by Marco Vichi
‘A riddle?’
‘Listen carefully … You want to kill somebody, but you want it to look like a suicide …’
‘What fun …’
‘The person you want to kill lives in a castle …’
‘I’d marry the guy, I wouldn’t kill him.’
‘Wait … Maybe I should tell it to you another way … A man is found hanging by a cord in his castle … All the doors and windows are locked from the inside, and everyone is convinced that it was a suicide … But you know for certain that the man was murdered …’
‘How would I know?’
‘That doesn’t matter … The question is: how did they do it?’ Bordelli concluded, feeling a bit silly.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to go dancing?’ said Rosa.
‘You see? You don’t have an answer …’
‘Look! There go two you’re sure to like …’ Rosa whispered, indicating two girls chatting and walking along the pavement across the street …
Bordelli stopped in his tracks. One of them looked exactly like Eleonora. She had short hair and was a little thin, but appeared to be her.
‘Wait for me here …’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Don’t move. I’ll be right back …’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Rosa, but Bordelli was already far away …
Was it really her? Or merely someone who looked like her? His heart was beating wildly, and he felt short of breath. He was following the two girls from the opposite pavement, gaining on them, and ready to hide if they turned round. When he was almost directly across from them, the one who looked like Eleonora turned round distractedly in his direction … Bordelli hid his face, blushing. But he’d managed to see her in time, and no longer had any doubts. It was her … Eleonora was there, just a few steps away from him, on the other side of the street … What should he do? Go up to her and greet her? Was this not another sign from destiny? And what about her? Had she recognised him? Would she now wave her hand and call him over? He didn’t know whether to be afraid or not …
He slowed down and pretended to look at a shop window, trying to find Eleonora in the reflection. He saw her walking serenely with her friend. When he finally turned round again, the girls were turning the corner. For a moment he thought of circling round the block from the other end and appearing suddenly in front of them, but after such an exploit he would certainly be out of breath and look upset. Better just give it up. He knew he would regret it, but he couldn’t bring himself to step forward. He wasn’t ready yet, as he’d already told himself so many times … He would try to see her again only after …
He walked back towards Rosa, who was waiting for him impatiently, scanning the pavements with her eyes. As soon as she saw him, she waved and came towards him.
‘Would you please tell me what happened?’
‘Nothing …’
He headed off down the pavement, with Rosa trailing him.
‘What do you mean, “nothing”? I’ve never seen you act so strangely.’
‘Forget about it, Rosa … Just pretend I saw a ghost …’
‘A ghost? What fun …’ she said, taking him by the arm again.
‘I said “pretend”.’
‘I bet this is about a woman … You’re incapable of thinking about anything else …’
‘Can we change the subject?’
‘I get it. It’s that girl who left you …’
‘I’ve already told you, Rosa, they all left me …’
‘I meant the last one.’
‘Feel like an ice cream?’ asked Bordelli, to cut short the discussion.
Rosa shrugged, resigned to not knowing. ‘I’d rather go home.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Now there’s one you’re sure to like …’ she whispered, pulling him by the arm. She didn’t miss a single one.
‘Rosa, please … Don’t you ever look at men?’
‘Women are more beautiful.’
‘That’s for sure.’
‘Why don’t you get married?’
‘Now that you mention it, I need you to be the witness for the bride at a friend of mine’s wedding …’
‘Are you joking?’
‘No, I’m serious.’
‘Who are these people?’
‘He’s a forensic pathologist … One of those doctors who cuts open corpses to find out why they died …’
‘Nice …’
‘She’s a beautiful woman who’s getting married in secret.’
‘All right, then, I’ll do it. I love clandestine love affairs!’
‘They’re getting married on July the fourteenth, so don’t forget.’
‘No, I won’t … I’ll write it down in my agenda.’
‘You have an agenda? Even now that you’re no longer working in funhouses?’
‘You really know nothing about women …’
They kept talking until they got to Via dei Neri, then began the long climb up the stairs, legs tired from an evening out on the town. When Rosa opened the door, Briciola came running up to them meowing, her tail straight up in the air and vibrating. Her bad eye was all black, and smaller than the other.
‘Hello, my pretty …’ said Rosa.
Entering the living room, she tossed her spike-heeled shoes aside with a moan of relief. Gideon was sleeping placidly on an armchair.
‘What’s this mess I see? Not again!’ cried Rosa, noticing the cigarette butts scattered all over the carpet. The culprit was Briciola, who liked to overturn ashtrays and play with the butts.
He opened his eyes, after a long, restful sleep. Without raising his head from the pillow, he peered out of the window, which he always left unobstructed, with the inside shutters open. A dazzling light was filtering through the slats of the blinds. It was a beautiful sunny morning, and in little more than a week it would be spring. It was one of those days that made him feel like driving out to Marina di Massa to see his friend Nessuno, the former partisan fighter who’d set up a trattoria specialising in fish. He could even ask Rosa to come with him.
