by Marco Vichi
These thoughts made him feel almost guilty about Eleonora, which meant that Adele had made her mark. He paid for his coffee and headed back towards San Frediano, still thinking about his old flame. He couldn’t get her out of his head.
Late that afternoon he went into the bar in Piazza Tasso, exchanged a nod of greeting with Fosco and slipped into the billiards room. Botta had his back to him and was challenging some skinny kid with a pimply face to a round. Six or seven people watched the match, commenting on the contestants’ shots. Bordelli kept his distance, to avoid ruining the players’ concentration. As soon as Ennio noticed him he came forward.
‘Inspector, I was looking for you myself …’
If this had happened in any other neighbourhood, the room would have fallen silent at the sound of the word ‘inspector’. But everyone in San Frediano knew him and greeted him without any worry. Only the pimply lad didn’t know who he was and looked around in surprise.
‘Can I get you a drink, Ennio?’
‘Give me just one minute, I need to finish teaching this poor kid a lesson, then I’m all yours,’ Botta said loudly.
The carbuncular lad gave him a dirty look, ignoring the laughter of everyone present. Ennio made good on his promise. He won the game in little time and pocketed the money, giving the loser a pat on the back.
‘You humiliated him,’ said Bordelli, sitting down at the same bench as Botta.
‘In my own way I’m actually teaching him about life’s adversities …’
‘Could we have a couple of reds, Fosco?’
The ex-con grabbed the neck of a flask and filled two glasses to the brim. Ennio waited for the barman to walk away.
‘It’s all set, Inspector …’ he whispered, more conspiratorial than ever.
‘Milan?’
‘Shhh … Speak softly … Nobody must know … It’s all set for Thursday, midnight …’
‘At what time do we leave?’ asked Bordelli, eliminating that Thursday in his mind from the possible days for inviting Adele to dinner.
‘I’d say mid-afternoon … Better not take any chances …’
‘Whatever you say. You’re the gang leader,’ Bordelli said smiling. He would never have imagined himself in this sort of situation, but he’d given his word and wouldn’t back out.
‘Shall we go in your car, or do I need to look for one?’
‘Don’t look for anything,’ said Bordelli, who already had an idea of how to make their journey worry-free.
‘Thanks, Inspector. With this job, you’ll change the life of the great Ennio Bottarini,’ said Ennio, hiding his sincere emotion with irony.
‘I’m hoping with all my heart …’
‘You shouldn’t hope: you must believe.’
‘We mustn’t underestimate the obstacles.’
‘There won’t be any,’ said Botta, clinking his glass against Bordelli’s.
‘I need to ask you for a favour myself,’ said Bordelli, thinking of his appointment with destiny on Monday.
‘Whatever you want, Inspector.’
‘Do you think you could look after my dog for a couple of days, maybe even three?’
‘When?’
‘Next Monday.’
‘No problem …’
‘Thanks. I’ll leave you a set of keys,’ said Bordelli, searching in his pocket.
‘I don’t need any, you ought to know that by now.’
‘Ah, I forgot …’
‘A romantic tryst, Inspector?’ asked Botta, winking.
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘Then where are you going? Can you say?’
‘Maybe one day I’ll tell you.’
‘As you wish. But for a peasant, you certainly are mysterious,’ said Botta, who was as nosy as a concierge.
‘All in due time, as my grandfather used to say.’
‘I always give in to grandfathers … Another round?’
‘Why not?’
They drank another glass of red, discussing the final details of their trip to Milan. They arranged to meet on Thursday, outside Fosco’s bar, and after a meaningful handshake, Bordelli left.
The moment he turned the Beetle on to the Imprunetana, the city already seemed far away. He thought about Botta’s Milanese job while smoking a cigarette. Fake money in exchange for a small percentage in real money. And if all went well … But this was no time for worrying …
He could hardly wait to light the fire and eat a dish of pasta in front of the telly. After dinner he would read a few pages, reclining in the armchair … A late-night excursion into the surroundings with Blisk, and then beddy-bye. He could invite Adele for Friday night … or maybe Saturday …
After lunch he went out on foot with the dog, not bringing his cigarettes, and they climbed up the dirt road. He wanted to go as far as the contessa’s castle. The previous night, for the first time, he hadn’t seen the window under the tower lit up. He was simply curious to know whether anything had happened. Blisk scampered off ahead, stopping every so often to wait for him.
It took him over half an hour to reach the castle. The Mercedes wasn’t there, and the shutters were all bolted tight. He pulled the doorbell ring, but nobody came to the door. Could the contessa have gone away?
On his way back to the house he ran into one of the old peasants who worked on the castle farm, and asked him about the contessa.
‘Cut and run, she did …’ said the old man, bobbing his head.
‘Oh, so she left?’
‘Her car was stuffed to the gills, even on top.’
‘Know where she went?’
‘She said down to Puglia. ’Parently she’s got a castle down there twice the size o’ this one.’
‘And she’s not coming back?’
