by Marco Vichi
Some ten minutes later he parked in Viale dei Mille. He looked around for the unmarked car with Piras and Tapinassi in it, and when he found it, he nodded vaguely in greeting. He entered the butcher’s shop dripping wet, and Panerai greeted him as he might a favourite customer. At the counter was a girl clutching a large handbag, rather shabbily dressed and with a submissive air about her. Clearly a cleaning woman doing the shopping for her employers. At second glance she turned out to be rather pretty, and the butcher was teasing her with racy quips. The girl tittered and rocked in her place. These must have been the most amusing moments of her unhappy day. Panerai ceased chopping up the rabbit for a moment, and, with the knife in the air, looked the girl in the eye.
‘What I like best in life is to find myself in a dark wood …’ he whispered, oozing double entendres and winking at Bordelli. The girl turned bright red and suppressed a chuckle, pleased with the man’s coarse flirtation.
‘You shouldn’t look at me that way …’ she said, pronouncing all her vowels too sharply. She must have been Sicilian. The butcher resumed chopping the rabbit, then wrapped it up.
‘That’ll be eight hundred lire, bedda sicula,’20 he said, wet- lipped. The girl paid in a hurry and ran out with her hand over her mouth. Panerai followed her with his eyes, smiling.
‘I like that Sicilian girl,’ he said, sure of Bordelli’s male complicity.
‘Very pretty.’
‘Well, it’s better not to think about it … How was the steak?’
‘Excellent. In fact I’d like another.’
‘Those who come to Panerai’s always return,’ said the butcher, picking up the slab from which he cut the steaks and laying it down on the bench with a thud. Then he rubbed two sharp knives together, as usual. Bordelli started humming an old song from the Fascist era, for which he’d forgotten the words. Panerai froze, and his lips broadened into a smile. Then he started singing, waving the tip of the knife around in the air.
‘… nella parte dei violini, / mine magnetiche e sottomarini, / ed al posto delle trombe, / bombe bombe bombe bombe … / Il sassofono tenore, / lo farà l’incrociatore … ed invece dei tamburi, / siluri, siluri, siluri in quantità … / siluri, siluri, siluri, in quantità … / siluri, siluri, siluri, in quantità! / Serenatone, serenatone, / per la perfida Albione … / Boom, boom, boom, boom …21 Ah, those were the days …’
‘Sacred words,’ said Bordelli, trying his best to sound convincing.
‘“There is no greater sorrow / than to recall happy times / when in misery …”’ and this your teacher knows,’22 recited the butcher, shaking his head ruefully.
‘We’ll be back,’ said Bordelli, egging him on. Panerai lowered his voice.
‘Yesterday I went to see Il Duce. I go twice a year, for his birthday and for the anniversary of the March.’23
‘You don’t say! I couldn’t take the time off, unfortunately.’
‘It was him, not Garibaldi, who made Italy.’
‘Absolutely right.’
‘What the hell are they waiting for to rid us of those three-nostrilled Jews24 who are constantly plotting against the state?’ asked the butcher, thrusting a knife into the meat.
‘We have to wait for the right moment.’ Bordelli sighed. It was the first time he had played the role of Fascist reactionary, and it cost him some effort.
‘If it was up to me …’ The butcher couldn’t finish his sentence because a woman came in holding a small boy by the hand. He finished cutting the meat and the bone, casting glances of tacit understanding at Bordelli. He wanted to give him the steak free of charge, and Bordelli had to insist on paying. When it was time to go, they exchanged a Fascist salute by way of goodbye. Opening his umbrella in the doorway, Bordelli felt relieved to get away. It was still raining hard, but he felt almost happy. The water seemed to be washing the world’s filth away. He didn’t feel like going back to the station. He went to his car, tossed the steak inside, and after another look at the unmarked car, he headed off on foot along the avenue in the direction of Le Cure. A little walk in the rain would do him some good. He felt quite discouraged. Panerai was a hunter, a mushroomer, a pathetic Fascist who pretended to be in love with his customers. He belonged to the ranks of hit-and-run males, following in the footsteps of Il Duce. In short, he couldn’t picture him doing certain kinds of things with little boys. But then why couldn’t he bring himself to call off the surveillance? Because he didn’t want to throw away the only lead he had? Because he didn’t feel like sitting in the office twiddling his thumbs? Or was he still hoping it was worth the trouble? He didn’t know the answer, but for now it was best to stop thinking about it.
