by Marco Vichi
‘I bet it’s not your idea.’
‘You’re wrong. I had to quarrel with Marianna to invite you. She can’t stand primitive men,’ said the doctor. Bordelli could hear Marianna’s voice in the background protesting, ‘It’s not true! … It’s not true!’
‘All women are liars,’ said Diotivede.
‘You wouldn’t happen to be doing the cooking?’ Bordelli asked.
‘That’s a loaded question …’
‘I wouldn’t want to find any human meat on my plate.’
‘Now that you got that terribly witty quip out of your system, could you please tell me whether you’re coming to dinner or staying at home to talk to your spider?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m coming … But only because Marianna’s there.’
‘What, no chicken?’ asked Diotivede as Bordelli stepped into the house.
‘I invited them all, but they declined.’
‘If you can’t even make it with chickens …’
‘I do better with geese,’ said Bordelli, taking his coat off. Marianna appeared, smiling and radiant, in the entrance hall, wearing a kitchen apron.
‘Always talking about women, you two,’ she said, shaking her guest’s hand.
‘He started it,’ said Bordelli, like a bratty child.
‘I bet you were always the first in school to snitch,’ said the doctor, glaring at him from behind his spectacles.
They sat down in the living room, where a bottle of red wine and some small cubes of Parmesan cheese speared with toothpicks awaited them. Marianna was a truly exceptional woman. She maintained her elegance no matter what she did, like a queen. She was full figured, like a Greek statue. Her dark eyes stood out like polished stones in her fine-featured, actress’s face, the whole framed by long chestnut hair. Bordelli was utterly charmed. If he didn’t still have Eleonora on his mind, he would be in danger of falling in love. Diotivede eyed him with an amused air, guessing what he was thinking. Suddenly he got up from the sofa and went to the door.
‘I’m going to say goodnight to my granddaughter. I’m leaving you alone with my lady friend, so behave,’ he said, bounding out of the room with a youthful step. The corpse-cutter wore his seventy-four years well. Bordelli drew near to Juno and lowered his voice.
‘Let’s run away, Marianna …’ he said. She looked at him for a moment in shock, then burst out laughing. Bordelli pretended to be offended.
‘I’m serious. I have a beautiful house in the country, and soon I’ll have a vegetable garden …’ he whispered.
Marianna laughed again and got up and went to the kitchen, followed by Bordelli’s admiring gaze. A few minutes later the doctor appeared in the doorway and looked at him suspiciously.
‘I can only guess what you said to her, to make her laugh like that.’
‘It was nothing of any concern to you …’ said Bordelli. At that moment Marianna came in and set a steaming soup tureen down on the table.
‘He said we should run away together,’ she said, still smiling.
‘Don’t trust him, he says that to all the girls,’ said the doctor.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ she said, inviting the two rivals to sit at the table in the small dining area.
She served the first course and they started eating. Aside from being beautiful and intelligent, Marianna was a good cook. A miracle of a woman. Bordelli didn’t miss a chance to goad Diotivede, expressing his unending astonishment at such an unbalanced human pairing. The doctor laughed under his breath, savouring the subtle envy that lay beneath Bordelli’s needlings.
After supper they went back into the sitting room. Diotivede served an excellent vin santo and sat down beside his woman. His snow-white, close-cropped hair seemed to give off a light of its own. Nobody spoke, and Bordelli sensed a slight tension in the air. He noticed that Marianna and the doctor kept exchanging meaningful glances, smiles playing on their lips.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked, peering at them.
Diotivede shrugged. ‘Nothing … We just wanted to tell you we’re getting married.’
‘You’re kidding, of course,’ Bordelli muttered incredulously, eyes flitting from one to the other.
‘Not at all,’ the doctor said serenely.
‘Don’t do it, Marianna … This man spends his days rifling through human entrails …’ Bordelli said as though serious. She looked at her man with the sweetest of smiles.
‘I know Peppino’s a brute,’ she said, stroking the back of his neck.
