by Marco Vichi
Although Bordelli wasn’t familiar with the household routines, he felt he could grasp everything that was happening as well as if he could see it. Monsignor was bathing, as the chauffeur was getting supper ready. Clearly he was setting the table in the dining room for the master alone, while he would eat in the kitchen.
Some twenty minutes later, Monsignor came out of the bathroom and went downstairs. Bordelli stole out of the room, careful not to make the slightest sound, and crossed the penumbra to the balustrade. There was a bit of light coming from below. Amid the silence he could hear the driver’s footsteps as he went from the kitchen to the dining room, and every so often the sound of a voice. The city seemed quite far away …
When, about an hour later, the ground-floor light came on, Bordelli stepped back to hide round the corner of the wall. Monsignor had finished dining and seemed to have retired to his study. Perhaps he wanted to work a little on his text on St Ambrose. Was he planning later to go out in search of human flesh? Or would he keep writing late into the night on the charity and firmness of the bishop of Milan? Whatever his intention, he didn’t know yet that fate had other plans for him.
Bordelli could hear the muffled sounds of the chauffeur bustling about in the kitchen behind the closed door. Water running in the sink, clattering dishes, cupboard doors shutting … Aside from this, silence reigned.
Half an hour later, the chauffeur came out of the kitchen and went down the corridor, probably to tell his master that he was retiring to his cottage. There was the distant sound of a voice, then the chauffeur came back through the vestibule, went out of the house and locked the door behind him with several turns of the key. Bordelli continued listening, hidden in the first-floor darkness. What was Monsignor Sercambi doing? It was time to go and say hello …
He descended the stairs slowly, pistol in hand. A soft light filtered out of the half-closed door of the study. He drew near, treading softly on the carpets and, even before he saw him, he imagined the prelate bent over his books, his gold-framed glasses sitting on his nose, his expression one of concentration.
The telephone rang, and Monsignor answered with his customary severity. Bordelli stopped to listen, catching only a few harshly uttered phrases …
‘Yes, I’d heard … I have to think about it … No, not at the moment … If need be … Never … I really don’t think so … An important decision … Nobody … Absolutely … No, it’s impossible … Tomorrow, yes … Goodnight …’
He hung up, and a few seconds later there was the sound of the typewriter. The high prelate of the Episcopal Curia could at last turn his efforts to the creation of his work, and had he been able to finish it, it would certainly have been published by a prestigious publishing house … But was there, in some corner of his conscience, any guilt over the murder of Giacomo Pellissari clamouring to be heard? Or had he succeeded, with divine intercession, in rendering the memory of that night harmless? And in what corner of that immortal soul was the rape of Eleonora hiding?
Bordelli peered into the study and found before him the same scene he’d imagined … It was like seeing a Nazi official discussing art and literature while the children in the ghetto …
He walked into the room with the pistol pointed.
‘Nice to see you again, Monsignor,’ he said, approaching the desk. The prelate remained motionless in his chair, like a marble bust. He stared at Bordelli with his mouth half open, and as soon as he realised this, he shut it.
‘How did you get in here?’
The surprise had shaken him up, and his hands were trembling slightly. His elegant pale blue housecoat fell from his shoulders in soft folds. Bordelli sat down in front of him, always keeping the pistol pointed at him.
‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’ he said calmly.
‘How did you get in here?’ Monsignor repeated.
‘I passed through the walls, the way ghosts do.’
‘What do you want from me?’ the priest stammered, turning pale.
‘Do you always treat your guests this way?’ said Bordelli, smiling faintly.
‘Have the decency to explain what you want from me …’
His bald head glistened like a peach in the sun.
‘Don’t you feel the need to confess?’
‘To confess what?’
‘I’m sure you know better than I …’
‘God already knows my sins.’
‘And that’s enough to clear your conscience?’
He could have put an end to things at once, instead of wasting time chatting, but he couldn’t resist the desire to make the man admit to his crimes …
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Monsignor Sercambi, seeming confused. With the barrel of a pistol aimed at him, he couldn’t decide whether to act tough or docile. He was trying to understand what could be going through the mind of this barbarian who surely was unable to translate Ovid and had never read the correspondence between Heloise and Abelard …
‘This is no time to play innocent, Monsignor.’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘Before throwing himself out of the window, Italo Signorini told me everything, which I’m sure you realised straight away.’
‘I still don’t understand … I’m sorry … I don’t know any Signorini …’
‘And your other playmates, Panerai and Beccaroni, also killed themselves in remorse.’
‘You must forgive me, I don’t know any of these people … May they rest in peace …’ said the priest, hands folded as though he wanted to pray for their sinning souls.
‘Amen …’ said Bordelli, miming the sign of the cross in the air with the pistol barrel.
‘And what can I do for you, Signor Bordelli?’
‘Finally, someone who doesn’t call me inspector …’
‘Would you please be good enough to put your weapon away? And explain why you should want to torment me?’ He was trying to appear untroubled, but behind his fine gold spectacles his pupils seemed to be drowning in fear.
