by Marco Vichi
Bordelli opened Il Resto del Carlino, hot off the presses: FLORENCE UNDER WATER / CITY TRANSFORMED INTO LAKE. On the right there was a large insert in bold lettering: To the readers of La Nazione: The stately new office building of La Nazione has shared the fate of the rest of the city of Florence and been devastated by flood waters. While waiting for the daily’s normal services to resume, its sister newspaper, Il Resto del Carlino, a product of the same publishing company, has prepared the present special edition for the entire province of Tuscany, specifically to fill the role normally played by La Nazione …
Botta finally made his entrance, candle in one hand and a steaming pot in the other. Setting everything down on the table, he started filling their dishes with pasta. Spaghetti alla carbonara. Bordelli tossed the newspapers aside and felt his mouth begin to water, as used to happen during the war on those rare occasions when he smelled roast beef in the air.
‘Forget the beatification, they should make you a saint straight away,’ he said, rolling a mouthful of spaghetti on to his fork. The candles shed a dim, yellowish light in the room, turning their faces into waxen masks.
‘The second course leaves a lot to be desired,’ Botta said modestly.
‘There’s even a second course?’
‘Well, there’s even a side dish, as far as that goes.’
‘And maybe even a dessert …?’
‘Biscottini di Prato and vin santo. We could do worse,’ Ennio said, smiling.
‘Where’d you find all this stuff?’
‘A little here, a little there.’
‘Afterwards you must tell me how much you spent …’
‘Never mind about that, Inspector. At the moment I’m not hard up for cash.’
‘So that little job you mentioned went well?’ the inspector asked, refilling his glass with wine.
‘Precisely.’
‘A lot of money?’
‘Enough …’
‘Did you sell a monument to an American tourist, like Totò?’
‘Practically.’
‘If you don’t tell me I won’t be able to sleep.’
‘Am I talking to the police inspector or to the man?’ Botta asked, as he always did before owning up to his crimes.
‘You’re speaking to a starving man who has every intention of getting drunk,’ said Bordelli, chewing an enormous forkful of spaghetti.
‘I sold a drawing by Guttuso,’ Botta said with a serious face.
‘A forgery?’
‘The guy who bought it thinks it’s real.’
‘And who’s the lucky man?’
‘A Milanese industrialist.’
‘Then it’s not a crime,’ said Bordelli, taking a long draught of wine. It didn’t bother him at all to know that rich Milanese businessmen were buying fake Guttusos.
‘Who’s the brilliant counterfeiter?’ he asked.
‘You’re looking at him.’
‘You?’
‘Mwah … What’s so strange about that?’
‘I didn’t know you knew how to draw.’
‘I even had a show once, at the Gorgona prison.’
‘I’ll bet you can also play the piano and write sonnets.’
‘I’ve never written any poetry, but I can scrape a fiddle a little, given half a chance … Still hungry, Inspector?’
‘I’m in your hands.’
‘I’ll be right back,’ said Botta, heading off to the kitchen.
He returned with a frying pan full of sausages and beans, and they had no choice but to uncork another bottle of wine. They recounted to each other what they’d done during the day. Botta had helped a family clean all the mud out of their house, letting his own flat slide for the moment. Towards evening he’d queued up for water, and then gone out in search of food to eat.
At last they finished their meal. They were dead tired but didn’t feel like going to bed just yet. So they spread out on the sofa with their biscottini and vin santo. In the half-light, the silhouette of the lifeless television made a sorry sight. Bordelli knew he stank and was dreaming of a nice warm shower.
‘Now you can tell me,’ said Botta.
‘Tell you what?’
‘Why you were looking for me …’
‘It doesn’t matter any more, as I said.’
‘If you don’t tell me, I won’t be able to sleep,’ said Botta, turning the tables on him.
Bordelli sighed. ‘Well, I wanted you to open a door for me.’
‘For a change …’
‘If you’re looking for bread, you go to the baker’s, no?’
‘Is it related to the case of the murdered boy?’ Ennio asked. Bordelli nodded.
