by Marco Vichi
‘I wanted to ask you whether you saw anything that day … Anything … I don’t know … unusual … Anything at all?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m trying to understand some things … Let’s just say I’m working for the contessa.’
‘Ah …’
‘Did you see anything strange that day?’
‘One sees so many things …’
‘So you did see something?’
‘What can I say? I don’t think so …’
‘Think hard … Did you see, say, a car you didn’t recognise drive by, along the road to the castle?’
‘I don’t remember, but I would’ve noticed something like that.’
‘So you saw nothing, in short,’ Bordelli pressed, not having fully understood.
‘Nothing …’ said the old man, shrugging.
‘Is this the contessa’s land?’
‘On this side it all belongs to the contessa, as far as the wood down there.’
It was a vast estate.
‘Thank you, sorry to trouble you.’
‘No trouble at all …’ the peasant muttered, and after gesturing goodbye, he started up his motor again.
Bordelli went back up the path to his car. It wasn’t as if he really hoped to find anything out from the local peasants, but he wanted to leave no stone unturned. Also because no investigation had been conducted at the time of the crime, and so even now, perhaps with a bit of luck …
He made the rounds of the other farms, even talking to the same peasants who had given him the chicken droppings and everything else, but nobody could recall having seen anything unusual on the day Orlando died. Only a toothless old hag mentioned a light she’d seen that night in the middle of the woods, though it wasn’t on the night of the tragedy, but the following night. She remembered it well because for a moment she’d thought, with a shudder, It’s the soul of poor Count Orlando who can find no peace, poor dear … But she knew well that it might be a boar hunter as well. In those days they often used to go around with torches, and they still did sometimes.
Bordelli got home feeling tired, as the sun was setting over the horizon. It was never quite so pleasant going back to his den when he lived in San Frediano.
After hastily watering the garden, he turned to the ritual of the fire. As he watched the flames climbing higher and higher, he wished he could reread the poem Orlando had written to his father. Why, indeed, hadn’t he kept the notebook? Nobody was ever going to find that safe anyway …
Before sitting down in the armchair, he phoned the bar in Piazza Tasso.
‘Ciao, Fosco … Is Ennio there by any chance?’
‘He hasn’t come in today, Inspector … He usually shows up around eight …’
‘Could you ask him please to give me a ring?’
‘Of course …’
‘Don’t forget – it’s important.’
‘Don’t worry, Inspector.’
‘Thanks, Fosco. ’Bye now,’ said Bordelli, hanging up.
He got comfortable beside the fire, book in hand. He didn’t feel like thinking about Orlando. It would be better to wait until tomorrow and start over with a clear head. And there was no point at all in thinking about Eleonora. He wanted only to find a little peace, get engrossed in the novel and free his mind of everything else … After ten pages, he closed his eyes and was already snoring …
The ringing of the phone woke him up, wrenching him out of an obsessive dream in which the same scene kept repeating over and over. For a few seconds he sat there in a daze, staring into the void, as the phone kept ringing. Finally he got up and staggered to pick up.
‘Hello …’
‘Back from the grave, Inspector?’ asked Botta, against a background of voices and billiards.
‘Hi, Ennio … I’d dozed off …’
‘Fosco said you were looking for me.’
‘Yes …’
‘Has something happened? Need some locks picked?’
‘Nothing like that, I’m sorry to say … I only wanted to ask if you would … I was thinking of having a dinner party for my birthday …’
‘That’s all?’
‘It’s an event of monumental importance.’
‘When is your birthday?’
‘The second of April.’
‘Then there’s time, Inspector …’ said Botta, as though speaking to an impatient child.
‘Of course, but I wanted to do the cooking … I’d like to practise a little … Think you could write down a few recipes for me?’
‘Good God, are you sure about that?’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t learn to cook by reading recipes, Inspector. It’s a question of sensitivity.’
