by Marco Vichi
‘Listen to me, Inspector … A nice little pasta in tomato sauce and you’ll do fine … I say that also for my own sake, since I’ll be there, too …’
‘Have faith, Ennio, it’ll be an unforgettable meal … If I’m able to host it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tonight we may both end up in jail,’ said Bordelli, looking down at the bag with the counterfeit money in it.
‘Don’t say that even in jest, Inspector. Everything will go just fine, and for your birthday I’ll bring you a case of champagne.’
‘I can’t imagine you rich, Ennio … What will you do with all that money?’
‘I’ve already told you. I’m going to open a trattoria.’
‘I can’t imagine you all day in the kitchen, either.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re accustomed to a life of adventure and risk … It’s not that easy to give up certain thrills …’ said Bordelli, thinking also of himself.
‘Well, I’m going to give it a go. If I don’t succeed, I’ll sell everything and spend the money on cars and women.’
‘Brilliant. That way you’ll spend it all and have to abandon the straight and narrow path yet again.’
‘You’re just like my grandmother, Inspector … Regardless of the situation, she would run through all the possible ways it could go wrong, and obviously every so often she was right on the money.’
‘I’m only trying to review all the possibilities.’
‘Only the bad ones, if you ask me.’
‘It must be a bad habit of mine …’
‘Things don’t always go bad, Inspector. There are, sometimes, pleasant surprises.’
‘Amen …’
Along the straight road that stretched across the cultivated plains after Bologna, each drifted off into his own thoughts. Early that morning Bordelli had phoned Gavino Piras, and after some emotional greetings they started reminiscing about the war, the real war, the one after 8 September.16 The call was cut off several times, but the thread of memory remained intact … Comrades blown up by mines, fierce battles with the Germans, the bombing of Cassino … They hadn’t seen each other since May of ’45, so it was inevitable they would end up talking about the war. In spite of everything, they felt a twinge of nostalgia for those years, and not only because they weren’t young any more. Extreme situations always leave their mark. It was good that it had all come to an end, but it was also good to remember that they had experienced certain things …
At around lunchtime he’d phoned Adele, and she was happy to hear from him. He invited her to dinner on Friday. Adele had joked about it being a Friday the seventeenth,17 to which Bordelli had replied that the number had always brought him good luck. They decided to meet at eight o’clock, outside her block of flats in Viale Don Minzoni. What would happen? He couldn’t imagine, but whenever he thought of Eleonora he felt the same emotions he always had … And above all he continued to feel guilty, as if he were somehow cheating on her … But why? They certainly weren’t together any more. Other questions naturally arose … Was Eleonora with someone? Was she in love? Had she forgotten him, or did she still think of him? What if he paid her a call? She might just slam the door in his face … Or, worse yet, she might stroke his cheek and wish him a good life …
‘Twenty miles to go,’ said Botta, shaking Bordelli out of the skein of thoughts he’d become entangled in.
‘We’ve got all the time we need to go and have dinner.’
‘It’s better if we go first and locate the place where we have our appointment, and then we can go and eat,’ said Ennio, who was starting to feel nervous.
‘How much money is in the bag?’
‘Sixty million lire,’ Botta whispered, as if somebody might hear him.
‘Not bad …’ said Bordelli.
In exchange, Botta would receive twenty per cent in real cash. Twelve million.18 A fortune, especially for someone like him. He’d been working on this deal for months, and said he’d worked it out down to the finest details … But sometimes the best-laid plans …
‘O mia bela Madunina, fai che vada tutto bene,’19 Ennio chanted, with hands folded in prayer.
‘Have I sparked a little pessimism in your heart, Ennio?’
‘No, it’s just that one never knows.’
‘If anyone had ever told me that one day I’d be doing this kind of thing …’
‘You’re just lending a friend a hand,’ Ennio minimised.
