Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer

by Luigi Guicciardi

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘It’s not important, Luigi. I was speaking more for myself than for you. What I mean is that we have to live for something, always, and I have always lived for this. For writing, publishing something of myself and my work.’ He stares at them again and his voice becomes certain. ‘Because life is a slow-acting poison – it eats away at sense, it makes us submit to everything. The only true compensation is work for its own sake.’

  ‘But you don’t always find what you’re looking for in work…’

  He smiles. ‘I know, Giulio. But we mustn’t give up just for that reason. We are all what we are looking for. And to be content with finding instead of looking for something is a true betrayal of all faith.’ He stands up, opens a drawer and takes out a sheet of paper. ‘But enough of that. Now it’s my turn to tell you what I’ve discovered.’

  Out in the road, in the rich light of eleven o’clock in the morning, Zoboli walks unhappily, nervously. And it is not the meeting, that is not the problem. He will forget the meeting in two or three days’ time, he knows that well. His disquiet comes from another source, and it will not leave him alone, it kept him from concentrating just now, to the extent that he only uttered one or two sentences during the meeting and he wonders if the others realized. He walks head down towards his Volvo, following the thread of his thoughts, then he lifts his head and sees it immediately. White, placed sideways under the wiper on the windscreen. A sheet of paper just like the one they found two hours earlier: he does not even need to read it. So he folds it and puts it in his pocket. He already knows what to do with it, of course, and he knows he will not show it to Miriam; she might get frightened, or she might want to help him, and that is the last thing he wants. He looks around slowly as he opens the door, but there is no one watching him, nothing unusual at all, and in truth he really did not think there would be. But now he begins to understand.

  ‘What’s going on, Giulio?’

  ‘Nothing… why?’

  ‘I’m talking about this morning. Look at me – do you think I’m stupid? You saw that sheet of paper and you ran off, for no reason. Or rather, only you know the reason…’

  ‘It’s nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just… I’m tired, that’s what it is. I get upset over nothing…’ Both upset and sad, he looks at her, knowing she will not believe him. ‘It’s just a difficult time… it won’t last. Once the conference is over, the stress will disappear… and then we’ll go away, take a trip somewhere… we’ve been talking about it for a while, haven’t we? Believe me, it’ll all be over soon. Just try to be patient…’

  He would like to ask her to stand by him, but he cannot do it.

  ‘It’s not the conference, Giulio. It’s not just that.’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘I’d like to, but there’s that photocopy.’

  ‘Come on. It’s a joke… just a stupid joke.’

  ‘If you really thought that, then you wouldn’t have reacted like that. You do realize that, don’t you?’

  He lowers his head because he doesn’t know what to say, and only now does she take his hand.

  ‘Don’t you want me to help you?’

  He pulls himself together, but his voice changes, ‘No. It’s not a good idea.’

  ‘Not even to talk about it?’

  ‘No, there’s no need.’ He shakes his head. ‘And I have to go out now.’

  ‘But you haven’t even finished eating…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry now.’

  ‘Change your shirt at least. You’re all sweaty.’

  He is uncertain as he stands there in the entrance, car keys in his hand. Then he decides.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘There’s one already ironed on the bed. So, will you be back before I go?’

  From the bedroom comes the quiet reply together with the sound of a drawer being opened.

  ‘I don’t know, it depends…’

  ‘Professor…’

  Sweating profusely in the sunshine, the owner of the Hotel Bandieri seems even fatter than usual without his counter to contain him within the space against the wall.

  ‘Excuse me, but I wanted to tell you something. There’s a stranger in the hotel who’s been asking about you…’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘Yes. A man called Ferrero, from Turin. Do you know him?’

  ‘No… I don’t think so.’ He stares into space, trying to remember, but it is obvious he is slightly troubled. ‘No, I really don’t think I do.’

  ‘I thought as much.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there’s something suspicious about him, something not right. Not that he’s done anything, he’s only asked about you. But…’

  ‘Just a minute. What’s he like?’

