by Marco Vichi
‘You’ve been looking a little down the last few days,’ said Totò.
‘Must be the rain.’
… pappardelle alla lepre, sausages, big tumblers of red wine …
‘An October to be forgotten, Inspector.’
‘You can say that a little louder, if you like.’
… grilled pork chops, fagioli all’uccelletto, a bowl of custard pie, a nice cup of coffee, and some home-made grappa to finish things off.
He couldn’t carry on eating like this, he wasn’t twenty years old any more. He swore it would be the last time. He often made vows of this sort as the grappa was being served. He glanced at his watch and downed the glass.
‘Time to go back to the henhouse, Totò,’ he said, getting up with difficulty. He felt like a barrel packed full of stones.
‘You mustn’t miss dinner here tonight, Inspector. I’ll give you a taste of a peperonata that can raise the dead.’
‘We’ll discuss that this evening, Totò. If I think about it now, it’ll make me sick.’
He patted the cook on the back and went out of the kitchen with his knees buckling. It was raining hard outside, and Cesare lent him an umbrella.
He came out of the restaurant with a cigarette between his lips and crossed Viale Lavagnini in a hurry. The minute he turned on to Via Duca d’Aosta, it started deluging. Tossing aside the now drenched cigarette, he broke into a run. He arrived back at the station panting heavily and with shoes completely soaked, and dragged himself up the stairs to the first floor. Aside from the sound of the rain, you couldn’t hear a thing. Everyone was at the windows looking out, fascinated by the downpour.
He ducked into the men’s room to towel-dry his hair, then shut himself up in his office and removed his wet raincoat. Without bothering to sit down, he grabbed the internal telephone and called the switchboard. No news of Botta. He couldn’t stand waiting any longer twiddling his thumbs. Lighting a cigarette, he too went and stood in front of a window to admire the deluge. The rail fell with unheard-of force, and the streets had turned into torrents. A cold shiver ran down his back, and he instinctively touched the radiator. It was as hot as a pan on the fire. So why did he feel cold? Must be from indigestion and his wet clothes. He blew the smoke against the window pane, head full of thoughts. From the start of this affair he’d felt as if he were playing chess with destiny. One wrong move, and his king would be dead. The next move was his to make, and it was Via Luna.
He went and sat down, huffing with impatience. Picking up the Pellissari file, he opened it on the desk, almost angrily. Seeing the photos of the body again, he felt his stomach tighten. Giacomo’s killers were free, to eat, drink and live in peace. He couldn’t stand it.
And why the hell didn’t Ennio call? He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray with such force that it crumbled. One second later there was another cigarette in his mouth, but with an effort of will he managed not to light it. His throat was dry. He took a sip of water, and it tasted bitter. He was trying to buck up. Soon it would stop raining and he could go with Botta to force open that damned lock. He needed only to be patient and wait … and wait … There wasn’t even a fly in the room to keep him company. He felt downcast and tired, and everything seemed gloomy. Had a genie appeared out of a bottle at that moment, he would have asked to be reborn in Lapland among the reindeer.
Another shiver shook his whole body. His shoes were dripping wet and his feet frozen. He’d probably best dash home to change clothes if he didn’t want to catch a chill. He really didn’t feel like facing that wall of rain, but he had no choice. When he got up to go, his legs felt weak. His joints ached into the bargain, and he realised he was sick. He must already have a bit of fever, damn it all. What a time to fall ill. He rifled through his drawers, found a box of aspirin and swallowed a couple. A few times in the past a couple of tablets had been enough to nip the flu in the bud, though at other times it was the flu that nipped him in the bud. Before anything else, he had to take off those wet clothes. He was already in the doorway when the ring of the telephone made him start. If it was Botta, he couldn’t be calling at a worse time. He staggered back to the desk, shivering all over.
‘It’s Mr Pellissari the lawyer on the phone for you, sir.’
‘All right, put him on,’ said Bordelli, sitting back down. He heard a crack, and the background buzz seemed to change.
‘Hello?’
‘Inspector Bordelli?’
