The real story of Patrick Winningoes-7

 

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Chapter 7

A little time later  we heard someone  knocking at the door.

 

«Is everything all right?» –our guest asked. I went nearby George for asking him how he was feeling.

 

-«I am very well, thank you»– he answered trying to hide from Mr Winningoes’ sight. Then in a low voice, eluding the hearing of Mr Winningoes, who however had kept discreetly quiet distant, he added in anxious tone: - “What are we going to do? I can’t stand staying here anymore. Let’s jump on him and...”

 

-«Just excuse me for a while, my friends »- the man said with persuasive voice, still holding politely at the same distance–“before you turn a decision, that is up to you to be taken, I would like to ask you only the courtesy to be able to end my own history. You don't have to be afraid of me: if I wanted to hurt you I would have been able to do it and I will show you that I am not lying. Follow me, please.”

 

So saying he started walking for the long corridor. We followed him turning on the left; then we stopped in front of a wooden small door, on the top of the ample staircases that led underneath. He fumbled in the lock reassuring us with a mild look. A long snail iron scale, introduced us in a square big room. The room was bare and badly illuminated. Mr Winningoes directed toward the opposite wall to the entry and after opening a big window he said:

 

- “Please, lean out and take a look down there.”

We leaned out. The view gave on an ample downed square, visible over the brushes of tall and

mighty trees. I recognized the landing airfield of which Mr Winningoes had informed us, early in the morning. I realized that we had to find us on the central tower of the building. Then he opened a small door wall and after fumbling in a small niche recessed in the wall, he gently told us,  winking again with the chin besides the window:

- “Have a look now, would you!?”–

We benched outside: the open space, just a while before,  plainly empty, was now occupied by another vision. I kept for an endless time watching at it, astonished, incredulous, confused, while my heart was galloping fast and the blood pressed on to my temples as if it wanted to squirt out of them.

I crossed George’s eyes: he also was astonished and interdict;  then I looked again down there. With unchanged emotion I observed that scene once more. The same scene that we had seen, some days before, not far away from home, was there now, under my eyes! Everything was perfectly equal: the high enclosure of tables, the big working machines, immovable as they were sleepy animals, the long iron pylon  with the writing 'Winpey', in  red-dark block letters. It was with admiration and curiosity that I turned toward Mr Winningoes. I wanted to know, I had to understand what was going on!

The old man fixed me intensely with a mocking look. Fantastic and madding, diabolic and fascinating Mr Winningoes! What kind of cheat was he plotting at our expenses?
He fumbled in the niche again and invited us, with the usual accomplice air, to look down.
The scene had changed again: I immediately recognized the alley of the agency ‘Geenna Geld', with the big front door and the cardboard insignia  moved by the wind as that day. This scene, never the less, didn't have anything unreal. It seemed simply and naturally to be there, after all, where our eyes were seeing it, identical to the past, but still live and present. There must surely be a trick! Of course it had to be that! But which one?

 

- “I understand your wonder, my friends, but I can explain you everything".

What you see does exist indeed. Physically, however, it exists in another dimension. If you were not so convinced that only exists the reality that is shown and explained to us since our birth; if you, that day, had doubted of what your eyes were perceiving, and with a straight mental attitude you had verified the materiality of it, you would be aware that everything around you was just an illusion and there was not exactly the things that you were seeing; actually they were there, but in a different way from your being here now, or this house or those trees that outlined the landscape over there!”

-“Just a moment!” –George cried out, showing off his best grim–“if that day we had taken some pictures, would have come out those things that we perceived or they would not?”

-“A camera is only a machine, without any mind, with no soul. I don't know what it would have come out if you had taken any photographs of it. Both of you would have certainly come out. Or may be only one of you would have been impressed.  But don't be concerned at it. My words didn't want to make any offence to you. I have spent all my life on studies and meditations to understand these things that only appear to be inexplicable. I assure you however,  that they show such appearance in the vision of our ordinary reality; in the description of the world that is provided by former and daily education, because we believe it as absolutely sure. As if our life were all in the banal obviousness of which we feed our mind. But is not this way! Oh certainly is not!