  ‘He certainly wouldn’t go unnoticed.’ He stares at Zoboli with a conspiratorial air: ‘A handsome man, about forty. Tall, thin, green eyes and a moustache. He goes around wearing a jacket and tie in this heat…’

  ‘Are you sure he’s from Turin?’

  ‘Dead sure. His accent’s a total giveaway. And there’s another thing that sticks out.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He’s as pale as a corpse. As though he’s just come out of prison.’ And the fat man laughs, tickled by his own thought. But now Zoboli is even more troubled.

  There is a dark blue Mercedes sitting at the beginning of Via del Cavallo. It is a 280S, almost twenty years old, but it is still a fine car, and a few people have given it a second look as they passed, because you do not see many of them nowadays. And Zoboli is on the other side of the road, a cigarette in his mouth, lost in memories, uncertain whether to go the Bandieri to see for himself. Then he finally notices the car, with a man sitting inside, a man who may be looking straight at him. He is wearing sunglasses, that’s why he cannot be sure where he is looking, but he is sure he has never seen him before, has no idea who he is.

  But the car is familiar. And suddenly the worry rises, it catches his breath, dries up his mouth, and he tries to think it through, to keep the anxiety under control. And he says to himself it’s impossible, it can’t be true. Because the past is frightening, the past that everyone carries around inside, the past that no one goes looking for unless they are forced to. Forced by someone or by life. Is this what is happening now?

  So he decides. He crosses the road, but the man casually, almost as though he has not even seen him, starts the engine and drives off. The car moves out of sight round the corner, but Zoboli stands there for a long time, looking, his eyes staring ahead, as though the car is actually moving along a long, straight road and he can still see it gradually disappearing. In the end he snaps out of his thoughts and goes into a telephone booth.

  In the bedroom Miriam is packing a bag, preparing to drive the Seicento to Modena, where she will spend the night. She makes this trip once a week in summer, it is a routine now. She collects the post, checks the house, waters the plants. She goes through her mental list of the few necessary things: toothpaste, toothbrush, pyjamas… pyjamas, yes, best take those new cotton ones, they are at the bottom of the drawer. And by instinct, through that lucky train of thought that sometimes just happens to us, she thinks of another drawer, her husband’s this time, the bottom one in the chest of drawers, the one that has something particular at the bottom of it. But it is not a pair of pyjamas. It is something that is not here now, and yet she is rooting thoroughly, on her knees, red in the face, searching through the whole thing. She goes through Giulio’s underwear – pants, socks, vests – right to the bottom. That is where he keeps it, the pistol, he had even shown it to her – for legitimate self defence he had said. He could have taken it some time ago, she mutters, almost as though trying to convince herself that it is not important… or he could have taken it an hour ago, when he changed his shirt. And in that case… suddenly she feels worried and wishes he were back home already so that she could look into his eyes,
ask him so many things. But she knows, deep down, that this will not be possible. He will not be back soon. She finishes packing, the tension within her still high.

  At the Bandieri Ferrero goes up the stairs, almost running, frowning. With the key already in the door he does not notice the woman who has come out of another room and is standing behind him in the half-light of the corridor. When he turns he sees her there, motionless, and all he can really make out is the light colour of her face, her almost naked breasts and the red of her mouth. He understands immediately. ‘No thanks,’ he says quickly, in a whisper, mumbling the words. Then, still motionless behind him as he turns the key in the lock, she says in a strange, almost cruel voice, ‘Sure you’re not… ?’ And she lifts two fingers to her earlobe, in the classic Italian suggestion that he is gay. He smiles, unperturbed, and shakes his head. ‘No, it’s not that. I’m just in a hurry.’

  He locks himself in, pulls something out of his right-hand pocket and wraps it in a towel, which he then hides at the bottom of his wardrobe. Then he takes a leather-bound notebook from his bag and leaves again, moving rapidly. All this takes no longer than a minute.