‘It was my last chance to follow some sort of lead, some sort of clue … if it really existed at all. But we’ll never know.’
‘And where’s this door?’
‘Near Piazza Beccaria, but the flood made sure it was entirely smashed in.’
‘Too bad …’ said Botta, disappointed. It gave him great pleasure to pick locks on behalf of the state.
‘Don’t worry, Ennio, you’ll see, sooner or later I’ll need you again,’ said Bordelli, smiling wearily. They carried on chatting, nibbling biscotti and drinking vin santo. Jumping from one subject to another, they ended up talking about women. Bordelli still had his mind on ‘his’ salesgirl, but made no mention of her. Ennio, on the other hand, opened up and told him about his most recent love affair with a blonde of about forty who worked as a cashier in a supermarket. He loved her to death, and she likewise seemed properly smitten. In short, it was all going swimmingly, but then the blonde had started complaining a little, saying they weren’t meant to be together, they were too different from each other … they didn’t understand each other … something was missing …
‘The usual rubbish women say when they want to dump you.’
‘Don’t I know …’
‘At any rate, she left me high and dry, the slut,’ Botta concluded, refilling his glass.
‘Try not to think about it, Ennio,’ said Bordelli, who felt consoled by their common fate.
Every so often the candle flames started flickering, then a moment later they were straight as arrows again. Sip by sip Bordelli and Botta ended up telling each other their childhood memories. Ennio drew his words out slowly, staring at the ceiling with eyes half closed and a smile on his lips.
‘The first time my father went to jail it was for dealing in contraband cigarettes. I was twelve. Since my mother wasn’t able to put food on the table, I ended up in a boys’ school run by nuns. Call them women if you want, but the prettiest one had a moustache worthy of a carabiniere. And they ate like pigs and then would make us do the washing up. Those brides of Jesus were all in love with Mussolini, every last one of them. Pray for the Duce, they would say … The Duce has saved Italy from the heathen communists and brought us peace. And they were obsessed with our willies. If you happened to touch your willy by accident – you know, say with your hand in your pocket – there was hell to pay. They’d drag you into a room, hold your wicked hand up in the air, and then lash it ten times with a little switch. You must never touch yourself down there, they would say, with their eyes big and round, if you touch yourself there you will go blind and be paralysed. And after the punishment they would bless you with a disgusted look on their faces. Then, one fine day, I went into the bathroom and found the Mother Superior … well, helping a friend of mine pee. I learned a lot during those years, a lot about the way the world works.’
They each lit another cigarette, and Bordelli tried to remember something from when he was twelve. Then a Sunday afternoon in the house on Viale Volta came back to him.
‘All they were talking about on the radio was this blessed March on Rome, which had just happened the day before. Normally my father was a relaxed sort of chap, but that day it was as though he’d stuck two fingers into an electrical outlet. “Thank God for the Duce,” he would say, taking a swig of grappa each time. My mother instead kept wanderin
g about the house incessantly making the sign of the cross and muttering prayers. “What’s got into you?” my father kept saying irritatedly. “I don’t like him,” she would whisper dramatically. “What don’t you like?” my father roared. She would shrug and simply say, “I don’t like him, I don’t like him,” and then resume her prayers. It took those prayers twenty years to reach God’s ears,’ Bordelli said by way of conclusion, smiling.
‘Apparently Mussolini’s curses were more persuasive,’ Botta commented, emptying his glass in a single gulp. Then he stood up, put his hands on his hips, thrust out his lower lip and started springing up and down on his heels with eyes bulging.
‘Fellow Italians! … Nincompoops on land, on the seas, and in the air! Blackshirts of idiocy and conformism! Men, women, children, grandparents, aunties, whores, dogs, cats, pimps, sheep and pigs of Italy, of the empire and the kingdom of Pinocchio! Lend me your ears! The hour of destiny chimes in the basements of our glorious Fatherland! The hour of ir-re-vo-ca-ble decisions!’
‘You know, you really do look like the old fathead, come to think of it,’ said Bordelli, amused. Botta carried on bouncing about, wild-eyed, fists pressed into his hips, talking in sharp cadences like the real Mussolini.