‘Ah, I really can’t say, sir … It’s not as though she comes and tells me things …’
The peasant shrugged his shoulders and continued on his way. Bordelli resumed his descent down the trail, with the dog now trotting beside him. So the contessa had gone away, left for Puglia immediately after ‘learning’ that her son had not been murdered. It could hardly have been a coincidence.
When he came to the crossroads, instead of going home he took the road leading into town. Past the football field he took a small, steep track that led to the cemetery of the Sante Marie, without slowing his pace. He was out of breath when he got to the top.
‘You wait for me here …’ he said to the dog, and he ducked into the cemetery, closing the little gate behind him. He started walking through the alleys of graves until he found Orlando’s. There was a small, glass-encased oval photo of him on the tombstone. A dark-haired lad, good looking, with the troubled gaze of a poète maudit. He looked like neither a count nor a lawyer. Just a lad. Under the portrait, inscribed in the marble, were only two words: My son.
Coming out of the cemetery, he began the descent with Blisk at his side, trying to imagine the kind of words he would like on his own gravestone. Surely nothing like: Here lies … Nor: He devoted his life to … Perhaps something silly, like: Who would have thought … Or: Who have we here? … Or even: I wish I could have stayed …
He’d always been thinking of death, every second of his life, ever since he was a little boy. He’d always been trying to imagine the nothingness that follows death … Was it a conscious nothingness or an absolute nothingness? He wished he could meet a ghost, so he could chat and ask some questions. He remembered something that had happened to him some ten years earlier …
One morning the wife of Gilberto, a good friend of his, called him on the phone. Gilberto had been very sick and bedridden for months at home, awaiting death.
‘Franco, you must come at once … Gilberto wants to see you …’
She sounded upset.
‘Has something happened?’
‘He just said he wants to see you at once.’
‘I’m on my way …’
He got into his car and drove across the city. When he entered his friend’s room, he fou
nd him sitting up in the middle of the bed, looking dazed but serene. His wife had left the room at Gilberto’s request.
‘I have to tell you something, Franco.’
‘I’m listening …’
He’d remained standing at the foot of the bed, trying to imagine what might have happened. Gilberto waited for a few moments before speaking …
‘I’m dead,’ he said in the most natural way imaginable.
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m dead … Look here, read this …’ He handed him the doctor’s certificate, which declared him deceased.
‘I don’t understand …’
‘The doctor left here an hour ago, and he thinks I’m dead … And he’s right, actually … I really did die …’
‘Please, Gilberto …’
‘You’ve got to believe me … I died, and I came back … I saw a blinding, amazing light … I knew I was dead … I have no doubt whatsoever … I was happy … And now that I know what awaits me, I’m no longer the least bit afraid … I’m going to die soon, I know that … Maybe even in the next half-hour … But I’m no longer afraid … Actually now I can’t wait to get to the other side … I wanted to tell you this … I wanted to tell someone, and I thought of you …’
Gilberto died that night, once and for all. During the funeral mass Bordelli couldn’t stop thinking of his round-trip journey to the beyond, trying to imagine it. Could it really be true? What if it was only …
The coffin was lowered into the grave and covered with earth, as friends and family looked on. Before leaving, Bordelli approached the priest, Don Serafino, and took him aside to tell him about Gilberto’s brief excursion in the afterlife. The priest grabbed his wrist.
‘Did he really say that? It gives one hope …’
‘But don’t priests already have faith?’
‘One never knows …’ said Don Serafino, shrugging.
As Bordelli was cooking, Blisk got up and went over to the door, looking defensive, as if he’d just smelled an animal.
‘What is it?’
Seconds later, he heard the sound of a car pulling up on the threshing floor.
‘Calm down, it’s a friend.’
He went and opened the door for Piras. When the Sardinian saw the dog, he stopped short.
‘Who’s that?’
‘That’s Blisk.’
‘Does he bite?’
‘I haven’t known him for very long, but so far he hasn’t killed anyone,’ said Bordelli.
Piras entered the house apprehensively, holding a bottle of wine by the neck. The dog sniffed him long and carefully, then returned to his corner and lay back down.
‘Couldn’t you have picked a smaller dog?’
‘I didn’t pick him; fate did … Put another log on the fire, would you?’
Bordelli filled two glasses with wine and continued cooking, following the instructions for pork chops ‘my way’ in the gospel according to Ennio … : Now you can take the griddle off the fire, but you must follow one last rule: before bringing the chops to the table, you must cover them with a lid and wait for a couple of minutes, even three … You may not believe it, Inspector, but there’s one hell of a difference …
During the meal Bordelli asked Piras to tell him in detail about the bloke who got zapped in his bathtub, even though he’d read about it in the paper. The Sardinian didn’t really want to talk about it, but at Bordelli’s insistence he finally gave in. As soon as he’d entered the bathroom where the corpse was, he’d noticed a horizontal mark on the wall to the right of the sink, a sign typical of a table left in the same place for years. But now the table was mysteriously on the left-hand side, and this detail explained why the electric shaver had fallen straight into the tub. He’d spoken about it with Anselmi, who’d said he was right. The following day the widow was called in for questioning. He and the inspector had conducted the sensitive yet intensive interrogation together, until the woman finally broke down and confessed. She had a lover and didn’t have a cent to her name, and so she’d hoped to inherit from her wealthy husband …
‘As old as the hills, Inspector …’ Piras concluded.
