The Crossroads (39 page)

He closed his eyes and felt as if he was levitating from the chair. He saw a huge valley of red earth which stretched as far as the walls of the room, and mountains of immensely tall rocks that towered up to the ceiling. And rivers. Streams. Waterfalls.

And in the centre of the valley he saw the naked body of Ramona.

A dead giant. The girl's corpse surrounded by the soldiers, the shepherds, the miniature cars. On her small breasts, spiders and iguanas and sheep. On her dark nipples, little green crocodiles. Among her pubic hairs, dinosaurs and soldiers and shepherds, and inside, inside the cavern, the Baby Jesus.

He thought he was falling, opened his eyes and frantically clutched at the chair. He bent his bruised arm and felt as if a rotating blade was slicing it in two. He let out a scream of pain.

He waited for the pain to pass before getting to his feet.

Now he knew what he had to do.

He had to go back to the wood, take the little blonde's body and put it in the crib.

That was why he had killed her.

And God would help him.

Beppe Trecca was holding the thermometer in his hands.

Thirty-seven point five. Must be flu. These things mustn't be underestimated,
if you don't nip them in the bud they can drag on for
months
.

Better to take a day off work. That would give him a chance to devise a strategic plan for keeping his vow. He would have to keep his mobile switched off, and as soon as he recovered from the flu he would change his number. Then he would have to stop organising
the meetings in the parish hall. And at the office he would have to avoid Mario Lo Vino as much as possible. Of course, Ida knew where he lived, so he would have to move house too. Though in a small village like that they might bump into each other anywhere. Perhaps it would be wiser to rent a flat in some neighbouring village and keep out of the centre of Varrano.

In short, he would have to live barricaded in a bunker, with no job and no friends. A nightmare.

He couldn't do it. There was nothing else for it but to go away.

For a while
.

Long enough for Ida to understand that the former Beppe Trecca, the one who had said he would take her even with the children, no longer existed. Had been the passing dream of a single night.

Keep away until she hates me
.

That was the worst thing of all. Worse than the pain of not seeing her again.

Ida would think he was a shit, a despicable person. A disgusting individual who dishonoured her in a camper, made a thousand promises and then ran away like a snivelling coward.

If only I could explain the truth to her
.

Perhaps he should confess all to his cousin Luisa and ask her to tell Ida. That at least would alleviate the pain a little. And Ida, who was a sensitive, God-fearing woman, would certainly understand and silently love and respect him for the rest of her days.

No, he couldn't. The value of that damned vow lay precisely there, in that torment. Being mistaken for a monster and not being able to do anything to clear his name. If he eliminated that suffering he would be breaking his promise.

Besides, if he told Luisa about the miracle he would have to tell her about the camper too.

No, it's out of the question. Her husband would kill me
.

His mobile phone started ringing.

The social worker looked in terror at the handset vibrating on the table.

I didn't switch it off
.

It's her
.

His heart started fluttering inside his ribcage like a canary that has just seen a cat. He opened his mouth and tried to gulp down
air. A wave of heat swept through him. And it wasn't the fever, but the passion that was burning him. The mere thought of being able to hear that sweet voice made his head spin, and nothing else had any meaning.

Ida, I love you!

He wished he could throw the window open and shout it to the world. But he couldn't.

That bloody African
.

He put his hands over his face and through the gap between his fingers peered at the display of the mobile. It wasn't Ida's number. Not even that of her landline. But what if she was calling from another phone?

He hesitated for a moment, then answered: ‘Yes? Who is it?'

‘Hallo. This is Lance Corporal Mastrocola, calling from the carabinieri station in Varrano. I'd like to speak to Trecca Giuseppe.'

They've found the camper!

Beppe swallowed hard and whispered: ‘Speaking.'

‘Are you responsible for …' Silence. ‘… Zena Cristiano?'

For a moment the name meant nothing to him. Then he remembered. ‘Yes. Certainly. I'm responsible for him.'

