The Riddle of Monte Verita Page 8

  The raised stern of this strange vessel was composed of staggered terraces forming a pyramid, adorned with great urns containing orange and lemon trees and bordered by hedges of laurel and box, the parapets surmounted by obelisks and baroque statues. Below, the lawns and parterres, covered with camellias and azaleas, among which circulated white peacocks, simulated bridges and decks. The gardens extended as far as the Borromeo Palace itself, which played the role of forecastle of this fantastic vessel. In any other circumstance, Pierre would have been beside himself with joy and elation. He had planned to spend at least one entire day here with Solange and – who knows? – maybe the rest of their lives. But at the moment he felt dreadfully alone and he felt she had gone forever.

  During the hours that followed, it seemed to him that she was studiously avoiding being left alone with him. Lunch was served under the trees in front of an inn on Isola dei Piscatori. To his chagrin, he saw her sit down next to Mestre among a group of students that gathered eagerly around her. He in turn found himself among a group of academics who spoke with their mouths full and were quite incapable of holding their white wine. They ogled the bare-armed waitresses and made suggestive remarks. He ate practically nothing, emptied a few glasses, and stared at her all the time. She responded by making faces and opening her eyes wide in feigned astonishment. The young men around her flirted harmlessly and she gave every sign of being completely at home in their company.

  He left the inn and made a perfunctory and listless tour of the island. On his return he found most of the tables empty. The boat’s bell was ringing. He followed the late leavers as they hastened towards the jetty. As the vaporetto cast off with a great roar of its paddle-wheels, he looked for Solange on the bridge. But it was packed to capacity and he couldn’t see her.

  Once on Isola Bella, he searched all over for her, including every room of the palace. After standing for a while contemplating paintings and statues in order to appear composed, he ran into Freyja and Strahler at the door of the great hall. “If you’re looking for your wife,” the young man said amiably, “we saw her going to the grottos.” He was even helpful enough to indicate the way down at the end of a long corridor.

  When Pierre reached the foot of the stairs, he saw in front of him a series of interconnecting vaults, inlaid from floor to ceiling with mosaics depicting seaweed, shells and marine creatures. The bizarre structures, reminiscent of baroque rocailles, were lit by small oval windows almost at the level of the lake itself, and just wide enough to allow the changing reflections from the shimmering water to penetrate. His footsteps made no sound on the mosaic paving; advancing as if in slow motion, with the half-light and the sensation of underwater freshness, he had the impression of walking at the bottom of the sea.

  He lost count of the number of rooms he went through without meeting a soul and was just about to return when he heard the echo of a conversation reflected off the vaulted ceilings. At first, it was just two voices whispering in a language he guessed was German. As he got closer, he first recognised that of his wife, false and hypocritical as it appeared to him; then the other, dry and without anger, that of Dr. Hoenig who spoke with a calm authority. He approached as far as he dared, slowly and carefully – like a spy, he thought to himself regretfully.

  Framed by the doorway, he witnessed a strange scene, played in a language he didn’t understand by two people whose shadows were thrown on the shellfish wall by the ethereal light. The reflections from the lake caused them to flicker but it was possible to distinguish their movements with an eerie precision. How long they had been here he had no way of knowing, but it had to have been quite a while. The man had the air of someone patiently giving instructions and the young woman responded as someone who had already submitted: briefly, and in monosyllables. Suddenly the man pulled an oblong object from his jacket which, projected on the illuminated wall, appeared longer than it actually was, and tendered it to the young woman; she in turn extended her hand, but recoiled as if to place herself beyond the door. He had the impression she was about to rush out of the room and, seized by panic, he ran away.

  When he reached the top of the stairs he was assaulted by the intense heat. The visitors had scattered. He caught a glimpse of the solitary individual from the boat wandering about with an anxious air, a folded newspaper tucked under his arm, as the rooms of the palace emptied. It was surely past four o’clock, maybe closer to five. The tour guides were organising their flock for the return trip. Despite the semi-torpor that seemed to smother him like a blanket it seemed to Pierre that he could hear a distant rumbling of thunder as if in response to the ringing of the vaporetto bell.

  Once on board again, he waited for his wife on the bridge, feeling a sudden pang of anxiety that she might miss the boat. Amidst the crowd of passengers hurrying towards the jetty he could see Hoenig and the tall silhouette of Freyja, followed by the ever-attentive Strahler, who gallantly offered her his arm to help her onto the gangway. As the stragglers hastened to get on board and the bell clanged out its last appeals, Solange suddenly appeared on the bridge, swinging her handbag. She was alone and ran quickly to him. ‘I was looking everywhere for you,’ she said laughingly, as if it were of no importance. She was slightly out of breath, beads of perspiration flecking the roots of her hair. He found her so alluring and so captivating, and he was so relieved to see her, that he wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms. But he could not help answering her coldly:

  ‘That was what I was going to tell you.’

  She stepped back to look at him. Her eyes were glistening and it seemed to Pierre they held a hint of anxiety, maybe even fear.

  ‘Pierre,’ she said calmly, ‘what’s wrong?’

  ‘What’s wrong? I haven’t seen you all day.’