‘I’m the most sensitive man in the world,’ Bordelli said quite seriously.
‘As you wish, Inspector … I’ll bring you a few very simple recipes …’
‘Don’t underestimate me, Ennio. Even difficult dishes are okay; I think I can manage.’
‘When do you need them by?’ asked Botta, sighing.
‘The sooner the better.’
‘I’ll see what I can do …’
‘You’ll be rewarded in heaven.’
‘Will you be at home Sunday morning?’
‘I think so.’
‘By the way, Inspector … I’d almost forgotten …’ Botta whispered into the receiver, which he’d brought closer to his mouth.
‘What is it?’
‘About that thing we discussed … Be ready … Unless you’ve changed your mind …’
‘I said I’d do it and I will.’
‘Good …’
‘Milan?’
‘Yes …’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘As long as it’s not the second of April. You’re invited, too.’
‘You wouldn’t dare not invite me … Gotta go now, Inspector … Some punk from Ponte di Mezzo has challenged me at the billiards table …’
‘Go and do your stuff.’
‘I’m gonna make him cry and send him home in his knickers,’ said Botta, before going off to take care of business.
It was almost nine. Bordelli turned on the telly and started cooking dinner, distractedly glancing at what remained of the evening news. Penne with tomato sauce, grilled pork chop, salad … Simple things anyone could make. But for his birthday he wanted a special menu, and he had confidence in Ennio’s recipes. Who knew why he suddenly had this mania for cooking. Maybe eating in Totò’s kitchen for years and watching him always at work had passed the sacred fire on to him … For no apparent reason he thought of Eleonora, but he quickly chased her from his thoughts …
Watching Carosello out of one eye, he continued his preparations, humming the refrain of a Rita Pavone song. After setting the table, he put the pasta in the water. While waiting for it to cook, he went outside and around the house to look at the darkened countryside. The sky was black and pierced with millions of stars. The hilltops were barely visible, and the dark silhouette of the castle seemed to undulate in the night. All at once the snarling frenzy of two boar fighting echoed in the distance … They sounded like devils …
He returned home in mid-afternoon, after a long walk through the hills of Cintoia. The temperature had increased, and he was sweating like a cyclist. He hadn’t removed his jacket yet when the phone rang.
‘Hello, you ugly gorilla.’
‘I’m not ugly, Rosa.’
‘Then, hello, gorilla … When are you going to come and see me?’
‘Soon, Rosa …’
‘Why not right now?’
‘I’m a wreck, I’ve been out walking all day.’
‘Come on, I feel depressed …’ said Rosa in a little-girl voice.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know … Why don’t you take me to the movies?’
‘It’s Saturday. It’ll be too crowded …’ said Bordelli, who couldn’t wait to start reading by the fire.
‘Then I’ll wait for you; you’re such a sweetheart … But don’t take all day, okay?’ said Rosa, hanging up before he could object.
Bordelli stood there with his mouth agape and the telephone in his hand … He started laughing … He’d been had, as usual.
He went to run a bath, and moments later immersed himself in the scalding hot water. He had no desire to go down to the city and trudge through the crowds, but he didn’t want to disappoint Rosa. And, anyway, he liked a good movie as much as anyone. Since he had all the solitude he could ever want these days, seeing people every so often wasn’t such a big deal, as he had the comfort of knowing that at the end of the day he would return to the quiet of his big country house.
He lingered in the tub less than usual, so as not to be late. As he was drying off he looked at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and he didn’t feel like doing so now, either. He kept looking at himself. It was one of those rare days when he thought he didn’t look so bad. Despite his little afternoon naps and the wrinkles, he didn’t feel like a poor old sod, the way he did when he lived in town. He no longer pictured himself living out his days drinking lukewarm broth with a blanket over his knees, or spending Sunday afternoons playing bingo at some club. Was it thanks to the country life? Or was it the spring, which had been quickening the blood of all living beings for millions of years?
