by Marco Vichi
‘Inspector, I’m glad to see that you deign to come down from your mountain every now and then,’ said the cook, coming towards him.
‘It’s a long and lonely road …’
‘And what are you doing at home? Eating out of tins?’
‘I’ve learned how to cook …’
‘But what’s happened to you? You should see your face …’
‘I’m just a little tired, Totò.’
‘No, I meant you look younger.’
‘It must be the country air.’
‘You still haven’t had any dinner, I can read it in your eyes.’
‘Good guess …’ said Bordelli, sitting down on his stool.
‘You can’t hide hunger, Inspector. What do you feel like eating?’
‘If it’s not any trouble, I’d like a nice steak, blood rare.’
‘Trouble? I’ll have it ready for you in one minute … Would you like a few beans on the side, or would you rather have some broccoli rabe sautéed in garlic?’
‘The beans sound good, thanks,’ said Bordelli, pouring himself a glass of wine.
‘Beans it is …’ said the cook. After stirring the embers with a poker, he took a beautiful steak from the fridge and dropped it on the red-hot grill.
‘How are things with your lady-love Nina?’ Bordelli asked as the steak sizzled.
‘Women are funny, Inspector. Just to be up to date, Nina’s family bought a washing machine, and do you know what she and her mother do now? They spend all their time sitting in front of the washing machine, watching the clothes go round and round behind the glass …’
‘Maybe it’s better than television.’
‘At any rate I’m going to marry her sooner or later.’
‘The washing machine?’
‘That’s probably already happened in America. Those guys are capable of anything,’ said Totò, as one familiar with the peoples of the world. Sticking the steak with a meat-fork, he flipped it over, as the beans were warming in a pan. Bordelli poured himself his third glass of wine. Every so often he remembered that scarcely half an hour earlier he’d strangled a monsignor of the Curia, and this seemed quite strange to him.
At last the steak and beans arrived, and Totò cut three slices of bread for him. Bordelli was as hungry as a wolf and immediately started devouring the bloody meat. The cook as usual started telling a macabre story about his home town … This one involved a chemist, a rather respected family man who led an honest, quiet life …
‘… then one fine day he was found out in the country, completely naked, murdered, with a knife stuck in his chest and a mouse stuffed in his mouth … Nobody could ever make head or tail of it, and they never found the killer …’
‘Maybe the esteemed pharmacist had done some terrible thing, and somebody decided to avenge himself.’
‘They needed you there, Inspector … After just a few days, the culprit would have been behind bars …’
‘Not everyone who kills deserves to end up behind bars, my dear Totò,’ said Bordelli. Who knew what the cook would have said if he’d told him how he’d just spent the evening …
‘Have I ever told you the one about the woman who was cut in two?’
‘I don’t think so …’
‘She was a schoolteacher, young and pretty … The whole town came to her funeral … The little children cried like fountains …’ That time, they found the killer. He was one of the children’s fathers. He confessed in tears. For several months he’d been meeting secretly with the pretty teacher, and when she got tired of him, he cut her open like a calf …
‘Why don’t we talk about women who are still in one piece?’ said Bordelli, who didn’t feel much like spending the rest of the evening talking about murders. He wanted to savour his steak in peace, and kept refilling his wine glass. He seemed unable to get drunk, feeling only a slight euphoria that would later turn to sadness. A bit the way it always happened with Rosa …
They started talking about women and politics, spicy salami and the new Fiat 500, which Totò wanted to buy for himself … The time passed placidly, like a peaceful river.
Bordelli finished his steak and beans and complimented the chef.
‘You can’t refuse a little dessert, Inspector.’
‘I think I’d better …’
‘I have a crostata that can wake the dead.’
‘All right, but only a little sliver, just for a taste.’
‘I made it with Nina’s jam …’ said Totò, seeming almost offended.
‘Well, all right, then, make it a whole slice.’
‘That’s what I like to hear, Inspector.’ He set a quarter of the pie down in front of Bordelli.
‘Starting tomorrow I’m going on a diet …’
He washed the tart down with two small glasses of grappa while the cook tidied up the kitchen.
‘This tart is a masterpiece, Totò.’
‘You flatter me, Inspector …’
Cesare’s head appeared through the service hatch, telling them he was going to bed. Moments later they heard the screech of the rolling metal shutter being lowered. It was almost one o’clock.
Bordelli finished his crostata, and honoured it with one last grappa. When he got up from the stool he swore he wouldn’t eat another crumb for a week.
‘Already going to bed, Inspector?’
‘I’ve had a busy day.’