  She looked at him, horrified.

  ‘You don’t think it was deliberate, do you?’

  He knew in advance all the reasons she was going to give: that they couldn’t always keep to themselves; that everyone was so charming and so kind to her; that she had no intention of being rude and ungracious simply to please him …. He was suddenly aware of a chasm opening between them: a chasm of lies and things left unsaid.

  As the boat was leaving the shelter of the bay a cold wind sprang up and swept violently across the bridge, causing her words to vanish and obliging her to clutch her broad-rimmed hat with both hands so that it, too, did not disappear. ‘Storm!’ shouted Lippi, suddenly next to them. He nodded to the north where thick black clouds were approaching, projecting an immense moving shadow over the countryside and lending a nightmarish quality to everything: something distant and sinister coming slowly towards them, before which they stood momentarily petrified, unable to make the slightest movement. A woman’s scarf, swept up by a violent gust, blew over their heads. On the already foaming lake, sailboats, almost flattened against the water, fled to whatever shelter they could find, their sails clattering under the onslaught of the wind.

  By now the sky was as dark as at twilight. A blinding shaft of lightning bathed everything in a pale glow. It was swiftly followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Every detail was captured as if in a flash photograph: in the background, the mountain tops with their cloak of fir trees undulating in the turbulence; the superstructure of the boat and the bridge, all deserted of passengers; in the foreground, Solange’s face like that of a drowned person, her eyes seeking Pierre’s with a silent cry for help so moving that he knew he could no longer resist taking her into his arms.

  Two or three heavy raindrops fell and then suddenly water poured onto the deck as if the lightning had punctured the clouds and opened a reservoir. Solange made no attempt to move. She appeared paralysed, but Pierre could see her body was trembling. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she collapsed limply against him as he dragged her to the nearest doorway.

  The lounge, the bar and the stairs had been invaded by a crowd of people surprised by the storm, their light clothing bearing traces of water stains. It was hot and hu
mid and there was a stench of wet clothes. The downpour lashed the window panes and hammered the sheet-metal roof. In the midst of all the din and confusion several elderly Englishwomen, seated by the windows and looking out on a landscape under deluge, took out their thermos flasks and cardboard cups and calmly proceeded to take their five o’clock tea.

  Pierre removed his arm from around his wife’s waist. Her dress, clinging to her body, dripped water down her naked legs. He took off his vest and draped it around her shoulders. She had removed her hat; her beautiful chestnut hair was tousled and glistened from the water drops. Pierre, pressed against her, inhaled her scent and her breath and the intense emotion that seemed to possess her made her more desirable than ever. Never had he felt such a profound sadness.

  Little by little, as the vaporetto made its way, with the puffing of its engine and the din of its big wheels, through waves as huge as to those at sea, the lightning became less frequent and the thunder receded. As the deluge was replaced by a fine, persistent drizzle, they could see the lights of Locarno shining in the distance through the deep black night.

  VI

  Monday 26 September

  The rain continued through most of the night and it was only in the early hours that a warm wind from Italy cleared the clouds and the sky assumed its customary limpidity once more. When Pierre woke up the sun was throwing golden stripes on the wall through the louvered shutters. He had a hangover and a migraine which refused to go away when he covered his eyes and shook his head. He had slept like a log. His dreams must have been dreadful but he couldn’t remember them now. He looked across at his wife who was still in a deep sleep, stretched out on her stomach, with her head buried in her pillow.

  Even so, they had gone to bed early the night before. As soon as they reached the hotel they had gone up to their room without dinner, each avoiding talking to the other. Pierre was cold and feverish. Solange had run him a very hot bath and ordered a hot grog which had almost burned his tongue, after which his body had languished in a torpor which had mercifully cut him off from the world about him.

  It was almost nine o’clock by his watch. He dressed hastily and was still fiddling with his tie as he left the room. He didn’t wait for the lift but ran down the stairs two at a time and crossed the hall at a gallop. In front of the hotel, in the clear, calm warmth of the morning, he felt ill at ease. He had neither washed nor shaved and he ran as fast as he could in the direction of the bus whose motor had already started.

  ‘No need to hurry,’ said Lippi in a calm voice as Pierre slid next to him on the bench seat. ‘Apparently Dr. Hoenig’s lecture has been cancelled.’

  ‘If that’s a joke it’s in bad taste,’ said Pierre, giving him a dark look.

  ‘It’s not a joke,’ retorted Lippi, complacently. ‘We found out at breakfast. Someone had apparently telephoned from the Albergo. In any case, as you can see,’ he continued, indicating rows of empty seats, ‘the majority of our dear colleagues have decided to return to their rooms for a lie-in.’

  ‘What happened to Hoenig? Is he sick?’

  Lippi sneered.

  ‘You may well ask. Is he really sick or is he suffering from what the French call a maladie diplomatique? That is the question.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Pierre.

  ‘Think about it: the illustrious Herr Doktor announced sensational revelations which would demolish my arguments and pin me to the wall. It was, of course, pure bluff. When it came time to put his cards on the table, he lost his nerve.’ He gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘A typically German attitude. Look at their Führer: he’s the very height of arrogance. On words alone, he’s a braggart. But when his bluff is called….’