He turned down Via Pacinotti, shoes soaking wet by that point. The water was streaming fast down the drainage channels. The Cinema Aurora’s neon sign looked terribly depressing in the rain. He started looking in shop windows without interest. He just needed to move, to walk. When he passed in front of a clothing store, a vision took his breath away: a dark, beautiful girl was arranging the window display in her stockinged feet.
He kept on walking, breathing with his mouth open. After some twenty paces, he froze, heart racing. He already knew he would turn back to see her again. He had to remain calm. She was just a pretty girl with an Egyptian-style haircut, while he was a mature man with a good deal of experience behind him … It was no use, his heart refused to calm down. This always happened, every time he saw a woman he seriously liked. He turned round and headed back towards the shop, thinking about Amelia’s prediction. He would have given his right hand for the dark young woman foretold by the tarot to be her. Summoning his courage, he stopped in front of the display window and started looking at the girl with a serious expression on his face. She barely cast him a glance and carried on working, moving about with a certain animal elegance. She was sheathed in a short dress and had some pins in her mouth for fastening the clothes. Beautiful, refined, dark but luminous … Bordelli realised he was already falling in love, like a teenager dazzled by the prettiest girl in school. He could not take his eyes off her. He followed the graceful movements of her arms, her small feet caressing the footstool, her wavy hair …
The girl finished arranging the last dress and then turned towards the strange man eyeing her from outside, oblivious to the rain. The inspector steeled his nerves and nodded, as if to say that the window display was perfect. The dark girl stepped down from the stool and put her shoes on, moving like a chamois. She came out of the shop and ran under Bordelli’s umbrella to look at the results of her labours. The inspector did not turn to look at her, but was watching her out of the corner of his eye. He felt his elbow lightly graze the girl’s and secretly inhaled the lovely scent wafting in the air. He would have liked to say something but was afraid his voice would quaver. How could he possibly be still so inhibited at his age? A few words, any words, would have sufficed to break the ice. Two stupid words, even one … But which? He was just about to make up his mind when the girl shrugged and went back into the shop without saying anything. She went behind the counter and started thumbing through a magazine rather distractedly. Bordelli kept eyeing her through the window, his heart beating wildly. One second more and he would push open the door. She was just a pretty girl, he kept telling himself. Or should he say woman? How old could she be? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven? If Amelia’s cards hadn’t predicted the appearance of a dark young woman, he would have left by now. He was almost certain of this. The oracle of the cards was guiding his will, as if the past could change the future … Taking a deep breath, he went inside the shop, leaving the umbrella outside the door.
‘Hello,’ said the girl, looking up from her magazine.
‘I’m not sure you recognise me; I’m your umbrella,’ he said, seeming to have left his inhibitions outside on the pavement.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t even thank you.’
What a beautiful voice she had.
‘I should be the one thanking you.’
‘What for?’ she aske
d, sincerely puzzled.
‘For making such a beautiful window display …’ He was really getting bold now, surprising even himself. It really must be fate, he thought. The girl stared at him with a vaguely devilish smile, like certain of Correggio’s angels. Seen up close, she was even more attractive … But why was she so quiet? After a few eternal seconds of silence, Bordelli felt unsure again.
‘I was looking for a shirt … I don’t know what colour yet …’ he stammered.
‘I’m sorry, but we only have women’s clothing,’ she said, amused by the poor embarrassed man.
‘Yes, of course, I meant to say blouse,’ he said, trying to recover.
‘What sort of style are you looking for? Dressy? Simple? Cotton or silk?’
‘Could you perhaps give me a little advice?’
‘Is it for a special occasion, or just everyday wear?’
‘Just for everyday wear.’
‘Age?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘What size?’
