by Marco Vichi
Bordelli looked up at the oak’s thick black branches and saw five bodies swaying in the wind.
‘At a certain point Giuggiolo’s rope snapped, and he fell to the ground. He rolled down that slope over there for a good twenty yards, with his hands still tied. The Germans were sure he was dead and so they left. We were sure he was dead, too, since we’d seen him die with our own eyes. We didn’t have the courage to go and get his body and bury it, and so we went home to chew on our anger. Giuggiolo remained in that spot for two days and two nights, without moving, and on the third day he rose up like Christ … But his brain had gone to the dogs,’ the man concluded.
Bordelli remained silent. The sky was overflowing with huge, oppressive clouds the colour of lead, looking like boulders piled up at the bottom of a river. The dark green of the oaks seemed to spread through the air, wrapping everything in a greenish glow, as in certain ancient paintings. The old man ran a hand over his face as if to remove a spider’s web.
‘To this day I can’t stand to hear German being spoken,’ he said, and resumed walking.
‘It’s the same for me,’ the inspector mumbled. Whenever he saw a German over forty years old on the streets of Florence, he couldn’t help but think of the war. Every time he would ask himself whether that mild-mannered tourist on holiday with his family had killed one of his comrades or massacred women and children, like at Sant’Anna, or perhaps at Sant’Anna itself.
‘They’re a nasty race, those Germans,’ the old man said.
‘The Italians did the same things and worse, but the generals who ordered them died in their own beds,’ said Bordelli. He was thinking above all of Graziani and Badoglio, who had used chemical weapons on African villages, on defenceless people whom the glorious bombs of Fascist Italy had skinned alive with high-speed leprosy. He was thinking of the Italian soldiers who had killed women and children, who had raped, tortured, humiliated, destroyed. The schoolbooks didn’t tell of these things. They told of Enrico Toti tossing his crutches and of Pietro Micca, but not of these things. And so Italians continued to think of themselves as good people who brought civilisation to the uncivilised and paved roads, built hospitals and schools for savages, a generous people who conquered more with spades than with rifles.
The old man said nothing, keeping his share of the shame to himself. They made their way down the path in silence, side by side like old friends. Half an hour later they were at La Panca, where they parted ways, saying goodbye with a nod of the head.
He didn’t look at his watch until after he’d started up the Beetle to go back into town. Ten to two. Descending by way of the unpaved Cintoia road, he avidly sunk his teeth into the panino with prosciutto that he’d bought in the village’s only shop, a small wine tavern that didn’t even have a sign outside. His long walk had made him hungry as a wolf, as in the days of the San Marco batallion, when after a twenty-mile march they would stop to sleep in a stable. Now he knew for whom he had eaten tinned meat and killed Nazis, he knew for whom he had borne the weight of that bloody, stupid war. He’d done it for Giuggiolo and others like him. For those who had always been losers and who would never win. Now at last he knew for whom he had killed.
He stopped at the Osteria della Martellina to drink a glass of wine and then continued down the Chiantigiana. As he drew nearer to the city he began to feel more and more dejected. He could already see himself in his office, squirming in his chair, the Pellissari file on his desk. He’d been wrong to imagine that a telephone bill could lead him to the killers. As if that wasn’t enough, the commissioner had asked him to be present on 4 November in Piazza della Signoria for the raising of the flag in the Victory Day celebrations. Commemoration ceremonies depressed him, and even before ending his phone conversation with Inzipone he’d already been trying to think of an excuse not to go.
Back in town, as he was crossing the San Niccolò bridge, he saw small groups of people craning their necks over the parapets. They were looking at the Arno racing fast under the bridges, darker and more swollen than they had ever seen it before.
At the station, he rang the radio room as soon as he sat down in his office. They put Piras on, who had just finished his surveillance shift.
‘There are some new developments, Inspector.’
‘Not over the phone. Come upstairs.’