  ‘Sorry to bother you. My name is Alberto Ferrero…’

  He had rung the bell twice before getting an answer and now an unfriendly Zoboli is looking at him through the half-open door.

  ‘… and it was Professor Mattioli at the University of Turin who gave me your name.’

  ‘With regard to?’

  ‘With regard to Antonio Delfini. He’s read your book. In fact, I’ve read it too…’

  ‘I see,’ Zoboli says, nodding approvingly. ‘Are you working on Delfini too?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ and he smiles. ‘I’m writing a monograph, for the Professor… a small introductory book, but I’m looking for some advice…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I read in a note in your book that there’s a Delfini collection, or something of that kind, at the Estense Library in Modena, and since I don’t have access to it and you’ve already studied it…’

  ‘You’d like some information.’ And Zoboli’s tone is now more relaxed, almost understanding. ‘I see, yes. But in the end you’ll still have to visit yourself, if you want to study the manuscripts critically.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But for now I’d just like some preliminaries, pointers in the right direction. To save time. What I mean is, are there unpublished letters, or plans for narrative works, ideas? Or perhaps even complete unpublished works, things that haven’t even appeared in journals…’

  ‘I can tell you all about that. We just have to look at my notes.’

  ‘Thank you… and apropos of journals, if there are any little-known magazines that published anything, maybe something Delfini published later, even years later, with textual differences. You know… variants and all that…’

  ‘That’s a trickier matter. Or it’s more difficult to say from memory. Let me think…’

  ‘Obviously later on I’ll have to take a look at these things personally, even if it’s just to transcribe them… any significant texts…’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ and Zoboli looks over the other man’s shoulders as he starts thinking. ‘Well, let’s do this… are you just passing through? Or are you here for a few days?’

  ‘For a few days. I’m on holiday.’

  ‘And where are you staying?’

  ‘Here in Guiglia, at the Hotel Bandieri.’

  ‘Good. Very good. I thought you’d perhaps come out from Modena…’

  ‘I’ve been to Modena. That’s how I discovered you were here.’

  ‘Let’s do this then,’ Zoboli is convinced now. ‘Come back this evening.’ He looks at his watch, thinks for a moment. ‘Let’s say, yes, nine thirty. In the meantime I’ll pull out all the notes I took for my book. We’ll see if they’re of any use.’ He stares as a doubt comes to him. ‘Is that alright?’

  ‘That’s fine by me. I just don’t want to be any bother…’

  ‘No trouble, believe me. My wife’s away until tomorrow and I’m here on my own. We’ll have all the time we need.’ And he smiles now, for the first time, as they shake hands. ‘It was high time someone from outside Modena paid some attention to Delfini. In truth I’d already tried in Turin, with Einaudi, for his diaries, but nothing ever came of it…’

  Zoboli’s expression is serious now as through the window he watches Ferrero leave. He picks up the telephone and dials the number from memory: ‘He’s just been here.’ His tone is decided, curt. ‘It’s him, there’s no doubt about it. He’s thinner, he’s grown a moustache, but it’s him alright. I told you before…’

  The other voice says something. It’s a question.

  ‘What do you mean, what shall we do? We’re in this together, don’t forget. Come here this evening… yes, to my house, just before nine. No, Miriam’s not here, she’s gone… we have to sort it all out, and we’ll do it together.’

  He hangs up, then lets out a long, slow sigh. Even if he does not really believe it, he feels some lightening of the tension now. Because this is the end of the deceit, of the doubt. No more hypotheses, conjectures: now there is some certainty. That is why he is not anxious when the phone rings. He is just a bit irritated. Perhaps the other man does not understand, perhaps he is scared.

  ‘Hello. How are you?’

  On the other end of the line, unmistakable, that French ‘r’. And her voice, the same as always, just like a little girl’s.

  ‘Ah… it’s you. Fine.’

  ‘Are you busy?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Because I can call back later if that would be better.’

