The Sleeping Nymph, page 32
She closed her eyes; the forest had become a blur. Maybe it was the weight of her memories; maybe it was her illness. She opened her eyes again, but she still couldn’t see clearly. She had to lean on the car. Marini rushed to her side.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m dizzy.”
He eased her to the ground and knelt beside her.
“Could be a drop in your blood pressure,” he said, holding her wrist.
“It’s nothing.”
“Your heartbeat has sped up.”
Teresa drew her arm back.
“For God’s sake, it’s nothing.”
“Have you taken your insulin shot today?”
Teresa didn’t reply.
“Superintendent?”
I can’t remember. I have no idea.
Whatever was happening to her seemed to be getting worse. She was burning with thirst.
She grabbed her phone: on the screen were various reminders she had ignored. She hadn’t heard the alarms go off and now the time for her injection had long since passed.
“Shit,” she muttered, fighting a wave of nausea.
She rummaged for the insulin pen at the bottom of her bag, praying it was the kind that worked quickly.
“Let me help you.”
Marini found it eventually, but Teresa snatched it from his hands.
“I can manage,” she said, but then she dropped the pen.
“Just shut up, will you?”
Teresa fell quiet. She would have loved to give him a piece of her mind, but she hadn’t the strength. She felt exhausted.
“Come on, just tell me what to do.”
Marini’s tone was both firm and controlled. Teresa basked in its comforting calmness and succumbed to the facts: she needed help. She needed him.
She told him what to do, her face turned the other way and her eyes on anything but him. The hill on which Andrian had painted the image with Francesco as a boy wasn’t far from here. She could glimpse its peak, where the crown of a linden tree swayed in a gentle breeze.
“No one’s looking,” said Marini.
As if that was the problem.
“You have eyes, don’t you?” she snapped.
Marini laughed quietly, lifting the hem of her sweater while she pushed down the waistband of her trousers.
“And you’d love to carve them out of my head right now, wouldn’t you?” he replied. “Well, there’s things you know about me that I would have rather kept secret. Do ut des. Seems like a fair exchange to me.”
“What, staring at my ass?”
“If this is your ass, Superintendent, then you really are in trouble.”
Even she had to smile at that. Maybe it was a reflex, an instinctive reaction to the fact her ageing flesh was being exposed to his gaze in this way, the rolls of fat around her belly no doubt appearing even more grotesque to the eyes of a fit young man. Teresa had never felt so naked, so fragile.
The pen did its job and he pulled the curtains shut again over Teresa’s body.
“You know, they have these digital devices now that could make your life a whole lot easier,” he told her.
Teresa knew that, but recently she had been so preoccupied with holding on to her memories that diabetes, microneedles and everything else that came with the territory had been demoted to the lowest rung in her list of priorities.
“Thanks,” she huffed. She was angry at herself.
“It’s nothing. Shall I drop you home?”
Teresa carefully got to her feet.
“Absolutely not.”
“Where on earth are you going?”
“Where I belong, which isn’t here in the background.”
They were approached by Parisi.
“Francesco di Lenardo called, Superintendent. He asked for you. He said he needs to talk to you.”
Teresa looked at Marini and then back at Parisi again.
“Did he say why?”
“No, but it sounded urgent. He was anxious. All he said was that he couldn’t wait any longer.”
76
The Andrian home stood next to a flat woodland whose appearance made for an unassuming counterpart to the spectacular forests that grew slightly farther north. Separated geographically from Italy by the alpine border and stretching into the drainage basin of the Black Sea, those lands were so near and yet so distant, too, in more ways than one.
Flatland forests were gentle beasts, and not particularly wild. It was like the difference between the silky hair of a house cat and the coarse, oleaginous fur of a lynx: they might look similar to the casual observer, but in fact they were profoundly different.
Nevertheless, even these woods were dense enough to hide the shadow that was watching the ageing painter. For a long time now, the Tikô Wariö had been patiently observing the august and hostile mask of Andrian’s face. The painter was like an old stag ruling over a long-lost realm, slowly graying under the weight of its crown of antlers—which, given the opportunity, he wouldn’t hesitate to plunge into his enemy’s heart. Andrian’s dark gaze was a declaration of war—one that he’d been making every day for decades now.
The Tikô Wariö emerged from the forest and began to walk toward Andrian. With every step it took, the Tikô Wariö saw the painter’s expression change imperceptibly, like the springtime sky above their heads—so volatile in its moods, so violent in its reactions.
The Tikô Wariö walked up to the window, its eyes now staring into Andrian’s. In his gaunt face, as white as a marble tomb, the old man’s pupils dilated.
Andrian opened his mouth in a silent scream, and the Tikô Wariö copied him.
77
I don’t feel so comfortable with this new diary. It’s like trying to replace someone you’ve lost; how could you? You’ll keep looking for them, even if it drives you crazy, even if it makes you sweat blood. Their very absence will ensure they remain a constant tangible presence. The void they’ve left behind will be a reminder of their importance, a vessel filled to the brim—and beyond—with tears. It’s like rain falling backwards: from the earth up to the sky.