- “And the two men that we met there, on that day? Were also they an illusion?” –George burst out again in a pugnacious tone, not at all satisfied by those explanations.

- “Such a question, my friends, belongs already to the following of my story. I hope you will allow me to conclude with it. I won't subtract me to your opinion and to your judge, but grant me to defend myself simply telling you ‘till the end about the suffering of a scientist, of a father and of a man. I want you to know, if this can reassure you, that I have only killed other men during the war. The war is always absurd, in some way and is pursued by manhood for greed of power, because men are sick of weakness and only in power they succeed in finding an antidote to their innate deficiency. And though after the war, the value of human life, for me was under graded, I have been preserved by the shame of killing another man and I think that it could not be otherwise, for the man predestined to lead the humanity through the path of the peace and the truth!”

These words of the man seemed to reassure George. From my point of view there was not one single reserve on that man. My adhesion to his application was totally unconditional. We silently agreed to listen to the final part of Mr Winningoes’s  story. After all we didn't still know, incredibly, what that man really wanted from us. And in a way or in the other he succeeded capturing our attention again.

-“Since you kindly grant me your time in order to conclude my story, we will do it sipping a good cup of tea that I want to prepare myself for you”–took back in jovial tone Mr Winningoes, squirting from his eyes a radiant and comradely satisfaction. He led us back through the staircase down to the big room where we had our former lunch, with the table still prepared; finally we found, passed another door, in a pleasant small room, furnished in Renaissance style, with some pictures on the walls, which seemed to be stupendous reproductions of work’s talent of the best pictorial school of that memorable epoch.

 

The real story of Patrick Winningoes-5

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Chapter 5

While I was trying to go further in what the man had told of his personal story he took back with sad voice to tell his tale.

«I apologize for talking in a such confused mess. Before continuing telling you of my son it would be better to resume what happened first. At the age of twenty one, after a long journey and appropriate studies, I started some peculiar experiments on the human brain. I felt that I had to create a super brain in order to be reproduced and form a race of super-men able to drive on the right direction this dreg of humanity that inhabits the world. After all I had to consider that the brain of every living being contains, even though modified by the evolution, the original matrix of our existence.


After some rough attempts of surgical engineering, that occupied me for different years, whose initial success and following disappointed bitterness, almost led me to abandon the whole project, it was the fate to intervene and to point out the right way to me.

Which kind of proof would I more need to wait for? The same celestial stars directly showed me the way!


A beautiful day, in fact, while I was observing under the microscope a cat’s brain, ulterior, fortunate guinea-pig, subtracted to the deprivations of its life for the glory of the Science, an amazing account happened to me.

I had set the small feline’s organ in a cylindrical open neck test-tube and I was continuously thinking about it, looking as usual for a sprout of understanding on its complex and mysterious composition. At a certain point, needing something to eat, I went upstairs. I left unwillingly open the microscope’s focus. I was going to have a cup of tea, with my daily survival meal.

As I returned downstairs I immediately noticed that something strange had happened during my brief absence. In the test-tube the brain of the cat had dried, acquiring a grey and pale color.

I extracted it with the pliers: it seemed a dry sponge without neither weight nor smell. What devil had it happened? It was a gust of wind which answered to me.


In that underground where I secretly developed my experiments, I had not left but a small window, that I wanted surfaced to the level of the ground. It had slightly disclosed, quiet enough to allow the passage of a provident ray of sun which, intruding the optic circuit of the microscope, had poured in with all its mighty energy, dehydrating completely the object of my experiments.

But my light, initial disappointment had soon to be transformed in high exultation, when I closer observed the test-tube that had served like furnace to that unforeseen experiment. On its fund rested some drops of a dense and glimmering liquid! I had a lightning, an intuition that afterwards had to be exactly revealed.


Admirably exact, my friends! I had found the way to extract from the muscle that includes our life, from the brain that contains all the knowledge of a human being, its own essence. An extract, a summary, that is the same, but free from the physical brain’s encumbrance, from the grey mash that comprises it. Free from the flesh as a soul is free from his body as an idea from his thinker as a thought from his action!

