by Marco Vichi
A while later a number of men went out on patrol, armed with large sticks, to discourage looters. A lad with long curly hair pulled out a guitar and started singing a very sad song in English.
‘Why don’t you sing us something by Gianni Morandi?’ a woman asked. The long-haired lad ignored her and kept on singing his dirges. Don Baldesi was nodding off, chin on his chest, but every so often he would wake up and look around as though dazed. Bordelli stared at the flames, pretending to look thoughtful while secretly spying on the girl. He would have stuck his hand in the fire for a girl like her, like Gaius Mucius Scaevola.42 When their eyes happened to meet, he would look down … But what if he stared straight at her instead? What would happen? He looked up again and waited for her to look at him in turn. He didn’t have to wait long. They gazed into each other’s eyes for a very long time, and he was the first to look away. Finally he couldn’t stand sitting down any longer and stood up.
‘I’m going to go and baste the lobster,’ he said, and everyone laughed. He went up Via di Belvedere with his hands in his pockets. A moon shaped like a lemon wedge cast a placid pallor over the olive trees lined up along the wall.
His feet were cold and aching. The steep climb had him panting, but he didn’t feel like slowing his pace. Calm down, old man. You’re no longer a kid, you can’t be wasting your time with this kind of crap … Stop fantasising and go home.
He made it up to the Forte Belvedere, legs buckling and out of breath. He stood there gazing at the dark silhouette of Costa San Giorgio, waiting for his heart to settle down. What the hell was happening? Nothing. Nothing was happening. He’d merely had the pleasure of talking to a beautiful girl … and would do best to get her immediately out of his head, or he was setting himself up for a fall. A good night’s sleep was in order, and tomorrow would be another day.
Heaving a long, dramatic sigh, he headed back towards the bivouac of flood victims. He felt befuddled, but it wasn’t only fatigue. He had to fight the absurd hopes that were insinuating themselves into his fantasies. Never had he felt so old as at that moment. Not to mention awkward, clumsy and even a little ridiculous. Like a bear chasing after a colourful little butterfly. The wisest thing was to say goodnight to the gang and go home to bed.
When he reached the bottom of the hill he saw the cause of his tribulations and bit his lip. The guitar was no longer playing. Some people had lain down to sleep, while others had formed little groups and were whispering in front of the smoking embers. Don Baldesi was snoring, wrapped in a blanket. Eleonora’s hair was down. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the world. She was listening without much interest to the chatter of the two students, who were feasting their eyes on her. When she noticed Bordelli approaching, she looked at him with a hint of a smile on her lips.
‘Did you find the big bad wolf?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Just the blue fairy.’
‘It might have been a witch.’
‘I’ve always liked witches,’ Bordelli said suggestively.
The two students seemed rather irked by the Methuselah’s intrusion and were waiting impatiently for him to leave. The girl paid no attention to them and continued talking to Bordelli.
‘Is it true you’re a police inspector?’
‘Who was the spy?’
‘So it’s true … I wouldn’t have thought …’ she said, looking him up and down. Her student friends didn’t appreciate the news and looked quite put out. Bordelli stuck a cigarette between his lips.
‘But they say you can spot a cop from a mile away.’
‘I never can.’
‘I have many other qualities,’ said Bordelli, in a purposely paternal tone. He didn’t want to seem like a hopeless suitor, like the two poor students.
‘What’s your area of expertise?’ the girl asked.
‘Murder.’
‘Really? And when somebody is killed, you go and see the corpse?’
‘I have to, I can’t help it,’ said Bordelli, shocked and pleased at all this interest on her part. The girl stood up and approached him, ignoring the murmur of disappointment from the lovesick youths.
‘That’s terrible,’ she said.
‘Somebody’s got to do it, if the killer’s ever going to get caught.’
They started walking downhill, side by side.
‘Doesn’t it ever upset you?’ the girl asked, a furrow in her brow.
‘The war was an excellent training course,’ said Bordelli, playing the card of the man of experience. How could two little students ever compete with him, a sapper from the San Marco battalion?
‘I was born during the war and don’t remember anything,’ said Eleonora.
‘You’re very lucky,’ Bordelli whispered.
The girl stopped in front of the door to her building. In the wan moonlight her face seemed to emerge from the darkness.
‘Are you married?’ she asked, to his surprise.
‘No.’
‘Were you ever married?’
‘No.’
‘Then you must be a womaniser.’
‘I wish I was, but I fall in love every time,’ Bordelli had the courage to say, gazing straight into her eyes. They looked at each other in silence for an eternal second, and then the girl shrugged slightly.
‘I suppose I’ll go to bed.’
‘In a flooded house?’
‘I sleep on the third floor, with an elderly couple.’
‘What about your brother?’ He was trying to keep her for another second or two.
‘Antonio’s staying with my parents, but I’d rather stay here, alone … All right, I have to go. I’m exhausted.’
‘Goodnight.’
‘Will you come back and see us tomorrow?’ she asked, again to his surprise.
‘If I can get free …’
‘G’night,’ she said, then disappeared through the doorway, lighting her way with a pocket torch.
