by Marco Vichi
‘When did you return to the castle?’
‘Late Monday morning, after burying my son.’
‘Nobody else entered the castle before you did?’
‘Nobody.’
‘And where was your chauffeur during the wake?’
‘He slept on a bench in the sacristy,’ said the contessa.
Therefore nobody had gone back to the castle for an entire day, and if things went the way Ennio said … The killer, in short, could have hidden inside the castle and waited for night to fall to escape unmolested …
‘Is your chauffeur the same man who served us lunch last Friday?’ Bordelli asked, just out of curiosity.
‘Mario has been with me for twenty-five years. He’s also my chauffeur.’
‘And the housekeeper?’
‘Fedora is the same age as me; we used to play together when we were children. She stayed behind at Castiglioncello.’
‘Is there anyone else in your employ?’
‘No,’ said the contessa, with a wrinkle in her brow. She didn’t understand the reason for all these questions.
‘There’s one last favour I’d like to ask of you …’ said Bordelli.
‘Do tell.’
‘I’d like to check your cellars and attic.’
‘You can do that by yourself. By now you know the way.’
‘Thank you …’ said Bordelli, standing up. After making a slight bow, he went out of the sitting room, down the ground floor’s long corridors, and opened the small door leading to the cellars. He pressed a button, and a small bulb hanging from a wire sticking out from the wall came on. He descended the stairs, taking care not to slip. When he got to the bottom he started poking around in the different rooms, lighting his way with matches. There were great barrels covered with cobwebs, terracotta pots green with mildew, old articles of furniture left to rot. The dampness entered one’s bones, and it was almost impossible to hear any sounds coming from the first floor. It would not have made a good hiding place.
He went back up and took the staircase that led to the upper floors. He climbed up to the third floor without any trouble, thinking it was thanks to his long walks in the woods. Neither did he have any problem reaching the top of the steep wooden staircase to the attics. Opening the door wasn’t easy, however, and it creaked on its hinges. He looked around for the light switch, and as soon as he turned it, a number of bulbs enveloped in dense spiderwebs lit up. He came to a huge space with a floor of rough mortar, a rather low ceiling, and some squat stone pillars from which the main truss-beams branched out. He started walking along the walls. A few dusty old chests, enormous rolled-up carpets, old picture frames wrapped in now shredded cloth. From up here, if one left the door ajar, one could almost certainly hear sounds coming from below. It seemed like the ideal hiding place … The killer waited for the right moment to leave the castle, and escaped along one of those paths through the woods, perhaps with a shotgun on his shoulder so as not to look out of place.
Bordelli sat down on an old chest, trying to reconstruct the hypothetical murder in detail, to leave nothing unresolved. What about the keys to the great door? Maybe the killer had got his hands on a key, or was, like Ennio, well versed in matters of locks. Orlando’s shoe-prints on his desk seemed to prove that he’d climbed up there alone to hang himself, but this detail, too, could easily have been part of the whole mise en scène: the killer could have strangled Orlando with the curtain cord, then put on his shoes and hung him from the chandelier, and then put his shoes back on the corpse to complete the picture … In the realm of hypothesis, at least, it all seemed quite clear …
He went down to the third floor. While he was at it, he opened the studded door and tackled the seventy-two steps of the spiral staircase. He reached the tower without stopping, but when he got to the top, he was out of breath. Pushing open a low door, he looked out on to the world. The panorama was magnificent; wherever one turned, one saw hilltops in succession under the open sky. He stayed there to enjoy the spectactle of the setting sun, smoking a cigarette. Was Orlando murdered? If so, it was a perfect crime. A suicide never risked stirring up a hornet’s nest. Were the two lawyers the killers, or, as it were, the sponsors? One was now dead, the other had fled to the ends of the earth. It would be impossible to discover the truth at this point, unless Rolando Torrigiani decided to confess …
His investigation couldn’t really go any further, but the upshot of his conclusions was enormous: thanks to this affair, he now knew exactly how to arrange things with the lawyer Beccaroni so as not to arouse any suspicion. A little luck would suffice. Yes, it could work … How could he have any doubt? Hadn’t it again been fate that had steered him on to the right path? If he hadn’t moved out to the country … If he had never met that stubborn old contessa … If he hadn’t played riddles with Botta … There were too many coincidences to think that it was mere chance …
Getting back down to the first floor was quite a journey. The contessa was waiting for him in the sitting room, calmly sipping tea. There was also a cup there for the guest, with a saucer over it. Bordelli came and sat down across from her in silence, and began to drink his now lukewarm tea. What should he tell the contessa? He’d completed his research; there was nothing left to learn … He’d already drawn his conclusions: one could not rule out that Orlando was murdered – indeed, it was quite likely he was. But there was no proof and there probably never would be. Too much time had passed. All one could do was make pointless conjectures … Should he tell the poor woman the truth? Or was it better to lie?
