by Marco Vichi
‘She wasn’t dead,’ said Bordelli.
‘What?’
‘When you hanged her, the girl was still alive.’
‘That’s not true … it’s not possible,’ the businessman stammered, teetering in his chair.
‘Read the post-mortem.’ Bordelli passed him Diotivede’s report. The girl had died of suffocation. The blow to the head wasn’t serious. It had only knocked her out.
The man sat there in shock for a few moments, open- mouthed and round-eyed … Then he burst into sobs. Bordelli turned him over to two guards and had him taken to the Murate prison. He wouldn’t stay there for long, with all the money he had. As it happened it was a case of manslaughter following a failed unintentional homicide. Whatever the case, the whole matter had been cleared up in no time. Whereas the murdered boy … Damn it all …
‘Let me get you something, Inspector,’ said Totò. Lasagna, sausages and beans, the usual flask of red and endless chatter about a thousand topics, from politics to women. Only once did the cook make a reference to the murdered child, and Bordelli was able to change the subject immediately.
After dinner he drove slowly home, burping up essence of sausage. He parked the Beetle, and when he was slipping the key into the main door, he froze. The idea of sitting alone in front of the telly smoking and drinking made him feel depressed, and so he thought he would go into the centre of town and see a film. The last shows would be starting in half an hour. He headed off on foot with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, determined not to light it. To keep out of the annoying drizzle that kept falling without ceasing, he walked right up against the buildings. Their dark façades were dotted with the luminous rectangles of windows, which glowed with the changing bluish light of television sets. Every so often a shadow passed on the pavement, and two eyes shone in the darkness.
The Cinema Eolo was showing La Grande Vadrouille, but Bordelli didn’t feel like seeing a comedy that night. He walked past the Gusmano bar, which as usual was full of elderly people playing cards with a flask on the table, some of them still in their overalls. Some youngsters had formed a circle round a pinball machine, spellbound as they watched the little steel ball bounce around.
He went down Via di Santo Spirito, and a woman surfaced in his memory: Milena, a beautiful young Jewess who had turned his brain to mush. She was a member of the White Dove, an organisation that hunted down Nazi war criminals who had escaped trial at Nuremberg, and she’d gone away to continue her work elsewhere. Who knew where she was now, what she was doing, or whether she thought every so often of the old inspector who’d lost his head over her? Without realising it he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. He didn’t want to think about the women he’d lost, but about those who had yet to appear … if any. At his age it was no longer easy to charm a woman. Being born in 1910 wasn’t so lucky. When he was a kid it was very hard to have a real relationship, unless one happened to find an open-minded girl or to get married, and now that there was more freedom he was pushing sixty.
From high up in one of the buildings he heard the scratchy bars of an old tango, and his heart gave a tug. He’d first heard the song in the days of Mussolini, and it felt as if a century had passed since then. At that moment even the war seemed far away, almost like a dream. At other times it weighed so heavy on him that it felt as if it had all happened yesterday. But he didn’t want to think about the war just now …
He crossed the Ponte Santa Trinita, hoping to find a film to suit his mood. There was a great deal of bustle in the centre of town. People walking, on bicycles, on motorcycles, in cars, groups of youngsters, couples, husbands and wives … There they all were, in the city’s convivial drawing room. In Via degli Strozzi there was a queue of traffic that advanced at a walking pace, and the air reeked of exhaust fumes. The multitude in ferment evoked no sense of joy in him, but merely made him feel lonely. Maybe it was just his black mood nipping at his heels, but he couldn’t lie to himself: he didn’t like Italy. He loved it in his way, in spite of everything, but he didn’t like it. An Italy decayed first by war and now by dreams of wealth. The Italy of the throngs at Piazza Venezia and the throngs in Piazzale Loreto …10 The grumblings of an old man, he thought, throwing away his cigarette butt with a sigh.