‘More or less the same as you,’ said Bordelli. He realised he was sweating. The girl went to get some blouses off the shelves and set them down on the counter.
‘This one’s cotton, form-fitting, quite simple, actually. This, on the other hand … is silk …’
She was laying them out delicately, inviting him to feel the fabric with his fingers. Bordelli obeyed, feigning keen interest.
‘What about this one?’ he asked, pointing to a white blouse and trying hard not to look at the girl.
‘This one’s flannel, feel how soft it is,’ she said. The inspector took a corner between his fingers and nodded, convinced.
‘All right, I’ll take it.’ He didn’t want to come off as one of those annoying customers who turns the whole shop upside down and then doesn’t buy anything.
‘Excellent choice,’ she said, folding the blouse.
‘How much is it?’
‘Four thousand nine hundred. Would you like it gift-wrapped?’
‘Please, yes.’
Damn. Who would ever have imagined it would be so expensive? But he didn’t want to seem miserly, and so he took out his wallet with great nonchalance. The show was about to end. He had no more excuses for staying, unless he kept on buying presents for a non-existent woman. He waited for the girl to finish gift-wrapping the package, never once taking his eyes off her. He was desperately trying to think of something to say, but his head remained utterly empty. He paid without batting an eyelid, and after stammering a ‘thank you’ he left without turning round. Outside, he headed down the pavement, package under his arm, feeling as if he were walking inside a bubble. He felt like an imbecile, but by now he knew what he was like. If he hadn’t gone into the shop, he would never have forgiven himself. It made no sense to regret it. He turned down Viale dei Mille without even remembering that he was just a few steps away from the house in which he’d learned to walk and talk. The Beetle was far, far away; he would have to cross the sea to get to it.
He dropped in on Totò to entrust him with the Fascist steak. He would eat it another day, nice and ripe. The cook asked him whether for dinner he would prefer sausages and beans all’uccelletto or baccalà alla livornese, but Bordelli didn’t feel like staying.
‘Your namesake’s on TV tonight,25 and I don’t want to miss it,’ he said.
‘You can watch ’im here too, Inspector,’ said Totò, pointing at the twelve-inch telly on the shelf with the pickling jars.
‘I’m going home, Totò, I’m tired.’
‘I just got some grappa that can raise the dead,’ said the cook, trying to persuade him to stay. Bordelli thanked him, but that evening he really wanted some peace and quiet. He said goodbye and went home, cursing the bloody rain, which showed no sign of letting up.
He made himself a nice plate of penne with butter and Parmesan cheese and a lot of black pepper. He went into the dining room to turn on the telly, settled into the sofa with the plate on his lap and a flask of red wine within reach. He watched the last segment of the evening news without a great deal of interest. There was no point in trying to kid himself. The brunette salesgirl had got under his skin. Beautiful, gorgeous, what eyes, what a mouth, what legs! … Damn, God only knew how many guys were drooling after her. She could have any man she wanted, she only had to choose. Why on earth would she want an old police inspector who loosened his belt when he ate? He’d better forget her. A girl like that. Nor was it the right moment to waste time chasing after a woman. He had other things to think about …
Colonel Bernacca, the weatherman, said that there was an improvement in store for the next day and, marking up the map of Europe with his felt-tip pen, he explained the movements of the clouds to the Italians.
Bordelli finished his pasta and poured himself another glass of wine. Carosello, the adverts programme, began. After the jingle for Paulista coffee, it was Nino Benvenuti’s turn, as secret agent 00SIS. He slew his enemies, hopping around like a cricket, while a voice off-camera listed his qualities: elusive, overwhelming, indomitable, unpredictable, explosive, irresistible … and all because he drank Cavallino Rosso brandy. Maybe agent 00SIS even had the power to conquer the dark girl in the dress shop … But hadn’t he just said he didn’t want to think about that?