He hummed while getting dressed, and then went down into the kitchen. The hot bath had revived him. He opened the copy of La Nazione on the table, and after a quick glance at the cinema programmes, he went out of the house.
It was a beautiful day, and there was still over an hour of sunlight left. Driving through the main square of Impruneta, he saw only some peasant folk, dressed in their Sunday best, chatting under the arches of the church, around the well and outside the bar. No women anywhere. And not a hint of any young people.
He entered Florence and parked in Via dei Neri with his wheels on the pavement. In that quarter the signs of the flood were still so much in evidence that it looked as if the Arno had burst its banks just the day before.
He rang the buzzer and went into the stairwell, to call up to Rosa that he would wait for her downstairs. Pacing outside the front door, he lit a cigarette, resigned to waiting who knew how long. Rosa surprised him, coming down after just a few minutes. She was made up and decked out in very showy fashion, tottering on her stilt-like heels, and emitting pungent clouds of perfume.
‘I decided to dress up like a whore,’ she said, smiling.
‘That’s not your style.’
‘Silly …’ said Rosa, taking his arm and trying to drag him away to the centre of town, but Bordelli dug in like a mule.
‘At the Ideale they’re showing Action Man with Jean Gabin … I like films about burglars.’
‘Out of the question … You invited me, so I get to decide on the movie …’
‘Actually …’ Bordelli tried to say.
‘We’re going to the Gambrinus.’
‘To see what?’
‘Barefoot in the Park … And don’t make that face … A friend of mine said it was very charming … And it has that handsome actor …’
‘Handsome to you …’
‘Jealous?’
‘Of what? Nobody’s more handsome than me.’
‘Good God … Did you see that poor woman?’ said Rosa indicating a woman passing by on the pavement opposite them.
‘No, what did she do?’
‘She ran into a pole, turning to look at you,’ and she burst out laughing.
‘That actually used to happen, way back when,’ said Bordelli, staring into space nostalgically.
‘You mean when everyone still rode horses?’ She laughed again, hand over her mouth.
‘Didn’t you say you were feeling down?’
‘I’ve been very down, but that’s no reason not to have fun.’
‘Is that why you’re cackling like a chicken?’ said Bordelli, prolonging the scuffle.
‘But I am a chicken … Cackle-cackle, cluck-cluck …’ And she kept on laughing, finally grabbing on to him to keep from falling off her spiked heels. People were turning around to look at them, and Bordelli amused himself pretending he was a pimp taking one of his girls out for a stroll …
‘Well, don’t complain … You’ve had more women than Casanova …’ said Rosa, trying to pinch his nose.
‘And every one of them left me.’
‘There must be a reason …’
After looking at him sarcastically, she burst out laughing again. They crossed Piazza della Signoria, swimming through a sea of people … Boisterous youths, little families from the provinces, couples of all ages. Rosa kept laughing; she seemed drunk.
‘You’re hands are a mess, you really seem like a peasant. Hey, could you get me a bunch of onions?’
More laughter.
‘I fenced off my vegetable garden the other day,’ said Bordelli, looking at his hands.
They got to the Gambrinus in time for the six o’clock show. People were streaming out of the cinema, next to the crowd queuing up to go in.
‘Listen, Rosa, I hope you’re not going to start laughing during the movie …’ he whispered in her ear.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be okay in a minute,’ said Rosa, trying to remain serious. At last they came to the ticket counter, where there was an enormous woman with long black hair that looked as if it was strangling her. Bordelli asked for two tickets, as Rosa tickled his ear with her long, painted fingernails. The cashier stared at them as though trying to work out who those two strange people were. If she did that with everyone, by the end of the day she must have been dead tired.
The cinema was already almost full, and they barely succeeded in finding two places in the gallery. Smoke rose slowly from the orchestra seats. The lights went off and the crowd fell silent. After an endless newsreel in black and white, the first credits appeared, and at last the film began …
It was in fact a rather amusing comedy … Bordelli would have preferred Gabin the Action Man, though Jane Fonda wasn’t bad at all.