‘Well, I’ve done my best, and I’ve come to the conclusion …’
He stopped to reflect a little more, and the contessa leaned forward in her armchair.
‘Go on,’ she said darkly.
Bordelli sighed. ‘Your son took his own life.’ He’d decided to lie.
‘Oh …’ she said. She looked lost, and with one hand she seemed to be grasping at something invisible. Fifteen years of hope, swept away by a single statement. But she was a strong woman, steeled by grief, and less than a minute later she seemed already calmer.
‘I didn’t find anything that might lead one to think otherwise,’ Bordelli added.
‘Are you absolutely certain?’ the contessa asked, without much conviction.
‘There is no doubt in my mind.’
What would be the point of telling her that in fact it looked as if … The poor woman would have pulled out all the stops to show everyone that she’d been right all along, encouraged by the conclusions of a former police detective. She would have come up against insurmountable obstacles and would have suffered even more by uselessly pursuing her obsession. She would have had no peace … It was too late. There was nothing anyone could do any more …
But Bordelli also knew he had his own personal reasons for lying … He wanted to make sure that no one ever knew the method he would use to kill Beccaroni …
He suddenly noticed that the contessa’s eyes were glistening with tears, and that her gaze had softened a little … The suicide’s mother was staring out of the window with an embroidered handkerchief between her fingers and letting the tears stream freely down her face.
‘Thank you …’ she whispered.
‘No one can know the reasons behind certain decisions.’
‘Don’t say anything else, I beg you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ll see you to the door,’ said the contessa, standing up.
Bordelli sprang to his feet and followed her out of the sitting room, watching those hunched shoulders that had borne years of sorrow. They were already at the door when they heard a sort of animal wail from the far end of a corridor. The contessa stopped to listen. There was no more sound.
‘Come with me,’ said the lady, and to Bordelli’s great surprise, she took him gently by the hand. They stopped outside the door that could not be opened. The contessa slid a tiny window in the door to one side, and gestured to him to come and look. Bordelli
went up to the little window and his jaw dropped. On a large bed with rumpled sheets, a human being hiding its face in its hands thrashed weakly, hunching over as though wanting to curl up into a ball. All one could see was a great mass of dark hair, crying sorrowfully.
‘That’s my daughter Isadora,’ said the contessa, with more affection in her voice than he had ever heard before. She opened the door, went inside, and invited him to follow her, indicating there was nothing to fear. She, too, had lied. Orlando was not her only child …
A strong smell of urine, stale breath and sweaty skin hung in the air. The contessa sat down on the edge of the bed and started caressing the poor creature’s back, little by little succeeding in calming her down. Bordelli stood motionless in the middle of the room and didn’t dare say anything.
All at once the creature raised her head … She was frightening; her eyes looked like those of an aged little girl. She looked at her mother with a demented expression, grabbing on to her and starting to moan as she rubbed her face against the contessa’s belly. Bordelli froze, not knowing what to say, and merely observed the heartbreaking scene, which seemed the very picture of pity.