‘We need your help. His father has had a serious accident and is now in the Sacred Heart Hospital in San Rocco. His son is there. Could you go to him?'

‘But what happened?'

‘I'm afraid I don't know. The hospital notified us and we've called you. Can you go? Apparently the minor has no family apart from his father.'

‘Well, actually, I … I've got a bit of a temperature.' Then he said: ‘Never mind. I'll go right away.'

‘Good. Could you drop by at our office for the relevant documents?'

‘Yes, of course. Goodbye. And thank you …' Beppe hung up and stood there absorbing the news.

He couldn't leave the poor kid on his own.

He took two aspirins and began to get dressed.

If Fabiana Ponticelli hadn't decided to go through the San Rocco woods she would have had to make a long, tortuous detour to get back to Giardino Fiorito, the estate where she had lived for fourteen years with her family.

It was nearly six kilometres away from Varrano. You had to get onto the bypass, then take the provincial road for Marzio and after a couple of kilometres turn left in the direction of the motorway. After driving for another two kilometres between warehouses, factories and DIY stores, you would suddenly see in front of you, encircled with walls like a medieval citadel, the exclusive community of Giardino Fiorito.

Two hundred cottages (
ranchos
), built in the early Nineties in an improbable Mexican-Mediterranean style by the celebrated architect Massimiliano Malerba. Blue woodwork, rounded forms and earth-coloured plaster, vaguely reminiscent of the Indian adobes. Half a hectare of garden for each plot. Plus a shop and a sports club with three tennis courts and an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Three entrances manned twenty-four hours a day by private guards in blue uniforms. And halogen floodlights all round the enclosing walls.

The stuck-up inhabitants of the estate were not greatly loved by the people who lived alongside them. Giardino Fiorito had been dubbed ‘Escape from New York', an allusion to the John Carpenter film in which the Big Apple, cut off from the world by huge concrete bastions, had been turned into a maximum security prison where all the criminals of America were dumped.

Until the day before, a huge oak tree, more than twenty metres high, had towered over rancho 36, where the Ponticelli family lived. Its green umbrella had arched over Via dei Ciclamini. Its trunk was so thick that three people linking hands could barely embrace it.

The tree had stood there since the days when there had been nothing here but swamps inhabited by snakes and mosquitoes. It had come unscathed through campaigns of deforestation and drainage, it had survived the concrete vice of the village, but not the
phytophotra ramorum
, a parasitic fungus of Canadian origin
which had colonised its trunk like tooth decay, turning the solid wood into a spongy, friable substance.

That night the storm had dealt the death blow to the ancient tree, which had come crashing down on the Ponticellis' garage.

If its fibre had not been infected by the mycosis perhaps the oak would have resisted the storm as it had always done in the past and would not have reduced the garage to a heap of rubble, and Alessio Ponticelli would have discovered immediately that his daughter Fabiana had not returned home the night before.

Fabiana's father was a perfect representative of the community of Giardino Fiorito. An entrepreneur and a fine figure of a man. One metre eighty centimetres tall. Forty-two years old. Greying hair and white teeth. Married to Paoletta Nardelli, the former Miss Eleganza Trentino 1987. A good father. He frequented the club and detested politics. And, the most important thing, his money was clean and smelled of sweat. He had made it by creating out of nothing Goldgarden, a firm specialising in products for the garden, with a catalogue ranging from aluminium gazebos to reinforced concrete fountains.

On the night of his daughter's death Alessio Ponticelli had been stuck in Brindisi. The flight that was due to bring him home had been cancelled because of the bad weather.

He had informed his wife, eaten a too-salty pizza and spent the night at the Western Hotel. He had returned home on the first flight the next morning.

The drive to Giardino Fiorito had taken him the best part of two hours. They had diverted the road right out to Centuri. The Sarca bridge had been damaged by the floods and the highway swamped by the waters of the river.