He came into Piazza della Repubblica with its pompous buildings. It was full of parked cars, well-dressed men and women in little hats. He went to see what movies were playing in the two cinemas under the arches. The Edison was showing The Battle of Algiers, the Gambrinus The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. He needed to relax, and so chose the western. Before entering the cinema he went to the Giubbe Rosse café to ring the station and had another coffee while he was at it. He asked Tapinassi whether there was any news of Panerai. All normal. The butcher had gone home at 8.40 and hadn’t come back out since.
Bordelli headed for the cinema, fiddling with the cigarette packet in his jacket pocket. In the middle of the piazza, he saw an old flame of his walking towards him like a vision. At least ten years had passed, but she still looked quite young. She was laughing, arms around a tall, pale, distinguished-looking man. Their eyes met for an instant, and she gave a barely perceptible start and kept on walking, pretending she hadn’t seen him. Bordelli turned round to watch her walk away, wondering, with an unexpected twinge of jealousy, how a woman could choose two men so utterly different.
He slipped into the cinema and went up to the balcony, hoping it would be less crowded. The lights had just gone down and he had a little trouble finding a place to sit, groping around in the dark. Smelling some feminine perfume in the air, he turned and saw a girl with a fine profile seated next to him. He’d better forget about her if he wanted to enjoy the film.
The newsreel began. New cars at the Turin Salon, movie actors smiling, motorcycle races, industry thriving, beautiful Italy looking to the future and marvelling at the wealth it didn’t have. Even the advertisements talked about carefree worlds where life was comfortable and cheerful, the women attractive and families happy. That was how one governed a poor country: by making it dream.
At last the film began, and between one gunfight and the next, Bordelli managed to distract himself. Then it was time for the intermission. The moment the lights came up, a dense mumble of voices rose from the floor. The inspector turned to look at the girl. Very pretty, with black hair and a fine little nose. Instinctively he thought of the words of Amelia the fortune-teller: Soon you will meet a beautiful dark young woman …
Beside her sat another girl with chestnut curls. They were both wearing skirts short enough to make one seasick. He kept ogling the dark girl, fascinated by her mischievous face. All at once she turned and looked at him. She had magnificent eyes animated by a treacherous childish sparkle. It lasted only a second. The girl looked away and whispered something into her friend’s ear, and they both giggled. He blushed at the thought that they mere making fun of him. When the ice-cream man appeared with his box of frozen delights strapped around his neck, it was a relief. Bordelli bought a chocolate-covered cone and bit into it with gusto, as he used to do as a child. He tried to ignore the girls. Every so often he would catch sight of their naked legs and melt into impossible dreams. He couldn’t help it. Women’s legs had always had a powerful effect on him. Their ankles and feet, too, were fascinating. Often, after making love, he would fall under the spell of a small foot sticking out from under the sheet, as though he were looking at some mysterious, archaic sculpture. Sometimes a woman would catch him staring and ask him what he was looking at, and he would change the subject, lacking the courage to tell the truth …
The two girls next to him must have had superb little feet, to judge from their hands and their slender ankles. Better not to think about it. There were so many other girls all around him there. Most of them were in couples, and there was a lot of passionate kissing going on. Then darkness returned, and the film resumed. It was gripping, and you could have heard a pin drop. Whenever a close-up appeared of the good guy, who was also good-looking, o
ne could hear a buzz of female voices. Bordelli watched the screen but was unable to forget about the dark girl next to him. He could hear her breathe, feel her move lightly in her seat, and at moments he could smell her real scent under her perfume. The girl smiled, and Bordelli saw her bright white teeth glimmer in the dark. With childish stubbornness he wanted to believe that the fortune-teller had been right, that this was in fact the young woman foretold by the tarot. Damn, he felt as if he was already falling in love. It was always like this, whenever he went out alone. He could fall in love with two slightly parted lips, a batting of eyelashes, a naked shoulder blade he saw passing in the street. Perhaps it was his secret remedy for feeling less alone, so he could keep on dreaming.