After a few minutes of bewilderment, Bordelli headed back towards the centre of town, sloshing through the mud, feeling light as a feather. He saw the men on patrol, moving through the narrow, dark streets with their heads down and clubs in their hands.
What was it Amelia had said? You will meet a beautiful, dark young woman, but it won’t last because something horrible will come between you … Those were more or less her words. But there was a positive side to it. For something to come between them, they had to be together first. But was Eleonora really the dark young woman of the tarot?
Coming out on the Lungarno, he cast a glance at the young people still hard at work at the Biblioteca Nazionale under the glare of a powerful floodlight. He felt young and beautiful, just like them, a youth of fifty-six. He had to restrain himself from whistling a tune. He crossed the bridge in long strides, then continued down Via de’ Benci, walking past the human shadows wandering silently between the heaps of debris. Farther ahead he saw a white light and heard a rumble of motors. In Santa Croce, too, they were working hard with the help of the army’s floodlights.
The devastation around him was powerless to change his mood. He wended his way through the wrecked cars as if in a flowering meadow. As egotistical as anyone in love, he blessed the flood that had allowed him to meet Eleonora. The whole city had to be sacrificed so that they could find each other … Christ, what bollocks. He’d better curb his enthusiasm. It was possible the girl had chatted with an ageing police inspector merely out of boredom, at the end of a day spent sweeping mud. He decided to suspend judgement and sleep on it.
As soon as he got into the car he contacted police headquarters, but there wasn’t much news of importance. The requests for help kept coming in, especially from the countryside. There had been a few false alarms about the escaped convicts, and more than a few reports of looting.
He arrived home after a roundabout journey made necessary by all the flood-damaged cars and heaps of rubbish blocking the way. On the kitchen table he found some bundles of food, mineral water and a note from Botta:
An address followed.
In the bathroom there were three jerrycans full of water and a bottle of mineral water with another note under it: Use this for brushing your teeth. The toilet bowl was almost clean. Ennio must have poured a fair amount of water into it, and Bordelli sent him thanks in his mind. If only all ex-cons were like him …
He brushed his teeth and went straight to bed, pulling five blankets over him. He turned off the torch. He didn’t even have the courage to read a page or two of Herodotus. In the total darkness he thought again of the girl and the words they had said to each other. He tried to interpret every phrase, to find hidden meanings in her tone of voice, or in a blinking eye … And what about that long look she gave him? And when she curled her lip? However painful it was, he couldn’t interrupt the game. Despite his fatigue, it took him a very long time to fall asleep.
At dawn he was already on his feet, ready to face a new day. He smelled like a beast; Rosa was right. He had to find a way to wash. He put two large pots of water on the stove to boil, then poured them into the bathtub and added some cold water. He tried his best to remove three days’ worth of filth, without forgetting to lather up his head with shampoo. Then he shaved and slapped his cheeks with Aqua Velva. He felt reborn. Putting on what he considered his dressiest clothes, he returned to the mirror, boots on his feet. He wasn’t exactly a raw youth any more, but he wasn’t really so old, either. Nor was he a fashion plate. The only problem was that he could stand to lose a few pounds. He might not be as handsome as Mastroianni, but he had a certain charm …
All at once he felt like such a fool that he burst out laughing. A woman’s smile was all it had taken to turn an ugly duckling into a preening swan.
Before going out he lifted the telephone receiver to see whether it was working, but it was still silent. He left and went to get the 1100. As soon as he set off, he contacted headquarters as usual, for the latest news. A few of the escaped convicts had been caught, others had turned themselves in at various different police and carabinieri stations, but more than forty were still at large. And during the night a number of looters had been arrested after being caught pillaging abandoned homes.
‘Commissioner Inzipone’s looking for you,’ the dispatcher added.
‘Don’t tell him you heard from me. I’m going straight to Campo di Marte,’ said Bordelli, hanging up.
He turned on the transistor radio and laid it down on the seat next to him, waiting for the news report. He recognised the voice of wild woman Rita Pavone, turned up the volume and sang along with her. Along the way he stopped to buy the newspaper and scanned it quickly while sitting in the car:
COUNTING THE DEAD – THE HUNGRY SEEK HELP
SARAGAT AMID THE RUINS OF FLORENCE THE CITY CRIES FOR WATER AND BREAD
He plunged back into the traffic. As he waited in a jam on the Le Cure viaduct, the news report began. But the radio’s batteries were losing power and he could no longer understand anything. He turned it off. At the end of Viale dei Mille he drove past Panerai’s butcher shop, which was open and back in business. He caught a glimpse of the butcher inside, attending to customers, and it was like looking into a faraway world. Once the emergency was over, he would take the sordid affair in hand again, even though he was more and more convinced he would never get to the bottom of it.
When he got to the stadium, he put on army overalls and joined a rescue squad that was leaving for the Girone. He didn’t want to rush immediately to San Niccolò. It was better to resist for a while. By the time they arrived in the flooded countryside, he was no longer thinking about the girl, and he rolled up his sleeves and got down to work.