‘Try saying that to a prosecutor …’ said Bordelli, while thinking that Botta really did deserve to have at last a little money in his pocket. A few extra counterfeit bills certainly wouldn’t bankrupt Italy, and justice would be served, if not in the most orthodox of fashions … An eternal pauper would become rich … Perhaps …
They got to Milan just before nine o’clock, and following the directions that Botta had written down on a piece of paper they managed to find the right address. An ugly building, on an ugly street in an ugly area. The real Milan was far away.
Now that they knew where they were to meet, they could go and have dinner. They went towards the centre of town and ducked into a fancy restaurant. Botta kept his leather bag between his legs, eyeing other customers for potential threats. But there were only bald commendatori with their mistresses and young couples gazing into each other’s eyes.
‘Shall we dine alla milanese, Inspector?’
‘Whatever you prefer.’
‘Tonight it’s on me …’
‘You have every right.’
‘But you’ll have to front me the cash … I’ll give it back soon …’
‘What about the money from your last scam? The phony Guttuso … Have you already spent it all?’
‘No … I mean … I lent some to a friend … And he hasn’t paid me back yet,’ Botta said to justify himself.
‘You may never see it again.’
‘I should do like my grandad used to do. Whenever anyone asked him to lend them money, he’d say: I won’t do it, you’re too good a friend …’
‘They should write a book of sayings by grandads …’
‘Today’s kids don’t give a damn about their grandparents. They just want a Vespa under their bums, a pretty girl and a bit of music …’
‘You think there’s something wrong with that?’
‘And beware of ever talking about the war with those airheads … What a bloody bore, they’ll say, you and your war! That was a hundred years ago … They just want to have fun.’
‘Deep down I understand them. Why should they bear the burden of the war if they didn’t live through it themselves? It’s good for them to feel light hearted …’
‘I really can’t agree, Inspector. Those kids can afford to have fun because somebody died for them … That, at least, they should never forget …’ said Ennio, signalling to the waiter.
It was already half past ten. They ordered saffron rice, Milanese cutlets, fried potatoes and a bottle of Barolo. Ennio was nervous, though he tried not to let it show. He ate as though forcing himself, but left almost everything on his plate, excusing himself to the waiter. Bordelli’s plate, on the other hand, had been thoroughly cleaned. The bottle they’d split evenly, each drinking half, and Botta’s eyes were glazed.
After coffee, Bordelli paid the bill, as Ennio kept mumbling about how he would pay him back very soon. They got into the Alfa, and without a word they headed back to the area of the meeting. They left the squad car on a side street about a block away and continued on foot. The neighbourhood was poorly lit, and from the closed windows the sound of televisions came in waves. Ennio was carrying his bag slung over his shoulder, keeping it close to him with one arm. They were early, and they could take their time. Every so often they saw another person on the pavement, and Botta would mutter something between his teeth.
When they stopped outside the appointed door, it was three minutes to midnight. They found the right buzzer, and before ringing, Botta raised one hand.
‘It’s better if I go alone …’
‘I didn’t come two hundred miles just to wait here outside, Ennio.’
‘I don’t want to get you into trouble.’
‘I’m already in trouble, as far as that goes … Don’t you think?’
‘We’d said only the journey …’
‘If you’re going to do someone a favour, you must do it all the way,’ said Bordelli, opening his jacket to show him his handgun.
‘Good God, I hope there’s no need of that!’
‘Go on, ring the bell.’
‘They’ll think we’re Swiss,’ said Botta, looking at his watch. When he pushed the buzzer it was twelve o’clock sharp. Seconds later the electrical lock clicked open, and they slipped into the building.
‘What floor?’ Bordelli whispered, as they began to climb the stairs.
‘Third.’
‘Can these guys be trusted or might they try to get cute?’
‘Well, we’re not exactly on a pilgrimage to a Carmelite shrine …’
‘Whatever happens, try to stay calm.’
‘I’m perfectly calm … I just feel a little like throwing up.’
‘It’ll pass.’
‘Of course.’