At last the creature fell asleep, and her breathing grew calm. The contessa delicately eased her head down on to the pillow and pulled a blanket over her. They left the room without a sound. The contessa turned the key in the lock and led Bordelli back to the door.
‘Don’t tell anyone about Isadora,’ she murmured.
Bordelli reassured her with a slight nod. ‘My respects, Contessa.’
‘Farewell, Inspector …’
When he opened his front door he was surprised not to see Blisk there waiting for him and wagging his tail. He went into the kitchen and saw him lying where he’d left him. The dog barely raised his head to greet him, then dropped it back down and fell asleep again.
‘You could at least have washed the dishes,’ said Bordelli, looking at the encumbered sink.
He calmly set about arranging some logs on top of the balled-up paper between the andirons. His investigation into Orlando’s death was over, and he almost missed it already. After lighting the balls of paper, he remained standing in front of the fireplace, watching the flames gain strength. He could still see poor Isadora, and couldn’t help but think that the life of the wealthy Contessa Gori Roversi had been one long ordeal … Never call a man lucky until you’ve seen him dead …
When the wood started to crackle he got down to washing the dishes and thinking about Beccaroni. He now knew how to go about it. He had only to organise the matter and choose the day. He was going to do it, and that was that … For young Giacomo raped and murdered, for his parents, and for himself as well … It might not be right, but he had to do it.
After washing the last little coffee cup, he prepared the dog’s soup, sacrificing half a steak. When he set the bowl down beside him, Blisk opened his eyes, sniffed the air, and stood up with a yawn. He wolfed it all down in mere minutes, then went over to the front door and scratched at it with his paw.
‘You don’t talk much, but we get your message.’
Bordelli opened the door and went out with the dog. He watched him saunter over towards the wood and vanish into the darkness. After waiting a few minutes, he whistled to call him back.
‘Blisk!’
He kept on whistling for a spell, but there was no sign of the dog. He went back into the house to make supper, leaving the door ajar … What if Blisk never came back? Maybe he’d only dropped in on Bordelli to fill up his tummy and get a little rest before setting back out on his way, the way pilgrims used to do. Well, if so, too bad: he’d grown fond of the big white bear.
He opened the gospel according to Botta and started thumbing through it, searching for a simple recipe he could make with what he had at hand. After a great deal of reflection he decided to try Spaghetti cacio e pepe, spaghetti with cheese and pepper, a Roman dish. Ennio’s directions were quite amusing: This recipe can be a good solution when you have nothing in the fridge … The difficulty is all in the cooking of the pasta. The more complicated recipes have nothing on this one. Remember to set aside a glass of the hot pasta water before draining it (you’ll need this later, to fold in the pecorino). If you’re unlucky enough to forget this, you might do better to rename the dish ‘spaghetti with cement’.
He smiled as he started cooking with the telly on, distractedly following the news report. Now where had he put that pepper mill he’d just bought? He looked everywhere for it before finding it at the back of the cupboard. While waiting for the pasta to cook, he started looking out the window, elbows propped on the sill. The silhouette of the castle looked blacker than the night, and had the usual lone window shining in the darkness. The cool air wafted lightly into the room, carrying a vague scent of cypress and earth. As his mind wandered down tortuous, useless paths, the heartrending cry of an animal rang out in the silence, a sort of guttural wail that suddenly stopped, followed a second later by the same cry farther away. Then, again the same call and response. He couldn’t tell what kind of nightbird it was. An intense, sorrowful dialogue began, and he realised that an animal was approaching very close by … Suddenly in the darkness he saw a large roebuck appear and stop about twenty yards from the house. Muzzle raised, it sniffed the air avidly, then gave another cry, eliciting an immediate reply. Nightbird, right … He’d had no idea that roebucks made those kinds of calls. After another guttural cry, immediately returned, the majestic lovesick beast dashed gracefully towards the wood, disappearing seconds later into the night. Who knew why it was so thrilling to see a wild animal like that … Perhaps it was the sense of freedom it elicited, or maybe it was because it forced one to imagine the mysterious existence of which one had managed to catch a moment’s glimpse … Like when he saw Eleonora walking through the streets of Florence …
‘The pasta!’ he said out loud, closing the window. He drained it just in time; otherwise it risked coming out soggy … This was happening a lot lately. If he wanted to become a good cook, he had to be more careful.
