by Marco Vichi
At half past two, he’d decided it was time to leave. He opened the front door a crack and peered out into the darkened garden faintly illuminated by the dim glow of the outdoor lamp. The two Dobermanns had been left in their pen, and he could hear them jumping against the wire fence. No doubt someone would come and take them away the following day, with the requisite stamps from the courts.
He’d closed the door behind him, quietly crossed the garden, pressed the button to unlock the small service gate, and found himself out on the street. The dogs hadn’t even barked. With the hat on his head and the glasses on his nose, he’d headed off at a leisurely pace along the same path he’d taken to get there. All the way to Via Senese he hadn’t seen a living soul, either on foot or in a car. He’d made it to his Beetle and driven home feeling as though he’d just emerged from a bad dream.
With Blisk at his side, he went back into the house and got into bed. He turned out the light, too tired to read anything. Everything had gone the way it was supposed to, without the slightest hitch. A textbook suicide. No one would ever suspect otherwise, not even Monsignor Sercambi. As he was falling asleep the same scene kept replaying in his mind, of Beccaroni’s head falling hard on to the desk …
A beautiful woman … black hair in the wind, love in her eyes … came towards him gently smiling, lips slightly open, looking him straight in the eye … She took his head in her hands … At that moment he woke up with a start, with the sensation that he’d just heard a noise downstairs. He turned the light on and sat up, holding his breath. He clearly heard footsteps coming up the stairs …
‘Where are you? I’m gonna take you for nice little ride in the country,’ said a male voice, and Bordelli dropped back down in bed with a smile, having recognised Botta, who hadn’t forgotten his promise to look after the dog.
‘Ciao, Ennio …’ he said in a loud voice.
After a second of absolute silence, the door opened a crack, and Botta’s bug-eyes appeared in the gap.
‘Do you want to scare me to death, Inspector? Especially now that I’m a rich man?’
‘Didn’t you see my car outside?’
‘So what? You could have gone away in somebody else’s car …’
‘You’re right, I’m sorry … I forgot to warn you …’
‘You certainly did …’ said Ennio, still a bit shaken. The dog had come over to the bed and was resting its muzzle on the mattress.
‘In the end I never made that journey.’
‘La donna è mobile …’ Botta sang, smiling ironically.
Bordelli didn’t catch the provocation. He got out of bed and dressed as best he could. It was barely nine o’clock, and he’d slept about five hours, more or less, but he didn’t feel too tired.
‘Shall we have some coffee?’ he asked, rubbing his eyes. They all headed downstairs, dog included.
‘So, what’s happening?’ asked Botta.
‘Nothing is happening …’
‘Weren’t you supposed to be away for a few days?’
‘I changed my mind.’
‘Or maybe some woman changed her mind …’
‘Maybe …’
‘Still want to carry on with the mystery, Inspector?’
‘What mystery? … Oh, I still haven’t thanked you for the pots with the herbs …’
‘You’re very welcome, Inspector,’ said Botta, resigned to not having his curiosity satisfied.
‘Now I have everything I need to become a proper cook.’
‘I found the bread hanging on the door, Inspector, so I put it on the table.’
The day’s edition of La Nazione was sticking out of the bag with the bread. Bordelli was curious to read the city crime-news section, but didn’t want to appear too anxious to do so, and instead he started rinsing the coffee pot. Botta practically snatched it out of his hands.
‘Here, let me do that.’
‘Ubi major …’21 Bordelli admitted. He went and opened the door to let Blisk out, as Ennio fiddled with the coffee while mumbling a tune by Rita Pavone.
‘Care for a panino, Ennio?’
He was hungry and remembered the panini he hadn’t eaten.
‘Maybe later …’ said Botta, still humming.
Bordelli grabbed a panino from the fridge and went and sat down. He spread the newspaper out on the table and turned the pages slowly, pretending to be in no hurry … At last he found what he was looking for …
Leaves Confession and Kills Himself
FLORENCE LAWYER WRITES MYSTERIOUS CONFESSION
AND SHOOTS HIMSELF IN THE HEAD
Distraught Family: ‘He was a wonderful man.’
At half past ten yesterday evening, when night patrolman Lorenzo Degl’Innocenti stopped outside the gate of the villa belonging to the lawyer Moreno Beccaroni, he heard a …
Bordelli read the article quickly, distractedly chatting with Botta all the while. It told how the scene had unfolded from the moment the security guard heard the shot until he and the others found the body. It also mentioned the two Dobermanns, which would be kept at the municipal kennel until a relative of the owner came to get them. As he’d hoped, there was no mention of any doubts as to what had happened. In short, a suicide by the book.
Finishing his panino, he crumpled some paper and threw it into the cold fireplace, on top of the ashes of Beccaroni’s confession. He imagined Monsignor Sercambi opening La Nazione and finding a picture of another of his fellow adventurers. Would he tremble at the sight of the word ‘confession’? Or would he remain impassive, confident of his own power? The most important thing was that he should suspect nothing … But how could he? There was no reason to. It was entirely plausible that remorse over participating in the murder of a little boy could nag at someone’s conscience until it pushed him to that final act. And perhaps Monsignor wasn’t even displeased to be the last remaining keeper of the obscene, abominable secret. But he had his own rendezvous with destiny … In due time …
‘It’s spring today,’ said Botta, bringing the cups to the table. Bordelli closed the newspaper and yawned.