‘I just hope my policing instincts don’t get the better of me and I end up arresting the lot of you.’
‘Please, Inspector …’
‘Come on, I was just kidding.’
‘Here we are.’
On the third-floor landing there was a door ajar, and one could see an eye in the crack. As soon as they approached, the door opened, and a shabbily dressed-up, pudgy man with a cheerful face appeared. The exact opposite of the sort of person they were expecting.
‘Follow me,’ said the man, in a strong southern accent. Sicilian? Calabrian? His self-assured air made clear that it didn’t even enter his mind that he might be cheated, or than anyone would be crazy enough to try. He didn’t even need a bodyguard. He led them down a smelly corridor, unconcerned about turning his back on the two strangers. They entered a room with only a table and four half-broken chairs.
It was the simplest exchange in the history of the world. In total silence Botta laid the leather bag on the table, the guy took the counterfeit notes out of it, and after checking the quality of the manufacture, he counted the sixty stacks of one million each. Nodding with satisfaction, he looked the two Florentines in the eye, and with a half-smile he left the room. He returned moments later with a packet of paper bundled with string, opened it and put the money on the table. Ennio pulled out two or three notes at random and with hands trembling held them up against the light. He exchanged a glance with Bordelli, to let him know everything was all right, then counted the twelve stacks and put them in the bag.
‘We’ve never met,’ the man said, showing them out and bidding them farewell with a nod in the doorway. As soon as the Florentines headed down the stairs, the door reclosed without a sound. Botta could hardly contain himself.
‘I can’t believe it …’ he kept muttering, clutching the bag to his chest.
‘Now comes the hardest part,’ said Bordelli.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe we’ll find two gorillas waiting for us outside the door, who’ll politely ask us to give the money back.’
‘Nobody’s going to take this bag from me,’ said Ennio, ready for anything.
‘Well, if anything happens, leave it to me,’ said Bordelli, taking the pistol from its holster and putting it in his jacket pocket, without letting go of it. Before leaving the building, they opened the front door a crack to check the street in front. There wasn’t a soul about. In the distance they could hear a baby crying.
‘Let’s go …’
‘The car’s this way, right?’ asked Ennio, tenser than ever.
‘I think so …’ Bordelli joked, just to rib him. They walked briskly, and a few minutes later they sighted the Alfa at the end of the street. It seemed very far away.
‘We’ll be home by four,’ said Ennio, short of breath.
‘We can have another coffee on the motorway,’ Bordelli whispered, putting the pistol back in its holster. When they were about twenty yards from their Alfa, a Milan Police Fiat started approaching at a walking pace …
‘Fuck …’ said Botta.
‘Just stay calm.’
When the Fiat pulled up beside them, Bordelli was inserting the key into the door of the Alfa. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement, and after exchanging a military salute, the two police officers drove away.
‘Jesus Christ …’ said Botta, collapsing into the passenger seat. Bordelli started up the car and calmly drove off.
‘All thanks to the Alfa.’
‘I’d marry this Alfa if I could …’
‘At any rate, I’m going to have to get used to the idea that you’re rich now, Ennio.’
‘I’ve never seen that much money all at once, for Chrissakes!’
‘You’ll have to build up resistance.’
‘I still can’t believe it … And if you hadn’t been there … Man, I’m still sweating …’ said Botta, wiping his brow with his hand.
‘We were lucky.’
A miracle seemed to have occurred: a poor man had got rich. It didn’t matter how – it was still good news …
‘Inspector, you deserve a cut,’ said Ennio and, opening the bag, he pulled out a stack worth a million lire and set it down on Bordelli’s lap.
‘Don’t push it, Ennio. I’m still trying to digest the fact that I was your accomplice.’
‘But you earned it …’
‘Put this stuff away or I’ll arrest you,’ said Bordelli, giving him back the money.
‘Take ten thousand lire at least, for the petrol and the dinner.’
‘Just so you won’t be offended.’
