by Marco Vichi
‘That’s right.’
‘Our research shows that it never went to trial because the charges were dropped …’
‘That’s what we’ve found, too, but, given the situation, I’m taking the liberty of assuming that the family was paid off handsomely.’
‘I thought the same thing.’
‘And that’s all for Beccaroni.’
‘All right.’
‘As for Alfonso Gattacci, we’ve even got a rather detailed dossier from the OVRA.’47
‘I’m all ears.’
‘He was an active participant in the Fascist project from the very start. The paramilitary Fasci di combattimento, the March on Rome, and so on … he didn’t miss a thing. University degree in literature and philosophy. A man of culture, not a thug à la Dumini. In ’32 he founded a publishing house which went bankrupt after one year and folded. A failed poet who used to rub elbows with important writers and painters, including Marinetti and Boccioni. He was a minion of Pavolini, who protected him during some unpleasant moments. Under the Salò regime he was one of the founders of the PDM, a clandestine organisation of the Salò gang which we know little about. And during the pathetic days of the Valtellina Redoubt,48 he escaped to Switzerland …’
‘Is there anything more personal on him?’
‘Let’s see …’ said Agostinelli, leafing through the pages of the file.
‘There ought to be … The OVRA used to know how many times a person pissed a day.’
‘Here we are. And I quote: “A pervert. Prefers very young males. Spends a great deal on his sexual pleasures …”’
‘That’s exactly what I was looking for,’ Bordelli interrupted him, fumbling for his packet of cigarettes.
‘So now you know everything,’ Bordelli said, after telling Piras of his latest discoveries. For the whole time, the Sardinian had been squeezing his lower lip between two fingers.
‘Very interesting,’ he said under his breath.
‘We have to keep an eye on all three; it’s the only thing we can do.’
‘Right …’
‘Let’s get started straight away – I’ll leave it to you to organise the shifts. If anything happens, contact me immediately, even via radio. I’ve been using a squad car, the grey 1100.’
‘All right, Inspector.’
‘And you know what? We never did start looking for the owner of the flat in Via Luna …’
‘Would that help?’
‘You never know. But I imagine the Land Registry office was flooded.’
‘It was, and so was the records office. Destroyed,’ said Piras, who was always very well informed.
‘And there’s no point looking at the Conservatory. Without a name, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
‘We could try asking the neighbours, if you like.’
‘All right. But use the utmost discretion.’
‘We could ask Canu to do it. He’s very good at that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, send him. And fill me in as soon as you can,’ Bordelli said, standing up.
They went down the stairs together, and he was pleased to note that Piras was limping less and less. He nodded goodbye and drove away in the 1100. The flow of traffic on the Viali was decidedly better. He glanced at his watch. He’d resisted the call of the wild until almost noon, but now he had to see her again. When she was beside him he forgot about old age and death … Well, not really, perhaps, but at least they seemed far away, unreal, not to be taken seriously. Every woman he’d ever taken a fancy to had had the same effect on him, but this one even more, much more. Amelia’s prediction came back to him again, in full this time, and he suddenly felt overwhelmed by sadness. The fortune-teller had said that the dark young woman was not the woman of his life, and that it wouldn’t last … What a bloody fool … Nothing had even happened yet and here he was getting lost in the hocus-pocus predictions of a card-reader.
When he got to San Niccolò he looked around through the crowd. She wasn’t there. The windows of her flat were wide open, like so many others, to air out the rooms. He felt a tap on the shoulder and turned round. It was Don Baldesi, and his eyes looked even more ironic than usual.
‘Hello, Inspector.’
‘Hello …’
‘Chicca’s gone to her parents’ place for a bath and a bite to eat.’
‘What’s that?’
‘She should be back soon.’
‘Oh, right … Such a nice girl,’ Bordelli muttered.
‘Don’t tell me that’s the only thing you noticed.’
‘No, of course not … She’s also very intelligent.’
‘Let me treat you to a glass of wine, I need to warm up,’ said Don Baldesi, smiling. They went uphill to the Osteria Fuori Porta, ordered two glasses of red, and sat down at a table.
‘The Church and the state, drinking together …’ said Don Baldesi, raising his glass.
‘It’s sure to be in all the papers,’ Bordelli said, smiling.
‘Have you heard the one about the pope who went to see the Pyramids?’
‘No …’ said Bordelli, still smiling and ready to listen. At that moment Eleonora walked in and approached their table. Her hair was clean and she smelled of soap.
‘Mind if I sit down with you two?’
‘I don’t know … What do you think, Inspector?’
‘Just this once …’ Bordelli said, hiding his embarrassment.
‘Oh, I’m so honoured,’ the girl said. She settled into her chair and asked the waiter for a glass of red.
‘How’s your flat coming along?’ Don Baldesi asked her.
‘Everything’s drying out, but it still stinks of heating oil. I’ll have to scrape down all the plaster,’ she said, shrugging in resignation.
‘It would have been worse if you lived on the ground floor.’
