by Marco Vichi
‘Thanks, Totò. It’s just what I need.’
‘That little kid still on your mind, eh?’
‘Could you do me a favour and not mention it?’
‘Of course, Inspector, of course.’
Totò was always busy but never stopped talking. He too told a few little stories of murdered children, down in the Salento, going into the details as though talking about how to make spaghetti alla carbonara. Bordelli listened in silence, washing down the pork with a red wine that made him weak at the knees.
After the short tales from back home, Totò started talking about long-haired hippies. He saw a lot of them about, these days. More and more, in fact. He liked them, actually, sort of like puppies. But he simply couldn’t understand how a man could wear his hair like a woman without feeling embarrassed.
‘In the past it was perfectly normal,’ said Bordelli.
‘I’d like to see what you’d look like with hair like a girl’s,’ said Totò, laughing and turning over a huge steak. He poured out a pot of pasta and a minute later set six steaming plates down on the counter of the serving hatch. Then with a smile on his lips he put a slice of apple tart and a small glass of vin santo down in front of the inspector.
Leaving the trattoria, Bordelli felt guilty for having succumbed to temptation. He lit a cigarette and started walking at a leisurely pace back to the station, thinking of the long afternoon ahead.
A beautiful girl in a rather short skirt walked past, and he turned around to look at her, very nearly crashing into a scooter parked on the pavement. He almost blushed, thinking he could be her father … if not her grandfather. He turned around again to look at her. But wasn’t she cold, he wondered, with her legs all uncovered like that? He still hadn’t got used to seeing such short hemlines, and they always had a powerful effect on him.
He thought of Elvira and their last night together. A night like all the others, except that the following day she’d left him, after the briefest of phone calls. She was very pretty, Elvira. She had a mole on her lip and another on her left breast.
‘Poor old teddy bear, all alone again …’ said Rosa, doing his fingernails with little scissors and emery boards. Bordelli was lying on the sofa with his shoes off, a glass of grappa resting on his chest. Every so often he raised his head to take a sip. The songs of Tony Dallara softly filled the room at low volume.
Rosa loved doing these little things for her policeman friend, especially when he was down. She would squeeze his blackheads, wash his face with creams, give him manicures, massage his back … Ever since she’d given up the profession she’d become a bit melancholy, but also sweeter. A tender retired prostitute with the soul of a little girl. Her big white cat, Gideon, was sleeping on a chair.
‘I feel like Calimero,’ said Bordelli.2
‘You’re always chasing pretty girls …’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes it is.’ She had a small, strange smile on her lips.
‘At my age I’d like to find a nice, pretty woman who will stay with me till I die,’ Bordelli said melodramatically. At least Rosa wasn’t talking about the missing boy.
‘I know the kind of woman you need.’
‘I love it when you play Mummy for me …’
‘I mean it.’
‘And what kind of woman do I need?’
‘I’ve noticed that you like dark women with long straight hair. Young and slender with dark, mysterious eyes …’
‘Who wouldn’t like a woman like that?’
‘But that’s not the kind of woman you need.’
‘Oh no?’
‘I could easily see you with a blonde of about forty, slightly chubby, always cheerful, who, whenever you came home, would throw her arms around you and drag you to bed.’
‘Just the thought of it turns my stomach.’ Bordelli sighed.
‘You’re not very nice, you know. I was describing someone a bit like myself,’ said Rosa, pretending to be offended. Fortunately she didn’t stop filing his nails.
‘You’re not the least bit chubby,’ said Bordelli, trying to patch things up.
‘Really?’
‘I would swear to it under oath.’
‘Well, I’m not exactly an anchovy, either … But maybe you’re right, maybe I’m not chubby.’
‘You’re just a little …’
‘A little what?’
‘I can’t think of the word, but you know what I mean,’ said Bordelli, not daring to utter the wrong thing. Rosa finished with one hand, and picked up the other.