‘Don’t do it, Marianna. You can have any man you want, young, handsome … Just one glance and they’ll fall at your feet. What are you going to do with an old corpse-cutter?’ Bordelli continued, still as though serious. The doctor was leaning back on the sofa with legs crossed and an insolent look on his face.
‘As I said, my dear, Franco is a true friend,’ he said, serene as an emperor after a victorious battle. But Bordelli wasn’t done yet.
‘Just think it over, Marianna. It’s a sacrilege … An aesthetic one, and even an ethical one.’
‘Thank you,’ she said without irony.
‘Have I persuaded you?’
‘No, actually, on the contrary, you’ve allowed me to give a higher meaning to my feelings.’
‘Okay, I give up …’ said Bordelli, throwing his hands up. Diotivede was grinning like an obnoxious child.
‘Now that you’ve finished your comedy routine, can I ask you to be a witness at our wedding?’
‘After what I just said?’
‘For that very reason.’
‘So this is revenge …’
‘Call it what you will,’ said the doctor, looking at him with compassion.
Marianna gave Bordelli a luminous smile. ‘There’s something else we have to tell you … My family knows nothing. We’re getting married in secret.’
‘Really …’
‘I’d rather avoid pointless disputes.’
‘So I’m not the only one who’s against it …’
‘I may announce it after it’s done, or maybe not …’ said Marianna.
‘My relatives, on the other hand, will find out straight away,’ said the doctor.
‘I repeat. This marriage must not take place …’10 Bordelli insisted. But it was no use.
‘Do you have a reliable woman friend who could be my witness?’ the future bride asked.
‘I could ask Rosa.’
‘What a nice name …’
‘She’s a very dear friend, but I should tell you straight away … Until the Merlin law was passed,11 she worked in brothels.’
‘That’s not a problem for me at all,’ said Marianna, looking over at Peppino.
‘I’m actually glad,’ said Diotivede.
‘Good. When is the wedding?’
‘July the fourteenth. The storming of the Bastille.’
‘Yes, I know. I went to school, too.’
‘One never can tell,’ said the doctor.
‘Does this date have some other hidden meaning?’ asked Bordelli.
‘As many as you like,’ said Marianna, smiling.
‘And where will this insane ceremony take place?’
‘At the little church in Luiano,’ said the doctor.
‘And where’s that?’
‘Near your place.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Along a sort of mule path that runs from il Ferrone to Mercatale.’
‘And why did you happen to choose that church?’
‘Because afterwards we’ll come to your house to celebrate,’ said Diotivede, as if it were obvious.
‘Ah, I see …’
‘It’ll be your wedding present.’
‘Sorry, I’d forgotten …’
‘We don’t need much – there won’t be very many of us, maybe twenty people at the most. Three or four salamis, a leg of ham, two or three rounds of pecorino, a nice bit of fruit, and bread and wine in abundance. And if you feel like buying a few bottles of champagne …’
/> ‘Good thing it’s not for another four months; that’ll give me all the time I need to prepare myself spiritually to witness the biggest mistake ever made by a woman.’
‘Don’t start up again, you’re likely to make a fool of yourself …’ said Diotivede, as his future wife caressed his stubbly cheek. There was nothing to be done about it: they were like two adolescents in love for the first time. At around midnight Bordelli decided to leave the two lovebirds to themselves. He took elegant leave of Marianna, bowing and kissing her hand. Who knew what Marianna would have thought had she known that a week earlier her future husband’s friend had shot a man in the mouth … After exchanging a nod of goodbye with Diotivede, he headed out on to the garden path.
‘Don’t do it, Marianna … There’s still time …’ he said in a loud voice. He heard them laugh, and then the door closed.
He got into his Beetle and drove down by way of the Erta Canina, slipping into the light fog enveloping the trees’ black trunks.
While driving up the Imprunetana he thought he would never marry, not even were he to find the woman of his dreams. He couldn’t say exactly why; he just knew he would never do it … even though he wasn’t always consistent, and he didn’t really mind the idea, deep down. It was the only way to be surprised in life. And at any rate, the important thing was to be consistent in the present, not over time … As a woman had once said to him, as she was leaving him.
