Valerio Varesi - Gold, Frankincense and Dust

“Am I right in thinking that you suspect that they were on a lorry which crashed into another vehicle?” Soneri said in the same ironic tone as before. “Disasters can sometimes give rise to liberation.”

There were now black streaks in the mist, and the smell of burning was even more pungent. The commissario leaned forward and looked upwards through the windscreen. The sky had the appearance of a huge peroxide wig with darker patches. He turned to Juvara, who looked as amazed as a child in a fairground. Ahead of them a herd of pigs was clustered together, as though homesick for their sty. Meanwhile a horse, bringing its own aura of mystery, galloped past through the darkness which was now filled with plaintive animal cries.

“What’s this? Animal Farm ?” Juvara said.

He was answered by a neighing sound somewhere in the surrounding darkness, but almost at the same time they became aware of a flickering brightness on their left which had the colour of a good Lambrusco. The sight disconcerted the commissario, who stopped the car.

“That’s carcasses burning,” Juvara said.

“That’s impossible. The autostrada should be on the far side.” It was the only thing he seemed sure of. He remained silent for a few moments, trying to get his bearings. He was lost and floundering, overwhelmed by memories of the days when he had walked those remote roads on the plain searching for isolated spots. The past was yet again taking hold of him and this time the memories were the names of girls with whom he had long since lost all contact.

He inched forward, and rolled down his window a little. He decided to follow the smell, as do animals on heat, as the bulls were doing at that moment in pursuit of the invisible. Shortly afterwards, over to his right, patches of more intense brightness appeared. The autostrada was indeed there, a long stretch of road indifferent to its burden of tragedies.

Soneri turned onto a track running alongside it and drove towards the fires. There was a little space on the footpath and he parked there among piles of rubble, broken tiles, waste paper and used handkerchiefs. Juvara too got out, but he stayed close to the car and kept the door open.

“Now what?” Soneri asked himself as he looked at the slope strewn with rubbish on the other side of the barrier. The inspector, continuing to look cautiously about him, made no reply.

The commissario walked a little further along the path. The flickering light of the fires, the dome of mist tinted with yellow, the bellowing of the stricken animals and music in the distance made the whole scene somewhat surreal. The countryside behind him was swarming with life not native to it, and he knew that ahead of him lay rows of crashed cars, and hanging over them was the pall of death, disturbed only by the coming and going of breakdown trucks and the sirens and flashing lights of the emergency services.

He turned back. “Call headquarters and tell them we’re on the spot. Ask them what we should do next.”

The inspector was only too pleased to get back to the car. “Sir, that fire …” he asked, leaning out the window and pointing to a bonfire on the far side.

“The gypsies, obviously,” Soneri said.

“They’re telling us to be patient and stay put until the police cars turn up,” the inspector told him. “Can you hear the fairground?”

“What fairground?”

“The one they’ve put up at the shopping mall behind the service station.”

“Ah, so that’s where the music’s coming from.”

“That’s right. A lot of people are going there.”

At that point, the barking of a dog could be heard above the animal chorus. The mist made it difficult to tell if the sound was coming from the slope or from ditches on the far side of the barrier.

“Another lost soul,” Soneri said.

“It must have been in one of the cars caught up in the crash,” Juvara said.

There was a call on the radio. Pasquariello, the head of the flying squad, wanted directions to find the commissario. A sudden gust of wind made the column of smoke change direction and the stench of burning tyres came through the open window. Juvara started coughing and threw open the car door to get a breath of fresh air.

“That’s how they flush out foxes,” Soneri said. He saw the inspector leap back into the car with unexpected agility. He turned and became aware of a bull’s head a couple of metres away. The beast’s snorts made it seem like a cartoon caricature, but this effect vanished when it opened its mouth, let its tongue hang out, arched its back and gave a roar that made the mist vibrate. The commissario was unsure if it was looking for food or wanted to mark off territory of its own, but Soneri remained there rooted to the spot, while Juvara, already inside the car, shouted to him to get in.

It all seemed to him unreal, a fairground scene like the one in the distance with the blaring musical background. There he was, confronting his own Minotaur, enveloped in a mist which had taken on the improbable colours of a showground. He heard Juvara’s imploring voice, but he stayed where he was, staring at the motionless beast, watching his own reflection in its large, resigned eyes. It lasted no more than a second; the bull lumbered away and vanished into the mist.

“Your shouting nearly got me gored, Juvara.”

“You take too many risks. It was about to charge you for real.”

“Always remember that animals are much less dangerous than human beings. A policeman is always more likely to be killed than a vet.”

Meanwhile the dog went on barking, the sound growing more shrill and irritating. “He’s really scared,” Juvara said.

“He’s afraid of the bulls, just like you.” As he spoke, headlights shone out ahead of them.

“Here come the police cars,” Juvara announced.

“We turned into a half dozen farmyards,” one of the officers said, getting out of his car.

“You’ve seen nothing yet. Your real troubles will start when you try to find your way back,” Soneri said, intending to be facetious but succeeding only in unsettling them.

“Where’s that dog?” snapped the man who seemed to be in charge of the detachment.

The commissario made a vague gesture, raising his hand and waving it about.“There’s no sign of gypsies,” the officer said.

In reply, Soneri pointed to the fire on the opposite side of the road. The officer in charge mumbled something before putting a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it. The commissario did the same with his cigar. They stood facing each other in silence until a loud moo came from very close by and another stray animal appeared, this time little more than a calf, as the commissario understood from the short horns.

“Fuck me!!” The commanding officer leapt to one side, pulling his Beretta from its holster.

“No need for that. It’ll do you no harm. Anyway, with this mist, there’s no knowing where the bullets will end up.”

The officer moved back towards the safety of his car. The bullock pawed the ground as though it was considering charging, but then changed its mind.

“If it sees you’re afraid, it might be tempted to rough you up a bit.”

The officer lowered his pistol only when he saw the beast trot off, but his hand was trembling as he replaced the weapon in its holster.

“Will I take the M12?” one of the policemen said, referring to the semi-automatic they had been issued with. His superior officer said no, but he appeared badly shaken. Soneri stared at him. “First time you’ve seen a bull?”

The officer shook his head. He was young, one of a generation who had received all its training in a police academy. Soneri was conscious of belonging to a different age, when a peasant world still existed and a bull did not seem such an alarming, extraordinary rarity. Before he had time to feel superannuated, the headlights of the second car shone on them.