‘Who ever expected twenty feet of water?’ said Eleonora, making a gesture of thanks to the tavern owner, who’d just brought her wine. People were starting to pour in for refreshment after the morning’s work, muddying the osteria’s floor. Every now and then Bordelli felt the girl’s knee lightly touch his. He couldn’t tell whether she was doing it on purpose or not, and remained stock still. He was also trying not to look at her too much, for fear of being unmasked. Don Baldesi finally told his pope joke, at high volume, and everyone laughed. He put two hundred lire on the table for the wine, emptied his glass, and stood up.
‘I’m going to get the remaining furniture from the sacristy,’ he said, caressing Eleonora’s face in a fatherly way.
‘He’s a very special priest,’ she said after he was gone.
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘Do you believe in God?’
‘I’ve never really been sure … Do you?’
‘Sometimes yes, sometimes no, it depends on the day,’ the girl said with a hint of a smile.
‘That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone say that,’ Bordelli admitted, and again he felt her knee touch his. The girl stared into space.
‘It’s sort of the same with love. One day I think I’ve found the man for me, then the next morning I don’t care for him any more.’
‘La donna è mobile,’ said the inspector, feeling a twist in his stomach.
‘Men have always slandered women, because they’re afraid of them.’
‘Quite true,’ Bordelli acknowledged. He found every tiniest detail about her fascinating, even the way she moved her lips when speaking.
‘I slept really badly last night,’ the girl said.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Good God, was he profound. He had to try to be a little more original if he wanted at least to arouse her curiosity.
‘I had a terrible nightmare …’
‘No man was wooing you any more?’
‘Oh, that would be a relief.’
‘For a week, perhaps, but then you would start crying, I’m sure.’
‘What rubbish …’
‘What did you dream?’
Bordelli asked, curious.
‘You were in the nightmare, too.’
‘Me?’
‘I was surprised too, since I barely know you.’
‘Was I a monster chasing after you?’
‘It was much worse than that, but I couldn’t possibly tell you,’ said Eleonora, staring into his eyes. Bordelli grabbed his glass and downed the last sip. The girl sighed.
‘I guess I’ll have to start emptying out the cellar today.’
‘I don’t envy you.’
‘Would you lend me a hand?’ she asked, standing up.
‘If you like …’
He followed behind her like a little dog. They went down the street together to San Niccolò, amid the usual chaotic hustle and bustle. And straight away they got to work, which consisted of repeatedly going down to the cellar with two buckets, filling them up, and then pouring them out in the street. Ever so slowly the level of the smelly muck began to descend.
‘What we really need is one of those motorised contraptions that suck the water out,’ said Eleonora.
‘Maybe they’ll arrive by Christmas.’
It was a thankless, laborious task, but Bordelli rolled his sleeves up and tackled it. He was ready to do whatever it took to be by her side. He wondered whether he was in love with the girl or with the fact that she could fall in love with him. Deep down, however, there wasn’t much difference between the two. He simply felt besotted and that was enough for him.
Every so often the long-haired little students came over and tried to buttonhole Eleonora, but when they saw that she wasn’t giving in an inch, they would leave, to the great joy of the old inspector.
They spent the afternoon getting all muddy and checking the results of their efforts. When night at last began to fall, they had managed to free up the third step of the staircase. Leaving their buckets in the building’s entranceway, they picked their bones up off the ground. They felt like wrecks.
‘I would love to have another dinner like last night,’ she said, wincing in pain.
‘Will you allow me to take you out again?’
‘Are you sure you don’t have any other engagements?’
‘Not that I know of …’
‘But first I’d like to run over to my parents’ house … I’d like to change clothes.’
‘I’ll follow your example.’
‘Eight-thirty in front of the church of San Miniato?’
‘Perfect …’ Why couldn’t he just have said all right?
As he was driving to the station he contacted the radio room. The surveillance operation was already under way. He asked to be connected with the cars out on duty, but they had nothing important to relay. Gattacci’s house was in darkness, without even a light over the front door.
At headquarters he went up to his office. Deciding to contact Colonel Arcieri, he dialled the same number as the night before, to find out how his visit with the Fascist had gone. A nasal voice told him that the colonel was not in and that nobody knew where to find him.
Bordelli imagined that Gattacci had fled very far away, and he couldn’t really blame him. Perhaps it was pointless to keep a watch on his house, but in that kind of situation he couldn’t afford to let the tiniest thing escape him. He tried ringing Rosa, but the phone lines around Santa Croce were still down. He would pay her a visit as soon as he could, to see whether she needed anything.
The commissioner rang, asking him where the hell he’d been hiding. Bordelli dispensed with him in a few seconds, saying a new lead had developed in the Pellissari case and he didn’t have time to stay on the phone. He hung up before Inzipone could reply.
As he was looking for the number of the restaurant near Arcetri in the telephone book, there was a knock at the door. It was none other than Canu, a tall, blond Sardinian with green eyes.
‘I did what you asked round Via Luna, sir.’
‘Come in …’ said Bordelli. Canu entered the room and plonked himself down in front of the desk.
