Torno, 22nd of November 2022
On the third day, at breakfast, I was relieved to see that I was not the only guest in the hotel. A woman and a man whose luggage I had seen left in front of the reception desk were carefully choosing which button to press on the capsule coffee machine. The woman was wearing a leather jacket, dark green jeans and mid-rise shoes, not exactly elegant but not uncomfortable-looking. With her asymmetrical red glasses and shoulder bag full of photocopied papers and magazines, I thought she was a journalist or maybe an academic. Her brown hair was tied back in an imperfect bun, a bit squished, like after a long flight or several hours on the road. She looked tired. But not as tired as he did, who seemed to take even longer to choose his cappuccino. He was older than her by about ten years. His body, as he moved from the buffet to the table, seemed strangely light for his imposing build. The two spoke little. Before taking his first sip, he delicately tucked his loose hair behind his ears. She had swallowed her espresso in one gulp and was reading the headlines of the Corriere della Sera on her phone. “It’s beautiful, this view,” he said as he looked down at the lake. The large bay window of the dining room offered a grandiose panorama of Lake Como. A dark lake, almost black. “Look, Valeria, those white spots on the surface of the water. They are so strong that you wouldn’t think they were light reflections.” I turned my head to observe the phenomenon. So even and perfectly white, the spots almost looked artificial.
The three-star establishment without luxury had the charm of those family-run hotels that never get old. Or rather those hotels that age because they do not undergo the often impersonal renovations to fulfill the standards of universal comfort. Valeria turned her head to admire the plunging view as well, and smiled at him. “Almost like the fjords, isn’t it?” she ventured. “When I arrived in Norway I thought the same thing. One is always at home by the water.” Tore, that was his name, did not react to the remark and asked her if the article had already been posted. She refreshed the page on her screen, and said no, the news had not yet been published.
Lina, the owner of the hotel, came to ask if everything was ok, and if we wanted some bread, the toaster was there, and that there were more juices at the bottom of the fridge. She made sure we had understood how the coffee machine worked. I felt that we all wanted a “real” coffee, but nobody dared to ask. Tore replied that everything was perfect, and Valeria added “Grazie Lina.” I was surprised to learn that Valeria knew the name of the old lady. At first sight, the two women did not seem acquainted. Apparently I wasn’t the only one surprised. Tore questioned Valeria with his eyes. “I haven’t told you everything” she said, looking for words to explain the situation. I had long since finished my breakfast, but pretended to be insatiably hungry, and once again filled up on cornflakes and cookies. It seemed to me that I had a potentially usable story here. “That school exchange in 1991, I was part of it. Ophelia and I were best friends at the time of the disappearances.” Tore seemed to be holding back from asking her the questions that were coming at him so fast. Why did Valeria hide her personal involvement in the story from him? Did she think he wouldn’t take her seriously, that this crazy theory she had shared with him a few weeks earlier would have been a sign of passionate pursuit rather than of her scientific genius? Was Valeria afraid that Tore wouldn’t have followed her to Italy to reopen the investigation in which, as a young graduate, he hadn’t been able to participate, and which, for lack of plausible leads, had had to be abandoned more than thirty years ago? Tore turned once more to the lake and noticed that it looked more like a river, always in motion.
****
Torno, 17th of September 2022
Dear Valeria,
You might wonder why I decided to write you, after all these years. I have waited with the hope that I might be in a more serene state of mind. Even though I failed to reach that, I really shall wait no longer, as recent occurrences left me with no other choice.
We all must follow our own way, but sometimes even an irrelevant thing may give an impulse that leads us in a new direction. I try to believe that as we advance in life, there grows a constant in us that glows above all happenings and agitations. Or as Dante says: “la gloria di colui che tutto move, per l’universo penetrata e risplende.” In my case this impulse appeared in the form of a group of wild boars.
It happened in the waking hours of a clear autumn night. I attended the class reunion. I am sure Ciara sent you the invitation, even though she knows that you won’t travel all the way from Stavanger just to hear about our everyday struggles – the muted existence of us “leftovers.” As in all the previous reunions nobody talked about it, nobody dared to open that door. I didn’t expect it and I didn’t push for it myself. I left the school around 1am with the feeling that nothing will ever change.
I drove slow, as I wouldn’t be the first one to be swallowed that late at night by the serpentines of the Via Cesare Poggi. Even though it was almost full moon, the lake allowed no reflection, like a monstrous magnet that sucked in every pale remaining color. A deep dark form within a monochrome landscape. I was wondering if I would feel differently, if I would have forced myself to leave that black hole for good, like you did years ago.
Sunk in my thoughts I glide around the bends, on autopilot, sedate. All the doctors, therapists and exorcists with their multitude of advices and methods were not able to wake me up from that sleep, under water, dead and awake, inches under the surface.
In a flash, a blinding light, a burning monster slides through one of the hairpins, inches away from me. I observe the scene in slow motion, ponder over the awkward, almost animal-like appearance of this formless thing. I get out of the car, slowly walk towards the smoking wreck on the other side of the street. Airbags were filling the cabin, an unharmed driver staring at me, without saying a word. Paralyzed eyes, still under shock. We looked at each other for what felt like minutes. Someone finally joins me under water. He climbs out of the car, limping to what was left of his headlights.
In front of us, a dying boar. The remains of its heat damping into the cold night, while blood rinses from the creature’s open snout, slowly turning the animals body into a carcass. The driver carefully pets the boar’s head mumbling “Mi dispiace, mi dispiace.”
