Chapter 6 - Breaking news

The hill country of Tuscany was shimmering in the late morning heat as Angelo slowed down the car, and turned to a dirt road ravaged by potholes. Carefully he manoeuvred the car around the worst depressions, scraping the bottom of the car only a few times as the road climbed the side of a hill adorned with cypresses and gnarled bushes, with some purple and blue flowers struggling to be seen among the tall grass of the underbrush. After this brief patch of wilderness we were soon lifted high enough for a grander view of the legendary Tuscan landscape, and without a doubt there were worse places on Earth to go into hiding. A series of rolling hills extended to all directions, the furthest ones ever deepening shades of blue until they disappeared into the haze, and the sky above held a procession of tall, shimmering white cumulus clouds that cast their play of shadows over the countryside. Fields of various shades of green and ochre blanketed the land, divided by lines of ubiquitous cypresses and dark green bushes, and each farm was surrounded by its own copse of trees to offer shade from the hot glare of the sun. Ahead of us, on top of the hill, stood the crumbling old farmhouse where I was to spend my summer in exile.

The dark brown, two-storey house was shaped like an L, with the longer wing apparently having been a shelter or a barn as there were still visible ruts leading to the large door. All windows of the shorter wing were closed with green shutters that badly needed painting, and the roof – mercifully intact – was laid with classic Italian terracotta tiles. The car came to a halt under a widely branched evergreen tree with an explosion of shiny, waxy leaves, and as soon as I stepped out of the car I was enclosed in their faint but pleasant smell, mixed with the weaker and more unreliable wisps of scent from wild rose bushes that had conquered the southern wall of the house. Crickets were singing loudly everywhere, and from a distance I could hear the low bark of a shepherd dog. A pale yellow butterfly fluttered by, seemingly attracted by the roses, but it was carried away by a gentle gust of the warm breeze. I stood still in the shadow of the old tree, overcome by the immediate sense of restful well-being and that mysterious spell of Tuscany which, somehow, always went beyond the dazzling beauty of the place.

A few mouldy terracotta vases, some of them broken, were heaped next to the barn door, and after rummaging among them for a few seconds Angelo stood up with a triumphant smile.

“We don´t have to break in,” he said, dangling a set of keys that looked as old as the building itself.

“That´s not a very original hiding place,” I replied, disapprovingly.

Angelo shrugged, and slipped the key into the lock. “It´s the countryside, and there´s nothing worth stealing in the house anyway.”

“That´s what I was afraid of.”

He looked up. “Don´t you like this place?”

“I do,” I said honestly. “It looks great.”

The floor plan was rather puzzling, and a little unnerving as well, I discovered. We entered a small, dark room with a fireplace, and in a corner there was a doorway – without a door – that lead into a black and seemingly fathomless space. It was the barn, and as I peeked in I saw large, peculiar shapes of rusty farm tools where a little light was cast from the doorway, leaving the rest of the space in complete darkness. I looked for a light switch, but there was none, and I wasn´t sure I liked the idea of not having a locked door between my bedroom and this creepy part of the house once the night fell and I was here on my own. Even the room with the fireplace had only a tiny deep-set window, half covered with old cobwebs, and my unease increased. The shadowy kitchen was the only other room on the ground floor but it was reasonably modern, dating back to 1950s, and the worn-out fixtures held a certain charm. The overgrown roses covered the window, letting in greenish, dappled light, and the room was pleasantly cool after the heat outside. I tried the tap, and after fifteen seconds the initially brackish water turned clear. In the meanwhile Angelo had turned on the ancient fridge, and it came alive with sputtering noises that settled into a high-pitched wheeze.

“Let´s have a look at the upstairs before bringing in the groceries,” he said.

The stairs were narrow and worn, but the white-washed bathroom, above the kitchen, was a pleasant surprise. It had been recently renovated, and boasted an actual glass-walled shower booth along with all other modern necessities, most of which were fitted into bamboo furnishings. The view from the window was magnificent, albeit obstructed with the usual spiderwebs. It was warmer up here, with the the sun-beaten roof and rafters visible above us, but the room was tall and the air had the pleasurable smell of dry wood. The corridor, with ancient terracotta flooring, lead to two large bedrooms, one of which was in shambles, but the other one was in fairly good shape with the white-washed walls and raftered ceiling. The furniture consisted of a king-size bed, a simple nightstand, and a badly scratched but pictoresque cupboard that seemed to predate the house itself. The floor was made of uneven slabs of grey stone, and the only illumination came from a bare light bulb hanging from a frayed wire that looked as if it would burst in flames as soon as someone threw the switch. I loved the place.