He got up, drank a cup of coffee in haste, and went outside to water the garden. He couldn’t wait to taste a tomato that he’d seen grow and ripen. For the artichokes, according to Ennio, he would have to wait at least a year. He stirred the bucket of pollina, turning his head away from the smell. It wasn’t time yet to use it. He refilled the watering can, to give the seedlings and seeds a drink. City-dwellers had lost all sense of this magic … a little seed that comes into contact with the earth and is transformed into a plant or even a tree.
He thought again of Eleonora walking down the street, beautiful and smiling. Had she managed to forget the humiliation of that night? Would she be able to fall in love again? He really wished he could ask her these things, but it wasn’t time yet …
As he was watering he heard some restless panting behind him. When he turned round he saw a big, pale-yellow, short-haired dog in front of him, wagging its tail outside the fence.
‘And who are you?’ he said, approaching the animal. The dog gave a slight whimper and let him pat his head. He was panting with his tongue hanging out one side of his mouth, as if he’d been running. Bordelli went outside the enclosure and got down on his knees to pet the dog some more. It was a male, had no collar, and seemed quite hungry.
‘Come with me,’ he said, heading for the front door, with the dog following placidly behind him. Bordelli let him into the house and put some bread and a cheese rind in an old pan, and served this to the dog, who devoured everything in a second, and then looked up at him.
‘Still hungry? Let’s see what we can give you to eat.’
He started making a soup of overcooked pasta, bread, cheese, bits of meat, and lettuce leaves. He stirred it all up in the pan with a large spoon as the dog waited patiently, sitting beside him.
When the soup cooled a little he set the pan down on the floor, and the dog stuffed his muzzle straight into it. He finished it
in less than a minute, but he finally seemed sated.
‘Now you must be thirsty.’
He found a plastic bowl and filled it with fresh water. The dog immediately started drinking, slowly wagging his tail and raising his head every so often to catch his breath. With his muzzle dripping he padded over to a corner of the kitchen and lay down on the floor. He yawned long and deep and seemed clearly about to take a nap.
‘Let’s go and look for your master.’
Bordelli had some trouble persuading the dog to get up, but then took him outside and put him in the back seat of the Beetle.
When he got to Impruneta he parked in Piazza Nova and started walking around the town with the dog beside him, asking everyone he met whether they knew to whom the big mutt might belong. But nobody had ever seen the animal before, and in the end he thought he might keep him for himself.
‘You need a name,’ he said to the dog, looking at him. It was Sunday, so there was nowhere to buy food for him. But he could manage that evening with what he had in the house. As he was walking back to the car, he decided he would call him Blisk, the name he’d given the enormous German Shepherd he’d brought home with him from the war.
‘It’s an important name, you must honour it …’
So now he was even talking to dogs. But he was really starting to like this odd sort of polar bear.
When he got home he noticed Ennio’s Lambretta scooter parked on the threshing floor. He got out of the car, followed by the dog, and circled behind the house. Ennio was walking around in the vegetable garden, inspecting the work of the novice farmer.
‘Not bad, Inspector, not bad at all …’
‘I have a good teacher.’
‘And who’s that beast?’ said Ennio, when the dog appeared.
‘This is Blisk; he’s my new tenant.’
‘Where’d you find him?’
‘He came knocking on my door.’
‘He’ll eat as much as a regiment … Look at that head …’ said Botta, coming out of the enclosure.
‘So what do you think of the fence I put up? And the gate?’
‘One could do better.’
‘You’re never satisfied, Ennio.’
‘There’s always room for improvement,’ said Botta, bending down to pat the dog.
‘It’s my first time,’ Bordelli said by way of justification, looking at his work with satisfaction.
‘Man, is he ever big … Are you a dog or a bear?’
The beast was rubbing against him, and if he’d been a cat he would have been purring.
‘Blisk, that’s no way to act with strangers … You’re supposed to bark …’ said Bordelli, tapping on the animal’s head with his fingers.
They went into the house, and the white bear went and lay down in his corner. They sat down for a glass of wine.
‘I brought you a few recipes, Inspector,’ said Ennio, sliding a blue-covered notebook across the table.
‘Oh, thanks …’
Bordelli started leafing through it and saw that it was filled with flowery handwriting, right up to the last page.
‘That’s a lot of work you’ve done, Ennio …’
‘I hope it’s not just time wasted.’
‘You must have faith …’
‘I hope you don’t want me now to write you some recipes for the dog as well …’
‘That would be very nice of you … Right, Blisk?’
But the dog was already asleep, and Bordelli kept thumbing through the notebook … Zuppa lombarda … Peposo … Spezzatino ‘mamma li turchi’ … The recipes weren’t written the way they were in normal cookbooks; they had a storylike tone. It was as if he could hear Ennio talking.
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Then wait; you might regret it,’ said Botta, shrugging.
Bordelli, thinking again of Orlando’s death, stood up.
‘Feel like trying to solve a riddle, Ennio?’
‘Sure, why not?’
‘Listen carefully. A young man lives alone in a big castle, and one day he’s found hanging from a curtain sash in his study …’
He explained the situation in detail, inviting Ennio to take it for granted that it was a murder. And then he gave him the riddle: How do you hang someone to make it look like a suicide, and then vanish into thin air, leaving all the doors and windows locked fast from the inside?