By now Bordelli had stopped reminding people that he wasn’t an inspector any more. It was useless.
‘I need to ask a favour of you, Piras,’ he said out of the blue.
‘Go ahead …’
‘I want you to bring me a squad car tomorrow.’
‘What do you need it for?’ asked the Sardinian, shocked.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘All right, Inspector. I’m sure it’s for a good deed.’
‘Thanks for trusting me.’
‘I imagine nobody must know …’
‘Precisely.’
‘I’ll try and pull the wool over the mechanic’s eyes. What time do you want it?’
‘After lunch would be fine. And I’ll leave you the Beetle, of course.’
‘How long do you need it for?’
‘Just one night. You’ll have to come up here and get it the next morning … Oh, and don’t forget that on the second of April you’re coming here to dinner. It’s my birthday.’
‘Okay, thanks, Inspector.’
‘It’ll be a dinner among men, my apologies to Sonia.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Lately she’s only got time for her studies.’
‘Give her a kiss for me. You should come here together some time, perhaps on a Sunday. I’ll take you walking through the woods, and then we’ll eat some nice grilled steak …’
‘It’s not easy for me to see you retired, Inspector.’
‘It’s not easy for me, either, Pietrino … But what can you do?’
‘You haven’t told me anything else about the contessa …’
‘There isn’t much to tell. I didn’t find anything that pointed to a murder.’
‘But I bet you enjoyed investigating just the same,’ said Piras, and Bordelli smiled.
After dinner they sat in the armchairs beside the fire, glasses in hand, as the white bear kept sleeping. The flames lovingly enveloped the logs, making them pop every so often.
‘Maybe you’re right, Piras. I miss my work.’
‘Then why did you quit?’ asked the Sardinian. It was the first time he’d asked, and you could see in his eyes that he was dying to find out. Bordelli took a sip of wine. He’d decided reluctantly to forgo a cigarette, so as not to offend Piras’s olfactory organs.
‘When a general loses a crucial war, it’s time to retire.’
‘Giacomo Pellissari?’
‘Right …’
‘We know who the killers are, Inspector.’
‘But we can’t do anything …’
‘Except hope they kill themselves one by one, tormented by their guilt,’ Piras said suggestively.
‘I see no other solution.’ Bordelli smiled. He wished he could tell Piras the way things really were, but it wasn’t time yet. First he had to take care of business, alone. He wanted to be the only one to risk his neck …
‘So the next to commit suicide will be the lawyer Beccaroni?’
Piras was no longer merely making suggestions; he already seemed to know everything. Bordelli had always thought the kid was someone with his eyes wide open. He would go far in law enforcement.
‘The ways of the Lord are infinite …’ said Bordelli, certain that Piras would understand.
‘Well, if you need me, I’m with you,’ the Sardinian declared, and it was clear he wasn’t joking.
‘At the moment I don’t.’
‘As you wish, Inspector.’
‘So how’s your dad doing? When’s he coming?’ asked Bordelli, to change the subject.
‘He’s not coming any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘He said he has to look after his field …’
‘Leave me his number. One of these days I’ll give him a ring.’
After topping up the petrol tank, at one minute to five he pulled up outside Fosco’s bar in a
n Alfa Romeo Giulia of the police, to the curious and suspicious stares of the locals. In case of need, he’d brought along one of his pistols, the Beretta, carrying it in a holster under his armpit. This was unusual for him. When on duty he almost always left his gun in a drawer in his office.
At five o’clock sharp Ennio came out of the bar holding a leather bag, and upon seeing the squad car, he stopped dead in his tracks. Bordelli tooted the horn to alert him that he was inside … Botta ran a hand over his face to recover from the fright.
‘You gave me such a scare, Inspector,’ he said, opening the car door.
‘Apparently you have a guilty conscience … Come on, get in.’
‘I must admit, however: you’re a genius.’
Ennio got into the car and put the bag between his feet, as though afraid someone might steal it.
‘This way no one will bother us,’ said Bordelli, driving off.
‘It’s the first time I’ve ever ridden in one of these as a free citizen,’ said Ennio, pleased with his quip.
They went as far as the Certosa and then took the Autostrada del Sole, under a dark sky that threatened rain. The Alfa was a souped-up model and chewed up the miles without effort.
They crossed the Apennine chain, speeding past dozens of lorries struggling up the inclines, and talking of women and swindles, politics and cookery … And naturally they ended up talking about the recipes Bordelli was considering for his birthday party. Ennio’s scepticism was downright obnoxious. He kept advising the novice cook to stick to simple dishes, whereas Bordelli wanted to throw himself into elaborate preparations …
‘The menu’s already been decided … Crostini di fegatini, Zuppa lombarda, Peposo all fornacina, ‘‘Conigliolo’’ alla Tex, and an apple tart to finish … What do you think?’