As he drove through the central square of Impruneta, he cast a glance, as usual, at the basilica, where in all likelihood his funeral would be held one day … Bloody hell, why did he always have to think such cheerful things? Once he was outside the town he decided that if he saw the hare again that night, it would mean that fate was on his side … A silly game, but maybe not entirely …
Minutes later he turned on to the dirt road that led to his house, hoping to see destiny itself. He advanced slowly, at a walking pace, gaze fixed on the band of light from his high beam … And all at once he saw it and, shuddering, he stopped the car. It was still the same hare, he was sure of it. It had frozen in the middle of the road with its ears straight up and eyes wide open, blinded by the brights. It sat there without moving, for longer than usual, as if it knew … Then without warning it scampered away …
At one o’clock he was sitting alone in a trattoria in Via de’ Macci, at the table farthest from the door. The other tables were occupied by carters and craftsmen from the neighbourhood. They were talking loudly of football, women, and every so often the flood that had reduced so many families to poverty …
Who knew whether Gianfranco Cecconi Marini knew where Via de’ Macci was. Bordelli ordered half a litre of red, telling the waiter that another person would be coming. He’d spent the morning hiking along the paths near his home, avoiding the ‘groom’, and now had a painfully empty stomach.
Waiting for Signorino Gianfranco, he thought of Ortensia. If she didn’t call by the following day, he would call her back himself. He was also curious to see what she looked like, and tried to picture her in his mind. She had a velvety voice over the phone, which led him to imagine a beautiful woman …
Gianfranco arrived twenty minutes late with both of his surnames and endless apologies. Tall, slender, well dressed, with watery green eyes that made one think of a lamb. He must have been about forty years old, but had a child’s face. He pretended not to notice that everyone was looking at him. With graceful movements, he took off his Loden overcoat, folded it over the back of a chair, and laid his soft, white scarf on top of it. As he sat down he looked at the table settings with a lightly disgusted air, and at that moment the owner of the trattoria came up to the table.
‘So, what can I bring you? Some nice steak, blood rare?’
‘Good heavens, no …’ said Gianfranco in a falsetto. The host looked at him askance, exchanging a glance with Bordelli.
‘You got something against steak, golden boy?’
‘I can’t stand blood.’
‘Then I’ll make it well done …’
‘No, please … No steak, no …’
‘Sausage and spare ribs?’
‘Mamma mia!’ Gianfranco shrieked politely in distaste. He really seemed to be one of those types that Bordelli felt like slapping around. At last he found something that didn’t turn his stomach: spaghetti with olive oil and a salad. As soon as the innkeeper left, Bordelli asked Gianfranco Cecconi Marini to tell him about his friend Orlando.
‘Why do you want to know about Orlando? Has something happened?’ Gianfranco asked, suspicious.
‘I’d rather tell you later, if you don’t mind.’
‘All right, I can wait …’
‘Were you close friends?’
‘Very close,’ said Gianfranco. They’d first met at the Liceo Dante, immediately bonded and remained friends for life. They saw each other almost every day. With the addition of Neri Bargioni Tozzi they became an inseparable threesome. When Orlando took his own life, he and Neri fell into despair …
‘Did he ever confide to you that he was in danger, or perhaps afraid of someone?’ Bordelli asked.
‘No …’
‘His job at the law firm was going all right?’
‘He seemed rather happy with it.’
‘Did he ever talk to you about the two law partners?’
‘Now and then … He considered them a couple of prehistoric beasts,’ said Gianfranco. He sniffed his wine without drinking it and, wrinkling his nose, put the glass as far away from him as possible.
Bordelli was observing him with curiosity. Against all expectation, he was starting to like the man.
‘Do you remember the last time you saw him?’
‘It was two days before the tragedy, a Thursday, I think … The three of us got into my Jaguar and drove to Settignano, to a party of some friends.’