They returned to Campo di Marte around two o’clock in the afternoon, all covered in mud. Bordelli took off his dirty overalls and had a bite to eat while sitting on a step alongside some exhausted soldiers. He’d succeeded in not thinking about her for the entire morning, but now he was dying to see her. He lit a cigarette and got into the car. There was the usual traffic on the Viali, but dozens of traffic police and soldiers were keeping a broad lane open in the middle for rescue vehicles and law enforcement to get through. The inspector put his badge on the dashboard and they let him through. In Piazza Beccaria a number of breakdown lorries were hitching up the damaged cars, under the watchful eyes of the traffic police.
He crossed the Arno, turned on to Via dei Bastioni and then was in the San Niccolò quarter. He parked along the walls and continued on foot. Had he got too dressed up to be trudging about in the muck? Did he look ridiculous? Would Eleonora laugh at him? And what if she was cold and unfriendly instead? What if he didn’t find her?
As he drew near he looked around at the groups of people to see whether he could spot her … At last he saw her. She was sweeping the street between two young men, but neither of the two was her brother. She was talking and laughing, and he felt a pang of jealousy. What was he imagining? That she would be religiously waiting for him to return? He went up to her with a relaxed demeanour, masking his agitation.
‘Good afternoon …’
‘Hello, Inspector.’
She didn’t seem the least bit annoyed, but neither was she jumping for joy. The two lads eyed the intruder with suspicion. Bordelli nodded to them in greeting.
‘Can I lend a hand?’
‘You can even lend two,’ she said, smiling and passing him her broom.
‘I’m honoured …’
‘Treat it well. I need it to fly over the rooftops.’
‘Never fear, I have great respect for witches,’ said Bordelli, amazed that he could speak with such nonchalance. The girl gave him a wry look.
‘I’m going upstairs for a minute,’ she said, and ran off.
The inspector was left alone with the two strapping young men. As he carried on sweeping, he moved a few steps away. He could hear them murmuring to each other and pricked up his ears. They were talking about the pretty girl and not refraining from making lewd comments. He pretended not to notice and moved even farther away. He waved at Don Baldesi in the distance. The priest was busy with two other men, emptying out a basement flat with buckets. On the wall of one building was a handwritten sign: Rheumatism sufferers, try San Niccolò mud. Reasonable prices.
Eleonora returned after five eternal minutes with another broom in hand. She dropped the two youths and started sweeping alongside Bordelli.
‘Did she like the blouse?’ she asked, without looking up.
‘Very much, but unfortunately I got the size wrong.’
‘Too big?’
‘Too small.’
‘You can exchange it when the shop reopens.’
‘Thanks …’
‘It’s not easy to make women happy.’
‘I learned how as a little boy, but every now and then I forget.’
‘Is she your lover?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘A special friend?’
‘Just a friend …’
They continued making small talk and joking around, working all the while. Bordelli was getting carried away making silly remarks that made the girl laugh, feeling more and more handsome. But he was also feeling the thrill of danger. Maybe he was only dreaming. Maybe she just felt like exchanging a few friendly words with someone.
They heard a person moaning and turned round to look. Two men were carrying an elderly woman, using a wardrobe door as a stretcher. The woman had a nasty wound on her shin, the blood dripping on to the mud. Some other people came and helped carry the improvised stretcher up the sloping street. Bordelli propped his broom against the wall and approached to have a look at the injured woman.
‘Stop for a second,’ he said, taking a clean handkerchief out of his pocket.
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‘Are you a doctor?’ asked one of the stretcher-bearers.
‘Police.’
Bordelli knotted the handkerchief about one palm’s length above the wound and pulled it tight to block the flow of blood. Without letting the woman see him, he made a gesture to the others to indicate that the bone was broken.
‘How did it happen?’ he asked the woman.
‘I slipped … against an iron spike …’
‘You must take her to the hospital at once. With all this filth about she risks serious infection,’ said Bordelli, searching for his car keys.
‘Will I lose my leg?’ the woman asked, frightened.
‘Well, you’ve got two,’ the inspector joked.
‘Will they really cut it off?’
‘Don’t you worry, you’ll be walking better than before,’ the inspector reassured her with a persuasive tone. He told the men to wait for him in front of the osteria, cast a quick glance of goodbye at the salesgirl, then ran off to get the car. The sun was already setting. They laid the woman down on the back seat and put a blanket over her. As soon as Bordelli got into the car, the door on the passenger side opened and the girl got in.
‘I’m coming too,’ she said.
‘As you wish,’ said Bordelli, not showing how pleased he was.
They drove up the slope and then turned on to Via dei Bastioni. At each bump in the road, the woman groaned. The girl turned round and started chatting with her to distract her. She even managed to make her laugh.
They took the Viali all the way to the Fortezza da Basso and then went down Via dello Statuto. Bordelli turned to look at the extortionist’s closed shop, remembering a proverb his mother used to quote: He who wants too much gets nothing. He, too, had to take care not to want too much.
‘Thank you … thank you so much … you’re angels, both of you …’ the woman said between moans.