When he sat down at the table, Carosello was just starting. It had become his favourite programme. The pasta wasn’t bad at all; he had to remember to tell that pessimist Ennio.
The only reason he’d never cooked before was that he hadn’t had the time. He’d always known he would be good at it. He was going to make a big impression on his birthday … He started laughing. Maybe this pride over his cooking was another sign that he was getting old. Like the desire to have a vegetable garden. But what could he do about it? Time didn’t care what anyone thought …
He poured himself another glass of wine. At that moment he saw the door open and Blisk appeared, tongue dangling out of his mouth. Maybe he’d been chasing the lovesick buck …
‘Is this any time to be coming home?’ He got up to close the door. The dog looked at him with a perplexed expression, and Bordelli patted his head. Given how big the animal was, and with those teeth, he would frighten anyone, and yet he was gentle as a lamb. Who knew whether goodness and wickedness were innate qualities, or the result of the life one lived … It was probably both, maybe even for animals.
He sat back down to finish his pasta, watching the last skit on Carosello. Blisk was lying down by the fire, dozing and occasionally watching the flames. He certainly looked as if he felt at home.
Bordelli calmly cleared the table while smoking a cigarette, then went upstairs to get the two war pistols he’d found while moving house. A Beretta and a Guernica, nine-calibre both. He went back into the kitchen, spread some newspaper across the table and laid the two pistols down on it. They both looked in bad shape, but in fact it was nothing serious. He went down to the cellar to get a couple of screwdrivers and a can of gun oil the old owner had left there. Sitting down with a glass of wine beside him, he started dismantling the pistols. He methodically cleaned each part with an oil-soaked rag, rubbing them well. When he put them back together, they were as good as new. He grabbed one after the other, ai
ming them at the light bulb. He even remembered the sounds they made. The Beretta had a dry sort of cracking report, while the Guernica had a more powerful voice.
He wrapped the pistols in cloth and went and put them in a drawer in his bedroom. He returned to the kitchen with a box of old family photos. After stirring the fire with a poker, he sat down in the armchair and started looking at the photos. They were completely out of order, each image constituting a leap in time, sometimes to eras before his birth … His father in his bersagliere uniform before leaving to fight the Great War … His old aunts from Bologna sitting round a small table, dressed as in a nineteenth-century novel … His newborn mother, lying naked on a pillow … He himself at twelve, wearing shorts and the usual frown …
He continued his long journey through time, smiling and suffering at once, every so often finding in his hand a photograph he knew very well and being carried off to times long gone … An excursion to San Gimignano, a summer day on the wooden piers of Marina di Massa, a sad Sunday afternoon after a lunch with relatives … Photos were ruthless. They showed moments lost for ever, people long since dead. They were an attempt to cheat death, a painful illusion, and looking at them made one more aware than ever that time was a mystery.
After looking at them all one by one, he closed the box of memories with a sigh. Sitting down in the armchair with a cigarette between his lips, he started watching the fire without really seeing it. Every now and then Blisk would twitch in his sleep, whimpering like a frightened puppy. He was dreaming. Who knew where the big white beast had come from, where he’d lived before, why he’d decided to take to the road …
When his head fell to his chest a second time, Bordelli decided it was time to go to bed. He got up, heavy legged, wished the dog a good night with a pat on the head, and went up to his room. He climbed into bed and immediately turned off the light. With his eyes open in the dark, he started moving through the contessa’s castle in his mind, opening doors, walking down corridors, going up and down stairs … The faraway cry of an owl ushered him into sleep …
