Valerio Varesi - Gold, Frankincense and Dust

“Excellent. We’ll not have to waste time spelling out the totally obvious.” Soneri went towards his car, signalling to Juvara to follow him. The two men were walking along the autostrada barrier when they heard a deep groan, sounding as though it were produced by bronchial tubes clogged up with catarrh. The sound was accompanied by something frantically pawing the ground, and they found themselves face to face with an enormous, rotating mass topped by a majestic pair of horns. A bull and a cow were coupling on the road, almost knocking down the iron railing of a little bridge.

Juvara looked on, in part troubled and in part excited by the sight. The commissario was amused to see that Juvara was so engrossed that there was no trace of fear on his face.

“Cheers!” Soneri said to the inspector, who seemed hypnotised. He could not tear himself away even when the bull got down from the cow’s back, quivering, his head lowered, his great detumescent penis dangling and almost touching the surface of the road.

“Is that the same one we saw before?” Juvara wanted to know, finally getting a grip of himself.

“Of course it is. Can’t you tell from its balls?”

“Seriously?”

The commissario gave him a nudge. “How the hell should I know? It certainly doesn’t look like a limousin. It lacks class.”

At that moment, the cow arched its back and peed loudly on the road.

“Usually it’s the male who does that afterwards.” The inspector had a beatific smile on his face, as though it was he himself who had just been making love.

“So, I hope you picked up something there. Anyway, it’s time to go.”

The two beasts had disappeared. The mist was still all around them and Juvara seemed hopeful that another miraculous vision would emerge. On Soneri, however, that unexpected juxtaposition of past and present created in him a kind of alienation. He was in the Lower Po valley and in a familiar mist, but somehow it all seemed unreal to him, a caricature of what was imprinted on his memory.

He started up the engine and inched forward into the dense wall of mist. “And they called this road the Autostrada del Sole,” muttered Juvara at his side.

For about a quarter of an hour they circled round the bonfire which was blazing in the distance like an unattainable sun.

“Where is this road?” Soneri said, growing impatient.

“You’re not really planning to go to the gypsy place, are you?” Juvara said in alarm.

“Why not? Calm down, they’re not as bad as the bulls.”

“But there’s only the two of us …”

“Nothing’s going to happen. These are not aggressive people.”

“If you say so.”

“How come you’re so prejudiced? You’re scared of animals, but bodies burned by the roadside have no effect on you. You’re afraid of gypsies and yet you hang out in discos filled with thugs with knives in their pockets, drugged to the eyeballs.”

The inspector gazed at him as though the thought had never occurred to him. “I suppose it’s a matter of habit …”

“No, it’s simply that people are fearful of the unknown. Anyway, let me introduce you to them.”

He drove on for a few minutes but the camp and the fire seemed to keep changing position. After a bit, he turned the car round and went back the way he had come. Thirty seconds later, the headlights lit up a white, rusting sign on which it was just possible to make out the word: DUMP.

“This has to be it,” the commissario said, turning into the site.

Juvara remained silent and impassive as he watched Soneri manoeuvre the car and drive up towards some huge metal dustbins filled with rubbish. A group of children emerged and ran off in all directions. The two men drove on towards the fire, around which at least twenty people were seated, feasting. A side of pork with some meat still on the bones was hanging from a kind of trestle.

“You see now who is more dangerous?” Soneri asked ironically, pointing to the slaughtered animal.

Their appearance among the caravans had brought the barbecue to a halt. All eyes were trained on the commissario and inspector. An age-old distrust was evident on the faces of all those present, giving a chill to the scene. For a few seconds the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire, but then a middle-aged man with a floppy Borsalino cap and a tight-fitting jacket came over to them, stopping a few feet in front of Soneri and making a enquiring gesture with his chin.

“Police,” Soneri said, with every appearance of calm. Juvara took up a position one step behind, watchful and wary.

“If you’re here about the pig …” the gypsy began, but stopped as he saw the policeman shake his head.

“I couldn’t care less about the pig,” Soneri said. “God rest his soul,” he added, smiling over at the remains attached to the hook.

“Well then?” The gypsy stretched out his arms.

“How long have you been here?”

The man turned towards the others to seek help. “Must be a couple of months now. Look, we’ve got nothing to do with any thefts. We killed this pig because it was already injured. It was losing blood and would have died in any case. It was trying to force its way in everywhere, even into our caravans.”

“Served it right, then,” Soneri said sarcastically. “Anyway, I’m not accusing you of having stolen …”

“You always do. Every time something goes missing, it’s always our fault.”

Soneri turned and saw that a group of boys had gathered round his car. The man shouted out something in an incomprehensible dialect and they all scarpered.

“Someone was burned to death by the autostrada …” he began again, approaching the topic warily.

“Two people. That’s what we heard. We went along to take a look, but the traffic police told us to go away. We only wanted to see if we could give a hand, but we got the usual stuff — only there to rob and steal, and all that. So they can get on with it themselves. There were other people doing the stealing,” he said with a snigger.

“I wasn’t talking about those who died when their cars went up in flames after the accident. There was a burned body at the side of the road, but that one had nothing to do with the pile-up.”

The man turned back to the group with an expression of bewilderment. “And what does that have to do with us?”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with you, but you might have seen something.”

“In this mist?”

“It was light during the day.”

“Yes, but if someone’s going to commit murder, he’s not going to do it in broad daylight.”

Some of the group had started eating again, having lost interest in the conversation. Mandolin music, evoking a distant land, came from some of the caravans.

“I mean, maybe a car drew up, opened its boot and …” Soneri insisted.

The man stretched out his arms again. “I didn’t see a thing.”

“Make one more effort. Ask them all. There’s always somebody who sees something, but pays no heed to the one thing that turns out to be really important for us.” As he finished, the commissario stretched out his hand and gave a smile of understanding.

The gypsy leader shook hands, relieved the visit was going to be over without too many complications. “I’m Omar Manservisi,” he said, but his voice was drowned in the roar of a clapped-out car shooting off at speed down the road away from the camp. All the gypsies exchanged glances which Soneri could not interpret. Manservisi too became suddenly serious, but only for a moment.

“Did you catch sight of that car?” he asked Juvara as they set off.

“I only got the first half of the number plate, AB 32. There was another figure and two letters.”