‘There is only one watchword, imperative and binding for all, flying overhead and already lighting up hearts from the Ponte di Mezzo to Coverciano: buy! And buy we will, to usher in at last a long period of debt for Italy, Europe, the world …!’ And he imitated the roar of the crowd as it called out, ‘Du-ce, Du-ce, Du-ce …’
Then he dropped back down on the sofa and emptied the remains of the bottle into the two glasses.
‘At last a sensible speech from the Duce,’ Bordelli said, smiling.
Having polished off the wine, they moved on to the grappa, still travelling through time and coasting on memories. Ennio started telling the story of something that had happened to him one Sunday in August ten years ago, on the hill of Pian dei Giullari.
‘It was hot as hell. Just blinking made you sweat. The Arno was so low it looked like a trickle of piss. Late one night I broke into a villa, certain that nobody was there. As I went down the corridor, I suddenly noticed light under a half-closed door. I turned off my torch and approached. Looking into the room, I saw a man sitting behind a large desk, staring into space. He was about fifty years old, had almost no hair, and was rather fat. He was sighing deeply and every so often ran a hand over his face. He looked desperate. I just stood there watching, wondering how a moneybags like him could be so unhappy. What, had he run out of champagne? Maybe the new Porsche hadn’t arrived yet? Maybe the taxman had found out he was taking his money to Switzerland? I had no sympathy whatsoever for him. In fact, I laughed hard deep inside. Then the man suddenly looked down, opened a drawer, took out an enormous pistol and stuck the barrel in his mouth. It made my blood run cold. I waited to hear the blast and see his brain spattered on the wall … But then I pushed open the door and dashed into the room, screaming for him to stop. He spat out the gun and looked at me as if he’d seen a ghost. He stuttered and asked me who I was, then pointed the trembling pistol at me. I practically shat my pants for fear, but I remained calm. I just sat down in front of the desk and crossed my legs. Tapping my fingers on the desk I said I was his guardian angel and asked him why he wanted to kill himself. He finally lowered the pistol and laid it down on the desk. My wife has another man, he whispered. Is that any reason to kill yourself? I asked, smiling. He smiled back, but it was frightening. She’s doing it with a worker from my factory, he said. It was the fear of ridicule that tormented him. The humiliation of having his wife cheat on him with a man of lower rank. Don’t you have anything strong to drink? I asked. He stood up, staggering, and went out of the room, and I took advantage of his absence to take the gun and put it in my pocket. He returned with a bottle and two glasses. He’d saved her from the gutter, he said, had made her a lady, covered her with jewels and furs, but she’d remained a scullery maid, always chasing after lower-class cocks, a communist … To make a long story short, we got drunk and carried on talking about his sweet wife all night. By the end we were laughing like two fools and calling each other by our first names. At daybreak I said I was going home to bed, but he begged me to stay and filled my glass again. He kept on talking about his wife, giggling in the naughtiest way. He said he’d never had so much fun in his life. I was so drunk that I fell asleep like a rock, right in the chair. When I woke up I had a headache and a terrible crick in my neck. The man was gone. I called his name, but he didn’t answer. I patted my pocket, worried, but the gun was still there. So I started looking for him around the house, and finally I found him. He was sprawled on the floor of a luxurious bathroom in a pool of blood. He’d stabbed himself in the neck with a pair of scissors …’
Bordelli woke up in his bed, emerging slowly from a tiring, anguishing dream in which he’d done nothing but wander aimlessly through a vast, transparent palace full of people, going up and down stairs and corridors, through rooms large and small that were never the right room. His muscles ached. Without lifting his head from the pillow he saw the daylight filtering through the slats of the shutters. It was very cold. He glanced over at the alarm clock. Ten-twenty. He’d gone to bed past four o’clock, bringing the last inch of candle with him. He vaguely remembered accompanying Ennio to the so-called guest room, a square space crammed with depressing furniture he’d inherited from some old aunts.