As you certainly know all our mental energy springs by a simple chemical reaction that is continuously produced in our brain. Such reaction, that the physicians define with the name of “synapse”, is originated by the reaction between the liquid whose any brain is imbued and the cells it copiously contains. In practice this liquid, that has equal molecular structure in every man, works as a tracing detector of the cerebral process, whose action is, instead, what countersigns a man from another.

The intimate reasons for such different action of the cerebral processing, have seen divided for a long time the humanity. Manhood has however been until now incapable to intend the true reason for the difference of the beings of its species. A human being, from the scientific point of view, it is only a product of a casual connection of the basically chemical mixtures that are contained in the cells. And all its activity is coordinated by the cerebral cells.

To succeed on obtaining a distillate of those cells, meant therefore to dispose of a substance of inestimable value.

At the beginning I thought to try his reproduction, but actually this would have been only an interesting and suggestive detour from my principal aim.

In order to reach it I had to gather all my efforts, and the results of that first experiments constituted the base of my following job.

First of all it was clear that the cerebral muscle, under particular conditions of temperature and environment, like those which took accidentally place that prophetic day in my laboratory, released a particular, liquid and dense substance, containing the fundamental geniuses, that I call primaries; those which are responsible of the most intimate and proper characters of the race.

It was also evident that such substance appeared able to be moved into another brain, creating there a new habitat in which to regenerate its cells and with them repurchase its functions and its aboriginal characters.


I verified more times the exactness of these hypotheses, but only in a direction, that I define evolutionary. The experiment only succeeded if the essence of a superior animal, in the steps of the evolutionary chain, was introduced in the brain of an inferior animal, while in the other way down, the phenomenon took place in a lesser and very attenuated tone deprived of significant consequence.

I baptized the liquid essence ‘nouchefalon ‘, and I prepared hence myself to develop in the foreseen direction my experiments. What would it happen if I transfused some ‘human nouchefalon ‘ in to the brain of another man?”

The real story of Patrick Winningoes-4

 

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During the war I had the opportunity to deeply analyze the causes of those disastrous events. I had been, it is true, in the years immediately preceding the war completely devoted to my studies, in a way that I could call purely scientific of the phenomena which stand at the base of the human life, but it was not certainly in the fore coming years of war that we had to seek its reasons and inmost causes. The roots of hate and evil sank their extreme appendixes in the most tangled and lavish meanders of human mind. These deleterious feelings, so inherent to human mind, were to be conceived like the principal causes of that huge bath of blood.

 

From this premise I puzzled out that the basic beliefs of the national socialist philosophy were correct: the humanity, in order to be saved, needed a superior race to be raised over the others for leading them to salvation. But German race could not certainly be the chosen one. Not even any other among the existing races could be that, because it had to be a race who didn't know, in their hearts but goodness and love.

 

With a greater fury than before, I addressed all my energies against the hateful enemy: I challenged death ten, hundred, thousands of times, always defeating the adversary.

 

Little by little, I started perceiving what role it was reserved to me in the history of the world and the contours of my destiny assumed more and more its clean and precise outline.”

 

While pronouncing his last words Mr Winningoes, who had gradually been increasing his excitement during the narration, lifted up the right hand, tensing his forefinger as an accuser, and his eyes rotated a couple of times halting eventually in an insane expression of craziness depicted on his face. He remained for indefinite time with the lift forefinger, staring into space, with his muscles tended as if they had wanted to get out of standing. He seemed a statue of marble, immortalized in a grotesque pose. This sudden explosion of apparent madness came unexpected. Before we had the time to interact, however, the man seemed to recover himself. He looked around, lost and embarrassed and, grabbed a glass of water, voided all of it in a hit. The water seemed to calm the man. His eyes showed now a serene light and he looked like being almost absent, lost in his thoughts or perhaps looking for recomposing the interrupted line of his story. He pulled the refreshments trolley and picked up a carafe filled with a golden colored liquid.

 

- “Have a drink, please. It is cognac from Charente, one of the few things that I appreciate of French people.”

