by Marco Vichi
He continued on down Via Cavour, and in Piazza San Marco he bought the day’s edition of La Nazione from an old woman who’d set up a small wooden table in the mud.
A DISASTER WITHOUT PRECEDENT IN THE CITY’S HISTORY
FLORENCE DEVASTATED BY THE ARNO CALM AMID THE TRAGEDY
He tossed the newspaper on to the passenger seat and drove off. A short while later he pulled up in the courtyard of police headquarters. There was less confusion than the day before. Mugnai told him the commissioner was looking for him, and Bordelli shrugged. He had no desire to see the man. He found Piras in the radio room, hollow-eyed and dishevelled.
‘Did you get any sleep?’ he asked him.
‘I got enough, Inspector,’ said Piras. ‘On the night of the fourth I tried to phone you several times.’
‘I wasn’t feeling well and unplugged the telephone.’
‘So much the better for you. It was a hellish night.’
‘Your true love is lucky she lives in Via Trieste,’ said Bordelli, referring to Piras’s Sicilian girlfriend. He didn’t stay long in the radio room. He wasn’t cut out for sedentary lines of work. He would rather go to the worst-hit areas, scouting out potential emergencies.
He went out of the station again, got into the 1100 and headed for the centre of town, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He parked in Via del Proconsolo and continued on foot, walking through crowds rummaging through smelly debris. People everywhere were muttering the same things. I have nothing left, I’ve lost everything, What will I do now? An elderly woman was whimpering that all she had remaining was her pension of fifteen thousand lire.
In Piazza San Firenze the muck was still deep, and the going was slow. A skinny little dog was hopping around in the mud, looking scared. The courthouse had been visited by the Arno, and the staircase in front was lined with young men and women passing large mud-covered folders to one another.
He turned on to Borgo dei Greci, leaning against the wall to keep from slipping. An old woman had lowered a basket on a rope from her window and a lad was filling it with bundles. A slender man with a pained expression was walking slowly with his head down and his trousers rolled up to his knees, splashing about in the mud.
‘I lost my grandmother’s ring … if anyone finds it, it’s mine … it’s got a diamond this big … it’s a memento of my late grandmother,’ he whined, as false as Judas. The people around him were giving him dirty looks and shaking their heads as they carried on with their labours.
Bordelli then went down Via dei Neri and saw Rosa from afar, made-up and well coiffed as always, sweeping away the mud together with the other flood victims.
‘Et tu, Rosa?’ he said, grabbing her arm.
‘Argh! … Oh my God, you scared me!’ said Rosa, a hand on her chest. Bordelli brought his mouth to her ear.
‘You look fabulous even in the mud,’ he whispered, ignoring the others’ curious glances. Rosa blushed and giggled. At that moment a hunchback not more than four and a half feet tall walked by, and a big strapping lad leaned on his spade and turned to him.
‘Hey, hunchback, is it true you’ve got a hump on your cock as well?’ he called out, and everyone laughed. The hunchback turned round and looked at him.
‘Damn, I told your mamma not to tell anyone!’ he said, and everyone laughed even harder. The hulking youth merely glared at the hunchback as he hobbled away through the mud, and didn’t have the courage to say anything else.
‘Serves him right,’ Rosa whispered with a titter.
Bordelli gave her a kiss on the cheek and continued his rounds. He was wandering randomly, without any precise destination. He wended his way through the wrecked cars in Via de’ Benci and came out on the Lungarno. The river was calm and low, a pleasant little torrent flowing gracefully towards the Tyrrhenian Sea. It hardly seemed possible that just a few hours earlier …
He took a left turn in the direction of the Biblioteca Nazionale. The parapet in Piazza dei Cavalleggeri had collapsed and the area had been cordoned off. He flashed his badge and was let through. Young volunteers had come in a flurry from all over Italy and the world and were still at work. There were even some children among them. They were passing to one another great tomes dripping with slime and then loading them on to army lorries. They were covered with mud from head to toe, and at times it was difficult to tell the men from the women.
