Elettra Keita is a Lieutenant in the Carabinieri. To the world, she is simply on vacation in the alpine resort of Bardonecchia, but in reality, she is conducting an undercover investigation. No one suspects a thing, yet in certain esoteric circles, a dark rumor persists: since 1986, every seven years, a young girl—often just passing through—vanishes without a trace.
Accustomed to the high-stakes world of counter-terrorism and drug trafficking, Elettra starts by simply observing. The evidence for these crimes is thin, and her superiors view the mission as a mere formality—a "working holiday" to recover from the dangers of her previous assignments and a tactical move to silence local gossip. But in the shadows of the mountains, the truth may be far more sinister than anyone imagined.
To write you need to be physically fit, with strong legs and a sturdy heart. You need to sleep well and eat properly. There's no point hammering at the keyboard like a blacksmith and forcing yourself through eight hours of work, and it's equally pointless to skip breaks or start a new chapter when what you really should be doing is taking a walk through the pine forest. Smoking or drinking is ruinous — never mind that Bukowski or Hemingway always kept a good bottle on their desk; they belonged to a different category entirely.
To succeed you need a strong opening, a good story that holds together, and a touch of cruelty. Clear away the distractions, the irritating noises, and the people who can't keep quiet. The television will be switched off without exception, and the place, above all, must be the right one.
Piero is sitting in the half-light of a room that smells of stale air, furnished with pieces from the eighties and covered in photographs and memories. A 2001 calendar, nailed beside the key hook, is frozen on the month of September. Seated in a swivel chair that creaks when it turns right, he rests his bare feet on the carpet, and the thin light filtering through the half-closed shutters makes the keys of the keyboard just legible. A bottle of water with a little lemon is all he needs to feel content, and at the foot of the desk sits an Invicta backpack in a serious shade of military green, packed with care. From the main pocket protrudes the paper-wrapped tube holding the last seven Ringo Ferrero biscuits, which must last the entire day.
Two chapters, four pages, three hundred words. The right pace to reach the end of the day with the calm of the righteous and the appetite for a decent dinner. The inspiration is good, the ideas are flowing and his fingers are galloping — but the walls are too thin. On the other side of the partition there must be a CD player set on loop. For a good half hour it has been repeating the same track, and with each repetition the volume rises slightly, until Piero's Shazam identifies the song in under three seconds. It's a disco track by Hot Chocolate. It's called "Every 1's a Winner" and it's packed with effects and synthesisers as though it had been composed by an electrician. But so far, so good.
The chapter is nearly finished. All that remains is to complete a series of dialogues and find the right closing line — but the track starts again: Never could believe the things you do to me, never could believe the way you are.
The apartment has the advantage of being at the end of a long corridor, on the fourth floor of an enormous building, a block with three units that has the air of having been designed by someone with a nostalgia for the former Soviet Union. Even though the façade was recently refreshed, those windows — small and closely spaced — do no justice to the beauty of the village or its enchanting mountain backdrop, and the bold architecture of the roof, with its overlapping and interlocking pitches, does little to compensate. Hot Chocolate raises its voice again.
Sometimes it's a small detail that ruins the atmosphere, and Piero gives up trying to continue and reads back what he has written so far. There is a spacing error, a double letter with one keystroke stuck, and a word that repeats itself after only three lines. He returns to the description of his protagonist and wonders whether he should plump up her lips a little.
The doorbell of the neighbouring apartment rings. Not a polite, brief, gentle tap — more like an air-raid siren. Piero grips the armrests to stop himself jumping out of the creaking chair and takes hold of the backpack strap. The gap between the first and second ring is only a few seconds. The second lasts an eternity.
"Clizia, sweetheart, I know you're in there," pleads the voice of a boy who can't be more than twenty. "Open up, please, I... I can't keep it all inside. I need to see you" — and the volume rises again, and it feels like being transported back to the disco era, with strobes and mirror balls scattering light across the room and girls in tight trousers dancing beneath mountains of hair styled in the most daring perms.
He whimpers: "Please, Clizia."
Piero would love to say something — to advise the broken heart to seek comfort elsewhere, to explain a couple of things he has learned about women. The boy gives up on the doorbell and knocks.
"Again today, sweetheart, just one last time" — but it's clear that door will never open, and that wounded women can hold out longer than a castle under siege, and that if poor Clizia has retreated to Bardonecchia in the off-season, it's because, evidently, she wants to be left alone.
To write you need physical stamina — that has already been established — but shipwrecked love affairs played out half a metre from your front door are corrosive and ruinous, and the effect on inspiration is fatal.
"For God's sake, kid, someone's going to have to tell you that Clizia doesn't want you anymore..." Piero would like to say — but he merely murmurs it, keeps it all to himself.
The opportunity to stay silent should always be seized.
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