Chapter 9 #2
When we reached the main piazza, it was immediately obvious that today was market day.
There were stalls and commercial vans parked all along both sides of the square and a surprising number of people wandering about.
Anna suggested that we check out what might be on sale so, after a bit of a struggle, I managed to squeeze the van into a tight parking space, and we walked back to the main square.
As we passed what was obviously the town hall, I saw one of the traditional posters that appear in Italian towns when somebody dies.
This included a black and white photo of an elderly gentleman with his name in capital letters, and it occurred to me as we walked past that it would appear that the population had now dropped to 355.
If we had been expecting an exotic Christmas market with scented candles, Christmas baubles and sheepskin gloves, we were to be disappointed.
Most of the stalls could have come straight from my local village of Montevolpone, but they were fascinating in their own way.
There was kitchenware, hardware ranging from nails to chainsaws, women’s clothes from knickers to hats, hanging on display beneath a wide parasol, boots and shoes, bags and rucksacks and, of course, food.
There was a fruit and veg stall with a fine selection, an open-sided van selling fresh fish, another van belonging to a butcher, and another with an impressive display of cheeses, hams and salami, but the star of the show was a stall selling local produce ranging from honey and home-made jams and conserves to home-made cakes and pastries – many made with maize flour.
The mixture of aromas was enchanting, and I had to keep a wary hold on Oscar’s lead for fear that he might decide to rear up and sample the produce.
As we were walking about, I suddenly spotted a familiar face.
The big man with a bushy black beard sitting outside the Bar Centrale sipping a glass of what looked suspiciously like grappa was none other than the driver of the red pickup who had almost run me off the road the previous day.
What was interesting to me, however, was to hear him speaking English on the phone with what was unmistakably an American accent.
I didn’t hear more than a few words as Oscar and I strolled past, but it was clear that he wasn’t happy.
‘You’ll come with me because we’ve agreed to do it. A deal’s a deal, you…’ The sentence was completed by a colourful series of obscenities, and I almost felt sorry for the person on the other end of the line.
The big man didn’t recognise me, which was probably just as well, but Anna clearly recognised him, because she caught me by the arm and reached up to murmur in my ear, ‘Leave it, Dan. It’s not worth it.’
By this time, we had gone past the bar, and I gave her a smile. ‘You don’t want to sit down at that table next to him and have a coffee?’
She smiled back. ‘Coffee sounds good, and the Bar Sport on the other side of the piazza looks even better, as long as I don’t have to sit outside.’
I nodded in agreement. ‘I imagine our American friend doesn’t feel the cold because he’s been well insulated with grappa, and I’m all for going indoors for my coffee.’ I glanced back at Fiona, who was a couple of paces behind us, taking photos of the market. ‘Feel like a coffee?’
She gave me a thumbs-up, and we headed across to the Bar Sport.
Inside was a low-ceilinged room with an old-fashioned cast-iron wood-burning stove in one corner throwing out so much heat that the tables around it were empty and the barista was in his shirtsleeves.
I pointed at Oscar as we walked in and raised an interrogative eyebrow.
In reply, the barman beckoned us in with a welcoming smile.
We sat down and ordered coffees. After an elderly waitress had brought these to us, I glanced across at Fiona, who had Oscar glued to her side. ‘If he gets annoying, just say, and I’ll call him over to my side of the table.’
She smiled back. ‘Not at all. It’s rather nice to find someone who’s affectionate towards me for a change.’
I caught Anna’s eye for a second. Fiona’s words confirmed the impression we had both already gained of the shaky state of her relationship with her husband.
I wondered what had happened to love’s young dream, but it wasn’t the sort of question to ask somebody we hardly knew.
Instead, I gently brought up the subject of Signor Gallo’s project.
‘Bartolomeo was telling me that there’s a plan to make his valley into an Alpine resort. Have you heard that?’
Fiona emitted a long sigh. ‘That’s all Orlando talks about – when he talks to me at all.’
I was pleased to hear Anna pick up on this. She reached across the table and caught hold of one of Fiona’s hands, her tone gentle as she enquired, ‘He doesn’t talk to you?’
In response, Fiona shook her head and dropped her eyes to Oscar at her side.
Realising that a bit of canine support was needed, I saw him place a big, hairy paw on her knee and give her his I love you look, normally reserved for people with succulent chunks of meat on their plates.
This brought a hint of a smile to Fiona’s lips and started her talking.
‘It sounds worse than it is. It’s not that he’s not communicating with me in particular – he’s the same with everybody. It’s his father’s fault.’
I left the follow-up questions to Anna for now. ‘Why his father?’
‘Ever since I’ve known Orlando – and I’m sure for many years before that – his father has been trying to make him into something that he patently isn’t. His father is a highly successful businessman with a real nose for making money. Orlando isn’t like that and he never will be…’
Her voice tailed off and Anna supplied the obvious corollary. ‘And as a result, Orlando is depressed, and that affects how he communicates with people, particularly you. That must be tough for you. Has he spoken to his father about this?’
We had to wait for an answer, but when it came, it wasn’t entirely unexpected.
‘He’s tried and tried, but you’ve met his father; you can see what he’s like.
He’s a smooth talker and he comes across as easy-going, but beneath the surface, he’s stubborn and hard-nosed.
He won’t take no for an answer. Instead of sitting down with Orlando and talking it through, he gets angry and it develops into a shouting match.
That makes Orlando even more depressed and, needless to say, that impacts our marriage.
’ She looked across at Anna, and I did my best to make myself look invisible.
‘I still love him, Anna, I always will, but it’s been tough, and it’s not getting any easier.
I’ve tried telling him to make a clean break of it and get away from his father’s influence, but Orlando’s not built for confrontation.
He just drops his head and carries on doing a job that he hates. ’
Fiona lapsed into silence as I digested her words.
In many ways, it was a familiar story – an overbearing father trying to mould his child into his own image but only succeeding in pushing the two of them further apart.
But in this case, might it even have pushed the son towards considering patricide?
I gave Fiona a bit of time to sip her cappuccino before venturing a question of my own.
‘If Orlando were to leave Aquila Sports, what would he do? I gather from his father that he’s a passionate snowboarder.’
Fiona nodded again. ‘To be honest, Dan, the best thing that could happen to Orlando would be if the Alpine resort project really did get off the ground, and he could play a leading role in it. I’d be quite happy to live up here if it made him happy – and it would.
To him, paradise is a snowy slope and a snowboard.
’ She mustered a little smile for me. ‘And before you ask, I like snowboarding as well – not as much as Orlando, obviously, but enough to know that I could very happily settle here in the mountains, if I felt that he was contented.’ The smile faded.
‘But that isn’t going to happen, is it?’
I gave her a sympathetic smile in return, but the thought that was going through my head was that the very best thing that could happen to Orlando and Fiona would be for his father to disappear from the equation.
And murdering him could be one solution.