‘Anyway, a little flesh is always a good thing,’ she concluded, chuckling.
After a minute or so of silence, she started talking about her friend Tecla, who had fallen down the stairs, hitting her mouth and breaking a tooth, an incisor … and now her lips were all swollen and purple … But she’d been lucky, she could have left her hide in that stairwell.
‘That friend of yours was right when he said we’re all like leaves on a tree when the wind is blowing …’
‘He’s not a friend of mine, he’s a great poet.’
‘Have I ever told you about my Uncle Costante? He used to write poetry too. He died in Russia, poor thing … Oh, and have I told you my girlfriends and I are planning to put on another play?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s planned for Epiphany … But this time you really have to come.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Bordelli, knowing he would as usual invent some excuse not to come.
‘I wrote it myself,’ said Rosa, all excited.
‘I didn’t doubt it for a second.’
‘Would you like me to read you a few passages?’
‘I’d rather let it be a surprise …’
‘It’s a touching story, but it’s also great fun. It’s about the friendship between a nun and a whore, who trade places in the end …’
‘Interesting.’
‘It starts with Suor Celestina praying in church, late at night. She’s just come out of the room of a novice – just out of her bed, actually. She knows she has sinned, and so she’s praying to the Madonna for forgiveness …’
They heard the sweet ding-dong of the doorbell, and Rosa sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.
‘Never mind, at this hour I’m sure it’s a prank,’ said Bordelli, holding her back by the hand.
‘I know exactly who it is,’ she said, trying to free herself.
‘You’re expecting a visitor at eleven o’clock?’
‘It’s a little surprise for you.’
‘A young woman with black hair and mysterious eyes?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Rosa.
The moment Bordelli let go of her hand, she bounded towards the door, followed by Gideon.
‘So who is it?’ Bordelli called after her. She didn’t answer, and disappeared on to the landing. Bordelli quickly put his shoes back on and smoothed himself out. He had no idea who it could be.
Rosa returned moments later, followed by a woman who, at first glance, looked to be about fifty, bundled up in an overcoat that went down to her ankles. Bordelli stood up.
‘This is Amelia,’ said Rosa.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Bordelli, making a slight bow. The woman responded with a mournful smile. She had a small head and a nose as narrow as a T-bone. And deep, sad eyes. Rosa helped her take off her coat, and Amelia immediately became ten years younger.
‘Amelia reads the tarot. She’s very good.’
‘Ah, how nice …’ said Bordelli.
‘She’s here for you,’ Rosa whispered.
‘For me?’
‘Aren’t you pleased?’
‘Of course I am …’ He didn’t want to offend Amelia.
‘Would you like something to drink, Amelia?’ Rosa asked. The woman declined with a faint tilt of the head. Rosa cleared the coffee table, pulled up a chair for the fortune-teller, and dimmed the lights in the room.
‘All ready,’ she said, chuckling like
a child.
Amelia sat down and arranged the tarot cards on the table. She wore a jade necklace wrapped twice around her neck, and in the half-light the stones looked black. Bordelli was trying not to laugh.
‘What would you like to know?’ the seer asked in a whisper. He gave a slightly embarrassed look. He’d never believed in these silly things.
‘I don’t know …’
‘Love, first of all,’ said Rosa, speaking for him, and Bordelli shot her a worried glance.
Amelia started turning the cards over, studying them carefully. In the dimness her long, thin nose had something sinister about it. When all the cards were face up, she raised her head and looked Bordelli straight in the eye. Her gaze was now aflame, without a trace of sadness.
‘A beautiful blonde woman, about thirty-five … suddenly broke off a relationship, a short time ago …’
‘That’s true,’ Bordelli whispered, trying to hide his scepticism. Rosa must certainly have informed the fortune-teller.
‘She wasn’t the right woman for you,’ Amelia said darkly. Rosa couldn’t suppress a smile.
‘You see? I was right,’ she said, quite pleased. The seer took another look at the cards.