“I thought Carlo had done something to this house,” Angelo said, aghast. “It was like this when I first saw it two years ago.”

“I like it.”

“There was a TV set in the kitchen, did you notice?”

It had been a portable black and white 14-inch model, a throwback to the early days of television, and I had no doubt it was going to bring me bad news very soon. I stepped to the window, almost tripping as my foot hit one of the uneven stone slabs, and wrangled the window open. The green shutters made a hideous creaking noise as I forced them open, revealing the celebrated view. The warm breeze, and the singing of crickets invaded the room. Alarmed by the sudden sunlight, a spider with long spindly legs scampered into safety under the bed.

“I bought some insect repellant,” Angelo announced, pleased with himself. “Let´s go and get the groceries.”

We carried the bags into the kitchen, and set them on a sturdy peasant table that an antique dealer would die for. I fiddled with the TV set, to see if it was working, and after hesitating for a minute the screen lit up and the picture settled into a more or less normal shape. The news was on, and the camera was zooming on a bloodstained pavement in the outskirts of some southern town. The frenzy about Gabriele´s death hadn´t started yet.

“I really have to get going,” Angelo said apologetically, wrapping his big arms around me from behind and almost crushing my ribcage. “It´s later than I thought, and Luca will be frantic. I´ll be back as soon as I can, with more food and some extras.”

Then he was gone, and after the sound of the BMW had vanished I stood in the middle of the kitchen, stumped. Two bees busied themselves on the roses outside the window while the TV switched subject and droned on about the latest Vatican denouncements. Afraid that panic would return now that I was alone, I busied myself with the groceries, and found out that I would suffer neither hunger nor second-rate food, everything being up to the strictest of Italian culinary standards. At the bottom of the last bag I found a thick paperback novel Angelo had thrown in for entertainment, I promessi sposi by Alessandro Manzoni. Clearly he was taking advantage of my situation under duress to prove that there was more to Italian culture than the Berlusconi TV channels.

The sight of the book, and the ensuing yawn, made me remember I hadn´t slept all night. I dragged myself upstairs, closed the shutters of the bedroom, and after pulling off my clothes and scaring away any lurking bugs from the bed I threw myself on the thick, crumpled white duvets that smelled of dry cotton and summer. The house might look rough and tumble, but whoever had designed it had done a great job. Either that, or someone had been there quite recently. Too tired to care, I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling and trying to keep my mind vacant.

I woke up from a nightmare so suddenly that for a brief moment I was unable to move. Then my body was released from the paralysis of sleep and I could roll on my back, and draw a shaky breath as my eyes raked the room. I was alone; it had only been the dream. I hadn´t had it for a little more than a year now, ever since I moved to New York from Houston, and had completely forgotten about it. Well, it hadn´t forgotten about me, apparently.

The soft glow of a hill country dusk was slipping into the room through the shutters. I lay still, postponing the moment I´d have to get out of the bed, walk downstairs, and turn on the TV. The ghastly news extras would have started by now, and if they didn´t have my name yet they´d have it before the night was over. I stood up, stepped to the window, and opened the shutters to allow the cooling evening breeze to enter the room. Sun had already set, and the sky was a deepening shade of blue with distant towering clouds glowing orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the landscape. I took a deep breath, and let the soothing effect of the hill country wash over me. As I watched, clouds thickened from the north, and streetlights flickered on in a small town tucked in a valley perhaps a mile away. Occasionally, the headlights of a car would pass through the town, and a few seconds later the distant hum of the motor reached the house. Life went on, so close to the house.

