by Marco Vichi
The solitude and subtle melancholy that others might find disagreeable had become indispensable conditions for him. Even his customary walks in the hills might seem monotonous or tedious to some, but in fact they were profoundly different each time … The mood of the moment would merge with the colours and scents of the wood, which in turn changed with the seasons … There were always new things to see, and at every moment there was always the chance he might catch sight of an animal scampering away …
He got up very early that morning. After preparing his backpack, he drove off in the Beetle and went as far as La Panca. He’d decided to go for a long walk, by way of Celle, Ponte agli Stolli and Monte San Michele, all trails that until then he’d taken only in stages. The moment had come to put them all together in one great circuit.
The sky was overcast, and a pale bluish fog lingered between the trees. On the trail to Pian d’Albero he passed not far from the spot where the butcher had ‘committed suicide’, and again he had the feeling he’d set out on a difficult path with no way back. So, whose turn was it now? There were only two left … But how could he possibly … It was better to think things over calmly, perhaps let fate show the way.
Around midday he sat down to eat, leaning back against the wall of the tiny cemetery at Ponte agli Stolli, looking out over a broad valley and soft, tree-covered hills. Tossing the apple core aside in some bushes, he set out walking again, head full of thoughts. Thoughts were strange things. Past moments with no apparent connection to one another would stream by in succession like links in a chain … The face of a girl whose name he couldn’t remember … the death of his mother … the hot focaccia sprinkled with nuggets of sea salt he used to eat on the sunny beaches of Marina di Massa, after a long swim … Images of Eleonora merged with others of the murdered boy, wartime memories he’d thought long gone and buried passed before his eyes … Not even the animals he saw scampering through the trees could halt that journey through the past …
He got back home around four in the afternoon, his legs a shambles. All told he must have walked close to twenty miles, not smoking a single cigarette the whole time. He’d purposely left the packet at home, so he wouldn’t be tempted, but in reality he hadn’t once felt the need to go for a smoke.
After a hot bath he lit a fire and started reading beside it in the armchair, in the dim light of the kitchen. His books he always bought at Seeber’s shop, which with great effort had managed to reopen after the flood. The salesman was a young man not yet thirty, full of enthusiasm and with red pimples on his face. By now he always greeted Bordelli like a friend and gave him advice.
‘Do you know Lermontov?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t …’
‘You must read him, he’s a genius. Died at the age of twenty-seven in a duel, for the same reasons that prompt the protagonist of his only novel to challenge a fellow-soldier. I have a beautiful BUR edition from 1950.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘You should also read his unfinished novels, they’re unforgettable masterpieces that are hard to forget.’
‘Give me those, too.’
‘Do you like Dostoyevsky?’
‘I think I’ve only read Crime and Punishment and The Idiot.’
‘Did you like them?’
‘A lot.’
‘Did you know that part of The Idiot was actually written in Florence? During one of the journeys he made to Italy to flee his creditors. He was staying over by Palazzo Pitti … Have you ever read Notes from the Underground?’
‘No …’
‘How about The Eternal Husband?’
‘Neither.’
‘You must read both. You can tell me afterwards whether you agree with me.’
How had this kid managed to read all these books? Bordelli wondered with admiration. Every book he’d bought on the young man’s advice had been a revelation.
So now he was reading A Hero of Our Time, by Lermontov, while smoking his second cigarette of the day. After an initial section told in the third person – very good but still nineteenth-century in tone – came the surprise of the protagonist’s first-person diary, which read as if it had been written a century later. The young Russian’s ability to pull the reader into the story was breathtaking, and Bordelli lost himself in his daring adventures, which unfolded before him as in a film. He felt as excited as he used to do in childhood when listening to a fairy tale, and he actually forgot he had a book in his hands …
After a short while he realised that the fire needed more wood. Getting up with a groan he went and put another log between the andirons. While pouring himself half a glass of wine, he thought of something he should do. He wondered why he hadn’t done it already. He grabbed a pad and pen and sat down at the kitchen table.
Dear Eleonora, I have summoned the courage to write you this letter in the hope that …
He stopped and reread these few words, tore the page out, crumpled it up and threw it into the fire. He had to find a better opening … At least something less trite …
Dear Eleonora, Well, after such a long silence, here I am again …
That page ended up in the fireplace as well. Maybe it was better to open with a sorrowful statement, so she might understand …
Dear Eleonora, I cannot help but feel responsible for what …
Dreadful. Another balled-up piece of paper in the fire.
Dear Eleonora, It is not easy to find the words to …
No, it certainly wasn’t easy. Perhaps a lighter tone might be better, maybe even something a little playful? Something that left the past behind?
Dear Eleonora, Who knows how many boyfriends you must have by now …
No, no, no … Better start from the ugliest moment, just to get it out of the way.
Dear Eleonora, I shall never forget that terrible night when …
But what if she wanted never to hear any mention of it again?