 

This way saying he poured some of that liquid in a short, carved wine glass, explaining us that a cognac, to be really good, has to leave, if slightly rotated, a thin layer of color inside the glass.

As soon as I had drunk, I immediately felt a comforting warmth. On the warm’s alcohol wave I thought that that man surely knew so much indeed about life. His theories, nevertheless, yet quiet abstruse to me, showed however a sort of suggestive charm.

I imagined my brain imploding together with George’s, melting with it and flying, as a winged rocket, in the endless universe.

 

Le indagini del commissario Santiago De Candia-19

 

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Capitolo Sesto

 

 

Il mercoledì successivo, mentre rientrava a casa dalla passeggiata nel Parco di Monte Urpinu, il commissario De Candia ricevette una telefonata.  La voce di Luisa, sempre calda e piacevole, gli comunicò di essere finalmente in possesso della chiave della cassaforte a muro della casa dell’omicidio, quella di quel ragazzo con il coltello insanguinato in mano.

 «Luisa, pensi che ci sia ancora la corrente elettrica in funzione?»

«Non lo so se qualcuno ha chiesto l’interruzione dell’energia elettrica. Io sono ancora a studio.»

«Allora rimandiamo a domani. Anche se io ho il rientro pomeridiano fino alle 18:00, ma a quell’ora c’è ancora luce e volendo potrei uscire anche un po’ prima.»

«Beh, io posso chiudere lo studio verso le 17:00 visto che non ho appuntamenti fissati dopo quell’ora.»

Si diedero appuntamento direttamente in via Giudicessa Adelasia per le 18:30, dopo i convenevoli di routine.

Santiago De Candia si chiese se un simile sopralluogo, effettuato con l’avvocato difensore dell’unico indiziato, fosse corretto da un punto di vista professionale. L’esame di procedura penale lo aveva sostenuto, all’università, parecchi anni prima e non ricordava, in quel momento, quale fosse l’esatto iter procedurale da rispettare. Considerò tra sé e sé che, per prima cosa, l’indiziato era stato comunque rimesso in libertà dal Tribunale. Poi, l’avvocato si era offerta di dare una mano per identificare il vero colpevole. E infine, per evitare complicazioni, non avrebbe mai fatto figurare ufficialmente quel sopralluogo. ‘Quod non est in actis, non est in mundo’, avrebbe detto il suo valido collaboratore, l’ispettore Zuddas. Dopo tutto, in coscienza, lui sapeva di non compromettere le sue indagini. Anzi, l’aiuto dell’avvocato Levi sembrava costituire persino un valore aggiunto per la soluzione del caso.

Il commissario aveva ripensato molto alla giornata di domenica. Da quando era morta la moglie, più di cinque prima, non aveva avuto storie particolarmente coinvolgenti. Soltanto Luisa lo aveva in qualche modo conquistato. Non era soltanto un’attrazione fisica, anche se l’avvocato Levi aveva un corpo sodo accompagnato da una intelligenza vivace come piaceva a lui. In realtà quella donna esercitava su di lui un fascino indefinibile. Da un lato, materno con quella sua avvolgente sicurezza femminile e quel suo seno florido e prosperoso. Però, sentiva che quella professionista abile e caparbia fosse alla ricerca, come tante donne, di un punto di riferimento o di un centro di stabilità. La sua sicurezza e la sua grinta erano autentiche, solide e profonde ma, non di meno, egli intuiva che la sua femminilità avesse bisogno di un elemento di completamento che non sconfinasse e non collidesse con la rivalità professionale e il confronto quotidiano e continuo. D’altronde, non era forse uguale per gli uomini? Non cercavano anch’essi una figura femminile che li completasse, dando loro stabilità, protezione, affetto?