Descending the stairs I got a little jolt as I saw the gaping black doorway of the shed again, and wished I had spent more time exploring it during the day. It took some conscious effort to turn my back to the darkness as I entered the kitchen, and to not look over my shoulder as I prepared a whopping sandwich, opened a bottle of ice-cold Pepsi, and sat down at the old sturdy table. The kitchen light was hung with a flimsy old lampshade, faded colorless, but it seemed right for the room which still retained its original character of a poor country kitchen, furnished with old-fashioned fixtures and home-made shelves that were sparingly adorned by few small, painted flowers, so faded that they almost blended into the woodwork. Pieces of straw stuck out visibly from under the white plaster that covered the lower two thirds of the walls. My eyes lingered over the pathetic little flowers, and I wondered about the person who had painted them, and about her day-to-day life, so different from the well-heeled Milanese who came here now for their rustic holidays.

All the while, the blank dark grey screen of the TV set mocked me, daring me to turn it on. In the end I stood up, flicked the switch, and returned to my seat to watch the screen gradually light up. Two curved lines painstakingly expanded into a black and white image of Gabriele´s house, panned from the street that was partially illuminated by the camera crew and crowded with curious onlookers. Two police cars were parked in front of the closed gate, their lights flickering. A few lit candles clung to the wall circling the house, accompanied by some flowers, and the camera operator tried to make the most of them. My appetite was gone; I set the sandwich down on the chipped, white plate. The view shifted back to the studio, to the channel´s main news anchor, whose expression was appropriately sober except for an occasional, slightly bewildered look in his eyes that made me wonder if he´d known Gabriele personally.

“...of interest,” he was saying when the sound came on, “The police haven´t released any detailed information yet, but only few minutes ago Channel 5 was able to confirm the rumors that the homicide was committed with unimaginable brutality, and according to our sources there is reason to believe the act was carefully planned, suggesting a pre-existing relationship between the victim and the perpetrator.”

The director cut into an archive photo of Gabriele standing on a catwalk and surrounded by a group of his models, all male. I´d never done a runway show and obviously wasn´t in the photo, but it was clear that the Channel 5´s mole in the police already knew where the investigation was heading. More photos of Gabriele followed, shot in various other contexts. I glanced down at my hands, the bruises still fresh across my palms.

When I looked up, the prime minister was on. He expressed his condolences to Gabriele´s family and co-workers, talked for a while about Gabriele´s contribution to the Italian economy and national prestige, and added, “I have just talked with the interior minister, and I assured him the police will receive every assistance necessary to capture this heinous criminal as soon as possible. I´ve been told that the identity of the perpetrator shoud be confirmed and released to the media any time now, and even as we speak the police is already looking for him.”

I took another sip of my drink, to send down a bitter taste seeping up to my mouth. For a moment I thought I was going to be sick, but then got hold of myself. More people followed the prime minister on the screen, mostly celebrities who´d been Gabriele´s friends, and a couple of politicians who didn´t hesitate to grasp a moment of air time. I tried other channels, and most of them were having a live newscast on, with the rest running banners announcing the next update. I sat there, feeling cold, and grateful about Italy´s penal code neither carrying death penalty nor foreseeing extradiction back to Texas. Unable to tear myself away, I watched a recapitulation of Gabriele´s life, followed by a summary of everything the channel had found out so far.

“A friend, alarmed by Gabriele Zaigler not appearing for a meeting and not answering his telephone, found him brutally murdered in his home in the center of Milan this morning about ten o´clock. The friend, whose identity hasn´t been revealed, is presently under sedation in the San Carlo hospital, after having collaborated with the police earlier today. Several types of evidence pointing at the identity of the perpetrator have been found at the crime scene, and we´re expecting the police to release the information any moment now, including photographic material. It is believed that a some kind of pre-existing relationship between the victim and the murderer existed, both professional and personal, and we´ll fill you in all the details as soon as they become available.”

The director cut back to the scene outside Gabriele´s house, but as nothing was happening there an interview came on, of a former showgirl and present talk show host who was famous for the longest legs in Italy.

“We´ve always been great friends with Gabriele, and I think there´s definitely something not right about the circumstances of his death,” she declared belligerently. “I know him well, and if what I´ve been hearing is confirmed it simply cannot be the truth. Something´s wrong here.”

I leaned my head on my hands, and stared blindly at the worn terracotta tiles of the kitchen floor. So there was someone on my side; the longest legs in Italy, with all the credibility they brought into play. From what I was hearing, Angelo´s call to the police hadn´t had much of an effect, unsurprisingly. In my mind´s eye I saw Ocham, an old man in incongruous flowing robes, pointing his razor at me with a righteous frown.