‘Here you go …’ said Botta, handing him a note. Bordelli put it in his pocket, knowing he would never spend it. He wanted to keep it as a souvenir and write the date on it.
‘So what’ll you do now?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You can’t very well go to a bank with twelve million lire in a bag and say you want to open an account, with the kind of record you’ve got.’
‘That’s not a problem. I’ve already worked it all out,’ said Ennio, with a particularly criminal smile.
‘Oh yeah? And how’s that?’
‘The daughter of a close friend of mine has married a bloke who works in a bank.’
‘So you’ve taken care of everything …’
‘Isn’t that what I said?’
‘If you ask me, the first thing you’ll do is buy a Porsche.’
‘I know what I’m doing, Inspector.’
They turned on to the autostrada and Bordelli stepped on the gas. At that hour there were mostly long queues of lorries on the road, and luckily it wasn’t raining. Ennio kept muttering to himself, eyes beaming for joy. He simply couldn’t believe that it had all gone well. It wasn’t just a question of filthy lucre; it felt more like a genuine victory over life. Bordelli listened to him distractedly, thoughts turning every so often to his dinner with Adele …
When he opened his eyes the following morning he remembered what he’d done the night before. He could hardly believe it. His ears were ringing. He’d driven four hundred miles in just a few hours, and when he finally got under the covers it was past 4 a.m. It had all been very easy. A walk in the park … But what if something had gone wrong? He could imagine the notices for La Nazione:
FORMER POLICE INSPECTOR ARRESTED
ESCORTED COUNTERFEITER TO MILAN
IN FLORENTINE SQUAD CAR
He’d done it for a friend, of course, to minimise the risks, to keep a dream from dying … Very touching, but between tears the judge would have sentenced him to ten years. Who knew what Diotivede would have said, had he known … Rosa would probably have got a chuckle out if it, but what about Adele? Or Eleonora? It was best to stop thinking about it.
In fact, that night never happened …
It was almost eleven o’clock. He’d closed his bedroom door to avoid getting woken up by Blisk at seven. A greyish light filtered through the shutters, and he realised the sky was overcast. He wondered whether Ennio would change, now that he had all that money … Would he lose his head and squander everything in a short time? Or would he squirrel it away? Bordelli got out of bed, and when he opened his bedroom door he found the dog lying on the floor outside it.
‘If anybody asks, I did not leave the house last night … Don’t forget …’
He remembered the ten-thousand-lira note he had in his pocket. Taking it out, he wrote the date on it, 16/03/1967, and put it in the drawer of his nightstand. For the ages …
He went into the kitchen to make coffee and, looking out of the window, was pleased to see that Piras had already come and exchanged the cars. In the place of the Alfa squad car was his Volkswagen Beetle. Everything was back to normal. With just a little effort, the memory of that night would become pure fantasy. He’d never gone to Milan, he hadn’t taken part in the trade-off, it was all just a dream … Then he smiled to himself … He was worried about a few counterfeit banknotes, when he himself …
He drank down a whole cup of coffee in a single gulp. After a long hot shower he went out the back door to water the garden and found a surprise: a number of small vases with herbs in them were lined up along the wall. He’d forgotten all about them, but Ennio, as usual, had kept his word. He went and smelled them one by one, tearing off some little leaves and rubbing them under his nose. He couldn’t wait to try them. A true cook couldn’t do without such things.
Entering the vegetable garden, he noticed that the tomato seedlings had grown another good bit, pointing proudly skywards. The chilli peppers, however, hadn’t come up yet, but according to Ennio there was nothing to worry about; sometimes they took three weeks to appear.
The dog hung around outside the fence, head down. He seemed almost offended that Bordelli wouldn’t let him inside, and every now and then he scratched at the wire fencing with his paw. Bordelli continued watering, thinking that in just a few hours he would be dining with Adele … But he was also thinking about Eleonora … The whole business was getting very complicated in his head …
