Black Run. Antonio Manzini

man. Between forty and fifty years old.”

      “Who is it?”

      “If I knew that, I would have told you first name and last.”

      “No ID?”

      “Nothing. We’re just guessing that it’s a man. I don’t know if I convey the idea.”

      “No, you don’t convey it at all,” the magistrate replied. “Why don’t you stop beating about the bush. Get to the point. Dottor Schiavone: how can you tell that it’s a man? Describe clearly exactly what we’re dealing with, because I’m already pissed off.”

      Schiavone cleared his throat. “Because the snowcat ran over him and churned him to bits with its tillers. You see, the head was crushed, with resulting expulsion of brain matter; from the thoracic cavity there was a generalized and random expulsion of shreds of lung particles and other visceral matter that even Fumagalli, our medical examiner, was hard put to identify. One hand lay thirty feet from the body, an arm was ripped loose, the legs were bent in a manner that defies nature roundly, and have, therefore, clearly been shattered in numerous places. The stomach has been twisted into an array of bloody coils and …”

      “That’ll do!” shouted the magistrate. “What, is this your idea of fun?”

      Rocco smiled. “Sir, you requested a detailed description of what we have up there, and I’m just providing you with it.”

      Maurizio Baldi nodded repeatedly, looking around him as if in search of a question to ask or an answer to give. “I’ll be at the courthouse. I’ll see you around. Let’s hope that this was an accidental death.”

      “Let’s hope so, but I don’t believe it.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because I have a sense about it. I haven’t had a lot of luck in a while now.”

      “You’re telling me. The last thing I’m looking for is a murder case underfoot.”

      “Ditto, exactly.”

      The investigating magistrate glanced at the deputy police chief. “Can I give you a piece of advice?”

      “Certainly.”

      “If what you say is true and this is not an accident, you’ll have to work up here. Dressed the way you are, there’s a good chance you’ll develop frostbite, then gangrene, and we’ll have to amputate your hands and feet.”

      Rocco nodded. “Thanks for the advice.”

      The magistrate looked Rocco in the eye. “I know you, Dottor Schiavone. I know lots of things about you.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “So let me warn you: avoid pulling any of your bullshit.”

      “I’ve never pulled any.”

      “I happen to have different information.”

      “We’ll see you on the banks of the River Don, Dottore.”

      “Don’t make me laugh.”

      Without bothering to shake hands with the magistrate, Rocco went back to the car, where Pierron was waiting for him. Maurizio Baldi, on the other hand, walked to the base of the cableway. Still, under that fur hat, a faint smile had played briefly across his face.

      “That’s Dottor Baldi, isn’t it?” asked Pierron. Rocco said nothing. He didn’t need to. “He’s half crazy, did you know that?” asked Italo as they got into the car.

      “You feel like putting this thing in gear and getting me out of here, or do I have to call a taxi?”

      Pierron obeyed immediately.

       It’s forty-­five minutes past midnight. A person can’t come home half-­frozen at forty-­five minutes past midnight. The minute I open the door I realize that I left the lights on. In the hall and in the bathroom. Forty-­five minutes past midnight and I look down at my half-­frozen feet. Shoes and socks aren’t worth keeping. It doesn’t matter; I have three other pairs of desert boots. My big toe is still black. That idiot D’Intino. I’ll have to get him transferred, get him transferred as soon as possible. It’s a question of my psychophysical equilibrium. If I’ve ever had such a thing.

       I turn on the water. I slip my feet into it. It’s hot—­boiling hot. Only it takes a good three minutes before I can even tell how hot it is. I run hot water over my ankles, between my toes, and even over my black toenail. At least that doesn’t hurt.

       “Keep that up and you’ll get chilblains.”

       I turn around.

       It’s Marina. In her nightgown. I think I must have woken her up. If there’s one thing that annoys me (one thing? there are thousands), it’s when I wake up my wife. She sleeps like a rock, but she seems to have a sixth sense when she hears me up and about.

       “Ciao, my love.”

       She looks at me with her sleepy gray eyes. “You woke me up,” she says.

       I know. “I know. Sorry.”

       She leans on the doorjamb, arms folded across her chest. She’s ready to listen. She wants to know more. “We found a corpse in the middle of a ski run, buried in the snow. In Champoluc. A tremendous pain in the ass, my love.”

       “Does that mean you’re going to be staying up there for a while?”

       “Not on your life. It’s an hour’s drive. Let’s just hope it turns out to be a case of accidental death.”

       Marina looks at me. I keep my feet submerged in the bidet, which smokes like a pot of spaghetti. “Sure, but tomorrow morning you’re buying yourself a pair of decent shoes. Otherwise, in a ­couple of days they’ll have to amputate your feet for gangrene.”

       “The investigating magistrate said the same thing. Anyway, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s sensible shoes.”

       “Have you eaten?”

       “A piece of stale pizza on the way.”

      Marina has vanished behind the door. She’s gone to bed. I dry my feet and go into the kitchen. I hate this furnished apartment. The kitchen is the only decent room in the apartment. I wish I could understand the way other ­people live. Most of their apartments and homes are furnished in a way that evokes pity, nothing else. Only in the kitchen do they spend vast sums, furnishing the place with electric appliances of all kinds: ovens, microwaves, and dishwashers like something out of the Starship Enterprise. Instead, in the living room, arte povera and paintings of clowns hanging on the walls.

       It’s a mystery.

       Every once in a while, I compare it with my home, in Rome. On the Janiculum Hill. I look out over the city, and on a windy day, when the air is clear, I can see St. Peter’s, Piazza Venezia, and the mountains in the distance. Furio suggested I should rent it out. Instead of leaving it empty. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t stand the idea of strangers walking over the parquet floors that Marina chose, or opening the drawers of the Indian credenzas that we bought years ago in Viterbo. To say nothing of the bathrooms. Strangers’ asses planted on my toilet, in my bath, strange faces admiring their reflections in my Mexican mirrors. It’s out of the question. I get myself a bottle of cool water. Otherwise I’ll wake up in the middle of the night with a throat and tongue that resemble two pieces of sandpaper.

       Marina is under the blankets. As always, she’s reading the dictionary.

       “Isn’t it a little late for reading?”

       “It’s the only way I can get to sleep.”

       “What’s