Hanging up, Bordelli lit his first cigarette of the day. He smoked it in front of the open window, enjoying it as he hadn’t done for years. One had to wait a long time to earn a little pleasure.
A minute later, Piras came in, and without saying anything he started polemically waving his hands in the air. He looked tired, his eyes sunken. Settling into a chair, he started immediately giving his report: the butcher left home at twenty past nine in his Lancia Flavia, together with his wife and daughter. They stopped in Le Cure to pick up Panerai’s mother, and in Piazza della Libertà they pulled up alongside a baby-blue Fiat 1500 with an elderly couple inside, probably the wife’s parents. The two cars then went together to the San Felice cemetery at Ema. At a quarter to one the two vehicles parked in front of Panerai’s place, and everyone went inside. A few minutes later the butcher came out again, alone, and took the Fiat 850. He took Viale Righi to the end and continued down Via Lungo l’Affrico, as on the day when the unmarked car had lost him. This time, however, they were able to follow him: through Piazza Alberti, Via Gioberti, Via Cimabue, Via Giotto … all the way to Via Luna, a narrow little one-way street. Piras jumped out of the car and followed him on foot, lest the continued presence of the car should arouse the butcher’s suspicions. After two curves, Panerai’s Fiat made its way with some difficulty into an even narrower street, off to the right. Piras stopped round the corner to listen. He heard the engine of the 850 being turned off, the car door opening and closing again, then the sound of a front door slamming. When he came out, he saw that the little street was rather short and widened as it came to a dead end. On the opposite side was another narrow street, only slightly longer, which also came to a dead end in a sort of small piazza. The buildings were working-class tenements with old plaster on the façades. Farther ahead there was an arch, which led to Via Gioberti.
‘I know that little street,’ said Bordelli, remembering an old girlfriend who used to live in the area. Throwing his cigarette butt into the road, he pulled the window to and started pacing back and forth as Piras continued his report.
Piras had gone back to the car and told Rinaldi to drive round the block as far as Via Gioberti. They parked about fifty yards away from the arch in Via Luna. The little street was one-way, and Panerai would have to pass that way. Some twenty minutes later the butcher’s Fiat 850 finally came out on to Via Gioberti, and they followed him back to his home. Piras meanwhile had called for another car, and he and Rinaldi went back to Via Luna. In the dead-end square where Panerai had parked there were only two storefronts with their rolling metal shutters down and one old front door of dark wood, with no doorbell or name. There were no windows. No cars. The sky was hidden by a corrugated plastic roof, which covered a good two-thirds of the little piazza. It had probably been put there by a mechanic or craftsman to create an outdoor space usable even in the rain.
‘And that’s about it,’ Piras concluded.
‘Well, compared to nothing, it’s something. I want to know as soon as possible in whose name the building is registered; maybe something useful will turn up. We must leave no stone unturned. As soon as the offices open, I want you personally to go to the Land Registry and Conservatory. I’m asking you and not somebody else, because it won’t be a simple matter.’
‘If they take tomorrow off for the long holiday weekend, they’ll reopen on Monday.’
‘Oh, they’re off tomorrow, don’t you worry …’
‘So there’s no need to hurry.’
‘Go home and get some rest, Piras. You look like a ghost.’
‘Thanks, Inspector,’ said the Sardinian, standing up. He vaguely gestured a military salute and went out. Was he
limping a little less each day, or was it just Bordelli’s imagination?
The inspector continued pacing about his office with his hands in his pockets, already knowing what he would do. He had to get inside that place and see what there was behind that old front door in Via Luna. A warehouse? A depot? Or maybe a slaughterhouse? For bringing women or children to? As usual, he was getting ahead of himself. He mustn’t forget that the only evidence he had was a telephone bill he’d found in the woods … And it wasn’t even evidence, but simply a hope, a very fragile, irrational hope that chance had put him on the right track. It made no sense to ask for a search warrant from Judge Ginzillo, whose only reply to such a request would have been to laugh hysterically, like an old aunt protecting her slice of pie.