‘Hello, Mr Pellissari …’
‘Tell me the truth, Inspector … Is there any hope the monster will ever be found?’
‘We’re following a very promising lead, but at the moment I can’t tell you anything else.’
‘I want to be able to look my son’s killer in the eye, I want to ask him how he could ever …’
‘We’ll catch him, I can promise you that,’ said Bordelli, hoping he was right. Shivering with cold, he patiently listened, without interrupting, as Pellissari unburdened himself. He didn’t have the heart to tell him that his son had been raped by at least three men. Before hanging up he repeated that the murderer’s days were numbered. He was about to get up when the phone rang again.
‘Yes?’
‘Have you seen how it’s raining?’ said Rosa, munching on something.
‘It’s been raining for weeks, Rosa.’
‘Not this hard … What if this is the Great Flood?’
‘That’s already happened, Rosa. I don’t think God repeats himself.’
‘My friend from Prato … Milena, remember her?’ she said, and then Bordelli heard her bite into a biscuit.
‘Rosa, I can’t stay on the phone.’
‘She brought me some Mattonella biscottini, and some Brutti ma boni, too.’38
‘Rosa …’
‘I’ll save a few for you, monkey, don’t worry. But don’t come tonight, I’ve invited some girlfriends and we don’t want any boys around.’
‘Rosa, please stop for a second.’
‘Why, what is it?’
‘I can’t stay on the phone. My clothes are soaking wet and I have to dash home to change.’
‘Oh, come on …’
‘I don’t feel well, I think I’m running a temperature.’
‘Oh, go on, you never get a temperature … Don’t you want to hear what I’m making for dinner?’
‘I’ll call you back later,’ said Bordelli, and he hung up without giving her time to respond. He was feeling worse and worse. He started down the stairs, grabbing the banister like an old fogey. Crossing paths with Inspector Silvis, who was on his way up, he let him know he was going home for a few minutes to change clothes.
‘Are you feeling all right, Inspector?’ Silvis asked, looking him up and down.
‘I feel great. Like an earthworm crushed by a boot.’
‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you look to me like you’re burning up with fever.’
‘Nah, I’m sure it’s just a touch,’ the inspector muttered, knowing it wasn’t true.
‘Have you heard about the bomb?’
‘What bomb?’ Bordelli asked.
‘An anonymous phone call … A bomb at the Sita station … They’re on their way there now, with a team of explosives experts.’
‘One of the usual jerks, I’m sure.’
Bordelli continued down the stairs, and when he looked out into the courtyard it was like being behind a waterfall. Pressing the umbrella over his head like a sombrero, he ploughed his way to the Beetle. And, defying the temperature and the deluge, he drove off. The sound of the rain almost drowned out that of the car’s engine, and the tyres raised great waves of water on both sides. He felt terrible. His bones ached, he was shivering, and his nose was running. He certainly would not be able to attend the Victory Day celebrations the following day. Maybe that was why he’d caught the flu, to bail out of the 4 November ceremonies.
Without ever shifting into second, he ventured towards the centre of town. The windscreen wipers were useless. He was abl
e to proceed simply because he knew the way.
As he drove down the Lungarno, great splashes of mud fell on the windscreen, only to be washed away at once by the rain. He caught a passing glimpse of a crowd of people along the parapets, huddled under umbrellas, looking out at the river. Common sense dictated that he should avoid going out again into the rain and race straight home and make some broth, but he didn’t want to give in to this stupid flu. During the war he’d slept in meadows, stables or outside in the snow … There was no need to panic over a couple of degrees of fever.
He parked the car with two wheels on the pavement, got out with the umbrella pressed down on his head and, wiping his nose with his hand, looked out at the Arno. It looked like a scene from the Apocalypse. A huge mass of muddy water coursed violently under the bridges, crashing against the pillars, rumbling like a squadron of aeroplanes. It was so close to the parapets that you could almost touch it. But it wasn’t something to get too worried about. It had happened before, and the Florentines were used to these sorts of scenes. In a few places in the countryside around the city it would burst its banks, flooding a few acres of farmland. But two days later, all would be back to normal.
