bends in the narrow, steep road. Apart from the thin, weedy moustache which covered his upper lip, it reminded him of pictures he had seen of that iron-age corpse they had dug out of a glacier somewhere up in the Alps. It also reminded him of something else, something more recent, but he couldn’t think what.
‘The station’s a long way from the village,’ he replied idly.
‘It isn’t that!’ the man exclaimed. ‘But people round here remember the way the railway used to treat us, back when everyone depended on it. I can still remember my mother running to catch a train to town – this was before the war, I can’t have been more than a few years old. She was a minute or two late, but people like us didn’t have clocks. The guard saw her coming, waving and calling out, but he held out his flag just the same and the train took off, leaving her standing there. Her grandfather died that night, before she’d had a chance to see him for the last time. People round here have long memories, and they don’t have much use for the train.’
They were approaching the village now, but all that was visible was the lower row of brick dwellings. Everything above had disappeared behind another thick layer of mist.
‘I smell truffles,’ said Zen.
His driver glanced at him sharply, and Zen suddenly knew where he had seen him before: in the bar near the market, talking to the Faigano brothers. One of them had called him Minot.
‘I got a few. They’re easy enough to find if you know where to look. Providing someone else doesn’t get there first, of course!’
He barked his short explosive laugh again, and slowed the truck as they entered the bank of mist which enveloped the higher levels of the village. The road had abruptly become paved, and the thuds and rumbling beneath them died away.
‘You have friends here?’ Zen’s driver asked softly.
‘I’m on business.’
‘What kind of business?’
Zen thought quickly. The man didn’t seem to have recognized him, and if he repeated the story about being a Neapolitan newspaper reporter in this context it would be all round the village in no time, and might shut a lot of mouths he would prefer to stay open.
‘Wine,’ he said.
The truck turned through the mist-enshrouded streets as cautiously as a ship in shallow water.
‘Wine, eh?’ the man called Minot remarked. ‘I thought you people travelled around in Mercedes.’
The engine noise fell away as they emerged on to a broad, level piazza in the upper reaches of the mist.
‘I lost my licence a couple of months ago,’ Zen replied. ‘Drunk driving, they called it, although I was perfectly all right really. Just one of those lunches with clients that go on a little too long.’
The driver drew up in front of an imposing arcaded building.
‘Well, I’ll leave you here,’ he said. ‘The Vincenzo house is about a kilometre outside town on the other side. That’s where you’re headed, I take it?’
Zen got out, and the dog reclaimed its space, curling up on the seat.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said.
The man named Minot gave him an ironically polite smile.
‘A pleasure, dottore . Welcome to Palazzuole!’
By the time Aurelio Zen finally reached the Vincenzo property, the sun had dispersed the last traces of mist and the air was fresh and warm.
He had spent the intervening period in a café on the main square of Palazzuole, having discovered that there was a bus which stopped there shortly after ten o’clock which would not only drop him off at the gates of the Vincenzo estate but pick him up there on its return and take him all the way back to Alba.
Meanwhile he drank too much coffee, smoked too many cigarettes, read the newspapers and congratulated himself on having done the right thing. He felt a completely different person from the dream-drunk neurotic who had surfaced that morning. In short, he felt himself again. It might be a far from perfect self, but he determined to hang on
‘The station’s a long way from the village,’ he replied idly.
‘It isn’t that!’ the man exclaimed. ‘But people round here remember the way the railway used to treat us, back when everyone depended on it. I can still remember my mother running to catch a train to town – this was before the war, I can’t have been more than a few years old. She was a minute or two late, but people like us didn’t have clocks. The guard saw her coming, waving and calling out, but he held out his flag just the same and the train took off, leaving her standing there. Her grandfather died that night, before she’d had a chance to see him for the last time. People round here have long memories, and they don’t have much use for the train.’
They were approaching the village now, but all that was visible was the lower row of brick dwellings. Everything above had disappeared behind another thick layer of mist.
‘I smell truffles,’ said Zen.
His driver glanced at him sharply, and Zen suddenly knew where he had seen him before: in the bar near the market, talking to the Faigano brothers. One of them had called him Minot.
‘I got a few. They’re easy enough to find if you know where to look. Providing someone else doesn’t get there first, of course!’
He barked his short explosive laugh again, and slowed the truck as they entered the bank of mist which enveloped the higher levels of the village. The road had abruptly become paved, and the thuds and rumbling beneath them died away.
‘You have friends here?’ Zen’s driver asked softly.
‘I’m on business.’
‘What kind of business?’
Zen thought quickly. The man didn’t seem to have recognized him, and if he repeated the story about being a Neapolitan newspaper reporter in this context it would be all round the village in no time, and might shut a lot of mouths he would prefer to stay open.
‘Wine,’ he said.
The truck turned through the mist-enshrouded streets as cautiously as a ship in shallow water.
‘Wine, eh?’ the man called Minot remarked. ‘I thought you people travelled around in Mercedes.’
The engine noise fell away as they emerged on to a broad, level piazza in the upper reaches of the mist.
‘I lost my licence a couple of months ago,’ Zen replied. ‘Drunk driving, they called it, although I was perfectly all right really. Just one of those lunches with clients that go on a little too long.’
The driver drew up in front of an imposing arcaded building.
‘Well, I’ll leave you here,’ he said. ‘The Vincenzo house is about a kilometre outside town on the other side. That’s where you’re headed, I take it?’
Zen got out, and the dog reclaimed its space, curling up on the seat.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said.
The man named Minot gave him an ironically polite smile.
‘A pleasure, dottore . Welcome to Palazzuole!’
By the time Aurelio Zen finally reached the Vincenzo property, the sun had dispersed the last traces of mist and the air was fresh and warm.
He had spent the intervening period in a café on the main square of Palazzuole, having discovered that there was a bus which stopped there shortly after ten o’clock which would not only drop him off at the gates of the Vincenzo estate but pick him up there on its return and take him all the way back to Alba.
Meanwhile he drank too much coffee, smoked too many cigarettes, read the newspapers and congratulated himself on having done the right thing. He felt a completely different person from the dream-drunk neurotic who had surfaced that morning. In short, he felt himself again. It might be a far from perfect self, but he determined to hang on
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