He heard the sound of a powerful engine in the street and, defying his headache, summoned the strength to go and look out of the window. An amphibious army vehicle was passing at a walking pace, forcing its way through the wrecked cars and tree trunks, continually stopping to distribute emergency provisions. Other soldiers busied themselves removing animal carcasses, loading them on to a small truck. The street was already teeming with men and women hard at work removing debris from homes and shops and hoping to find things worth salvaging. About a foot and a half above their heads, the black band of heating oil was beginning to dry. Nauseating smells filled the air.
Bordelli dragged himself into the kitchen and made coffee with Botta’s water. Just last Saturday he’d cursed the gas cylinder to the darkest circle of hell when it had run out. Now, of course, it was full, thanks to the gasman, who’d come by barely a week ago.
He turned on the transistor radio and heard the tail end of a news report. The Gavinana district was still flooded, and in the countryside around the city many people were still stranded on rooftops, awaiting rescue. President Saragat was supposed to visit Florence that morning to take stock of the situation in person.
There weren’t any clean espresso cups so he drank his coffee from a glass, staring at the blue sky through the window. He went into the bathroom and, pouring a few drops of water at a time into the basin, tried to wash himself. He shaved, rinsed his face, washed his neck, chest, arms and feet as best he could. Then he put on a clean set of clothes, two pairs of socks, and pulled his rubber boots back on.
He heard snoring at the end of the hallway, and went and poked his head into the spare room. Ennio was sleeping with his mouth open and arms spread out like Christ on the cross. Bordelli gently closed the door again and went back to the kitchen. He wrote a note: I’ve gone out and don’t know when I’ll be back. Make yourself at home. If you go out, please be sure to lock the door, as the world is full of thieves.
It looked like one of those notes his mother used to tape on to the mirror in the entrance hall when she would slip out on tiptoe to go to mass on Sunday mornings. He placed the piece of paper well within view, next to the espresso pot. Then he put on his coat and went out. Splashing around in the oily muck, he headed for Piazza Tasso, passing silent people busy sorting out wreckage and rubbish. A boy holding a mattress over his head was trying to manoeuvre into a doorway and finally succeeded. The old lady with the grocery shop in Piazza Piattellina was whimpering like a wounded animal, emptying her shop of the last rotten remains.
The minu
te he got into the squad car he lit a cigarette. The Viali were just as clogged as the day before, if not more so. The only hope was to go through the centre of town. He flashed his badge to the soldiers on guard and they let him through. He’d never taken out his badge so many times as in the past few days.
He rolled along at a snail’s pace, slipping and sliding through the slime. A number of streets were blocked by debris, but in the end he managed to cross the Arno by way of the Ponte Vespucci. On the streets in the centre of town, men in overalls were busy working on telephone exchanges and electrical transformers. Young people of both sexes were helping out with brooms and mops, emptying out houses and shops and piling rubbish on to the pavements. Students with rucksacks walked about in small groups, and there were many longhairs about.
Bordelli came to Piazza del Duomo, where a flood-damaged pharmacy had already miraculously reopened. He saw soldiers in front of the Baptistery door, protecting Ghiberti’s panels, which had fallen off and were lying in the sludge. An elderly man was feeding pigeons on the steps in front of the church.
He turned down Via Martelli. When he was in front of the Prefecture, a young carabiniere turned and gestured for him to stop, then turned his back to him again. Bordelli was about to get out and ask him what was happening, but there was no need. Seconds later, a military jeep ridiculously crammed with people came out of the great door of Palazzo Medici-Ricciardi, followed by an RAI van full of television cameras. There must have been about fifteen people in the jeep, most of them standing, with the deputy mayor actually on the footboard, hanging on to the wing mirror with both hands. Bordelli realised the reason for all the hoopla when he recognised President Saragat and Mayor Bargellini next to the carabiniere, squeezed in by all the other people. Among the people standing he managed just in time to see the prefect, Commissioner Inzipone and a few other bigwigs whose names escaped him. He followed the grotesque caravan in his rear-view mirror as it headed towards Piazza del Duomo. Bargellini and the prefect would have sufficed to act as guides, but apparently nobody wanted to miss that Sunday-morning spin in the president’s jeep.