‘Funny, you don’t look like a millionaire …’
‘What were you expecting, for me to come in coat and tie and driving a Porsche?’ said Ennio, sitting down. The coffee spread its scent of serenity through the air.
‘When you buy your Porsche, will you let me take it for a spin?’
‘Forget about the Porsche, Inspector … I’m going to squirrel everything away, like you said … Nobody must know …’
‘But I know everything. I’ve got you in the palm of my hand.’
‘I’m more worried about your birthday … Don’t you think it’s better if I do the cooking?’
‘Now I’ve got your gospel, I’m not worried.’
‘Here’s hoping …’
‘You’re not the only one in the world who knows how to cook, Ennio, you’ll have to accept that …’
‘A lot of people know how to drive, but racecar drivers are rare.’
‘Thus spake Zarathustra …’
‘No, I said that …’
They finished their coffee and Bordelli got up and put the cups in the sink.
‘Have you seen the vegetable garden? It’s coming along quite nicely.’
‘I’ll be the one to judge …’
‘You’ll fall to your knees …’
At that moment the telephone rang and, as Bordelli expected, it was Piras.
‘Good morning, Inspector.’
‘I know what you’re thinking … I’ve just seen the paper …’
‘One suicide after another …’
‘Remorse is unforgiving, Piras.’
‘Of course it is, Inspector. But one day you’ll tell me how you did it.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow …’
‘I’m on your side, Inspector … Don’t forget that …’
‘Well, thanks …’
‘Now I have to go.’
‘’Bye, Piras.’
He smiled as he put down the phone, then went outside with Botta to have a look at the magic garden. Little blue flowers had appeared at the tips of the rosemary branches, the sage shoots had taken root, and by this point all the chilli pepper seedlings had sprouted.
Ennio was not as impressed at this monumental achievement as he should have been, but it was merely a question of character. Bordelli did not get discouraged.
‘So, what do you think, maestro?’
‘It will all depend on the weather, Inspector … At any rate the fence could have been a little nicer.’
‘Everything can always be a little better, Ennio. That’s the good thing about life.’
‘Thus spake Bordellustra …’
‘When should I transplant the tomatoes?’
‘In a couple of weeks, but it’s probably best if I come and lend you a hand.’
‘No, I can do it alone. It’s fun.’
‘Anyone can turn the soil a little, but making plants grow is no joke.’
‘I’ll manage … Feel like taking a little walk?’
‘Even a long one, as far as that goes,’ said Ennio.
They headed off through the olive grove, under a sun that was starting to heat up. It hadn’t rained in earnest for a while now, and the clayey earth was beginning to crack.
It occurred to Bordelli that if he’d been less lucky he might still be shut up inside Beccaroni’s villa, eating panini and waiting.
‘I’ve decided to ask you for my share in the Milan caper, Ennio.’
‘Ah, how much do you want?’
‘I don’t want any money … But if you open a trattoria, I want free meals.’
‘Is that all? I would have done it anyway.’
‘I almost feel like crying …’
‘Speaking of which … Tomorrow I have to go and look at a property in Borgo dei Greci. If I like it I’ll take it.’
‘What are you going to call your trattoria?’
‘I was thinking, Botta e risposta … What do you say?’
‘How about … Un Botta e via …?’
‘Botta da orbi …’
‘Dallo Sbotta …’22
Spouting their silly puns they entered the woods, where the sun barely filtered through the branches. The vegetation quivered with life, ready to burst forth.
When he was in the fifth form of primary school, those were the days when Mussolini and his squadristi were setting fire to communist and socialist meeting houses, with the tacit approval of the bourgeoisie and even the government. He was still a frightened little boy, crushed by his own shyness. When the schoolteacher called the roll, he was one of the first named: Adorno, Bini, Bordelli … Every time he heard his name called he would raise his hand and blush as if he were standing naked in the middle of the road. He didn’t like being in the classroom with the other children. He could never wait to go home. He felt much better holed up in his bedroom playing with the cloth puppets his mother had made for him, dreaming up fantastic stories he would repeat each time with a few minor variations. The best story of all was when he managed to save his mother from an evil man who wanted to hurt her. He would swell with pride over his feats, and he went to bed at night feeling like a hero.
