Breaking and Entering

I walked round the farmhouse cautiously and found Lucia was standing in front of the door with a look of relief on her face.

‘Are you sure that it’s empty?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘Sì, Matteo.’

It wasn’t that I doubted the girl, but I felt it was safest to give the door a shove for confirmation. It didn’t move and even a couple of firm blows had no effect. Lucia watched with worried concern, as if half expecting someone to come out and rebuke us.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘the police have locked up the house and then gone away?’

‘It does rather look like that. We’d better find a way to get in.’

I made another circuit of the building, looking for a means of entry, with Lucia following like a little lost lamb, but the rear door was locked and all of the windows were tightly shuttered.

‘What a pity,’ she sighed. ‘Is no way in, Matteo.’

‘Well, we shall have to see, won’t we,’ I said, given my attention to a pair of weather-worn shutters at the rear of the farmhouse. ‘Could you kindly keep guard for me, please?’

She gave a gasp of horror as I took out my penknife, slid the blade behind a shutter, found the catch and released it. Repeating the process with the window behind, I pushed it open and climbed through.

‘Is it still clear?’ I asked.

‘Sì.’

‘Then come inside, Lucia.’

With the natural reticence of a woman in a white skirt who’s unused to burglary, she clambered over the windowsill. I closed the shutters behind her and, in total darkness, we groped our way across the room. A sudden cry came from Lucia as she cannoned into a wall.

‘Matteo,’ she called, ‘there is a light switch here.’

I heard a click, but nothing happened.

‘But it does not work, Matteo.’

‘We’ll have to open the shutters, Lucia. If anyone sees you and asks, tell them that we are squatters.’

‘Squatters?’ She rolled the strange word around on her tongue, greatly improving its pronunciation. ‘What are squatters, Matteo?’

‘People who take over someone else’s house.’

‘Oh, you mean occupanti abusivi.’

‘Yes, more than likely.’

We went round opening all the windows in what turned out to be the living room. The fresh sunlight fell upon a scene of dereliction. Window panes were either missing or covered in mould, plaster crumbled from the walls and, most worrying for us, was the evidence of violence. Furniture had been flung in all directions and maroon stains on the floor couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than dried blood. Lucia gasped.

‘Riccardo may be hurt,’ she said, averting her gaze.

I took her hand to comfort her.

‘It’s more likely come from the cowboys’ own injuries. Now, let’s be systematic about this search and start at the top of the house.’

She nodded and dutifully followed me up the stairs. We began with the room at the far end of the landing, but even after opening up its windows and shutters, we found only old blankets and dirty clothes. The next room was much the same. But, as we were leaving, Lucia stopped and went back to the window.

‘Look, Matteo!’ she cried.

I joined her and saw, scratched into the grime on the pane:

VADO A POTENZA.

‘Does it mean anything?’ I asked.

‘It say: I go to Potenza. Potenza is a town in Basilicata – is the south of Italy.’ She frowned. ‘Is very long way from here, Matteo.’

‘Richard must have written this,’ I said. ‘Good for him. He’s done it again.’

With raised spirits we shut up the house and left it as we’d found it. Lucia was so happy, she sang all the way back to Ristorante del Monaco. I went straight to Signor Togliatti and paid our bill while Lucia piled the luggage into the back of the Multipla. I found her waiting for me in the passenger’s seat.

‘Which way to Potenza?’ I asked.
Lucia tutted.

‘I do not know, Matteo. Is foreign country for me.’

I was disappointed by her ignorance of Italian geography, but tried not to let it show.

‘I suppose we should start by going south,’ I speculated

‘No. Start by going to a shop. We must buy a map, Matteo.’

Reluctantly agreeing with her, I drove to the station and bought a road atlas from the bookstall on its platform. Back at the car, Lucia snatched it from me and opened it up on the bonnet.

‘We are here,’ she said, marking a place with one finger and flicking over a few pages, ‘and here is Potenza.’

‘Look for a route between the two which will take the least time to travel.’

She looked up at me and frowned.

‘There are many roads to chose from, Matteo, and I do not know which will be quickest.’

Over her shoulder I could see that the geography of Southern Italy was all a bit of a muddle.

‘What about that road there?’ I said, pointing at a line of blue which ran parallel to the eastern shore.

‘Is the Autostrada Adriatica. Maybe it is good.’ She shrugged her shoulders with that expressiveness which only an Italian can achieve. ‘Maybe no.’

‘Well, we won’t waste any more time wondering about it. Let’s go.’

She shrugged once again, shut the atlas and climbed into the Multipla. I got in beside her, started the engine, and turned to ask for directions. Lucia pointed dramatically to the left.

‘We go east, Matteo!’

~ by Christopher Jealous on December 5, 2008.