He got back in the car, crossed the Carraia bridge and went on as far as Via del Campuccio. Without getting out, he stopped outside Botta’s windows, but the lights were still off inside. He drove off again, teeth chattering from the chill, and he felt almost pleased. He really wasn’t up to going to Via Luna, but he knew that if Botta had been at home, the temptation would have been too hard to resist.
He parked in front of his building and went inside. He climbed the stairs dripping like a tree after a storm, nose running. But he was safe at last. He’d never felt so happy to be home. He filled the bath and immersed himself in the boiling water, hoping to cook the feverish shivers out of him. Staring at a cobweb that undulated gently in a corner of the ceiling, he steeped in the tub for a long time, imagining that the beautiful salesgirl from Via Pacinotti was waiting for him in bed, already half naked, rubbing her little feet together between the sheets with impatience … Dreaming was cheap.
When he got out of the bath he felt extremely weak, got dressed in a hurry and put on two woollen jumpers. Outside it was already dark. The rain continued to come down with frightening force. It was the first time he’d ever seen such a downpour.
The thought of eating nauseated him. He heated some water in a saucepan, poured it into a glass and dissolved two spoonfuls of honey in it. He drank it in very small sips, to get the bitter taste out of his throat. He swallowed two more aspirin and, shaking like a leaf, went and lay down in bed with the thermometer in his armpit. His heart was beating in his ears and it felt as if there was a boulder on his head. He hadn’t been this sick for years. He felt like a war casualty and wished he had a pretty nurse with sweet eyes to look after him or, better yet, the dark salesgirl …
He checked the thermometer. Thirty-nine point three. What a fuss over a little temperature. In the days of the San Marco, he’d machine-gunned Germans with a forty-degree fever, and yet now he felt as if he didn’t even have the strength to peel an apple. He was old, he had to accept it. A bowl of broth, a hot-water bottle, and a whole lot of rest …
He glanced at the clock, unable to bring its hands into focus. It took him a few moments to realise that it was a few minutes before seven. He desperately needed to sleep. Picking up the phone and setting it down on his belly, he rang headquarters, said he felt bad, really bad, actually, and added with feigned regret that he would not, unfortunately, be in any condition to attend the 4 November commemoration.
Summoning his strength, he got up and took all the blankets he owned out of a chest of drawers and laid them down on the bed, one on top of the other. A good sweat was what he needed. He closed the shutters, both inside and out, and even unplugged the telephone so that nobody could wake him up. Sliding under the stack of blankets, he turned off the light. He sank his face into the pillow, crushed by a limitless sadness. He felt like the loneliest man on earth. Who knew where the pretty salesgirl was at that moment? Lying on a sofa, listening to the rumble of the rain? Or in the arms of a handsome young man? Perhaps both …
A minute later he was snoring like a train …
While Bordelli sleeps, the rivers of the Mugello and the Aretino burst their banks, flow downstream and further swell the Arno. The Valdarno is flooded, as is Pontassieve, where a bridge collapses and a house is washed away …
The night falls on our heads
the rain upon us pours
the people smile no more.
A little while later the Arno begins to splash against the tops of the Ponte Vecchio’s arches and overflows in the La Lisca district of the town of Lastra a Signa. The Tuscany–Romagna trunk road, and all communications between Florence and Empoli, are cut off. At 2 a.m. the Mugnone bursts its banks and floods the Parco delle Cascine. The stables there are full of horses. The thoroughbreds are saved in a hurry, but less attention is paid to the others, and they drown. At half past two, the Arno bursts its banks at Nave, Rovezzano and Villa Magna …
The world is changing presently
and will change again by and by
But take a look up and you’ll see
big patches of blue in the sky.