As soon as it was dark outside he left the station. He drove straight to Via Gioberti, parked the Beetle and, torch in his pocket, continued to Via Luna on foot. The street was deserted, and there wasn’t anybody at the windows. Turning left, he found himself in the small dead-end piazza. He went up to the door, hoping he could spring the lock. It was Botta himself who had taught him the art of picking locks, but he’d never attained his teacher’s level of skill. He turned on the torch to study the lock, and had to bite his lip. It was a hard one, the kind that Botta called ‘trouble’. He tried just the same, checking to make sure nobody was coming. Over his head was the corrugated plastic canopy, shielding him from the view above. He fiddled with his miraculous metal wire for a few minutes with no results. He had to resign himself. He would never open it, except perhaps with dynamite. It was a job for Botta. It wasn’t the first time he had had to turn to him. Going back to the car, he headed for San Frediano. Since Botta didn’t have a telephone, one had to go directly to his basement flat to talk to him.
Bordelli pulled in to Via del Campuccio. There was no light filtering out of Botta’s pavement-level window. He bent down just the same, to tap on the pane, hoping Ennio was inside, sleeping. He knocked harder and harder, and called out. Nothing. The building’s front door didn’t close securely. He pushed it open, descended a flight of stairs and knocked on the door. Silence. Tearing a page out of his diary, he wrote: Ring me at any hour, it’s extremely urgent. No need to sign the message, Ennio knew his handwriting well. He slipped the note under the door and left. All he could do was wait.
It was just half past six, and he returned to the station. He collapsed into his chair, exhausted. He stared at the phone as if expecting a beautiful woman to call. He could barely wait to open that door. Maybe be would find something in there, anything, a concrete clue that would show him the way, maybe even the evidence he was looking for … or maybe not, maybe it would all be useless except to make him decide to leave that wretched Mussolini-loving butcher in peace.
By a quarter past eight, still no Botta. Perhaps he’d been arrested for one of his ‘business deals’? Bordelli rang the Murate prison and identified himself, but they told him there was nobody named Bottarini among the latest arrivals.
He went back to Botta’s flat, but everything was still turned off. He looked up at the sky. The moon was being suffocated by a thick mantle of black clouds. At any moment it would start raining again.
He went home, feeling discouraged and anxious. Perhaps there was no need for all this haste, but by now he’d got it into his head to open that door and wanted it done as soon as possible. He had to try to relax.
He went into the kitchen to make some spaghetti. Since he didn’t even have any tinned tomatoes, he dressed the pasta with olive oil, pepper and grated pecorino cheese. Then he brought it all into the dining room and turned on the telly. On Wednesdays there was a film on Channel 2 that must have just started. It was an old American movie, exactly what he needed to distract himself. Settling into the sofa with wine beside him, he put his feet up on the coffee table and started eating. The spaghetti wasn’t bad at all, and he regretted having made so little. A minute later there was none left. Setting the empty bowl down on the coffee table, he refilled his glass and lit a cigarette. He felt relaxed, at long last …
He woke up to the sad sound of the music announcing the end of the broadcast day, neck aching. He’d fallen asleep, chin on his chest, before the film had ended. Ennio hadn’t called, dammit. He thought for a moment of going to see whether he’d come home, but felt so lazy that he decided not to bother. It was better to go to bed. Botta would call sooner or later. Getting up from the sofa with his knees creaking, he turned off the telly before the screen turned to snow. Leaving everything as it was, he went into the bedroom. Sooner or later he would have to wash the dirty dishes. He undressed and got under the covers. A nice long sleep would do him good …