He turned back, and after crossing the Ponte alle Grazie took a left. In Via dei Renai the mud was still nearly knee- high. Out of habit, he looked up to see the line left by the heating oil. The water had risen above the first floor. Together with Santa Croce, it was surely the lowest-lying part of Florence.
He turned the corner and come out in front of the church of San Niccolò. People from the neighbourhood were still emptying houses and shops of every manner of now-useless objects. Broken furniture, tables, chairs, bookcases, everything made of wood was being piled up outside Porta San Miniato. A man with big blue eyes ringed with fatigue and sparkling with irony was struggling to drag a pew out of the church with the help of a skinny lad staggering on his feet.
‘Need a hand?’ Bordelli asked, drawing near.
‘A crane would be nice,’ said the man.
The inspector helped them carry the pew up the incline. The blue-eyed man had a round white collar under his jacket, and Bordelli realised he was a priest. They laid the pew down beside the other wooden scraps.
‘It’s for making a fire at night. We’re all sleeping outdoors,’ said the priest. Then he introduced himself. He was called Don Baldesi, the local parish priest. Bordelli shook his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Inspector Bordelli, police. D’you have any urgent needs I could help you with?’
‘We’ve already been to Campo di Marte several times, but it’s never enough. Bread, water, blankets, medicine, we need it all.’
‘I’ll try to have a lorry come round as soon as I can.’
‘I’ll ask Saint Peter to shave off a few weeks in Purgatory for you.’
‘You probably shouldn’t bother, I may be going straight to hell,’ Bordelli said with a smile. And he started walking towards the church with the priest beside him, already thinking he would continue on foot towards Campo di Marte …
At that moment the person he least expected to see came out of a building, and he felt his heart leap. Assisted by a tall young man with a handsome, shadowy face, the salesgirl from Via Pacinotti was carrying a mud-soaked mattress out into the street. She was wearing jeans, rubber boots and a heavy, oversized jacket. He walked past her, but the girl remained unaware of the magnetic wave enveloping her and did not bother to look his way.
When he got to the church, the inspector felt weak at the knees, like a boy experiencing his first crush. He turned round to look at her again, but she was gone. He told Don Baldesi that he would go at once to Campo di Marte to look for food and medicine, then said goodbye and left without turning round. The minute he had turned the corner, he lit a cigarette. He was so excited that he no longer felt tired. Once again fate had pulled out another surprise for him. But he still didn’t know whether it was a gift or a taunt. Who the hell was the shadowy young man? Her boyfriend? Better not think too much about it. At fifty-six years of age he could hardly compete with a handsome lad like that.
Along the Lungarno he took a right turn, walking towards Piazza Ferrucci and watching the students hard at work in front of the Biblioteca Nazionale. Lucky blighters, he thought. Young, beautiful, heroic. They had their whole lives before them, with all their hopes and dreams. Not like him, who felt like an old man no longer able to believe in illusions. All he had to look forward to was retirement, filling the long hours, dropping in at police headquarters to visit his busy colleagues. He’d better hurry up and decide to move to the country, so he could hoe the vegetable garden and raise chickens, and take long walks in the woods.
He crossed the San Niccolò bridge and continued down Viale Amendola, trying to keep his balance in the
mud. It was as if he were walking through a car cemetery. He passed in front of the Cristallo, the ancient temple of the Rivista, the famous variety show, awakening prehistoric memories of his adolescence. Things were very different when he was young. Mussolini shouting from balconies, the Fascist Youth organisations, crystal radio sets, the empire, the African war, autarky, the songs about perfidious Albion …
After Piazza Beccaria he turned down Viale Mazzini, walking its entire length all the way to Via Mannelli. He clambered up the footbridge over the railway and then back down, and arrived at Campo di Marte out of breath. It was Sunday, but a number of grocery shops were open and people had formed long queues along the pavements. In the general chaos Bordelli presented himself to the camp commander and organised for a truckload of foodstuffs and medical supplies to be delivered to San Niccolò.