Outside night had fallen, and the feeble light of the kitchen had begun attracting moths. With soft bumps they kept hitting the small kitchen window, and a little further, away from the faint circle of light, bats would be hunting in the dark and feasting on the small creatures taken in by my lamp. Some of them, both prays and predators, undoubtedly spent their days asleep in the dark shed.

The recorded interview was interrupted without a warning, in midsentence, with a little squeak. The anchorman was back, looking excited, and went into a quick self-promotional spiel.

After having reminded the viewers what a wonderful channel they were watching, he continued, “Our corrispondents have an important update, just in...”

My face filled the weakly lit grey screen. The anchorman´s speech hadn´t been all hype: Channel 5 had hit the jackpot. Either because they were the best at corrupting the police, or thanks to a quick-moving super producer in their staff, they´d found the ad for Gabriele´s fragrance for men I´d done last spring, with his name featured prominently at the bottom of the page. It was a simple black-and-white photo, shot against black backdrop, and the art director had made a prolonged fuss over how my expression was everything and would have to be perfect. The final result, a hint of a smile, was clearly unsuitable for a brutal killer and undoubtedly half the staff of Channel 5 was at the very moment frantically searching for something more appropriate. The photo shoot had been one of my last, too, as only two weeks later I´d been fired from the agency. I was sure that story would find its way to the news media as well. The voice of the anchorman became a distant, indistinct drone, repeating my name, Erik Loefgren, Erik Loefgren, Erik Loefgren.

“…Texan known by the police as a person connected to the Milanese underworld of male prostitution,” he was saying when I focused back on the transmission. “It is not known if Gabriele Zaigler was aware of this connection” – better not to risk a libel case with the estate – “as they must have met during the fragrance photo shoot. We do not wish, and cannot, speculate what may have caused the homicidal rage that brought Gabriele Zaigler´s life to an end, but one thing is clear: Erik Loefgren is a severely disturbed person, with extremely dangerous sadistic tendencies, and members of the public should not attempt to apprehend him if they see him. Please call the police, and wait for their arrival. It is not known whether he carries arms, but utmost caution is paramount if you should meet him.”

A new picture replaced Gabriele´s ad on the screen. This one was from the very last job, a spread for swimsuits we´d shot in a small island off Sardinia, famous for the unique pink beach formed by sand of dead corals and surrounded by amazingly turquoise sea. A special permit from the government had been necessary to access the island and we´d been severely warned not to carry away the tiniest amount of the sand as souvenir. The photo itself was a replica of a famous X-rated picture every gay on the planet had seen on the internet, but the twist here was that I wasn´t naked and the thin layer of sand sticking to my skin was pink; somehow in the new context the most innocuous of colors took on a sense of degeneration, even depravity, far beyond the vague original suggestion. I noticed that the company logo hadn´t been cropped out, even though it wasn´t Gabriele´s. The old maxim held true: any publicity is good publicity.

Then the newscast cycled back to the beginning while the producer scrambled for more news about my involvement, and of me as a person. I switched to RaiUno and watched a few more minutes before switching to yet another channel. Helpless to stop, I stayed in front of the TV all evening, forcing myself to eat every now and then. Shortly after midnight I couldn´t take it any longer. I clicked off the TV set, and leaned on the old cranky refrigerator, arms folded over my chest. I felt down and agitated, and angry, definitely not in the mood to settle down with an old classic like Promessi Sposi. Most of the people still awake would probably be watching the news; I could afford to take a walk to reconnoitre the surroundings, ready to duck into bushes if I saw approaching headlights. In an hour or so, there would be fresh updates on the investigation, and the manhunt.

I realized we hadn´t thought of clothes. I was still wearing nothing but my underwear, and upstairs I had only what I had brought along, my cammies and a t-shirt, and one pair of socks and shoes. Then, with a shudder, I remembered that the cammies were still smeared with blood. I wouldn´t be able to put them on until they´d been thoroughly washed. So I dragged myself upstairs, picked up my clothes and took them to the bathroom, and spent the next hour kneading them in hot water which always seemed to take on a reddish hue no matter how many times I changed it. After hanging the washing I went back to the television to see the last newscast of the night, but none of the channels had anything new to add. I spent the rest of the night watching movies, each of them older than the previous one, as the morning, very slowly, crept closer.