Valerio Varesi - Gold, Frankincense and Dust

“You let us go?” demanded a fair-haired, generously built woman.

The officer who had found the bag signalled to her to calm down, but the woman, backed by another dozen travellers, stood her ground and glowered grimly at those around her.

“That man dead, no? What you want? Once dead, dead,” shouted someone else.

The commissario looked at them wearily, and detected in them all the empty swagger of life. A gratifying impetus of physical fullness was urging them to relish the moment. They were in a hurry to get back, to find themselves again, to eat, make love and sleep in the house where they had been born. These were all too human aspirations, and every lost moment could never be recovered. On the instant, he felt himself incapable of resisting that multitude of instincts.

“Alright, if the magistrate agrees, let them go,” he decided, holding the bag in his hand. He turned away without saying goodbye to anyone and got into his Alfa thinking that it was somehow inhuman to die on a bus, ignored by everyone and forgotten on a seat.

*

“What a business!” exclaimed Juvara when they got back to the office. “Dying like a rat in a corner.”

“The poor have too many problems to be upset by death and the rich are too afraid to face it.”

The inspector chewed over those words, and then muttered something incomprehensible. Soneri picked up the bag, rose from his seat and emptied its contents over his desk. Juvara came over to have a look. The first thing he saw was the wallet, made of cloth and squashed into the curved form of a buttock. They opened it. Inside there were some twenty euros and a few other coins, as well as some cards, receipts, a one-way bus ticket and the identity cards of two very similar, blond-haired, bright-eyed girls. In spite of the poor quality photographs, possibly shot in a booth in a passport office, they both looked very beautiful.

Soneri turned them over in his hand for some time, trying to find the best angle of light. He then put them into an envelope which he handed to Juvara. “Get them to do some enlargements and have a few copies printed. I’d like to know who they are. Try and find out if there are any Dondescus among the Romanians in Italy.”

Once Juvara had left, the commissario picked up the telephone and asked to speak to Nanetti. “You’re back from Cortile San Martino,” he said with no preamble.

“Another morning in the damp,” his colleague complained.

“Any news?”

“Sorry. None at all. They must have used petrol judging by the state of the body. However, I think we can say it was a woman.”

“That’s something. How did you work it out?”

“Soneri … O.K., it was all burned up, but unless the fire was especially ferocious there … I mean there were some remains.”

“What does that mean? I’ve known some terrible mistakes made with suppositions like that.”

“We’ll find out after the D.N.A. tests, alright? But that’ll take some time. Anyway, I know it was a woman from other details.”

“Well, out with it!”

“If I didn’t know you well, I’d tell you to go and … Anyway, listen, the only thing that survived the fire was a half label.”

“And it was from a female garment,” the commissario interrupted.

“Exactly.”

“How was it saved?”

“Ah, Soneri! It was a label from her knickers, and it’d got stuck between her buttocks. The fire only singed it. And I can tell you we’re talking about lingerie, very expensive,” he added with a touch of malice.

“That’s the maniac in you coming out,” the commissario teased him.

“What do you mean, maniac ? Look, knickers say more about a woman than any other item of clothing, just you remember that. They’re not called foundation garments for nothing.”

Nanetti’s extempore reflections always left Soneri bemused. They were born of repeated, obsessive observations of everything.

“You’re right,” Soneri admitted. Looking at his watch, he said, “To make it up to you, let me invite you to the Milord .”

*

Nanetti took his seat slowly, with a grimace of pain. “Please, no mushrooms, eh? They’d remind me of the dampness outside.”

“Take your medicine,” Soneri said, pouring a glass of Gutturnio. “So, tell me all about these knickers.”

“There’s not much to tell. Luxury items, as I said. Deduce from that what you like.”

“Someone who was well off, in other words.”

“Well off … In my view, a woman who can afford to pay two hundred euros for a matching bra and briefs set is not doing too badly for herself.”

“How do you manage to keep so well informed about female underwear?”

“What do you want me to say? I keep up to date. My marriage might have collapsed, but I didn’t turn into a monk.”

Alceste, notebook in hand, interrupted them. “ Tortelli a patate and a little tripe,” Soneri ordered.

“Monkfish,” Nanetti sniggered, looking challengingly at the commissario with his last remark in mind.

“In that case, can I recommend a restaurant in Ravenna?” Alceste said, a little piqued.

“No, listen. It was a private joke,” he said, winking at Soneri. “Give me the same as the maestro seated in front of me.”

“You’re right,” Soneri said, in a more serious tone. “She couldn’t have been short of cash. However, this makes it all more complicated.”

“I agree. Circles of grandees, powerful, well-connected people … Just from looking at her, she could have been a well preserved forty-year old, or else a twenty-year old bimbo making a pitch for an ageing businessman. There’s no question it would have been better if she’d got her knickers from Upim.”

“Well, who knows? She could equally have been some poor soul who thought she’d been handed a life-changing opportunity and had splashed out on a smart outfit. Or else a prostitute. This line of work has taught me never to take anything for granted.”

“What about the old man found dead on the coach?”

“Funny business,” was all Soneri would say.

“It’s really gnawing away at you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but only the bits I don’t understand, which is to say nearly all of it. What do you make of it? Why should an old guy get on a bus in Romania and set off for Italy with only twenty euros, a bag full of odds and ends and the photographs of two girls?”

“Search me! He must’ve had someone here.”

“That’s the most logical explanation, but the point is — who?”

A couple at the table next to them got to their feet, leaving their meal half-finished. They were still arguing under their breath as they made for the door.

Alceste arrived with two steaming plates. “These’ll warm your bones,” Soneri guaranteed Nanetti, nodding at the tortelli .

“I hope so. My poor bones feel like savoiardi biscuits in mascarpone .”

They began eating in silence, but halfway through the meal they became aware of a distinguished-looking gentleman with fine features who, with absolute naturalness, took a seat at the table which had been occupied by the young couple. He sat where the woman had been and absorbed himself in the financial pages, poring over the figures dealing with stocks and shares. Soneri went on eating, but kept his eye on him. After a few moments, the man turned his attention to the remains of a roast which the woman had scarcely touched. The commissario and Nanetti exchanged knowing looks, but the stranger was completely at his ease, behaving like a normal customer. His gestures, his behaviour and his relaxed way of sitting at the table gave him an aristocratic air. He poured the leftover wine into his glass, rolling it around and sniffing it like a connoisseur. Then he continued eating with some appetite, but always with an appearance of detached ennui.