They unloaded the lorry in front of the Osteria Fuori Porta and, with the help of Don Baldesi and the students, distributed the contents down to the last bag of salt. The pretty salesgirl was nowhere to be seen, nor was the young man who’d been with her. Bordelli told the soldiers he wouldn’t be returning to the stadium with them, then watched the lorry drive away up the hill. While helping the priest carry another few pews out of the church, he kept looking around in the hope of seeing the girl again. Don Baldesi was telling him naughty priest jokes in a low voice, his large, kind eyes sparkling with irony. After the fourth pew, he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
‘I’m going to go and lie down for half an hour,’ he said, exhausted. Since the night of the flood he’d slept barely two hours.
‘I’ll stay and lend a hand,’ said Bordelli.
‘Are you sure you’re a police inspector?’ the priest asked, two deep furrows in his brow.
‘It’s my only flaw.’
‘I’ve got many – that’s why I’m a priest,’ said Don Baldesi with smiling eyes. He stood up unsteadily and disappeared into the shadows of a broad doorway.
Bordelli asked for a broom and started sweeping away the mud alongside the others. He was thinking of the salesgirl and felt like a fool, but he simply couldn’t leave before he’d seen her again. He didn’t have anything in particular in mind. He just wanted her to recognise him, look her in the eye, and see how she reacted.
After an hour of this, his back was a disaster and his hands were blistered, but he put his head down and carried on. There seemed to be no end to the slime. He helped a woman empty out her grocery shop. It was so sad to throw all that food out into the street, prosciutti, salami, cheese, pasta, crushed tins, boxes covered with oil …
Looking up from his labours for the hundredth time, he saw her at last. She was in front of the same doorway as before, sweeping the mud together with the shadowy youth, bantering with him and laughing. A beautiful couple, no doubt about it. One more beautiful than the other.
He was eyeing her surreptitiously, heart thumping in his ears. She looked beautiful even as she was, shabbily dressed, covered in mud, hair gathered behind her head. She had a light, graceful way of moving, natural and elegant … A pretty face alone didn’t make a beautiful girl. Even a gorgeous body wasn’t enough. You needed all the rest: the gaze, the voice, the smile, the bearing, the scent …
After a spell the lad went into the building, and she was left alone to sweep her broom across the cobblestones. Bordelli plucked up his courage and went over to her with a confident air. The girl was looking down and didn’t see him approach. Noticing him suddenly in front of her, she frowned.
‘Don’t you recognise me?’ Bordelli asked, feeling supremely embarrassed.
‘Yes, but I can’t quite remember …’
‘I bought a blouse in your shop a few days ago.’
‘Oh, right … though it’s not my shop,’ she said. She wasn’t exactly aloof, but neither was she jumping for joy.
‘I came to lend Don Baldesi a hand,’ Bordelli lied.
‘Don Baldesi has been wonderful,’ the girl said.
‘He’s gone off to rest for a little while …’
‘He’s been working like a dog, poor thing.’
‘Do you live here?’
‘On the first floor. Luckily I managed to save a few things in time.’
‘This mud is a nightmare.’
‘We just have to be patient,’ the girl said with a shrug.
The conversation was lagging, and Bordelli tried desperately to think of something intelligent to say, or something earth-shatteringly witty. He felt awkward and indiscreet and was waiting for her suddenly to say goodbye, fearing to see her eyes show the mild impatience of someone who is in a hurry or merely wants to be alone. Come on, old fart, say something to make her laugh … But what, indeed, was the use? In American movies there was always an old man who made the women laugh, though they certainly didn’t fall in love with him for it. It doesn’t matter, take the plunge anyway. The worst that could happen is that you’ll seem ridiculous.
‘Could I say something?’ He faltered. What kind of way of talking was that? The girl gave him a perplexed look, waiting for his revelation.
‘You’re … such a nice girl …’ he said, smiling stupidly.
‘Thanks,’ she whispered indifferently. And her eyes seemed to be saying: Is that all? God only knew how many other men had said the same thing to her, and more. Better to beat a hasty retreat, but with dignity.