I wonder what the killer must be thinking, reading between the lines, reading about himself. I wonder if his mind, mired in psychosis, will recognize himself and feel pity.
Perhaps I’ll be able to look him in the eyes one day and find out.
Francesco had opened the door and showed them inside without a word. He seemed resigned. He sat with his back hunched over, suddenly showing his age.
That’s guilt, Teresa thought, guilt weighing down on him.
She got straight to the point; she had decided that she wasn’t going to leave that house until she’d claimed what she had come for: the truth.
“Now is the time to get it all off your chest,” she told him.
He nodded.
“That’s why I called you here. I’m ready.”
“There was a secret in that pact you made as children, isn’t that right? A secret that bound you for life.”
Francesco let out a long sigh.
“That day,” he began, “after we fired at the German soldier, we went to check whether he was dead—just me and Ewa, hand in hand and shaking like leaves. The partisan stayed hiding among the trees. He told us not to go, that there might be others around. He already knew the terrible vengeance the German commanders would wreak.”
He paused, but Teresa wasn’t going to let him hide again.
“What did you see?” she asked instinctively.
“Blood, but not as much as I’d expected. I remember thinking how little there was, for a dead man. Later, I realized I was right: the soldier wasn’t dead, he’d merely fainted. He’d knocked his head when he’d fallen and had a graze on his arm from where the ricocheting bullet had scratched him. I found out when he came back with his comrades to have his revenge. But revenge wasn’t all he was after.”
That got Teresa’s attention.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Francesco held her stare, though clearly with some difficulty.
“We’d stolen from him,” he confessed, his voice shaking. “We stole from a man we thought was dead.”
Teresa felt a pang of pity for him: all that agony for a childhood misdemeanor.
“You were kids,” she told him. “You didn’t understand war or death.”
He shrugged, his eyes shining with tears.
“Did the German soldier find what had been taken from him?” Marini asked.
“No. He never got around to it, what with the partisans arriving and all the shooting . . . He vanished along with the rest of his unit and they never came up to the village again. The war was almost over by then; everybody knew that. The Germans dismantled their base a few days later. And in any case, he couldn’t really have exposed us, either, because we’d stolen from a thief.”
Teresa leaned forward, nodding in encouragement.
“He was carrying an icon, wrapped up in cloth and strapped to his chest with a belt,” Francesco resumed. “It was a depiction of the Virgin. He must have stolen it from some church. It was so beautiful, it shimmered. I remember how delicate her features were, the silver and gold inlays glimmering in the sun as if we were holding a star. And the wings of the adoring angels at her feet—my God! We’d never seen anything like it in the valley. We’d never seen such beauty before. We were bewitched.”
“What happened next?”
“Ewa took it and ran away. Emmanuel and I followed her.”
Teresa and Marini exchanged a surprised glance.
“Emmanuel Turan? The man who’s just been murdered? Was he with you?” she asked.
Francesco nodded.
“He was always following us around. Sometimes we let him, sometimes we shooed him away. He had always been odd, a little different. And children can be cruel.”
“Did you go back to Cam?”
“Oh, no! He was calling out to us, but we ignored him and hid in the forest. He’d seen us, he knew what we’d done, and he wanted the icon. For days he harassed us about it. He’d secretly follow us. We’d see him watching us from among the trees. We were scared. He was terrifying.
“At night, he’d throw stones at our bedroom window. But Ewa refused to hand it over. ‘We can’t leave the Holy Virgin in his filthy hands,’ she’d say. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’ So there was only one thing left to do.”
“And what was that?” said Marini, urging him on.
Francesco looked up at him.
“We threw the icon into the river, right in front of him. He jumped into the water to look for it, but by then it was gone, lost in the current. We left him like that, alone and desolate in the freezing Wöda. I never saw him again.”
Carlo Alberto Morandini might never again have made his presence known to the children, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he’d left. Maybe his obsession with the icon had never left him.
Teresa asked Francesco what had happened to the object.
“It was lost in the current, forever,” he replied. “All those gemstones, all that silver and gold, they’re part of this valley now.”
Just like Aniza, Teresa thought.
Marini went off to answer a phone call and was soon beckoning at her to join him.
“We have a problem,” he announced gravely.
Teresa felt faint.
“Is it Blanca?” she asked.
“Yes. She thinks she’s found the remains . . . But they’re not human, Superintendent.”
78
“Glory to thee, Holy Virgin, Gate of Heaven. The day is ending and night approaches. Soon, the sun will set and the stars will rise. And so begins the sacred Evening ritual, to end the day of light.”
A soft flame illuminated the darkness.
“With this match I shall light the fire upon your altar, oh blessed one. The nightly incense will shed its golden tears and prepare my soul to receive your mystery.”