‘Well, try and come back before Christmas …’
‘Never fear, Totò, I’ll be back soon …’
Driving along the Imprunetana through Pozzolatico, he felt like a medieval knight returning to his castle after slaying monsters in the dark wood. During the stretches where the stone walls were lowest, the moon’s bloodless glow cast a silvery light over the olive groves. The wooded hills in the distance were blacker than the night, concealing their primordial mysteries. A sight Giacomo, and his killers, would never see again. If there was an afterlife, the victim and his tormentors would never meet. An infinity separated heaven and hell …
He tossed his cigarette butt out the window, curbing the impulse to light another one immediately. How nice it would have been to have Eleonora, or even Adele, waiting for him at home. He tried to pretend this was really the case, and for a second he felt butterflies in his stomach. Men really were quite silly at times. When jilted by a woman, they felt ugly and mean and thought: Nobody wants me. But when the object of a woman’s love, they soared to seventh heaven, thinking they were the cat’s whiskers. They were entirely dependent on women and felt a kind of sacred terror in their regard, and maybe that was why they had always tried to subdue them. But women were not the way they used to be, and now pawed the ground in their enclosures, wanting to gallop far afield …
While passing through Mezzomonte he felt the desire to exchange a few words with Dante. He was tired, extremely tired, but didn’t feel the least bit like going straight to bed. He turned and went through the gate, pulling up in front of the house. It was almost 2 a.m., but Dante was sure to be still in his underground laboratory.
He went down the stairs and pushed the door open, smelling the unmistakable odour of the place, a blend of melted wax and cigar smoke. The suffuse, wavering light of the candles was as calming as the dusk. Dante was at the back of the laboratory, pacing back and forth in front of his workbench, looking pensive. The whiteness of his smock and leonine mane stood out in the penumbra, suggesting a ghost. Upon seeing Bordelli he smiled and grabbed a bottle of grappa.
‘I wasn’t expecting you so early, Inspector,’ he said, filling the glasses.
‘Forgive me, I didn’t want to interrupt your thought processes.’
‘It’s good you did; I was getting confused.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’m happy just sitting here in silence … Just pretend I’m not here …’
‘If you’re alone, you’ll be all yours; if you’re with someone, you’ll be only half yours,’27 said Dante, handing him a glass.
‘You’re right;
what I said was silly.’
‘Then we should toast.’
‘Every excuse is good …’
They lightly clinked glasses and took a sip.
‘Are you going to stand there all night?’ asked the inventor.
Bordelli collapsed into an armchair. He was so tired, he risked falling asleep. Dante, on the other hand, did not sit down; he seemed full of energy. He downed his glass, and after lighting a cigar stub he’d recovered from an ashtray, he resumed pacing back and forth. Bordelli followed him with his eyes, hypnotised by the fat snakes of smoke twisting in the air over his head.
‘Have you ever been in love with two women at the same time?’ asked Bordelli, immediately realising that he’d never heard Dante speak of women before.
‘Even three or four, when I was a lad,’ said Dante, stopping in front of him.
‘Sheer hell …’
‘Then one fine day I met Maddalena, and in one second all the others were swept out of the picture, all the present and future women. It may sound like the usual romantic refrain, but it’s the simple truth. We lived together for almost ten years, loving each other and quarrelling in the most wonderful ways. But one terrible day she left me – or, more precisely, she left this world … She died, in short. Since then I have never found another woman capable of making me forget her, and since then I have been quite happily alone … Or, rather, by her side. I feel her hovering around me every second of my life, and sometimes I talk to her … So, to conclude, I’m a raving old madman, and proud of it,’ said Dante, smiling sadly.
‘What a beautiful love story,’ Bordelli commented, charmed.
‘And so you’re in love with two women?’
‘Maybe – but neither of them wants me any more.’
‘Il faut la troisième …’ said Dante, emitting smoke from his mouth.
‘I’d welcome her with open arms, if she could sweep away the other two,’ said Bordelli, eyes drooping with fatigue.
‘And if one day they both came back, would you be able to choose?’
‘Of course. I’d choose both.’
‘So you see very clearly on this matter …’ said Dante, laughing.
‘Maybe … Or maybe not … I don’t know … I … Maybe …’
‘The truth of the matter is that you have killed three innocent people! Three men loved and respected by everyone! Only to follow your delirious vision of destiny! And now you feel crushed by remorse!’
‘That’s not true … not true …’ Bordelli stammered, waking up.
Dante was standing before him, looking at him with curiosity.
‘What’s not true? That you fell asleep?’
‘I’m sorry, I was dreaming …’
‘Would you like to spend the night here?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll be going home now,’ said Bordelli, standing up. He needed his own bed, the smells of his own house.
‘Are you sure you can drive? Shall I give you a lift?’
‘No, thanks, don’t worry, my horse knows the way home.’
They said goodbye with a handshake, and Bordelli headed for the stairs, trying to wake up.
‘If you’re alone, you’ll be all yours …’ Dante said aloud.
Before going up the stairs, Bordelli turned round and waved goodbye again. Outside, the cool night air cleared his brain a little. He got in his car and let it drive him home.
Before going to bed, he glanced over at the death’s-head, as if checking to see that it was still there. By now it was a familiar presence, and if he wasn’t careful, he would end up talking to it, too.
Sticking a few small logs into the stove, he remembered the gloves and threw them in as well, then watched them contort over the embers. He staggered on his feet while undressing and then got under the covers. He felt sleep grab him and overwhelm him, as when he was a child and would suddenly collapse … Mamma would take him to bed and undress him, tossing him around like a puppet, while he took immense pleasure in the feeling of being in her hands …
In the distance he heard a frog croaking obsessively. His bed had never felt so big, and for a moment he thought he smelled Adele’s scent in the sheets.
