.

‘Let’s try down the country roads,’ proposed Francesca, resolutely pulling off on to a track heading east towards the hills.

‘I have the translation with me,’ said Fabrizio, who in the meantime had come out of hiding and was sitting comfortably on the back seat. ‘Want to hear?’

‘Of course I want to hear. I can’t wait.’

Fabrizio began to read, and as the words came out of his mouth, his voice changed, distorted by the violent, unexpected emotion unleashed in his head by saying those words aloud. He had to stop more than once and take a deep breath, trying to recover lucidity and the strength to continue. When he had finished, his head dropped to his chest and he fell silent.

‘My God,’ said Francesca, without taking her eyes off the road, which was now running along the edge of an escarpment.

‘I think that there are too many coincidences for this to be a product of chance. But even if there is no connection at all, even if we are dealing with a series of coincidences with no rhyme or reason behind them, I still think – actually I’m firmly convinced – that we have to find the seventh fragment and analyse what it says.’

‘How can you say you’re so sure?’ asked Francesca, turning towards him. ‘Nothing is certain when you’re dealing with such a distant past.’

Fabrizio continued as if he hadn’t heard her: ‘The meaning I’ve been able to glean from the first part of the text will certainly help in reading the last fragment, if and when we find it. In any case, we’ll have interpreted an exceptional find and turned it over to science. But if I’m right, we’ll also have found a way to stop this massacre, or maybe avoid something even worse.’

They continued to search the countryside for hours and hours, stopping just once at a little shop to buy a couple of salami sandwiches. When it began to get dark, Fabrizio decided to call the tavern at Le Macine. He got the number from directory enquiries, but the phone rang twelve times without anyone answering.

‘Where could he have gone?’ he wondered, pressing hard on his forehead as if to crush a nightmare.

‘It’s useless racking your brains over it,’ replied Francesca. ‘He could be anywhere . . . somewhere you’d never think of. A friend’s house, for instance. He’s just a kid. He couldn’t still be wandering out here alone in the middle of the fields at this hour. Stop worrying.’

‘He didn’t look like a kid who had friends to me. He looked like a kid who was always alone and never saw anyone.’

‘Fabrizio, all we can do now is go back. If Massaro realizes you’re gone he’ll send out the troops.’

‘Why couldn’t I have taken a drive in the country with my girlfriend?’

Francesca tried not to smile. ‘And who would this girlfriend be?’

‘In the city!’ said Fabrizio a moment later, in an entirely different tone of voice.

‘Who, your girlfriend?’ prompted Francesca.

‘No, him. Angelo. My girlfriend is here, at the wheel of this car.’ He squeezed her hand tightly.

‘Why do you think he may be in town?’ asked Francesca.

‘It’s only a hope, really. I remember seeing him slip behind the door of the Caretti-Riccardi palace a few days ago. Now that I think about it, I’m sure it was him.’

‘You can’t possibly be sure of such a thing! That old mansion has been closed for years. It’s falling apart and no one lives inside. I’m very sure about that.’

Fabrizio recalled the last call from Signora Pina, telling him about the strange lights coming from the cellar, and turned to Francesca. ‘Are you very, very sure?’