‘I suggest we play a game, since you like games so much … If, by the count of ten, you don’t start confessing your sins to me and to God, I shall release your mortal soul from the prison of the flesh … One … Two … Three … Four … Five … Six … Seven … Eight … Nine … Ten …’
‘No … All right … All right …’ said Monsignor, raising his hands slightly. It must have been truly appalling, for someone like him, not to be able to dominate the situation.
‘Thank you … So, tell me …’
‘It was a misfortune … A tragic misfortune …’ A large drop of sweat streaked his cheek.
‘Of course …’ said Bordelli, as though bored.
‘You must believe me …’
‘Was it also a tragic misfortune when you raped a little boy?’
‘I have repented … Profoundly … As God is my witness …’ the prelate said, in more or less the same terms as Beccaroni.
‘Perjurors go to hell – I learned that in catechism,’ said Bordelli.
‘Then you must also have learned about Christian charity … The joy of forgiveness …’
He was panting lightly, and Bordelli read in his eyes a profound unease at having to humble himself.
‘The only one who could have enjoyed any forgiveness was strangled.’
‘I didn’t do it …’ the prelate was quick to say.
‘All you did was rape him, is that it?’ said Bordelli, thinking of the horror the boy had been subjected to. Monsignor lowered his eyes contritely, but quickly looked up again.
‘I pray for him every day, and I shall pray for him to the end of my days …’
‘Let him rest in peace,’ said Bordelli, yearning for a cigarette. For no precise reason he kept postponing the moment, pretending that Monsignor Sercambi had a future. Maybe he simply wanted to look him in the eye for a little while longer, to try to understand …
‘You cannot imagine how sorry I am,’ said Monsignor.
> ‘God will reward you for it … I imagine you’re also sorry for having ordered two gentlemen to rape a young woman …’
‘The devil clouds the mind … I was no longer myself …’ the priest said in a whisper, looking away.
‘Interesting …’
He finally had proof that it had indeed been the prelate who had ordered the rape, and with a tingling in his forearms he again saw Eleonora curled up under the covers, her face covered with bruises.
‘Man is half angel, half beast, said Pascal,’ the prelate continued, in a submissive tone that must have cost him a great deal. In spite of everything he seemed calmer now. Perhaps he thought it was only a matter of finding the right words … If the matter took a seriously bad turn, he could always count on his ‘friends’. The Masons knew no obstacles.
‘On your feet …’ said Bordelli, standing up.
‘What’s that?’
‘Stand up.’
‘What do you intend to do?’
‘I said stand up.’
‘Yes …’
Monsignor got up, gently pushing the chair away. He was shorter than Bordelli had imagined and, if one took a good look at him, rather delicate. The imposing air he often communicated came entirely from his eyes, and an awareness of his own power … Whereas now he simply looked like a poor, frightened priest.
‘Go and stand over there,’ Bordelli ordered him, pointing to the centre of the rug. Monsignor obeyed, not understanding what his ‘guest’ had in mind. Bordelli took a few steps towards him. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he said.
‘You can’t be serious …’ the prelate muttered, goggling his eyes, standing stiff as a tree trunk.
‘Take off your clothes,’ Bordelli repeated darkly.
Monsignor waited for a few more seconds, dazed by the strange command, then took off his housecoat and tossed it on to the back of a chair. That left him in underpants and undershirt, both with his initials embroidered on them. His naked legs were streaked with blue veins, and his knees were shaking.
‘What do you intend to do?’ he said in terror.
‘Take off the rest as well.’
‘I beg you …’
‘Don’t make me repeat it,’ Bordelli said with a harshness that made the prelate give a start.
‘Be merciful …’
‘I’m about to shoot you.’
‘No …’
Monsignor Sercambi took off his undershirt, shaking like a leaf. He had narrow shoulders, and his ribs were visible. Bordelli, with a gesture, ordered him to take off the underpants as well. He wanted to make him suffer the same humiliation the Nazis inflicted on the new arrivals to the extermination camps. Monsignor let his drawers fall to the floor and then covered himself with his hands, gasping in shame. Bordelli, disgusted, smiled.
‘If you’re looking for the devil, you’ll find him between your legs,’ he said, thinking of Giacomo Pellissari’s last half-hour of life.
‘Why all this?’ the prelate stammered in despair.
‘The little boy you raped wondered the same thing.’
‘God, please help me …’ Monsignor wailed, collapsing to his knees. He fell forward almost to the point of touching his forehead to the rug, then burst into sobs. ‘I have repented … I have sinned … I repent, I repent again … God forgive me … God forgive me …’
He had crossed the threshold of dignity and was falling lower and lower.