Dear Eleonora, I have never stopped thinking of you …
Dear Eleonora, I hope that your life has …
Dear Eleonora, Today my desire to write to you has become …
Dear Eleonora, After this long silence …
But hadn’t he already written that sentence? Tearing out this umpteenth page from his notepad to feed it to the flames, he realised that there were none left. So he tossed the pad into the fire as well and dropped the pen on the table. He would never manage it. If he wanted to see Eleonora again, he would have to find another way, or else wait until something happened on its own. This, too, perhaps, was part of fate’s design. For now it was best to stop thinking about it.
He went over to the window to look out at the sky. It was clear and black and speckled with stars. The full moon was still low. At the top of the hill in front stood the silhouette of a castle with a high, slender tower, by now a familiar sight. As always, one of its windows was illuminated. Just one. Who knew who lived there … Maybe a beautiful woman who could help him forget the past. He fell back into the chair and resumed reading.
When he realised he was hungry he looked up and saw that it was already past eight o’clock. With the help of a fire-shovel he spread out a bed of hot coals in front of the fire, laid the cast-iron grill on top, and set two sausages and a pork chop down on it to cook. He’d bought them from the butcher in Impruneta, a glum old man who always smiled as he sliced meat and chopped bones. Even shopping had become fun for him. The shopowners seemed like characters out of the commedia dell’arte, and one always learned a great many things while awaiting one’s turn … Tonio had cut himself with a brush-hook, Cesira had chased after a fox that had stolen a hen, Ginetta had quarrelled with her neighbour over a black cat that was killing her baby rabbits …
He washed four potatoes and a couple of onions and covered them with embers. The flask of wine was almost finished. He went down to the cellar to fetch some more, and patiently removed the oil with a piece of oakum. He set the table with great care, aligning the cutlery and folding his napkin with precis
ion, a ritual that gave him a feeling of serenity. He turned on the television and, waiting for the second channel’s evening news report, went and sat inside the fireplace. Every so often he turned the meat over with a carving fork like some Dantean devil frying the souls of the damned on the grill of repentance, thinking that for the first time in his life he had no choice but to believe in fate.
The news report began, but he followed it only distractedly … Government declarations, gloomy images of the USSR, other foreign policy news, ongoing polemics over the flooding of Florence …
By the time he sat down at the table the news report was almost over. He was hungry as a wolf. He ate with gusto and was forever refilling his glass, perhaps to forget the notepad that had ended up in the fire.
The Carosello adverts programme began. He enjoyed watching the little stories promoting biscuits, canned meats and toothpaste. The beautiful Virna Lisi didn’t quite have the same effect on him that she used to. That must be because of Eleonora, who seemed even more beautiful to him than the movie star …
Being Tuesday, there were no films programmed, but the Nazionale was showing The Count of Monte Cristo at 9.30, which was in a few minutes. He finished what was on his plate and refilled his glass. After taking a long swig, he got up to get an apple, then changed channel and sat back down.
The serial began. He’d missed many of the prior episodes, and since he’d never read the book, he had trouble following the plot. He would rather have watched Lieutenant Sheridan with his gaunt face and white mackintosh … The man always managed to solve the most difficult cases in brilliant fashion … Sheridan had no need to resort to makeshift solutions to injustice, like certain police inspectors …
Leaving the television on, he cleared the table and washed up. He plopped into the armchair with a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Bacchus and tobaccus … The only thing missing was Eleonora. She had become an obsession. But he’d been through worse, like the time in February of ’44 in Monte Cassino, when he’d found himself face to face with …
The telephone rang and, with a shudder, he imagined it might actually be her, Eleonora … She was calling to ask him to come to her place at once, and he would dash into town to hold her in his arms again …
‘Hello?’
‘How are you, Inspector?’ The booming voice of Dante Pedretti was unmistakable.
‘Not bad, and yourself?’
He hadn’t heard from him for a while. The last time Bordelli had spoken to him was probably when he called him to give him his new phone number. Dante lived in Mezzomonte, a few kilometres from Impruneta on the Via di Pozzolatico, in a large farmhouse surrounded by countryside. They were neighbours now.
‘Have anything important to do tonight?’ asked Dante.
‘I had an invitation to the royal palace, but I declined.’
‘You were right to. Are you alone?’
‘Except for a few owls and wild boar …’
‘Do you feel like displacing your bodily mass to come and have a drink at my place?’
‘I’d love to …’
‘So you, too, have converted to the country,’ said Dante, cigar between his teeth and smoking, as he poured grappa into two small glasses. In the half-light of the vast underground laboratory illuminated only by candles, his gigantic shadow looked like a bear’s, though there was something refined in his movements. The great work table was cluttered as usual with papers covered with designs and formulas, open books, alchemical alembics, tools of every kind and obscure objects that led one to imagine all sorts of fantastical adventures of the mind.
‘I took your advice,’ said Bordelli.
‘Never follow the advice of a crazy old man, Inspector.’
Dante set his glass down and took a seat opposite Bordelli, his long, snow-white hair rising up over his head like a flame.
‘I’m not an inspector any more …’ said Bordelli.