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Le indagini del commissario Santiago De Candia-16

 

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E mentre procedevano verso la loro meta, Luisa Levi apprese, senza quasi mai interromperlo, come il nonno paterno del commissario, Nicola De Candia, giovane e brillante perito minerario barese, assunto dalle Miniere di Montevecchio degli Eredi Sanna, subito dopo la Grande Guerra si fosse insediato nel borgo minerario. E come, poco tempo dopo, avesse conosciuto a Buggerru, dove si era recato per assistere a uno spettacolo teatrale, una graziosa fanciulla, di nome Ines Orcel, che scoprì essere la figlia di un suo collega francese che lavorava per la Societé des mines de Malfidano, che a Buggerru aveva la sua sede operativa, e della quale si era innamorato praticamente a prima vista. E in che modo riuscisse a conquistarla, dopo serrata corte. Favorito in ciò da alcune conoscenze comuni che gli consentirono di vincere la diffidenza che il padre di lei nutriva verso i non francesi. E soprattutto aiutato dalla madre di lei, una donna spagnola della Estremadura, che in quei paesaggi selvaggi della Sardegna e in quel popolo chiuso e tenace, rivedeva probabilmente la sua terra d’origine e i suoi stessi avi. In realtà, il nonno del commissario, Nicola De Candia, di sardo aveva soltanto  l’amore e la riconoscenza verso la terra che lo aveva accolto, dandogli lavoro e rispettabilità.

Nella parte conclusiva del viaggio, proprio mentre il loro fuoristrada, lasciandosi Guspini alle spalle, cominciava a inerpicarsi sulla larga salita che conduce al vecchio borgo minerario, l’avvocato Luisa Levi inoltre  apprese  come dalla coppia fosse nato il papà del commissario, Salvatore De Candia. Il quale, dopo aver prestato il servizio militare, innamoratosi di una diciassettenne di nome Regina Serru, figlia di un guardiano minerario, già comandante della compagnia barraccellare guspinese, fosse passato nei ranghi della polizia di stato, trasmettendogli, congiuntamente al nonno materno, quella passione per l’ordine e la disciplina che Santiago aveva saputo rielaborare in quella sua maniera fantasiosa e originale che lo caratterizzava. Luisa aveva ascoltato la storia del commissario, come da piccola aveva imparato ad ascoltare le favole che il papà le raccontava prima di addormentarsi.

Erano da poco passate le undici quando il commissario parcheggiò la sua auto di fronte a un edificio che un tempo aveva ospitato il centro vitale dell’antico borgo minerario, con l’Ufficio Postale, la Caserma dei Carabinieri, lo Spaccio Aziendale e, poco più avanti anche il cinematografo. E dove adesso resisteva ancora un bar, in cui poterono rinfrescarsi prima di iniziare la passeggiata a piedi che Luisa accettò di fare con entusiasmo.

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Le indagini del commissario Santiago De Candia-15

 

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«Che tipi sono questi due nipoti di Carbonia?» disse invece.

«Il mio assistito, mi ha detto che la cugina Maria Grazia Picciau è una tranquillona. Ha vinto il suo bel concorso pubblico e lavora come impiegata comunale in un paese distante una ventina chilometri da Carbonia. Andrea Picciau, suo fratello, che è più grande del mio assistito di parecchi anni, ha avuto invece un passato da tossicodipendente, ma adesso si è rimesso in carreggiata. È ospite di una comunità di recupero dove ha imparato a lavorare la terra e a guadagnarsi il pane con il sudore della fronte. E non mi ha saputo dire se conoscano o meno l’esistenza del testamento. Anche se la vittima non aveva mai fatto mistero di detestare intensamente le abitudini insane del nipote Andrea. E comunque nel parentado era nota la predilezione della signora Emma nei confronti di Alessandro, il mio assistito.»

«Chissà dove teneva la chiave di quella cassaforte, la povera signora Pirastu…» disse il commissario, quasi tra sé e sé.

«Il mio assistito mi ha detto che la teneva nel primo cassetto del comò, in camera da letto, tra la biancheria intima.»

«È uno dei primi posti dove ho cercato, ma non sono riuscito a trovarla, né lì né altrove. Ma mi sa tanto che la settimana prossima ci torno e cerco meglio» disse ancora il commissario sempre con quel tono distante, come se parlasse per conto suo.

«Se vuoi ci torniamo insieme. E l’apriamo con la chiave di Alessandro. Dammi soltanto il tempo di chiedergli di portamela in studio al più presto possibile.»