He lit a cigarette and put his feet up on the coffee table. Enrico Maria Salerno advised Total petrol for driving faster. After topping up his Giulietta Sprint with Total Super, he left all the other cars on the autostrada in the dust, exulting: ‘Now that’s driving!’ Would the dark girl like Salerno, or was he also too old? But there was old and old, and at any rate one could do nothing about it. Gregory Peck must have been about fifty, like Anthony Quinn, Lino Ventura, Yves Montand … and James Stewart must have been pushing seventy by then. Old charmers who had all the women in the world falling for them. And he, in fact, did look a little like Lino Ventura. Almost every woman he’d known had told him this. Except that he wasn’t a great actor, he was a chief inspector who should have been made commissioner long ago. He hadn’t risen any farther in the ranks because of his strange understanding of his work, and perhaps also because of his ‘excessive anti-Fascism’. But he didn’t give a damn about becoming a commissioner. He didn’t want to end up getting fat sitting behind a desk, and power didn’t interest him.
He refilled his glass again. Carosello wasn’t over yet. After Mariarosa l’invidiosa, there was the skit with Gringo, who kept Montana-brand meat in his holster belt. Bordelli grimaced. Seeing that stuff in a tin made him think of the war. The Allies had brought in tons of tinned meat, and the Italian troops quickly learned to detest it. They sometimes buried those damned tins deep in the ground, so as not to have to carry them in their backpacks. They preferred picking fruit off the trees, even if unripe. He imagined telling these things to the dark salesgirl, and it made him feel very old. When he was going up the Italian peninsula jabbing the Germans in the arse, she was still wetting the bed.
Studio Uno began.26 Mina was wearing a long black dress down to her feet that left her back exposed, which was more or less what she always wore. She launched immediately into a song with a pulsating rhythm, swaying her hips. Bordelli went to fetch some grappa and fell back on to the sofa, lying down. After a ballet number and a sad song, Totò at last made his entrance to thunderous applause. No matter what he said, people laughed. Nobody else had a face like that …
Bordelli woke up aching all over. Past 2 a.m. He’d fallen fast asleep right after Totò’s segment. The day’s programming was over, and the television set was crackling, a blizzard filling the screen. Not very pleasant to the ears. He got up with a groan and turned the set off. He dragged himself into the bathroom to brush his teeth, not daring to look in the mirror. Spitting the toothpaste out into the sink, he watched it swirl down the drain.
He undressed and went to bed. The moment he turned out the light, he thought of the dark-haired girl again, her strong, delicate hands, her animal way of moving her hips … He had to stop being s
o silly … Retirement was just round the bend, he shouldn’t forget that. How many women did he see on the streets each day? Some made more of an impression on him than others, but in the end he forgot them all. And even the beautiful dark salesgirl was destined to be forgotten. It was better for him to forget her. What point was there in still thinking about her little stockinged feet, her porcelain ears, her insolent, childish mouth …
When he opened his eyes, it took him a few moments to realise what was different: he couldn’t hear the rain. It had stopped raining. Light filtered through the slats of the shutters, and he could see the hands of the clock. Quarter past eight. He got up slowly, took a long shower, and went out. A stiff wind made his hair stand on end. The streets were deserted except for a few old women on their way back from mass. He walked to Piazza Tasso and ducked into Fosco’s bar, one of the few in the neighbourhood that was open on Sunday. The jukebox was already blaring a song by Celentano.
‘Coffee, Inspector?’
‘You read my mind …’
‘Life treating you well?’ Fosco asked, busy with the espresso machine.
‘Let’s not exaggerate. And how are you?’
‘Getting along all right. I work like a fool and all my money goes to the government.’
‘It’s not easy for us Italians to grasp, Fosco, but the state is us.’
‘Us or them, the money flows out like piss either way.’
Fosco had set up the bar a few months earlier with the proceeds from years of smuggling and selling stolen goods, activities he hadn’t really ceased, truth be told. Everybody in the neighbourhood knew it, and everybody respected him. On the back of his hand near the thumb he had a tattoo of a die with the number 5 face up, symbolising the criminal underworld and the time he’d spent in jail. And yet to look at him he could have been a retired schoolteacher embittered by life. Bordelli had known him since before the war and had never had the displeasure of arresting him.