  ‘No, no, really. Go ahead.’ But he says nothing else, as though preoccupied. And she picks up on this fact.

  ‘Are you angry?’

  ‘Why should I be angry?’

  ‘Because of yesterday afternoon. I couldn’t make it, I really couldn’t. I said yes on the phone, but then…’

  ‘I know. Or rather I imagined so. I waited for you…’

  ‘Did you wait long?’

  ‘Quite a long time. But it doesn’t matter. There’s no need to talk about it.’

  He wonders if she has taken the earring from her right earlobe. She always does that when she is on the phone.

  ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, I said. Water under the bridge.’

  ‘Shall I come over tonight?’

  He smiles and in the earpiece he can hear his own breath.

  ‘I could make amends…’ she adds.

  But now he is alarmed and his voice gives this away, ‘Tonight? No, we can’t…’

  ‘Why not? Miriam’s away, I know. Carlo’s away too… it wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Or is it just that you don’t feel like it?’

  God, what a pain. ‘No, that’s not it. I can’t this time…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because someone’s coming. Work… after supper… the university.’ He’s spoken rapidly, coldly, hoping she will not insist, hoping she might be offended, that she will not ask any more questions.

  ‘If it’s like that…’

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘No, that’s no good.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Miriam will be here tomorrow.’

  ‘But there are plenty of places we could go. Not just here, my house. That’s assuming you can make it…’

  ‘If I can’t, that makes us even.’

  ‘Sort of… come on, we’re not kids. It’s not out of spite. If I say I can’t, I can’t. It’s a job, if it doesn’t work out then I’m in trouble.’ He takes a breath and adds, ‘We’ll have other chances…’

  ‘Oh, of course… bye then.’

  ‘I’ll call you, alright?’

  But she has already hung up, and now she is there in the entrance, sitting on the bench, hands on her knees, trying to think. But she soon gives up. Because understanding is not easy, and it is not
easy chasing away the disappointment, the suspicion. The only thing to do, to rid herself of all her doubts, would be to go and see with her own eyes. Yes, she’ll think about that, she says to herself. Perhaps she really will go, perhaps she will not be brave enough. But she is already more composed now as she puts her earring back on and looks at her watch to see how long it will be before darkness falls.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A dead man

  At nine o’clock on Wednesday morning the Seicento pulls up at the end of Via Dante Alighieri. The woman who gets out leaves the engine running, unlocks the gates and opens them wide before getting back into the car, putting it into first gear and driving in over the crunching gravel. No sign of the Volvo, but she is not worried, it will be in the garage. He must be at home because he has finished that research work in Modena, at the Estense Library. Only now does she notice that the shutters are still closed, and she smiles. Perhaps he is still asleep.

  She turns off the engine, goes and closes the gate, then calmly turns round, leaving the car unlocked. She does not even consider ringing the bell, not wanting to wake him. The door is closed, of course, and she takes the house keys from her bag. But the door is not properly locked, it has only been pulled shut: that means he is certainly at home. Now she is uncertain whether to call out, to tell him she is back.

  But there is something not right. It is all too quiet. Only the insistent ticking of the pendulum from the clock in the entrance disturbs the stillness of the silence. The air is cold and carries no smell apart from the perfume of the flowers – there are lots of them in a vase on the shelf below the mirror, but suddenly she feels they give off a feeling of sadness. She chases that thought away – an absurdity – as she walks into the living room, waiting to hear a step, a voice.

  ‘Giulio?’

  She decided to call out, in the end, but the voice she hears in the half-light sounds strange, different. It seems hoarse, tinged with a slight thread of worry. She switches on the light and crosses the room, looking around, but there is nothing to see – all is silent, clean, just like yesterday. Now she ought to go up the stairs towards the rooms above, but something stops her – the light is on in her husband’s study, shining through the smoked glass. It is odd that he has left it on all night. And, standing there in front of the door, she wonders why; she decides to knock, almost out of shyness.