When Alessio Ponticelli stopped his BMW SUV outside his home he thought he must have got the wrong rancho. A green jungle had grown up outside their cottage. It took him a few moments to grasp that it was the foliage of the great oak.

He got out of the car with the sensation that the earth was clinging to the soles of his shoes, pushed through the leaves and branches and saw to his horror that there was nothing left of his garage but rubble. His Bottega Veneta briefcase fell from his hand and he stared at the Jaguar which was as flat as a pancake, the remains of the
ping-pong table, and the John Deere compact tractor, which he hadn't even started to pay for, reduced to a mass of twisted metal.

He remained where he was, frozen. There was an unnatural silence. Then he turned and saw that Renato Barretta, the owner of rancho 35, was walking towards him. He was holding a rake over his shoulder like a halberd and wore tracksuit trousers and a grey quilted jacket. He shook his head as he approached: ‘What a smash! I had a real shock when I saw it this morning.' And then, proudly: ‘I've already called the management and the fire brigade, don't worry. Lucky there was no one at home …'

Alessio looked at the house. At least that had been spared. The shutters of his bedroom window were down.

She's asleep
.

Certainly his wife was still asleep, doped up on sleeping tablets and with earplugs in her ears. She hadn't noticed a thing.

But surely Fabiana must have heard it
.

Quattro Formaggi, on the saddle of the Boxer, was climbing back up round the hairpin bends of the San Rocco woods.

A fire burned in his shoulder. Every rut that he crossed was agony. But that, too, was a sign that God was with him.

Just like the holes in Padre
Pio's
hands
.

Through his helmet he could hear the sparrows twittering away merrily.

The sun, which had pushed its way between the clouds, was threading its rays through the vegetation, dappling the ground with patches of light. On the branches the wet leaves glittered like diamonds. During the night the rain had dug streams in the earth which were still pouring mud onto the road.

Quattro Formaggi had no plan for taking the girl's body home. He couldn't just pick up the corpse and load it onto the scooter. But God would tell him what to do.

He was excited. Soon he would see Ramona again and be able to touch her and have a better look at her. He feared that the blow
he had given her with the stone might have disfigured her. But he would find a remedy for that too.

He stopped in the layby and dismounted from the scooter. He took off his crash helmet. And he filled his lungs with that fresh, damp air.

A car passed …

Look out!

… and he turned away so that he couldn't be recognized.

If the police caught him he would be sent to prison for the rest of his days. The idea terrified him. There were a lot of bad people in there. He reached the edge of the road and was about to put his foot on the earth, but he stopped with his leg suspended in mid-air.

Something wasn't right.

The van … Where's the van?

He turned back in bewilderment and looked around. This was the place … He was sure of it.

He felt his skin freeze and an icy hand grab his scrotum.

He plunged into the woods. He went a dozen metres and started thumping himself on the leg. He turned round and round in circles, incredulous.

Rino's body wasn't there, nor was Ramona's.

Where are they?

In panic he turned back, then he ran forward …

Maybe they're a bit further on
.

Pushing his way through the brambles, he began to circle round, to step over rotten tree trunks, to climb over rocks, to blunder wildly about in the wood, as everything blurred into patches of light and shade.

No … You can't do this to me … You can't
.

At the wheel of his Puma, Beppe Trecca watched the highway unroll between the flooded fields like a strip of liquorice. He moved up behind an HGV transporting some huge metal pipes. He turned to look at Cristiano Zena, who was sleeping beside him with his hood over his head.

Poor kid
.

Trecca had found him at the hospital, disorientated and apathetic, as if his father was already dead. He could hardly walk in a straight line and had had to be helped down the stairs. As soon as he had got into the car he had fallen asleep.

The doctor had explained to the social worker that Rino Zena was in a critical condition and that it was impossible to predict how and when he would come out of the coma. But even if he woke up soon, and without any damage, he would still have to undergo a period of rehabilitation to complete his recovery.