a town in italy

“Che cazzo vuoi?” Giuseppe swore into the phone.

“Scusa, am I waking you up, Tenente?” asked the young duty officer in a low voice throbbing with excitement.

“Not waking me, you’ve already woken me up.  It’s…” Giuseppe squinted over the sleeping form of his wife Giuseppina to see the clock on her side of the bed, but it was impossible without his glasses, “very early. Wait, hold on.” He struggled off the bed, feeling for his slippers on the floor, and then tiptoed to the door.  On the way he tutted disapprovingly at the naked balding man with a large belly and short legs frowning back at him in the mirror.  He inched sideways through the bedroom door and closed it behind him. Giuseppina and their son Claudio had redone the apartment in the spring, replacing all the doors with silly little double doors.  They liked to keep one shut, forcing him to pull his stomach in and slide slowly sideways through each opening.

“What is it?” he said, not even bothering to look at the copy of the incomprehensible twenty four hour clock from the Duomo in Florence hanging on the kitchen wall.  The electronic display on the microwave told him that it was nearly seven.

“Maresciallo, Rosalba the postina, rang from Pietro Deluca’s house, out on the road to Urbino.”

“And?” Things were slow in Alba, but surely not so slow that a phone call from the post lady could generate excitement.

“He’s dead. Pietro, that is. Under his tree.”

“Harvesting olives?”

“Si. His ladder fell. So will you go, Maresciallo? Should I call the Tenente?”

“No, no, don’t call her. But call the duty doctor, tell him to meet me there. And tell Rosalba I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Giuseppina kept his uniforms in the cupboard opposite the bathroom, having pointed out several times that they were too big and military looking for the bedroom, a remark which left him wondering whether she was only referring to his uniforms.  He pulled on the grey trousers with their distinctive red stripe, slapped a fresh nicotine plaster onto his upper arm then did up his shirt and shrugged into his jacket, his sense of self slowly improving with each item.  He closed the front door softly behind him and breathed deeply.  The clocks had only gone back a week ago so the mornings were unexpectedly light but an autumnal mist gave the road of modern condominiums an air of mystery. The glowing sign of the supermarket clicked on as Giuseppe started his car, the IPER glowing bright green.

The best part of Giuseppe’s day was his morning drive to work at caserma, weaving around the city walls of Alba heading towards the sea and the beachfront where he had grown up, leaving behind the stark modern suburb so beloved by Giuseppina where he still felt ill at ease. This morning he drove in the opposite direction, following the city wall to the west gate and turning inland. It was already seven thirty and Tenente Tasso would be arriving in the caserma. At the thought of his superior officer he sat a little straighter in his car seat and then put on his seat belt. With any luck he could sign off the body and have the case closed before she interfered. The traffic ahead moved fowards and he cut through the roundabout, turning left and driving inland towards the hills.

Piero’s smallholding was in a valley down a long white road five minutes out of Alba, off the road to Urbino. Giuseppe drove slowly down the steep gravel road towards the grey plastered house, just metres away from its identical neighbour. A small white car with “Italian Post” painted across the door was parked in front of the door. A dusty cat curled up on the bonnet opened one eye to study him as a small woman came bustling around the side of the house.

“Giuseppe, oh, Maresciallo,” said Rosalba, her bright red hair brushing against his nose as she nearly kissed him,  “you got here quickly. Stefano must be out.” She pointed to the house next door, where a coffee pot on the kitchen table was clearly visible through the front window.

“It’s market day today,” said Giuseppe, “I expect he goes early. So Pietro is around in the olive grove?”

Rosalba led the way around the house and down through the olive trees.

“I had a letter that he had to sign for, and I thought I would try around here. Of course, I knew he was dead as soon as I saw him.”

Long low slanting beams of early November sunshine lit up the body, stretched out next to the base of the tree, parallel with his old wooden ladder. A bright pink blanket had been pulled over him. Giuseppe’s desire for a cigarette was becoming overwhelming.

“I didn’t like to cover his face, although I know they do, on the television.” Rosalba fussed over the edge of the blanket. “He made the best mistra in Montalto.” She looked up, “Come on, even you drank it,  Giuseppe.”

A bright orange nylon olive net lay in a heap under the tree, next to an olive crate and a traditional plastic harvesting comb. A loud crunching on the gravel announced the arrival of the carabinieri doctor. He came around the corner moments later, pushing reflective sunglasses up into his shiny thick hair and checked Rosalba for signs of shock, holding her hand longer than seemed necessary, before kneeling down to inspect the body.

Giuseppe took photographs of the body, the ladder, the combs and the tree while the doctor gently turned the body and studied the back of his head. He stood up, wincing as he did so.

“Too much jogging,” he rubbed his knee, “anyway, I reckon it happened some time yesterday afternoon. He didn’t tie his ladder to the tree and it slipped. He must have hit this branch as he fell” he indicated a branch just one metre above the ground, “There’s a large contusion on the back of his head.”

“My father-in-law broke his pelvis falling just the same way. If only Pietro had tied his ladder to the tree,” said Rosalba, “I wonder how his nephew will take it?”

They had been joined by the hushed presence of Montalto’s funeral director, wearing his work expression.

“Maresciallo, can I prepare him?” he asked. Giuseppe and the doctor helped him manouevre the body onto his stretcher.

“I’m surprised he was harvesting so early,” she said, “Most of these old contadini wait till the last minute, to get the most out of their trees.”

“The flavour is better when you harvest early,” said the funeral director.

“I wonder what will happen to the harvest this year?” asked the doctor, as they navigated the stretcher into the undertaker’s van, “His nephew isn’t exactly the farming type.”

“How has Stefano taken it?” asked the funeral director, closing the van door and looking over at the neighbouring house. “It’s been just the two of them down in this valley for the last forty years.”

“He’s out at the market,” said Giuseppe, “unless he just hasn’t heard us.” He took out his pack of cigarettes and offered one to the doctor.

“Pietro was going deaf, not Stefano,” the doctor said, shaking his head disapprovingly at Giuseppe’s cigarettes,  “I’ve been treating Stefano for super sensitive hearing for the last year.”

Giuseppe could finally light up as the funeral van and the doctor’s immaculately clean car pulled out of the driveway, followed by Rosalba in her little white car. After his much needed cigarette he went inside, but it didn’t take him long to inspect the house. The spartan tidiness and lack of any modern gadgetry made it clear that Pietro had lived alone for decades. Three long salamis hung from a beam out of the way of rats and cats, and several large bottles of illegal home brewed mistra stood under the window, alongside a neat stack of freshly cut firewood. The fireplace had been swept out and laid for a fire that would never be lit. Pietro’s bedroom had a monastic quality, his bedspread pulled tight across the bed, the bedside table empty except for a half filled glass of water with a thin film of dust.