‘What does that matter? Words are mere air … Flatus vocis …’
‘Sometimes they can kill, as the proverb says,’ Bordelli muttered, thinking of the last words he heard Eleonora utter on the night of the rape … Leave me alone, I’m fine … She’d got out of the car and he never saw her again.
‘If you were a character in a novel, at this moment it would read: His face was the picture of melancholy …’
‘Do you believe in fate?’ Bordelli asked, almost without thinking.
Dante started staring into space, pulling on his cigar a few times to keep it from going out. Clouds of dense smoke rose up towards the ceiling.
‘I must admit in all humility that I’ve never got to the bottom of the question,’ he said, bobbing his great white head around.
‘Now and then I feel as if I believe in it,’ Bordelli continued.
‘Seeking an explanation for what happens is man’s most ancient vice … A volcano erupts? The wrath of the gods. The plague mows down victims faster than a scythe? God’s punishment. Fate is one of the infinite variants of this.’
‘Can I change the subject?’ asked Bordelli, spurred by the subtle desire to delve further into the wounds of his own conscience.
‘You can even make Pindar your general, if you like,’ said Dante, visibly pleased.
‘Imagine you knew …’ Realising he’d drunk all his grappa, he stopped. He stood up to get reinforcements himself. He refilled the glasses and remained standing.
‘You were saying, Inspector?’
‘Imagine a man who has committed some horrible crimes … Atrocious, unacceptable things … A vile, despicable man … But, lucky for him, nobody knows anything, and Justice is unable to make him pay for his acts.’
‘Nothing unusual, in short …’
‘Exactly. But now imagine you’re the only person who knows the truth about this man, and who knows for certain that no court will ever be able to convict him … Unless he were to confess, which of course will never happen … In short, you’re the only person in a position to settle accounts. You and no one else. Would you leave things as they are, or would you …’
‘Would I what?’
‘If you killed that man, would you feel like a murderer?’ Bordelli concluded, staring him fixedly in the eye. Dante pulled on his now spent cigar, relit it, and blew the smoke upwards. He remained silent for a long time, looking inspired, and finally resolved to speak.
‘The hypocritical answer would be: I hope I never find myself in such a situation. If you want a heroic answer: I would kill him and bear the weight of my hallowed crime. But if you prefer the straightforward approach, then: I’d kill him like a dog with no regrets. I’ll spare you the rest. But the truth of the matter is that I don’t know what to say, and I must admit that this doesn’t bother me …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The older I get, the more I like not having any answers.’
‘I’ll have to think about that.’
‘And now don’t you want to tell me what’s hiding behind this little story of yours?’
‘Oh, never mind that, I was just curious.’
‘Even my cigar doesn’t believe you.’
‘Pretend you just listened to a fairy tale …’
‘Fairy tales always end with the unreal triumph of Good over Evil, but they always contain great truths as well. Snow White being revived by Prince Charming’s kiss could never be true, but the Queen’s envy is something we can see with our own eyes every day. No hunter will kill the wolf and save Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother, but it’s also true that if you’re naïve the big bad wolf will indeed eat you up … So what is the truth behind your fairy tale? Who is this wicked man you’re talking about?’ asked Dante, slouching in his armchair like an indolent child.
Bordelli calmly sat back down and lit a cigarette. It was only his fourth of the day.
‘During the war I personally killed twenty-seven Nazis, and each time I carved a notch in the butt of my machine gun so as not to lose track. I killed them in a variety of
ways, with the machine gun, with a knife, a couple of times with my bare hands, looking them straight in the eye. I never once felt like a murderer. Unfortunately, in war, the uniform forces us to generalise … Once I happened to kill a very young German soldier, and to judge from what he’d written on his helmet, he seemed to have renounced Nazism … But I’d seen the SS ferociously massacre defenceless people, even babies, with my own eyes. All I wanted to do was to get rid of them. Some people are pardoned for their crimes … I’ll never be so lucky, for some things …’
‘And so this habit of yours has stuck with you …’ Dante commented, putting a leg up on the arm of his chair.
‘Let’s just say I feel a strong need to respect the classic ending of the fairy tale, where the bad guy is defeated.’
‘I find your eternally childish soul rather touching,’ said Dante, erupting into powerful laughter. Even Bordelli couldn’t suppress a smile.
‘Unfortunately the rest of me has aged,’ he said, downing his glass like a Russian.
‘So what? Old age is nothing compared to death.’
‘That makes me feel a lot better.’
‘Another grappa?’
‘Thanks …’
‘Verily I say unto you, hold out your glass, and it shall be filled,’ Dante declaimed. It was clear he was curious to know more about this ‘fairy tale’, but he was too discreet to insist any further.
They started talking about other things, jumping from old childhood memories to the effort of hoeing one’s garden, ranging blithely from the magical beauty of the moon to the foundations of morality according to Schopenhauer …
‘Compassion, dear Inspector, compassion … Hardly a groundless categorical imperative … Compassion is the prime root of morality … Nobody grasped this as well as friendly old Arthur …’