One morning at school he was looking out the window. It was the start of spring, the sun was out, and being in class was a bore. The swallows were darting around in the sky as though crazed. He wished he could fly with them, instead of being shut up within four walls. As usual he was sitting alone on the last bench, trying to hide. The schoolmistress was telling the story of a Carbonaro who’d given his life for his country, fighting the foreign enemy. He felt bored and started fiddling with his penknife, used for sharpening pencils. Every so often he cast a glance around the classroom, like a cat looking for an escape route. He saw the yellowed walls, the crucifix hanging over the photographs of the king and the Duce, the backs of his schoolmates’ necks, the glass door of the bathroom at the back of the room, the black-enamelled benches, the great map of Italy on the wall, the grit floor … He was thoroughly familiar with it all, down to the last detail …
At a certain point his hand slipped and the penknife’s sharp blade punctured his thumb. The blood began to bubble up and drip down on to the bench; he was worried he would die. It was the first time he’d ever seen so much blood. In a panic he stood up and managed to slip into the bathroom. He leaned back against the wall, facing the pane of glass separating him from the classroom, as the blood now dripped down his arm. His breathing became laboured, he felt faint … His classmates slowly turned into a sea of little black dots, and the teacher’s voice reached his ears with an echo as in a bad dream. A few seconds more, and he would be dead. He was sure of it … At that moment, at the centre of the wall of black dots, he saw a darker silhouette coming forward, and heard the sound of the bathroom door opening.
‘Bordelli … elli … elli … Are you sick … ick … ick …? What have you done … one … one …? What’s all this blood … ood … ood … ood …?’
Through the fog the teacher turned on the tap, muttering words he couldn’t understand … He thought he would collapse on the floor, but in fact he started slowly to recover … Now the voices sounded normal again, the black dust-cloud dispersed, and the schoolmistress reappeared, a comforting smile on her face …
‘It’s nothing, just a little cut … Just go and sit down and keep your hand raised … I’ll see if I can find a bandage … The rest of you, go back to your places …’ said the teacher, chasing away his schoolmates, who had gathered in the bathroom doorway.
He slid down against the wall and sat on the floor. Obeying the teacher, he then raised his hand over his head, not understanding the reason.
A few minutes later he was again sitting on his bench, feeling embarrassed, with a bandage over his thumb, trying to ignore the looks of the other children, who kept glancing at him furtively. He felt inescapably different and, with an unpleasant sense of satisfaction, a vague malaise. If it had been up to him, he would never have set foot in school again …
Two years later, also in spring, another thing happened to him that he would never forget. But it wasn’t anything you could see on the outside; it was an intimate thing, all his own. He’d never told anyone about it, and in any case would not have known what to say … It happened one Sunday afternoon, when his parents were in the living room chatting with friends who’d come to lunch. He was playing with his puppets and was in the middle of a thrilling adventure. And all of a sudden he thought: ‘It’s no longer any fun playing with puppets …’ And, combined with a slight feeling of sadness, he’d felt for the first time a fear of the unknown …
‘It’ll be so nice to see where you live,’ said Adele, happy as a little girl.
They were on their way up the Imprunetana, after dining at the same resturant and the same table as the last time. It was a few minutes past ten. They’d drunk some good wine, and she was joyously tipsy. The skirt she was wearing wasn’t too long, and every so often Bordelli cast a glance at her round knees, which stood out faintly pale in the darkness.
‘Don’t be shocked by the mess,’ he said after a long silence.
Good thing he’d spent the afternoon cleaning up, dusting the furniture and sweeping clumps of fluff and dog hair from the floor. He hadn’t done it for Adele’s sake; at the time he still didn’t know whether she would ask to see his house. It was only a way to channel the agitation he felt while waiting for evening.
‘If you had a woman, she could keep your house in order,’ Adele said suggestively. The scent of her perfume was reminiscent of fruit hot with sunlight, and it filled the air with a sweet sense of tension. There were long pauses between their exchanges, but neither seemed to feel any embarrassment about this.
‘I’ve known some very disorderly women,’ said Bordelli.
They fell silent again. The olive trees and cypresses sped by, alternating silver with dark green. Bordelli thought of the last time he was in a car with Eleonora, whe
n he’d taken her home to her parents on the night of the rape. They’d driven through a Florence devastated by the flood, and the silence in the car seemed to bode a last goodbye. He would never forget it. Eleonora was sitting right there beside him, where Adele now was. Then she’d got out of the car, seeming absent, and a moment later vanished behind the front door.
‘Who knows how many you’ve had …’
‘How many what?’
‘Women.’
‘Oh …’
‘State secret?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever bothered to count.’
‘A true gentleman …’ she whispered, smiling.
‘Don’t be fooled by appearances; I’m much worse than I seem,’ said Bordelli, thinking of what he’d done just the night before.
More silence. Beautiful, serene silence. Adele was lightly shaking one of her knees slightly, gazing distractedly out the window at the countryside.
‘Today’s the first day of spring,’ she said, looking at the shining slice of moon that cut through the black sky like a fingernail.
They drove through the main square of Impruneta, which was dark and deserted, along one side of the basilica, continuing up the provincial road. Shortly thereafter they turned on to the dirt road, and as they slowly proceeded they saw a hare freeze in the glare of the headlights, ears pricked straight up. It was the same one. Bordelli stopped, as Adele smiled like a child who’s just unwrapped a beautiful present.
‘How cute …’
‘I see it here often; by now we’re friends.’
They waited for the animal to run away, then continued down the road to the house.
‘And here’s my cave.’