‘I’m a monster … I did the demon’s bidding …’
Until a few minutes ago he’d been a high prelate in the Curia, feared and respected, a Freemason, a scholar writing an important treatise on the thought of St Ambrose … He’d fallen from the lofty heights of power and into the mire … Now he was just a naked man crying, kneeling before a pistol …
‘Repentance … Repentance …’
He raved without restraint, and his pain seemed genuine. It wasn’t hard to repent in articulo mortis. As Bordelli watched him he remembered Italo Signorini’s words about the evening the four friends had spent with Giacomo: After a long groan, Monsignor Sercambi collapsed on top of him …
All of a sudden he felt endless compassion for this minister of God who’d been unable to resist the call of his basest instincts, unable to distinguish good from evil, pleasure from the abuse of power … And as had also happened with the lawyer, he thought perhaps he wouldn’t kill him. He could force him to write a detailed confession and then drag him into court … But then what if, in spite of everything, he still got off scot free? The humiliation he’d suffered would make him even fiercer, and he would avenge himself. No scandal could ever bring him down. With his wealth and power he would be back on his feet in no time … He might even emigrate to some poor country where he could live like a nabob and buy the children’s misery …
He stuck his pistol back in its holster, then straddled the prelate’s body, grabbed his neck and started squeezing with all his might. It was harder with gloves on than with one’s bare hands, but he would manage just the same. Sercambi struggled but was unable to break free, and his gold-framed glasses went flying to one side.
‘Panerai and Beccaroni did not commit suicide: I killed them myself, and I wanted you to know that,’ said Bordelli, panting from the effort. After a minute that seemed it would never end, Monsignor Sercambi collapsed lengthwise, rattling and weakly thrashing, scratching his fingernails on the carpet … Bordelli kept on squeezing, to avoid the risk of having him recover. Before his eyes the man’s bald head turned all red, then purple, almost black … When he was sure that Monsignor’s soul had left his body, he let go.
God! What an effort, he thought, getting to his feet. His brow was drenched in sweat, and he wiped it with the back of his gloved hand. The flaccid white carcass of his victim lay at his feet, open mouthed and goggle eyed. He would no longer harm anyone. Goliath the giant had been slain again …
Bordelli fell into a chair to catch his breath. He looked at the clock: almost eleven. Monsignor had suffered the same horror as Giacomo: so it was written. He, Bordelli, had merely been the secular arm, like the men-at-arms who used to burn heretics in the days of the Inquisition. He hadn’t taken revenge; he’d merely restored order. The justice of the courts didn’t always function properly, and in such cases another solution was needed. The ogre had been slain, but the outcome was not like the ending of a fairy tale. Nobody would live happily ever after …
It occurred to him that he should do something to mislead the investigation into the murder of the respectable Monsignor Sercambi. It had to be something very odd, to create confusion in the minds of the investigators. He had to use his imagination … What might best muddy the waters and induce them to make the most complicated conjectures? What was needed was an inexplicable mystery, something completely fake and useless …
At last the right idea came to him. He took a pen from the desk and drew a large swastika on the dead prelate’s back. A war vendetta … The poor detective assigned the case could bang his head against the wall till kingdom come …
Before leaving, he made a final, risky bet with destiny: he decided he would take no precautions when exiting the villa. If there were no snags, he would have the final confirmation that he had merely followed the dictates of fate. He looked one last time at the corpse on the carpet … Adieu, Monsignor …
He calmly went down the stairs, lighting his way with the torch. Casting one last glance at the sorrowful sculpture of the Magdalen, he turned the knob of the lock and went out through the front door, closing it behind him and heading for the gate. The garden was in semi-darkness, immersed in a fable-like atmosphere. One window of the villa next door was faintly lit by the flickering glow of a television set, and he imagined husband and wife sitting on the sofa, watching the conclusion of a film on the National channel.
He hadn’t given any thought to how he would exit the gate, but wasn’t worried. He was ready to clamber over the grille, or even climb the trees … But there was no need. He felt around inside the i
vy covering the pillars and found a button. Clicking open the lock, he stepped out on to the pavement. He looked around but saw no one. The boulevard was deserted. As he approached his car he removed the gloves and stuffed them into his pocket. He felt weightless, and perhaps a bit shaken. He couldn’t work out in his own mind whether the world really did now seem a little less dirty, as he’d hoped. There was also a feeling of emptiness, as when one finishes a major undertaking and leaves it behind … Most of all, he felt very hungry …
He went up Via Tacca, encountered not a living soul, and got into his car. Puffing on a cigarette, he turned on to Viale Michelangelo in the direction of the Arno. Nobody had seen him. It was as if he’d never set foot in that magnificent villa. The swastika on the prelate’s back would trigger a pointless hunt. It challenged everyone to try to understand, and to seek a motive.
He crossed the bridge and while driving through Piazza Beccaria he looked up, as usual, at the thick black band making its way entirely around the medieval gate, several metres above the ground. For those who hadn’t witnessed the spectacle, it must have been hard to imagine that one November morning the viale was a river of stinking mud. But the traces of the past were not easily erased.
He tried not to think of Eleonora, but failed. The death of Monsignor Sercambi marked the end of a chapter, and the next one might even include her. Now he could tell her that the guilty party had paid. He shook his head, realising he hadn’t asked him for the names of the two thugs who’d raped her … But maybe it was better this way. He was tired of hunting down sons of bitches like some solitary gunslinger. And killing those two would have been a purely personal vendetta.
He pulled up outside the Trattoria da Cesare with a hole in his stomach. Getting out of the car, he tossed his cigarette butt aside. The air was warm and lightly tossed by a breeze that rustled the young leaves on the plane trees. He entered the restaurant, which was nearly deserted, nodded to Cesare in greeting, and went into Totò’s realm.