‘Easy …’ said Botta, without even thinking about it. Bordelli smiled, expecting some kind of witty quip.
‘How?’
‘You just don’t leave the building.’
‘Meaning?’ said Bordelli, stumped. He couldn’t work it out, though he felt close to the solution. Putting on a know-it-all expression, Botta began patiently explaining his theory …
‘You hang whoever’s supposed to hang, and you hide out in the house with emergency provisions … Didn’t you say it’s a castle? Then it really shouldn’t be difficult. Sooner or later someone will break through a window and find the dead body, that much is certain. You wait patiently for the corpse to be removed, and as soon as it gets dark you leave right through the door, which can’t be barred from the inside. And that’s that.’
‘Columbus’s egg …’ said Bordelli, mouth open.
‘Botta’s egg, if I may say so.’
‘Have you ever heard of a situation like that before?’
‘No, it just came to me.’
‘You’re a genius …’
‘You’ve only just found out?’
‘It was so easy …’ said Bordelli, still a bit numb. He’d been pondering the question for a whole week, seeking the most complicated of solutions … But always with the idea that the killer had found a way to get out while leaving all the bolts locked from the inside. Whereas the whole thing was as simple as could be. You merely had to take a step back and let go of all your preconceptions.
‘There’s just one inconvenience,’ said Botta, frowning.
‘What?’
‘There are usually two kinds of locks for the main doors of houses. The more modern kind – which you normally open from the inside by turning a knob – and the older kind, which have a key, and which require a key from both the outside and the inside …’ said Botta, sounding like a professor giving a lecture.
‘Go on …’
‘In the first instance, even if the door has been double-locked with an extra turn of the knob, you can still get out without any problem … But obviously if you haven’t got a key, you can’t give the lock a double turn from the outside, unless you’re a wizard with locks …’
‘And in the second instance, you’re screwed,’ Bordelli concluded.
‘You took the words straight out of my mouth.’
‘So it’s best to check first.’
‘For you it would even be better if you had copies of the keys …’
‘Who said anything about me? It was just a riddle.’
‘I just meant it in a manner of speaking … But now I have to go, Inspector … I have a lot of things to do …’ Botta said, standing up.
Bordelli walked him out to the threshing floor and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Keep me posted about Milan.’
‘It’s any day now.’ Botta kick-started his Lambretta, and after a nod of farewell he went up the dirt path, raising a big cloud of dust. Bordelli stood there watching him, with a smile of gratitude on his face. By this point the odds that Orlando had been murdered were almost a hundred to one. When Ennio vanished round the bend, Bordelli went back into the house, took out a pen, and wrote on the cover of the notebook of recipes: The Gospel according to Ennio …
‘Forgive the intrusion,’ said Bordelli, crossing the threshold and entering the castle. The contessa herself had opened the door for him, wearing a simple dressing-gown.
‘Come in …’ she said, closing the door behind him.
Bordelli caught a glimpse of the lock. It was the ‘old-fashioned’ kind, the one you could open only with a key, and if it was given an ext
ra turn or two … But this wasn’t necessarily a problem. Orlando’s killer could have managed to get his hands on a copy …
They went into the sitting room and sat down in the exact same armchairs as two days earlier.
‘Do you have anything important to tell me?’
‘Not yet … I’ve come to ask you to tell me, as precisely as you can, everything that happened after the firemen broke through the window,’ said Bordelli, hoping the contessa would bear with him.
‘I remember everything as if I were seeing it now …’ she said. After a long pause, she started telling her story, with a calmness that made one’s blood run cold …
Her son’s body was taken away in an ambulance that same morning, and the firemen had reclosed the window as best they could, shuttering it with planks nailed together from the inside. Orlando’s body was then washed, dressed, placed in a casket and then put on display in the salle d’armes of the church of Impruneta. The contessa had decided to remain alone with her son, keeping vigil for the entire day and night, and as she sat by the casket she vowed to discover who had killed him. The funeral was held on Monday morning, in the almost empty basilica. There were only a few relatives, a few of Orlando’s friends, the two lawyers for whom he’d worked, and a few old women from the village, the kind who never miss a mass. The priest’s homily was honeyed and rhetorical, with broad circumlocutions to conceal the sin of suicide behind a Catholic compassion. At the moment of farewells to the deceased, the contessa made a speech. Without a tear in her eye she said only that Orlando had not killed himself, but had been murdered, and throughout the church there was a gasp of surprise. The contessa added that after the service she would rather accompany her son to the cemetery alone. Her peremptory tone admitted no protest. At the end of the mass, everyone came out under the arched portico and watched the long black box as it pulled away. Orlando was buried in the Cimitero delle Sante Marie. A few days later the contessa went back to Castiglioncello, but stayed only as long as it took to settle some bureaucratic matters and pack her bags, after which she moved definitively to Impruneta, to be near her son …
‘Is there anything else you’d like to know?’ the contessa asked, looking him straight in the eye. Bordelli had followed her account very attentively. Before ringing at the castle door he’d inspected the surroundings, discovering a number of paths that led into the woods.