The resin released a plume of fragrant gray smoke.
The icon glimmered in the reflected light of the sacred flame, its gold and silver detailing shining like stars fallen from the sky. The Madonna’s face was just visible beneath the black veil that covered it, a blur that seemed to follow the gaze of whoever set eyes upon her. Her beauty contained the universe.
“I carry inside me the Tikô Wariö. I am the guardian. And I carry inside me the Tikô Bronô. I am your protector. I offer you the magical texts inscribed in the Pyramid of Unas, the words of history’s greatest mystics, the honeyed songs of Pindar and Apuleius.”
The Tikô Wariö clasped its hands together and bowed its head in deference.
“I call to thee with many names, o Mother, o Maker of the First. Queen of spirits. Compassionate ruler of the wretched deserts of Hell. She who seals the door to the Underworld at night. Great sorceress and healer of sickness. Regina caeli.”
Its knees folded. Its forehead touched the ground.
“Heaven honors you and Hell respects you. The stars, the seasons, the elements heed your will. You set the planets in their orbits and illuminate the Void. O Gentle One, o Secret One. Hent. Heqet.”
Its lips kissed the dirt.
“I bow to thee, Mater Dei, as your most faithful servant.”
79
Teresa pushed her way through the small crowd that had gathered at the scene; the news that the police had found something in the woods had already spread. Unfortunately, what they’d found wasn’t what Teresa had hoped for.
She crossed the tape that marked the area forbidden to civilians and ventured deeper into the forest. She could feel Marini’s hand on her elbow with every step she took. She bit her tongue and let him do it; she wasn’t going to risk falling over in front of a bunch of truculent men who would leap at the chance to ridicule her. Now more than ever, it was imperative that her authority should remain unchallenged, so that it could shield the people who relied on her.
“Shit!” exclaimed Marini.
Teresa had rarely heard him swear before, but when she looked up, she realized he had good reason to. Blanca was standing in the middle of one of the many sectors into which the search area had been divided. She was stood face to face with the head of the police search unit and the animal welfare expert attached to the canine unit. Parisi and de Carli stood between them, trying to keep the two sides apart and prevent what appeared to be an imminent conflagration. Or perhaps the conflagration had already begun. Voices were already being raised. Blanca’s face was flushed and tense. She looked like she was about to burst into tears of rage.
There was another figure standing a few feet away from it all. As if he could somehow hear her thoughts, Albert Lona turned around and looked at Teresa, his expression both furious and faintly smug, relishing this opportunity to make her pay for daring to defy him.
Teresa readied herself for battle, sharpening her mental weapons and praying to whatever god might be watching that her illness wouldn’t choose that very moment to manifest itself. She could picture herself reduced to a stammering mess, an imbecile, her eyes devoid of all expression. Not now, please not now.
“You stay right where you are,” she ordered Marini. “Do not get involved.”
Teresa would deal with Albert first. She marched past Blanca, giving her a gentle squeeze as she walked by. She knew the touch wouldn’t be lost on Blanca.
But the district attorney stopped her in her tracks.
“Don’t say a word,” he commanded with that deceptively calm voice he employed when he wanted to obliterate his interlocutor.
The volley of complaints being fired at Teresa from all directions was relentless until eventually she had to shout to restore order.
“Show me,” she barked.
The pit was right there, a hollow that looked like a natural formation and could have easily held a curled-up corpse but that instead contained a pair of long, branching antlers.
“An older stag, judging by the shape of the horns and the pattern of dental deterioration,” explained the canine unit’s animal expert. “The enamel sheathing is absent and the dentin is exposed. I’d say the creature died of natural causes.”
The carcass was half-covered in dirt and fallen leaves.
“The soil around it looks loose,” Teresa noted.
“Only because it was dumped there by the recent rains.”
Teresa looked at Blanca. She was clearly struggling, shaking as she held on to Smoky’s harness. There was nothing Teresa could do. Smoky was agitated, pacing in circles over and over again to signal the presence of a corpse that just wasn’t there.
The head of the search team was thoughtful enough to pull Teresa aside.
“These dogs are trained to ignore animal carcasses. Or at least they ought to be,” he clarified. “This one clearly isn’t reliable.”
“No!” Blanca exclaimed.
They turned to look at her.
“I’m sorry, young lady. I’m afraid it’s a false positive,” he insisted.
Blanca held her hands out as if in exhortation and Teresa quickly grasped them in her own.
“There’s a body buried here,” Blanca insisted. “Smoky is never wrong. I believe him.”
Teresa tried to soothe her and meanwhile wondered frantically what Albert—who was still standing there, watching her—might do next. Whatever it was, would Teresa be able to respond with the same unshakeable faith Blanca displayed?
Teresa glanced at the pit, at the long antlers weathered by time and by the elements, like the horns of a long-forgotten god. Then she looked again at the restless, howling dog.
Is he sensing a human corpse—a scent so strong it can’t be ignored?