A familiar smell. Oh how familiar. As if it was yesterday. Stressed boar, panicking boar, dying boar. I turn my head. I am awake. I am back. Not one boar. Hundreds. They are around me, everywhere. In the hazel bushes, behind the chestnut trees. On the streets and the small alleys. In the gardens and the courtyards. Ploughing the earth with their enormous jaws, grunting their chant. It is happening again.
I am back in 1991. I am with you, with Ciara, with Tormen, Nina and all the others. Lost in an autumn night, trying to find our way back. I am at that forrest glade, where we used to meet, to drink, to smoke, to kiss. I see the carvings in the trunks, I see the old fireplace. I see the abandoned town with the burned attics. And I see the Masso Avello. I didn’t think about it until that very night when the boars came back. I did remember the panic screams of the kids. The grunting and the smell of the boars. And I remember how we lost each other. But I forgot about the Masso Avello.
I was aware that Tormen and Nina were secretly meeting. I have been watching them kissing behind the rock. I wasn’t particularly jealous of one of them, just filled with this undefined longing of early adolescence. I would see myself being one of them, or both of them. Like an echo. Every week I was waiting for the moment I could be with them again.
Nonna Lina always warned us, not to get too close to the Massi Avelli. They are sacred. And they are not to be disturbed. I knew this since early childhood, like all of us. Tormen and Nina didn’t. I didn’t tell them. Why, I don’t know. Probably because it added to my secret pleasure of watching them.
During one of their meetings Tormen and Nina sat close beside, without kissing or hugging like usual. They were completely absorbed looking at themselves. The Masso Avello was filled with rainwater making an almost perfect mirror. I was there looking at them, while they were looking at themselves. That’s probably how I fell asleep.
Behind a wall of thick glass I was witnessing the rumbling of the earth, the roaring of the sediments and the falling of the trees. I was washed away by the hordes of trampling boars. I was under them, with them, beside them until we reached the main road along the lake. I must have finally passed out.
When I woke up, I didn’t really wake up. I was on a bed of the Como Municipal Hospital.
My parents and brothers sitting beside me, smiling in relief. I smiled back at them, as good as I could.
I don’t know how you managed to deal with what has happened. I never understood why of all the places in the world, you decided to move to Norway.
When we were interviewed by the local police and later by foreign detectives nobody mentioned the Masso Avello. It was erased from that nightmare as if it never existed. Last night while standing in the headlights watching the boar die, I knew: Tormen and Nina disappeared in the Masso Avello.
Maybe you already made your peace.
Maybe not.
Maybe you are still a writer.
Maybe this is something to start with.
Yours sincerely
Ophelia
****
To: Sarah@ottiliaproductions.com
Subject: Re:Como Project
From: Chris@ottiliaproductions.com
Sarah,
I am glad I sent you to Como. Beautiful region, my wife loves it there. I knew it would be an inspiration for you, to help you find some of the missing parts. Too bad your boyfriend couldn’t join you. You could have taken some time off and visited the rest of Lombardy.
Anyways, thanks for your first thoughts. It’s going in the right direction, I can reassure you. Your new concept is good. The location sets the scene, you have the white virgin in the burnt tree, you have the carvings in the bark, and you have that huge whale skeleton made of dead branches. And these rock baths are fantastic. Good job on finding these, Sarah! The backdrop with the glittering lake brings a romantic touch to the landscape. No wonder George chose to buy a house in the area! Mysterious attraction, creepy elements in a beautiful setting. That works. The season, I guess, would play an important role too. Late autumn, I see from your photos, can be nice. Golden leaves. Summer could be good too. But we should discuss this later on. Now, you need to work on your characters. Make the Norwegian cop more charismatic. I like his sensitivity, but let’s give him a bit more of that polar bear attitude. Just for the contrast, you know, a Viking with a poetic spirit. Think somewhere between Kenneth Branagh and Kim Bodnia. Valeria is obviously playing a double game here, but I still think that you should decide NOW if she knew the truth all along or if she just realized it when she received this letter. Both could be interesting: If she knew, then why would she hide it? Was she trying to protect someone or something? Or was her role in the disappearances more complicated than what they assumed at the time? On the other side, if she didn’t know about that supposedly sacred and dangerous rock, then why would she believe her friend’s bold suggestion that the stone might be a suspect? She seems to be a smart girl, not wasting time on fanciful speculations. But at the same time, the idea that you had to make her an “enthusiastic and inexhaustible researcher specialized in Anomalistic Psychology” could work greatly. Reflections on space-time, the relation between matter and spirit, the nature of reality. That would be a hit for sure. We should also think more about where Valeria comes from –what’s her relationship to her hometown and to her absent parents, what made her choose Norway and all this. BTW, I know I shouldn’t be asking you this Sarah, but how did you steal that letter from that woman at the hotel?
For the next steps, I have two suggestions: First, what if the two kids who disappeared became wild boars themselves? You might not like that, but I think people would take it. I know you prefer true crime, but I think going supernatural would help. Second, what if Lina, and this is something that just came to my mind, would cross the temporal universe without getting older. She would be the same old lady in the nineties as she is thirty years later. Valeria, who obviously knows her, is not shocked by this because everybody in Torno knows who Lina really is (…) But maybe this is too complicated.
I read the article your Norwegians were talking about. I know you want to know as little as possible, to try not to be influenced by the events, but you should know that the article was written by a journalist named Bruno Elpis, and that he has some rather unexpected theories about the case. You should get in touch with him.
Chris
Noha Mokhtar is an artist and PhD candidate in anthropology at Harvard University. Gregor Huber is a designer and editor for Fabrikzeitung. Together with Ivan Sterzinger they run the publishing initiative Edition Hors-Sujet.