Rosa had stopped giggling. She followed the on-screen action with her lips half open and a charming smile in her eyes.
‘See how cute he is? He’s in love …’ she said out of the blue, thinking she was speaking softly. Hisses of protest immediately rose up from the smoke-enveloped crowd.
‘Rosa, you’re not supposed to talk at the movies,’ Bordelli whispered.
‘I wasn’t talking,’ she practically yelled, and a cross voice told her to be quiet. Bordelli brought his mouth almost up against her ear.
‘Stop talking, please. Let’s watch the film.’
As the story got going, the dialogue became wittier and wittier. Whenever there was a close-up of Redford, he could sense the women in the theatre squirming in silence. Every so often Rosa squeezed his arm, but she kept her lips sealed tight, so he could see she wouldn’t dare so much as breathe.
After the long-awaited happy ending, the lights came on as the closing credits rolled by on the screen. With an air of satisfaction, the crowd moved slowly through the clouds of smoke towards the exits, crossing paths with the incoming crowd in search of satisfaction.
They started strolling through the streets of downtown Florence, under a vast, black sky with few stars. The pavements were mobbed, cars and motorbikes streamed in every direction, and every so often one saw an old man on a bicycle. It was less cold than the previous days, but Rosa was shivering the whole time. She walked straight ahead in her spiked heels, hanging on Bordelli’s arm, her blond hair shining in the light of the street lamps.
‘It’s strange to go into a movie theatre when it’s light out and then to come back out when it’s dark,’ she said, innocent as a little girl.
‘I’ve always liked that.’
‘Look at that one there … If you ask me, that’s one you could fall in love with …’ she whispered, gesturing with her eyes in the direction of a dark brunette clicking he
r heels with great authority.
‘Very pretty,’ Bordelli admitted.
‘You’re old enough to be her father,’ said Rosa, pinching his arm.
‘You’re the one who … Anyway, all I said was that she was pretty,’ he said in his own defence, thinking the girl must be more or less the same age as Eleonora.
‘And what about that blonde lady down there?’
‘Certainly attractive, but not my type …’
‘In my opinion they’re all your type,’ said Rosa, laughing.
She kept pointing out to him the pretty women passing by, elbowing him in the ribs. In the end he risked getting a stiff neck.
‘You hungry?’ Bordelli asked.
‘Only if you invite me to a fancy restaurant.’
‘Wouldn’t a nice panino at the Porta Rossa tavern be better?’
‘Ever the tightwad, I see …’
‘That’s not true … It’s just that tonight I really don’t feel like sitting for two hours chewing food in front of strangers,’ Bordelli said to justify himself, pulling her in the direction of the tavern.
After a panino with prosciutto and a glass of Chianti, they continued their stroll through the crowded streets. While crossing the Ponte Vecchio, Bordelli looked up at the Vasari corridor,14 as he always did, lingering on the four large windows, in the middle of the bridge, that interrupted the rhythm of the sixteenth-century ‘portholes’. It was Mussolini who’d had those big windows made, in 1938, to afford Hitler a better view of the bridges over the Arno … Was that perhaps why the Führer had ordered his army not to bomb the Ponte Vecchio? Apparently he didn’t know that there was another, even more beautiful bridge in Florence …
‘Why don’t we go dancing?’ Rosa asked in a shrill voice.
‘I’d rather box with Godzilla.’
‘Why?’
‘Are you coming to the stadium for the match tomorrow?’
‘I’d rather die.’
‘I’m the same way about dance halls,’ said Bordelli, blowing smoke out of his mouth.
‘But you’re not going to the match.’
‘It was just to make a point.’
‘It would have been nice to see you dance …’
‘Feel like solving a riddle?’ Bordelli asked her in a serious tone.