‘A neighbour told me the owner of the flat is a certain Cesira Baiocchi who lives in Via del Gelsomino, but she didn’t know the number. She also didn’t know whether the place was rented out or not. So I went to Via del Gelsomino and started knocking on all the doors. I found a lady who used to know her. She said Signora Baiocchi died two years ago. She didn’t have any children but had a niece who lives in France. The lady’d never seen this niece and didn’t know her name. She didn’t know about any other relatives, either. That was all I could gather.’
‘Well done, Canu.’
‘Need anything else, sir?’
‘No, that’ll be all for now, you can go.’
‘At your service, sir,’ said the Sardinian, dashing off.
Bordelli leaned back in his chair. He’d requested that little investigation so as to leave no stone unturned, but he’d expected all along that it would come to nothing. It was better to concentrate on the three Fascists.
He remembered the restaurant. Looking the number up in the phone book, he reserved a table for nine o’clock, then jotted the number down so he could leave it with the lads in the radio room.
‘If there’s any news, I’ll be at this place having a bite between nine and eleven.’
‘A lovely flood victim?’ asked Inspector Bonciani, winking.
‘A boring work dinner.’
‘If you like, I could go in your stead.’
‘I’m happy to make the sacrifice myself.’
‘So she must be very pretty …’
‘After eleven you should try the car radio or come straight to my place, since I don’t think the phones are working in San Frediano,’ said Bordelli, who then left without saying goodbye. He never could stand male camaraderie on the subject of women.
He raced home. In order to wash he had to heat up another big pot of water on the stove. He selected a nice suit, put his best shoes in a bag and went out wearing boots. He trudged through the mud to get to the car, then took off the boots and put on his shoes. He drove up Viale Machiavelli at thirty kilometres an hour, ignoring the horns and the flashing high beams of the nervous drivers behind him. He was in front of the iron gate of the church of San Miniato at twelve minutes past eight, but he didn’t stop the car. To kill a little time he went down to Piazza Ferrucci and turned round. Eight-twenty-four. He parked and started pacing back and forth, smoking a cigarette. A great many cars drove by on Viale Galileo. He turned round to look at the church of San Miniato, which stood out against the dark sky. Its magnificent medieval façade soared white in the night, with its geometric patterns and the eagle of the Wool Guild on top, in the place of the cross. The most beautiful basilica in Florence, if not the world … but at that moment he was in no condition to appreciate it.
He tossed aside his cigarette butt, but she still hadn’t arrived. What if she didn’t come? What if she’d changed her mind? Worse yet, maybe she was hiding behind a bush with her friends and laughing at the old fart who’d deluded himself into thinking he could sink his teeth into some young flesh … But enough of this defeatism. It was perfectly normal for a woman to be late. And anyway, it was only 8.31. He needed to calm down. He continued walking around, hands in his pockets, trying to think of other things. The three Fascists were under close surveillance, and maybe something interesting would come of it …
At 8.40 he leaned his elbows on the marble parapet and looked out over the valley. What was keeping Eleonora from running into his arms? He decided he would wait until 8.50 … or nine at the latest … If, by a quarter past nine, she still hadn’t arrived, he would go down to San Niccolò and look for her. He lit another cigarette, found it disgusting, but kept on smoking it.
He heard a car coming up the Via delle Porte Sante and turned round. He saw some headlights approaching, and then a white Fiat 500 parked behind his squad car. The engine went off at the same time as the lights, the door opened, and out stepped Eleonora’s slender, sinuous figure.
‘Hello,’ she said, coming slowly to
wards him. No mention of her tardiness. Bordelli went up to her.
‘Hello.’
‘I’m famished …’
‘Then let’s not waste any time.’
They got into his car and drove off. She was wearing very close-fitting black trousers and a short coat gathered at the waist, but would have been beautiful even in a hauberk.
‘Have you arrested any murderers in the meantime?’
‘We’re working on it …’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Who are you looking for?’
‘If you’ve read the papers you should know.’
‘The boy they found in the woods.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What a horrible story … And you’re about to catch the killer?’
‘I hope so,’ said Bordelli, without revealing that there were at least three killers.
‘Would you believe it if I told you I really am a sort of witch?’
‘In what sense?’
‘You’ll find the killer, I’m sure of it.’
‘Thanks for the encouragement.’
‘It’s not just encouragement. It’s what I feel.’
‘Then I hope you really are a witch.’
‘You mean you still have doubts?’
‘No, on the contrary …’
‘I’m also a vampire, when I need to be,’ said the girl in a more or less serious tone.
They arrived at the restaurant and Bordelli led the way inside. He helped her with her coat, and they sat down at the table. They ordered more or less the same things as the night before. There wasn’t much else available.
All they did was talk during the meal. Family anecdotes, not very serious discussions about politics and Florence, films, books, painters, a passing mention of the war, the youth of today, long hair, modern music, the flood …
When they got up from the table it was past eleven, and they’d drunk almost two bottles of wine and several small glasses of vin santo. Bordelli felt as light as a feather. As they were walking out of the restaurant, the girl look his arm, laughing.
‘Oh my God, my head is spinning a little.’
‘It must be the salad …’ he said, overcome by a wave of heat from the unexpected physical contact.