‘Soon you will meet a beautiful, dark-haired young woman … a great passion will ensue, but it won’t last long … Something horrible will come between you … And she’s not the love of your life, either …’
‘And will I ever find her? The love of my life, I mean,’ the inspector asked, so as not to disappoint the two women. He couldn’t wait to lie back down on the sofa. Amelia looked hard through her tarot cards and at last found something.
‘In a few years … A beautiful woman, a foreigner … very rich … divorced … with two children …’
‘I really don’t see that happening,’ the inspector muttered.
‘… I can’t tell you whether it will be for ever, but it will certainly be the greatest love affair of your life,’ Amelia concluded, looking up.
‘Are you sure about that?’ the inspector asked, feigning keen interest.
‘The cards never lie,’ said the fortune-teller. She calmly collected the tarot cards and put the deck back together.
‘Now for his health,’ said Rosa.
‘No, please … I don’t want to know anything about it,’ Bordelli was quick to say, just out of superstitiousness. The clairvoyant looked at him, waiting for him to ask something else. Rosa butted in again.
‘Tell him something about his job, Amelia. The inspector is trying to find that boy who went missing.’
‘Never mind about that, Rosa,’ said Bordelli, but the fortune-teller was already lining the cards up on the table … A devil, a death’s-head, a sun … and other images the inspector looked at without interest. Gideon had fled to the darkest corner of the room, green pupils glowing in the dark. Suddenly Amelia gave a start and brought her hands to her face.
‘What is it?’ Rosa asked anxiously.
The fortune-teller gestured to her to keep quiet and kept looking at the cards with an anguished expression. The inspector fumbled for a cigarette and lit it. In spite of himself he felt a long shudder run up his spine. The whole thing had taken him by surprise. He looked at the fortune-teller, waiting for her to say something.
‘Tomorrow morning …’ she stammered, unable to continue.
‘Tomorrow morning what?’ asked Bordelli, now gripped by the situation. To find little Giacomo, he was ready to follow any lead whatsoever, even the most absurd. But the psychic didn’t answer. She collected the cards and stood up. Her gaze seemed far away.
‘Amelia, what’s got into you?’ Rosa asked, as though feeling guilty. It was she who had asked her to consult the tarot about the missing boy. The fortune-teller put on her coat without saying a word. She gestured to Rosa to let her know she wanted to leave and headed for the door. Bordelli wanted to hold her back and ask her what she’d seen, but didn’t have the courage. How could he let the power of suggestion make him believe such idiocies? How could the cards possibly know human destiny?
Rosa accompanied the card-reader on to the landing and stayed there for a few minutes. When she came back to Bordelli, he was already lying down with his shoes off, a small glass of grappa in his hand. She sat down beside him on the sofa, not bothering to turn the big lamp back on.
‘Amelia refused to tell me anything,’ she whispered in a dramatic tone.
‘Could you massage my back with your golden hands?’ Bordelli asked, already sitting up again.
‘Of course, darling. Take your shirt off, and I’ll go and get some cream,’ said Rosa, and she got up and sashayed into the bathroom. It didn’t take much to change her mood. Bordelli put out his cigarette, took off his shirt, and lay down on his stomach. Rosa returned with a jar of Nivea, took a big daub into her hands and, straddling his bottom, started massaging him.
‘You’ve gained weight,’ she said.
‘No, it just looks that way to you.’
‘I know about these things, you know …’ she said with a giggle. Bordelli was moaning with pleasure. Outside it started raining hard again. The wind picked up, and they heard a shutter slam. Weather for wolves. Gideon didn’t give a damn. He was lying on top of the sideboard, belly up.
‘Rosa, do you really believe that rubbish?’
‘What rubbish?’
‘The tarot, fortune-tellers …’
‘Of course I do. My friend Asmara told me Amelia has read the tarot for her many times and has never been wrong, not even once, about the past or the future.’