At 3 a.m. the great spate of the Arno reaches Florence. On the left bank, between the Ponte alle Grazie and the Santa Trinita bridge, the drains are chucking up mud. The river is now as high as the parapets on the Lungarno. At half past three the Anconella aqueduct is overwhelmed by the wave of mud, and an overseer, Carlo Maggiorelli, becomes the first casualty of the Florence flood. He was on the phone, answering a call from someone telling him to get out, when he was swept away by the water’s fury. Basements flood, a few boilers explode, home taps run dry …
We see an old world come
crashing down upon us now …
but what fault is it of ours?
At 4 a.m., in the already flooded parts of the city upstream, carabinieri and army personnel with boats and dinghies ferry people to safety. The Arno bursts its banks at Rovezzano and floods the districts of San Salvi, Varlungo, Gavinana and Ricorboli. Gavinana is under a foot and a half of water. Only half an hour later, the river has conquered the Lungarno Cellini, courses down Via dei Renai and submerges the San Niccolò quarter. Mayor Bargellini is asleep at home in Via delle Pinzochere. He is woken up by a phone call from the commissioner of police, gets dressed in a frenzy and goes out. A car takes him to the Ponte Vecchio, where he meets the commissioner, the prefect and a few journalists. The river rumbles like force-nine seas, and the iron railing around the statue of Benvenuto Cellini is vibrating like a string on a double bass. Uprooted trees bourne on the swell thud loudly against the pillars of the bridge. Amid the muddy waves one sees carcasses of cows, cars, splintered wardrobes, a large bus caracoling like a dead whale. The men on the bridge do not know yet that there are areas both downstream and upstream from Florence that are already well under water: San Colombano, Badia a Settimo, Vingone, Rimaggio, Guardiana. Bargellini would like to go home to warn his family but the streets have become impassable because of the torrents of mud flowing fast everywhere. He stops in at the offices of La Nazione, inaugurated just a month ago and still sparkling new, then continues on towards Palazzo Vecchio.
How many times have they smiled sadly and said
the dreams of the young are all smoke
They are tired of struggling and no longer
believe in anything
now that they’re so close to the goal.
By order of the prefect the jewellers of Ponte Vecchio are alerted by the night patrols and run to save what they can from their shops. At 5 a.m. the sewage drains of San Frediano are spewing muck. A putrid stream flows down Borgo Ognissanti, and a short while later the Baroque church and old barracks of the carabinieri are flooded. All night Dante Nocentini, head of the Florentine office of the National Press Agency, has been walking up and down the Lungarni t
o monitor the river’s progress. In the end he decides to stop in Piazza Cavalleggeri, in front of the unsightly Biblioteca Nazionale, which at night takes on a gloomy and simultaneously ridiculous appearance. Suddenly the Arno rises over the parapets and a stream of slimy water begins to inundate the cobblestones. Nocentini starts running towards Piazza Santa Croce, chased by the water advancing inexorably down Corso dei Tintori. He runs to Via dei Pucci, to the offices of the National Press Agency, races up the stairs and broadcasts the news to Rome: the Arno is flooding Florence.
It will be a fine society
founded on liberty.
By 6 a.m. Borgo Ognissanti has become a raging torrent and Piazza Gavinana is under ten feet of water. The Arno enters Borgo San Jacopo and Via Maggio in triumph, and at half past six is coursing from Bellariva towards the centre of town, churning down the Via Aretina. Moments later, the parapet at Piazza Cavalleggeri collapses, and the raging Arno vents its fury on the Biblioteca Nazionale and the Santa Croce quarter.
It matters not that someone on life’s path
should be prey to the ghosts of the past
Money and power are deadly snares
that have worked for so very long.
Nearly the whole city and a few neighbouring towns are without electricity, gas or telephone service. Around seven o’clock the river inundates Piazza Alberti, San Frediano, Santo Spirito, Piazza dei Giudici, the Lungarno degli Archibusieri, Por Santa Maria … It courses with frightening speed, overturning cars, crashing through front doors and metal shutters, pouring out into the streets what it stole in the Valdarno: dead animals, trees, shattered furniture, oil drums … The Lungarno degli Acciaioli collapses, along with certain stretches of the Lungarno Corsini. By eight in the morning, in Via dei Neri, where Rosa lives, there are ten feet of water, and the level keeps rising …