‘Orlando seemed untroubled?’
‘He was the way he always was.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Not very talkative, a bit gloomy …’ said Gianfranco, searching for other words but not finding them. At the table beside them, a guy with a boxer’s nose made a vulgar comment about women and burst out laughing, teeth covered with tomato sauce. Gianfranco looked at him with a combination of wonder and fear, as if he’d seen a great ape getting upset in a flimsy cage. Bordelli refilled his own glass.
‘I know Orlando had a girlfriend. She didn’t come with you to the party?’
‘Ortensia never came to parties; her parents were against it. At any rate, they were no longer together at the time. She’d left him a few weeks before that …’
‘How did Orlando take it?’
‘Very badly, but he was able to joke about it. He wasn’t the type to cry his eyes out over such things,’ said Gianfranco, proud of his friend.
‘Did you know Ortensia well?’
‘I saw her only a few times …’
‘Do you know why she left him?’
‘Orlando didn’t talk about it … I can only say that she seemed to be very jealous.’
The host arrived with the dishes, and before walking away he cast a glance of commiseration at the plate with spaghetti dressed in oil. Bordelli started devouring his filet like a wolf, accompanying it with a lot of bread. Gianfranco took a while to get acquainted with his spaghetti, but in the end he let himself go. He would raise the fork to his mouth ever so delicately, barely leaning forward. Bordelli decided to leave him in peace, but only for a few minutes.
‘Getting back to that Thursday evening … Did Orlando seem normal? Did he say anything to you? Mention anything strange, express any bitterness … Anything at all …?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Did he seem to have fun? Did you see him dancing?’
‘Orlando never danced. At parties he would just flit among the guests with a glass in his hand, watching the girls …’
‘So nothing out of the ordinary …’
‘All I remember from that evening was that he’d had a bit t
oo much to drink and fell asleep in the car on the drive back to town.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘It didn’t happen very often.’
‘Have you ever yourself wondered why he killed himself?’
‘I still think about it sometimes, and I still can’t understand it,’ said Gianfranco, fork in midair.
‘Couldn’t he have done it over Ortensia?’
‘I don’t think so, it doesn’t seem possible, but who knows? … Can you tell me now what’s happened?’
‘What if I were to tell you that Orlando was murdered?’
‘Murdered?’ Gianfranco said softly, upset.
‘I’m just saying it hypothetically. Let’s presume for a moment that it was murder … Who could have wanted him dead?’
‘Nobody! He was a fabulous chap!’ Gianfranco asserted, increasingly astonished.
‘So he never got into trouble of any sort?’
‘Not that I know of. But that wouldn’t be like him.’
‘Do you still see your friend Neri?’
‘He’s been living in Paris for years. We talk sometimes by telephone, and we meet two or three times a year.’
‘Could you give me his number?’
‘He’ll tell you the same things I’ve just done.’
‘I’d still like to have a little chat,’ said Bordelli. He searched in his jacket pocket for a pen, then wrote down Neri’s number on a matchbox.
They carried on talking about Orlando, but nothing of any importance came up. Gianfranco seemed glad to recount anecdotes of his deceased friend, and he even smiled sometimes.
Bordelli asked for the bill well after the other customers had cleared out. He insisted on paying, ignoring Gianfranco’s polite protests. They went out to the street and shook hands.
‘I really enjoyed talking about Orlando,’ Gianfranco said, his eyes moist. He then headed in the direction of Santa Croce, stumbling on the uneven cobblestones of Via de’ Macci. Bordelli stood there and watched him, thinking he would probably never see him again.
He didn’t feel like going straight home, so he started walking towards the centre of town, forcing himself not to smoke. It was quite cold. The thick black band running along the building façades at various heights was now a familiar sight to Florentines, and nobody seemed to pay it any mind. But a variety of shops and craftmen’s workshops still had no functioning metal shutters, as these had been destroyed by the waters, and it was anybody’s guess whether they would ever reopen. Only the wealthiest shopowners had managed to come back to life …