‘Well, I’m glad to have seen you again,’ he said, giving a slight bow.
At that moment the shadowy beau appeared at the window. Seeing the stranger, he politely nodded in greeting.
‘Chicca, I’ve dismantled it. Come and give me a hand,’ he said.
‘I’ll be right there,’ she replied, propping her broom against the wall. The lad disappeared inside. He didn’t seem the least bit jealous. Indeed, how could he be, for Christ’s sake?
‘Your boyfriend seems nice,’ said Bordelli, ready to leave. She started laughing, and her face seemed to light up.
‘He’s my brother,’ she said, her small white teeth gleaming between her lips.
‘You don’t look very much alike,’ Bordelli muttered, trying to mask his delight. But he realised at once that it wasn’t any cause for rejoicing. Just because the lad was her brother, it didn’t mean she didn’t have a boyfriend.
‘Some people say we’re two peas in a pod,’ she said.
‘Chicca’s just a nickname, I guess …’
‘The family’s always called me that. My real name is Eleonora.’
‘And mine is Franco … If you like, I could give your brother a hand myself,’ Bordelli suggested.
‘Oh, thank you. There’s a bed that has to be brought down and thrown away.’
‘I’m happy to oblige.’
He went into the building and climbed two flights of stairs. After he had helped the brother bring down the dismantled bed, they went and put the parts on the pile of firewood. Eleonora asked them both whether they’d like a cup of coffee and then went upstairs to make it. They drank it quickly while standing on the pavement, then got back to work, speaking little and sweating a lot.
The Osteria Fuori Porta opened its doors at two o’clock. They bought some prosciutto and ate it with the bread from Campo di Marte. Before picking up their brooms again, they allowed themselves a glass of wine.
Don Baldesi returned with eyes puffy from sleep and resumed working alongside the others. Bordelli was always gravitating towards Eleonora, and every so often they would exchange a few words, without stopping their sweeping. Little by little they got to know each other, and before long Bordelli made an investigative comment.
‘In that get-up your own boyfriend probably wouldn’t even recognise you.’
‘Why don’t you speak more clearly?’ she said, without looking at him.
‘I don’t understand …’ he stammered hypocritically.
‘Are you trying to find out if I have a boyfriend? Why don’t you just ask me directly?’
‘No, no … I … It was just to make conversatio
n,’ said Bordelli, blushing.
‘Actually I have three boyfriends,’ the girl said with a charming sort of sneer.
‘Ah, well …’
‘It’s boring with just one,’ she added.
The inspector took a few steps back, continuing to sweep the muck with an indifferent air. He even started whistling a song by Celentano, to show her that he wasn’t the least bit troubled. A couple of minutes later the girl came up to him.
‘It’s not true, you know,’ she said smiling.
‘What’s not true?’
‘I don’t have any boyfriends.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I had one until a few days ago, but I dumped him.’
‘At this point you also have to tell me why,’ Bordelli said nonchalantly.
‘I don’t know … I got bored …’
‘Had you been together for a long time?’ Now he really did want to know.
‘For ever … Almost a year,’ she said in all seriousness. Bordelli forced a smile. For him a year was like the twinkling of an eye.
They worked until the last moment of daylight. When they couldn’t see any longer, flood victims and students came together outside the San Niccolò gate, and Don Baldesi lit a big bonfire from the scraps of wood that had been piled up. They all sat down in a circle and began to eat, listening to the news reports over a transistor radio. There was yet another appeal concerning the inmates who had escaped from the Murate prison. More than fifty were still at large, and citizens were asked to report any suspicious individuals they might see.
The light of the fire cast a red glow on people’s faces. It was bitterly cold, and many had wrapped themselves in blankets. The atmosphere was peaceful and almost light-hearted. The salesgirl had sat down between two young students who were talking to her non-stop, almost vying to see which one could make a bigger fool of himself. Bordelli had sat down on the opposite side of the human circle so that he could see her from the front, and every so often they would exchange a glance. When the cigarettes came out, he lit one too.