He decided to forget about the fortune-teller’s predictions and concentrate on the film instead. The final duel had the whole audience holding its breath, even though everyone knew that the handsome chap would win … And he did. In the final scene, too, it was Mr Good Looks who was lord and master. He rode away on his horse, alone as every hero must be, full of money, victorious, riding off to new adventures …
The lights came on and the two girls were the first to stand up. Bordelli remained seated. He took it hard. Though unable to admit it, he had been hoping that when the film was over the two girls would say he was a wonderful man and invite him to have a drink with them. Foolish old fogey. He stood up, sighing, and joined the mob descending the stairs. He saw the two girls in the distance and tried to work his way through the crowd and rejoin them. He fantasised about introducing himself and inviting them for a drink at the Giubbe Rosse or perhaps at Gilli’s.
When at last he came out, he saw them walking leisurely under the arches. He pulled up beside them, heart beating fast. Then he turned to look at them and even opened his mouth to say something, but the girls only gawked at him in bewilderment, and so he gave up, walking away quickly, telling himself that they weren’t so pretty after all. There was a lesson to be learned in the fable of the fox and the grapes.
There are worse things in life, he kept repeating to himself as he walked home. There were worse things than seeing a pretty girl and desiring her hopelessly. He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke skywards. Crossing the Ponte alla Carraia, he turned down Borgo San Frediano. On the opposite pavement was old man Nappa leaning against a wall, coughing and spitting up pieces of lung, cursing with the little bit of breath he had left. Bordelli gave him a slight nod of greeting and continued on his way. He saw a big red cat crouched on the roof of a Fiat 500, lazily watching the night around him, and he thought at once of the kitten with the bad eye. Who knew whether Rosa would manage to save it?
At the corner of Piazza del Carmine two drunkards were discussing the great themes of life, staggering on gimpy legs. Bordelli turned round for a second to look from afar at the building in which, barely a year before, a loan shark had been murdered, stabbed in the neck with a pair of scissors. It hadn’t been hard to put himself in the killer’s shoes.
At last he arrived home. He took a hot shower, feeling as if he was washing away several tons of sadness. Then he got into bed and turned out the light. Though very tired, he couldn’t fall asleep. Confused memories merged gently in his head, taking him on a melancholy journey through time. Little by little, from the sludge of remembrance, a clearer vision surfaced, like a monster rising up from the tranquil waters of a lake …
One day in the Abruzzi, he and Molin had gone out together on patrol. There was silence all around. The same silence as in other villages they’d passed through after the Armistice, when they could feel behind the closed shutters the distrustful gaze of women and old folk who could no longer stand to see any more outsiders, be they Italian, American or German. They only wanted whoever came to leave just as fast.
They trudged up to Torricella Peligna, a small stone village at the top of a mountain, which looked out on to the Majella massif. Molin was a giant from the Veneto with a heart of gold, but the sight of him was frightful. His broad, flat face was the opposite of harmony. Whenever he ducked into a farmhouse to ask for a piece of lard or a little cheese, the women would scream and run and hide.
It was early June. The line of resistance at Cassino had just been broken, at the cost of tens of thousands dead. At that altitude the air was cool, and the climb got one’s blood running. They were both sweaty and smelly. The bulk of the Wehrmacht was close by, and aside from the high street, the hilltop town was a spider’s web of narrow passages. It seemed purposely made for playing hide-and-seek. They advanced slowly through the deserted streets, machine guns in hand, checking every corner and window. It seemed quiet enough, but appearance was the worst sort of deception. Suddenly four Stukas flew overhead at low altitude, making an infernal racket. Bordelli and Molin flattened themselves against a wall. The Luftwaffe didn’t kid around. They waited for the planes to pass, then resumed walking, but the sudden noise had put them on edge.
They were continuing their climb up a tortuous little street, when suddenly they smelled some cooking in the air and exchanged a glance of understanding. They were hungry. It wasn’t a normal hunger they felt. It was the desire to taste something different from hard tack and tinned meat. They would have given their right hands for a boiled potato or a fried egg, an eye for a sausage. Molin was a born curser. Out of every three words he uttered, two were curses. At times it was hard to follow him, since the effort of removing the swearwords from his argument made you lose the thread. And on that day he was, indeed, hungry.