‘Give me an example.’
‘Well, she told her her father had abandoned her as a child, and that her mother had died when she was six …’
‘And about the future?’
‘Last year she told her that she would have a small accident in January of this year, and it actually happened. She broke one of her little toes.’
‘What else?’ He liked to hear her talk.
‘She told her she would be operated on for appendicitis, and that happened, too. She told her she would be receiving a small inheritance from a distant relative whom she’d never met, and that also came true. She told her one of her clients would fall in love with her and give her a beautiful ring … And it was all true, from A to Z.’
‘Coincidence.’
‘And she told you a blonde woman had just left you … What do you say about that?’
‘A little bird must have told her …’
‘I didn’t tell her anything!’ said Rosa defensively.
‘Has Amelia ever read the cards for you?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t want to know anything about what’s going to happen to me.’
‘But you thought it was okay for her to read them for me.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Rosa, kneading his spine like dough. Bordelli gave in to the pleasure, listening to the sound of the rain. He was trying not to think of the fact that sooner or later he would have to drag himself back to his flat. Rosa took a deep breath.
‘Anyway, as I was saying … Suor Celestina’s praying in the middle of the night when, all of a sudden, there’s a knock on the convent door …’
The inspector was woken up at the crack of dawn by the ring of the telephone and threw himself out of bed. Even before answering, he knew what it was about.
‘Yes?’
‘Rinaldi here, sir. A hunter found a corpse buried in the wood, saw a foot sticking up from the ground. It looks like it belongs to a young boy …’
‘Where?’
‘La Panca district. We’ve already got a car on the way there,’ Rinaldi said. The inspector couldn’t help thinking of the last words uttered by Amelia: Tomorrow morning …
‘Where exactly is this La Panca?’
‘After the Strada in Chianti you turn left on to the Via di Cintoia and go on for another four or five miles. But to get there you have to take a trail that goes uphill towards the woods, in the direction of Monte Scalari.’
‘I’ll go and get Piras and then come up … Call Diotivede—’
‘What about the assistant prosecutor?’
‘Wait a couple of hours to inform him: I don’t feel like seeing him.’
‘All right, sir.’
‘Call the car and tell them nobody’s to touch anything before I get there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As soon as Rinaldi hung up, the inspector rang Piras.
‘I’ll be by in ten minutes. They found a kid buried in the woods.’
‘Shit, so it’s him …’
‘Try to be ready outside the front door.’
Bordelli got dressed in a hurry and went out without even drinking a cup of coffee. After a night of rain the sky was a clear, intense blue. The San Frediano quarter was beginning to wake up, and by now a few shops already had their rolling metal shutters half raised.
He stepped on the accelerator and was in Via Gioberti a few minutes later. Piras was already out on the pavement, eyes ringed with fatigue. He got into the car, frowning, and after a gesture of greeting, Bordelli drove off. The Beetle’s persistent rumble echoed in the semi-deserted streets. Every so often they crossed paths with a scooter or another car. Dishevelled women appeared at the small balconies of their flats, coats over their nightgowns.
Leaving the city, they drove through Grassina. The Chiantigiana3 was filling up with lorries and tiny, noisy three-wheeled vans filled with vegetables. The peasants were already out in the fields, toiling behind pairs of oxen or sitting atop modern tractors. The city was just round the corner, but out here it seemed farther away than the moon. The more or less smartly dressed, noisy and hedonistic youths who every evening poured into the streets downtown had nothing whatsoever in common with the wrinkled faces and dark gazes of a humanity that broke its back turning the earth.
They crossed Strada in Chianti and turned in the direction of Cintoia. After a mile or so, the road was unpaved, and the Beetle began to dance. To their left they saw forested hills standing out against the greenish sky. Past Cintoia Bassa, the curves grew tighter and tighter, and they had to slow down. A three-wheeled Ape van was struggling up the hill, spewing white smoke, and it wasn’t easy to overtake it.
