At Cascina del Pellicano, the air smells of warm mud and domestic discipline, until a telephone decides to ruin the ecosystem. Count Gianalberto Marchetti—an aristocrat by mistake and apathetic by vocation—is summoned to Pavia as if he were responsible for a national emergency: "traffic." Except that in Lomellina, traffic isn't a problem; it's a sign of the apocalypse, smeared with pine-scented deodorant.
Meanwhile, outside, pilgrimages, hood yoga, and rural sect hats are popping up, because someone has turned a fertilizer into a contemporary legend. In the barracks, the state deploys police commissioners, colonels, mayors, and even a bishop: when there's chaos, someone is always needed to contain the collective soul (or at least park it). Between embarrassing photos, bureaucratic definitions, and dangerous ironies, Gianalberto understands a simple truth: when people believe in a formula, they don't seek the land—they seek control. And if reality doesn't cooperate, then myth arrives... and myth, as we know, doesn't knock politely.
Trafficking in Lomellina, fertilizer pilgrims, and alarmed institutions: Count Marchetti discovers that tranquility can become a target
A humorous mystery novel. The Cascina del Pellicano Recipe. Chapter 9: When Myth Clogs the Streets
The phone call came at the most delicate moment of the day: when Cascina del Pellicano was breathing.
Some hours, in Lomellina, aren't hours at all: they're a silent agreement between the sky, the water, and the earth. The rice paddies outside gleamed like a sea of dirty mirrors; the rows of poplars traced straight lines like the thoughts of those who've never had doubts; and the air smelled of warm mud, straw, and that firm sweetness you only feel when water stagnates without shame. Under the portico, the wood was warm, the shadows were broad, and time seemed a docile animal: if you didn't disturb it, it just stayed there.
Gianalberto Marchetti, a count through a genealogical misunderstanding and the weariness of others, sat in a straw-backed chair that creaked like a conscience. His hands were on his knees, his gaze lost somewhere in the universe, with the methodical concentration of someone who has made contemplation a true profession. Beside him, Caligula slept in an obscene and triumphant position, on his back, as if offering his belly to the world as a sign of universal peace.
Ida, on the other hand, was doing what she always did when reality threatened to escalate: she worked. She shelled green beans with a short knife, quickly, without ferocity but without mercy. Every now and then, the smell of a light sauté wafted from the kitchen, a scent that wasn't just food: it was domestic order, it was resistance.
The phone rang.
Gianalberto looked at him like you look at a storm coming from the wrong side of the sky.
It rang again.
Caligula opened one eye, closed it again, and with that micro-expression he said clearly: don't answer, it'll ruin your day.
Gianalberto replied.
"Ready."
On the other end, a firm, polite voice, with that precise accent that belongs to men who have learned to speak without making themselves loved.
"Good afternoon. Is this Count Gianalberto Marchetti?"
Gianalberto paused, not to create suspense, but because his brain, before answering, needed to check whether it was really necessary.
"Yes. I think so."
Silence. A professional, office-like silence.
"I'm Police Commissioner Pasquale Lucomagno from Pavia. I urgently need to meet with you."
Gianalberto straightened up a half-centimeter. For him, it was already an intense reaction.
"Did anyone die?"
"No, Count.
Not yet."“Ah good, very good.”
Another silence. Ida, without looking up, stopped counting: it was her way of listening.
"It's a matter of public order," Lucomagno continued. "Traffic and security issues. It's best we discuss this in person. At the Provincial Carabinieri Headquarters in Pavia."
Gianalberto looked at Ida, as if Ida could authorize the State to summon him.
Ida barely glanced at him, and that slight glance meant: Go ahead, but don't talk nonsense. Even if you can't.
"All right," said the count. "I'm coming. But you know, I'm not used to the city. It gives me a certain… speed."
"We're expecting you today at 4 p.m.," the commissioner concluded, and hung up with the efficiency of someone who isn't calling to chat.
Gianalberto remained with the receiver in his hand, like a man who has just received a fine from the universe.
"Who was he?" Ida asked. It wasn't a question: it was a diagnosis....