‘Jesus fuck, I just can’t stomach that Allied shit any more! What I wouldn’t do for some pork fat! I’d kiss the old pig Badoglio on the lips, I would! If I see a chicken anywhere, I’m gonna open fire, Blessed Fascist Virgin!’
Bordelli gestured to him to pipe down, and Molin lowered his voice. There wasn’t so much as a dog about. The only sounds were those of the bolts and windows shutting as they passed.
‘Who are we fighting this war for anyway, Molin?’ Bordelli said, discouraged. The Venetian spat on the ground and wiped his lips with his hand. He remained silent for a minute, then started listing the different parts of the pig, spouting curses in between. And every part he named he translated into all the dialects he knew. When he got to the trotter he suddenly froze, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.
‘Holy Fascist Virgin, can’t you smell it? That’s cooked meat, for the bleedin’ love of God. Pork …’
Bordelli took him by the arm to make him keep walking, but the gorilla had dug himself in like a mule. He was sniffing the air noisily and deeply enough to make his lungs burst, as if that would suck the meat into his mouth. All at once he goggled his eyes and yelled:
‘Bleedin’ Nazi Virgin, I swear that’s pork I smell!’
At that moment Bordelli noticed, some fifty paces ahead, a pair of shutters that were only pulled to, both on the first floor. Amid the thousands of other closed shutters, the two left ajar were cause for concern. He didn’t have time to say anything before the shutters flew open and the machine guns opened fire. A burst of bullets crashed in a cluster into the stones just over their heads. In a split second Bordelli was belly down on the ground. He fired a burst at the shutters on the right and the slats splintered apart. The shooting stopped. Turning towards Molin, Bordelli saw him still standing, sniffing the pork-imbued air.
‘Get down!’ he shouted.
‘That’s pork, Commander!’ The bursts of machine-gun fire resumed with redoubled fury from both windows. Bordelli returned fire, for longer than the first time. As soon as he stopped he jumped on Molin, dashing him to the ground a second before a cluster of bullets would have pierced the gorilla’s chest. They got back up and started running breathlessly downhill. The Germans’ bullets smashed into the stone houses like blows of a pickaxe, ricocheting everywhere, leaving a cloud of stone dust floating in the air.
They reached the lower town with hearts thumping in their ears, and could hear the Nazis swearing, clear and sharp, above them. Once they were safely in th
e wood, Bordelli started touching himself all over. He felt a pain in his side, and his uniform was wet in that area. He ran his fingers over it and sniffed. It wasn’t blood. The Nazis’ attack had punctured his wine-filled canteen, but the bullet hadn’t passed through to the other side.
‘Molin, if you ever do that again I’ll shoot you myself, is that clear?’
‘It was pork, Commander! We have to go back there.’
‘The pork is in your brain,’ said Bordelli, clapping him on the shoulder.
Molin made it through the war alive, but Bordelli had lost touch with him. Most likely he’d taken up the peasant’s life back in the Veneto. Who knew whether he too remembered that morning in Torricella Peligna, and the smell of grilled pork that nearly got him killed?
Another long morning with no new developments, at least on the butcher front. During the night there’d been burglaries, brawls, family rows … the usual stuff. In the station’s offices people typed and people smoked, and every so often a police car screeched out of the courtyard. Piras had spent the night keeping watch over the Panerai residence until dawn and was now asleep in his bed. His report consisted of three words: Nothing to report.
And what the hell were these big fat flies still doing around in late October? A particularly large one was flying lazily from one end of Bordelli’s office to the other, buzzing sickly like a biplane that has been hit by enemy fire. The inspector watched it, happy not to be able to concentrate. He was about to light his umpteenth cigarette of the day but then dropped it on the desk with the matches. He would smoke it after lunch. It was almost one o’clock. He picked up the phone and dialled Diotivede’s lab.
‘I bet you have a liver in your hand,’ he said, as soon as he heard someone pick up.
‘Who is this?’ said a young man’s voice.