«Davvero ne ha una copia il tuo assistito? Caspita, questa sì che è una buona notizia! Mi evita un sacco di rogne di autorizzazioni per chiamare un fabbro e per fare scardinare la cassaforte!»

«Il mio assistito godeva della massima fiducia da parte della zia, al punto che la donna ultimamente aveva provveduto a fargli una delega sul conto corrente bancario dove le accreditavano la pensione e, spesso, lo incaricava di fare dei prelievi, per suo conto, direttamente in banca oppure con la carta del bancomat.»

Intanto, mentre parlavano, avevano lasciato la strada statale e si erano immessi in quella provinciale per San Gavino. Da lì, arrivati a Guspini, non sarebbero stati distanti da Gennas Serapis, altrimenti nota come Montevecchio, l’antico borgo minerario, dove c’era una parte significativa delle radici più recenti di Santiago De Candia.

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Le indagini del commissario Santiago De Candia-14

 

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-          - « Niente, niente!» – disse il commissario ancora ridendo. – «Non ti ho mai raccontato dei commenti che sento al bar dove faccio colazione al mattino?»

-          - « Forse sì!»- disse l’avvocato, sempre in tono semiserio –«ma sicuramente non con riferimento a questo caso»

-          - «Niente di cui tu ti debba preoccupare, cara Luisa; dico davvero!-» la tranquillizzò il commissario. – « Piuttosto, sai per caso se quel testamento è custodito in una cassaforte a muro, dietro un quadro della sacra famiglia, nel salottino  della casa della defunta signora Pirastu?»

-          -«Diavolo d’uno sbirro! Come hai fatto a indovinare?!» – esclamò sorpresa l’avvocato,  con un accento di ammirazione nella voce!

-          - « Be’, non ci voleva poi molto»– si schermì l’avvocato, comunque lusingato dall’ammirazione della sua compagna di viaggio.

-          «E sono anche certo che tu saprai indicarmi quali altri parenti potrebbero essere interessati, quantomeno in linea teorica, a questo testamento. O sbaglio?»

-          - “ No, non sbagli. La signora Emma era nubile e senza figli. Lei aveva una sorella, più giovane,  Anita, che un tumore si è portata via anzitempo;  ha lasciato due figli che vivono a Carbonia; aveva inoltre   un fratello, Angelo Pirastu, di cui Alessandro, il  mio assistito è figlio unico. Anche se non ci sono dei legittimari, senza il testamento,  l’ingente patrimonio della defunta andrebbe diviso tra il fratello Angelo e i due nipoti di Carbonia, che subentrerebbero alla madre per rappresentazione. Invece, grazie al testamento verrebbero esclusi, sia i due nipoti di Carbonia, sia il papà del mio assistito, che però è semi paralitico, pur essendo parecchio più  giovane  della defunta sorella.

-          “ Stai dicendo che gli unici sospettabili sono in realtà i due nipoti di Carbonia?

-   

       “ Io non ho detto niente! Lo sbirro sei tu, mica io!” – disse l’avvocato in maniera simpatica, ma mettendosi subito sulla difensiva.

-          “ Be’, potrebbe trattarsi anche di un furto finito male, nel senso che magari il ladro ha reagito d’impulso, dopo essere stato scoperto.”

-          - Certo, ci ho pensato anche io, però c’è una cosa che mi ha sorpreso: come mai,  mi sono chiesta,  questo ipotetico  ladro ha sferrato  ben tre colpi alla vittima? Perché accanirsi così sulla vittima?” – L’avvocato si fermò come se volesse dare il tempo al commissario di rispondere, ma il commissario si limitò ad annuire, chiedendole di continuare. “- al di là di questo, anche per me  sono le uniche due spiegazioni alle quali sono pervenuta; ma non saprei dire quale delle due sia la più probabile; io so soltanto che il mio assistito è super innocente! Di questo soltanto sono certa”.

-          Il commissario non rispose. Sapeva bene che se anche, per ipotesi, un cliente confessa la sua colpevolezza, all’avvocato è inibito di rivelarlo; pena la radiazione dall’albo degli avvocati.

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