  Lippi was obviously enjoying himself. He rubbed his hands and continued gleefully:

  ‘I have another piece of good news. French radio has announced that the British Prime Minister has flown to Berchtesgaden and Il Duce has proposed a peace . The rest, as you will see, is simply a question of procedure. To be frank, it’s what I expected. Tragediante, comediante. Everything turns to farce and ends, according to the rules, in general kissing.’

  He gave himself a modest pat on the back.

  ‘It’s exactly what I predicted.’

  Pierre started to open his mouth to point out that, as far as he could recall, he had never heard such a prediction; in fact, he was ready to swear that Lippi had said the exact opposite. But he was so relieved to learn that Dr. Hoenig would not take the podium – the only matter that concerned him – that he refrained from throwing cold water over the Italian’s euphoria.

  He promised himself that, once he reached the Albergo, he would bid the organisers farewell and then telephone his wife to pick him up in the car. There was, after all, nothing further to keep him at the symposium. He was pretty well through and his presence was no longer necessary. They would return to the hotel, where they would pack their suitcases before fleeing like criminals to Italy. They would spend a few days in Venice before returning to France via the Riviera. Once they were alone in the long voyage in the sun, the torments he had endured would be blotted out of his memory, in the same way bad dreams vanished in the clear light of day. His departure would signal he was slamming the door on the spirits that were haunting him, and consigning them to oblivion.

  The door closed on Pierre before he had time to organise his escape; it closed as well on the sequence of events leading up to the night of Sunday to Monday. Everything else was but a nightmare series of fleeting images, like a chaotic puzzle whose scattered parts would later be assembled by Sir Arthur Carter Gilbert.

  During the night in question, while a fine drizzle fell on Lake Maggiore and created a light mist on the leafy slopes of Monte Verita, someone proved the feasibility of an impossible crime in Dr. Hoenig’s bungalow.

  ***

  ‘Dr. Hoenig is dead,’ said Mestre.

  And Prokosch added, in a solemn and lugubrious tone to which his heavy Russian accent added a comic note:

  ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘Stabbed,’ specified Mestre. ‘Last night. In his bungalow.’

  Pierre looked at each of them in turn, with such an expression of disbelief that the philosopher appeared amused.

  ‘That’s the way it is, old man,’ he observed, phlegmatically. ‘What are you having?’ he added, beckoning in vain to the waiter who, seated behind the bar, failed to notice him.

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Calm down,’ said Mestre. ‘But, first of all, let’s get out of here. There’s too much of a crowd and you can’t hear yourself speak. ’ He put some change down on the bar and finished up his scotch. ‘Let’s go out on the terrace.’

  As they left they ran into Lippi who had seen all the police cars as he stepped down from the bus and had talked to one of the drivers in Italian.

  ‘Well!’ he said. ‘This is a fine state of affairs.’ He adopted a suitable expression for the occasion and followed the others to an empty table.

  Pierre chose a seat in the shade. The strong sunshine bothered him. He felt sick and there was an acrid taste in his mouth.

  ‘I could use a coffee,’ he said offhandedly.

  Prokosch took it upon himself to get the refreshments and Lippi ordered an expresso. Mestre, having settled on a further dose of whisky, leant back too far and fell off the back of his chair. The sound of a police siren could be heard from afar.

  The silence that followed was broken by Lippi:

  ‘All right, my friend, bring us up to date. How did it happen?’

  ‘I prefer to tell it from the beginning,’ replied Mestre, taking his tobacco pouch out of his pocket and rolling himself a cigarette, as was his custom. ‘But I don’t want you to think I know the whole story. I can only tell you what I saw with my own eyes.’

  ‘Perfect!’ exclaimed Lippi enthusiastically, in an attempt to get them to relax. ‘That’s always the best way to tell a story: from your own viewpoint, but not omitting any detail.’

  ‘So, la
st night I was at the bar, finishing one last scotch before turning in. I suppose it must have been a little after eleven, although I didn’t check my watch. There must have been about a dozen of us, drinking and talking man-to-man stuff. There had been some good news on the radio and someone had suggested cracking a bottle of champagne. There were several Frenchmen, two or three Swiss and a completely pie-eyed Spaniard who insisted on drinking a toast to Franco. We sent that one packing. I was forgetting: there was also the lovely Madame Hoenig sitting at a table in the far corner, accompanied by the inevitable Stahler and they were whispering things while looking into each other’s eyes.’

  ‘I told you so,’ announced Lippi triumphantly, looking at Pierre. ‘There’s something going on between those two.’

  Pierre ignored him. He asked Mestre:

  ‘Where was Hoenig while this was going on?’

  ‘He had stayed behind in his bungalow to prepare his lecture. At least, that’s what Stahler said when we asked him the question. Hoenig wished to be alone and the dear boy had devoted himself to keeping his wife company.’

  ‘Aha!’ cried Lippi.

  ‘I admit I find it hard to believe myself,’ admitted Mestre, ‘but it’s their business and I don’t like gossip. Anyway, we had finished one bottle and were about to open another.’