He put the espresso pot on the burner, thinking that there were three things he had to do that day. He’d slept like a rock, feeling more rested than he had in a very long time. It was almost eleven. Monsignor Sercambi’s chauffeur had surely discovered the body by now, probably a few hours earlier. It was anyone’s guess who would be investigating the murder. He pictured Diotivede grappling with the initial findings, with his ironic smile and his black bag set down on the ground … the assistant prosecutor biting his lips, thrown for a loop by the swastika drawn on the prelate’s back … while the newsmen pressed to get inside with their cameras round their necks … The usual stuff …
He heard a rumbling car engine draw near and, peering out the window, saw a fire-red Alfa Romeo pull up on the threshing floor. He couldn’t work out who it was at the wheel because of the daylight reflecting off the vehicle’s windows. The car door opened, and out came Ennio. He hadn’t given in and bought a Porsche, but, to all appearances, his new wealth was beginning to bear fruit …
Bordelli went and opened the front door and noticed immediately that Botta had a strange look on his face.
‘Weren’t you going to squirrel it all away, Ennio?’
‘When I woke up this morning I felt more like a fox, and so I went and bought this old heap.’
‘So you finally got yourself a present.’ They shook hands.
‘You only live once, Inspector …’
‘You did the right thing,’ Bordelli said in all sincerity.
He went out to get a closer look at the Alfa and started circling round it, running a finger over the body. Botta kept his hands in his pockets, jangling the keys.
‘What do you think?’
‘You’ve got yourself a very fine car.’
‘It’s a Giulia Sprint, it can go almost a hundred and eighty kilometres an hour,’ said Botta, but you could tell he had something else on his mind. Bordelli opened the door and got in behind the wheel. He started it up, just to hear the sound of the engine. He revved it twice, then turned it off.
‘I feel like it’s a little mine, too,’ he said, getting out.
‘You can borrow it whenever you like, Inspector.’
‘Feel like a coffee?’ He headed for the door, with Botta at his side.
‘I’ll only stay a minute … I need to help a friend move house …’
Ennio made the coffee, and they sat down at the kitchen table in front of the steaming little cups.
‘Nice new housemate you’ve got there,’ said Ennio, indicating the death’s-head spying on them from above.
‘He’s very wise; he never talks …’
‘But he makes himself understood.’
Botta smiled, but his eyes remained pensive.
‘Do you want to tell me something, Ennio?’
‘No … I mean …’
‘Out with it.’
‘Nothing important … I just wanted to say … Half an hour ago, as I was trying out my car on the Viale San Domenico, I heard a news report on the radio …’
‘It must have been a thrilling experience.’
‘They said that last night an important priest of the Curia was strangled in his villa.’
‘Ah …’
‘And do you know where this priest’s villa is?’
‘No, where?’
‘In Viale Michelangelo.’
‘Get to the point, Ennio.’
‘Well, we were outside a villa on Viale Michelangelo when we said goodbye last night …’
‘Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah …’
‘Is that all?’ said Bordelli, fiddling with his demitasse.
Botta shook his head. ‘So you really don’t what to tell me what happened?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know what I’m
talking about, Inspector …’
‘Have you seen my garden? It’s become quite a marvel …’ said Bordelli, yawning as he stood up.
They finished their coffee and went out the back door. The tomatoes and chilli peppers were thriving, and all the artichokes but one had taken.
‘I was expecting worse,’ said Botta, studying the young plants with a clinical eye.
‘I should start using the pollina in two weeks, right?’
‘Right …’
‘Can you imagine it, Ennio? For the first time in my life I’ll be eating the fruits of my own labours.’
‘Wait before you say that. If we get one of those hailstorms …’
‘There won’t be any hailstorms, and I’m going to have tomatoes this big,’ said Bordelli, miming the size of a watermelon with his hands.
‘So you really don’t want to tell me anything, Inspector?’
‘What would I want to tell you?’
‘About last night …’
‘Well, let’s see … I had a good sleep, how about you?’
‘Okay, okay, I get it … I’ll leave you to your mysteries, Inspector. At any rate, I’m not one who talks,’ said Botta, looking at his watch.
Bordelli walked with him out to the threshing floor and watched him drive off in his red Alfa. The sky was covered with big dark clouds, and the thunder in the distance sounded like kettle-drum rolls. But there was no guarantee it would actually rain. Just to be safe, he went back to the garden and started watering the plants, thinking that Ennio would never betray him.
Back inside the house, he ran a bath and carefully shaved while waiting for the tub to fill up. He remained immersed in the hot water for a long time, feeling as if he was removing the filth of a bloody battle from his body. Then he got dressed and went into the kitchen. He set the table, and in a variation on the gospel of Ennio, he prepared himself a dish of spaghetti with butter and parmesan cheese. An apparently simple dish that was actually very difficult. He ate it slowly, complimenting himself in his solitude. After his coffee, he went and looked up the telephone number of the Pellissaris in the phone book.
‘Hello?’
‘Signor Pellissari?’