Despite his fatigue, he was unable to drop off. All he did was toss and turn, trying not to think of Via Luna, Botta or the salesgirl in Via Pacinotti. To free his mind he started rummaging through his memory. He skipped over the war, going farther back, to the more distant past … Faded images blurring into one another, women now faceless, friends never seen again, school benches, working up a sweat in the playground playing football all alone … He saw his mother again, cooking pasta at home on a Friday evening, his father listening to Mussolini’s speech on the radio, the young widow from the floor above making eyes at all the men she passed, the horse-drawn carriages, the cars driving by now and again on the Viale, the teachers who practically dislocated their shoulders giving the Fascist salute to Il Duce, the Saturday Fascist rallies in Balilla uniform,35 the first girl over whom he’d lost sleep and appetite … as beautiful as the sun, and treacherous … that was how he remembered her … And starting with her he began in a daze to review all the women who had left him, counting them like sheep …
He woke up feeling even more tired than before, and with a swollen bladder. Through the shutters filtered the wan light of dawn, but there was no sound of rain. So as not to wake up entirely, he did not turn on the light when he went into the bathroom, but groped his way there, dragging his fingers along the walls to orientate himself. Once back in the bedroom he closed the internal shutters, and in total darkness got back into bed. He had goosebumps from the cold. To warm himself he curled up like a child, wrapping the covers tightly round his body. He remained that way for a long time, with his eyes closed, hoping to fall back to sleep. But it was hopeless. By now he was awake and his head already churning. Whatever had become of Ennio, dammit? He almost smiled at the thought that a murder investigation could be held up by a burglar’s absence.
He felt like a wet rag. Muttering a curse, he got up and opened the shutters. It wasn’t raining, but the vault of the sky was still swollen with dark clouds. He took a long scorching shower, calmly got dressed and made himself some black coffee, which he drank in front of the French door in the kitchen, in small sips. The weather promised nothing good. It was the rainiest autumn in memory.
He headed off on foot, came out into Piazza Tasso and turned down Via del Campuccio. When he got to Botta’s place he bent down to tap on the window pane. No reply. He went into the building and knocked on his door, calling out his name. Ennio wasn’t there. Where the hell was he hiding? There was no point in asking the neighbours or at the local bars. Nobody would say a word more than necessary, especially if the person asked actually knew something. It was an unspoken agreement, and they all benefitted from it.
Bordelli went back to his block to fetch the Beetle. While crossing the Ponte Vespucci he saw the Arno, swollen as a whale’s back. The fall at the Santa Rosa weir looked frightening, but it wasn’t the first time. When he got to the station he shut himself up in his office to wait for Ennio’s phone call, taking care of a few overdue matters by dint of sighs. No news about the butcher … but he’d better be ready to be disappointed.
At eleven o’clock Commissioner Inzipone rang for his umpteenth useless scolding concerning the Pellissari murder. As usual he started citing newspaper headlines accusing the police of somnolence and incompetence. Bordelli cursed him in silence.
‘I’m fo
llowing a lead, sir … As soon as I’ve got any news …’
‘What lead?’ the commissioner asked impatiently.
‘I’d rather not say for now.’
‘More secrets, Bordelli …?’
‘I’m superstitious, you ought to know that by now.’
‘Well, this time I hope it works,’ Inzipone grumbled, then hung up without saying goodbye. He could go to the devil, thought Bordelli.
A bulletin came in from the north. Maximum alert: a terrorist from the Alto Adige36 was on his way to Rome. Apparently he intended to set off a bomb at the National Monument to Victor Emmanuel II the following day, to celebrate Victory Day in his own way. Roadblocks were set up everywhere in a big hurry, and every traffic patrol car was to have a photo of the suspect.
At a quarter to one, Bordelli already had hunger pangs and walked to the Trattoria da Cesare. It was nearly deserted. The waiters stood in the doorway watching the cars go by on the Viale, and Cesare complained that it was all the fault of the long All Souls’ Day weekend and the bloody weather.
‘Enjoy a day of rest,’ Bordelli advised, patting him on the back, and then went and sat down in Totò’s kitchen, letting himself be led by the hand into the sinful world of Ciacco37 … crostini, salami, fried polenta …
