by Marco Vichi
‘Not too bad. How are things going at the paper?’
‘We’re printing in Bologna, but everything else is fine. Tell me everything.’
‘I need to ask you a favour.’
‘If I can be of help …’
‘Who is Gualtiero Sercambi?’
‘You mean Monsignor Sercambi?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘What would you like to know?’
‘Everything there is.’
‘Well … For the past few years he’s been a kind of personal assistant of the archbishop’s, a sort of grey eminence, not much in view but very powerful. To give you an idea, he has a direct line to the pope, the president, and all his ministers.’
‘What kind of person is he?’
‘Cold as ice. He speaks very little and weighs every word before he utters it. I’m almost certain he’s a Freemason, but I have no proof of it, I’m just going by smell. In Florence, above a certain level of power or wealth, they’re all Freemasons.’
‘Thanks … I’ll let you get back to work.’
They said goodbye, and Bordelli laid siege to a cigarette. Well, the weak link in the chain certainly wasn’t Monsignor Sercambi. That left only the youth, the owner of the villa where they played hide-and-seek. He called the radio room and asked who was on duty in Via Bolognese.
‘Tapinassi and Biagi, sir. Car thirty-five.’
Bordelli reached up and took a set of naval binoculars from a shelf. They had nine magnification settings. He’d brought them home with him from the war together with a San Marco regiment dagger and a couple of pistols. He went down to the courtyard and got in the 1100. The moment he was out in the street he called Tapinassi on the radio.
‘Any news?’
‘Nobody’s come out of the villa. At half-eight a fat lady opened the little gate with a set of keys and went in. From the look of her and the way she’s dressed she must be the cleaner. She hasn’t come back out yet. At half-nine the dustbin lorry passed. In the last half-hour two errand boys came with groceries, one after the other … And that’s all, Inspector.’
‘I’m on my way to see you now. Over and out.’
Driving up the Via Bolognese, he thought of the night he’d spent with the beautiful Eleonora, wondering when he would see her again. They hadn’t said a single word to each other, and had made no arrangement to meet again. It was she who’d wanted the silence, and he’d played along. It wasn’t easy for people of his generation to live suspended in mid-air, but he had to admit that it was thrilling. Every moment held the possibility of surprise, though it did make one suffer …
He drove past Villa Triste,49 with its big empty squares of cement looming over the road, where the Nazis and their Fascist collaborators had tortured resistance fighters during the occupation, and his love pangs seemed more ridiculous than ever. He remembered something his father had told him right after the war. As Mario Carità was torturing partisan fighters in the building’s cellars, a Benedictine friar banged out Neapolitan songs on a piano to cover the screams. He was known as Father Ildefonso, but his real name was Alfredo Epaminonda Troia. It was impossible to forget a name like that.
He sat alone in the 1100. That way he could smoke freely without disturbing anyone. He’d parked far from the gate, at the top of the hill. The other car was some fifty yards farther down.
At noon the cleaning lady came out on to the pavement and headed down the hill. Ten minutes later a sporty, fire-red Alfa Romeo emerged from the property and stopped on the pavement, engine running. Bordelli already had the binoculars in hand. He saw a young man of about thirty get out, rather good-looking, medium height, slender build, gloomy expression, regular features, straight black hair that half covered his ears … He fitted the description Rovario had given. The man closed the gate and got back into the two-seater convertible. He drove off, tyres screeching, towards Florence. Bordelli followed behind him and called Tapinassi on the radio.
‘I’ll follow him myself.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘You stay here at the villa. Over and out.’
There was traffic, and the Alfa tried to overtake the other cars without success. When it reached Piazza della Libertà, it took a right turn on to Viale Lavagnini, grinding the gears. Bordelli could count on the 1100’s souped-up engine and had no trouble keeping up with the other car. At a red light he read the number plate and wrote it down on his matchbox. The Alfa went the entire circuit of the Viali up to the Arno and then took the Lungarno Vespucci at a crawl, stuck behind an army lorry. It crossed the bridge and turned right on to the Lungarno on the opposite bank, following the flow of the traffic. It passed under the arch of Santa Rosa, and two hundred yards farther on it pulled up on the right, under some trees. Bordelli slowed down, and when he realised the young man wanted to cross the street he stopped to let him by, ignoring the furious blasts of horns behind him. As he started up again he watched the man in his rear-view mirror and saw him disappear into the blind alley of Via della Fonderia. He parked the car a hundred yards up the boulevard, hiding it behind another vehicle. Contacting headquarters, he gave them the number plate of the Alfa Romeo, just to be on the safe side. In order to get a better view of the entrance to the alley, he moved across and sat sideways in the passenger seat. He kept the windows open and blew the smoke outside. He had no idea how long he would have to wait there, and the seconds passed exasperatingly slowly. He was sick of waiting, always waiting …
Signorini reappeared just a few minutes later, got back in his car and drove off, spinning the wheels on the muddy asphalt. Cocaine, thought the inspector. He lay down on the seat to avoid being noticed by Signorini, then waited for him to pass before hopping back over to the driver’s side to follow him. It wasn’t hard to spot the bright red Alfa amid the rest of the dull-coloured traffic, and he was able to follow it from a distance of about thirty yards. The Alfa crossed the Ponte alla Vittoria, continued up the Viali, then at Piazza della Libertà turned towards Via Bolognese. Bordelli stopped along the kerb and called Tapinassi.
‘Signorini’s heading home … Any news at your end?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘I’m going to go and have a bite to eat.’
‘Lucky you, sir,’ said Tapinassi.
The inspector headed straight for Totò’s kitchen. He managed not to eat too much, and half an hour later he was already back at the office with a cigarette between his lips. On his desk he found the information on the owner of the Alfa Romeo, which was the same as that on the owner of the villa in Via Bolognese.
He rang the radio room and gave the order for all the surveillance vehicles to come back to headquarters, except for the one tailing Signorini. For the moment the policemen could turn their attention back to the rescue efforts.
So there was his target: the sad-faced young man. Bordelli knew he might have to use some rather unorthodox methods, but he had no alternative. He had to proceed very carefully. He couldn’t afford to make even one wrong move. He was also hoping for a little luck.
First of all he had to verify whether Signorini was indeed buying drugs in Via della Fonderia, so he could gain the upper hand. There was only one person who could help him: Botta, as usual.
He went at once to look for him in Via del Campuccio and found him with a bucket in hand and covered with mud from head to toe.
‘I need you for something, Ennio,’ said an anxious Bordelli, getting right to the point.
‘Another lock?’ asked Botta, wiping his hands with a rag.
‘We’re changing category this time … Can you pinch a wallet without getting caught?’
‘Are you trying to offend me, Inspector?’
‘You’re not that kind of thief?’
‘Are you kidding? I could do it by the time I was ten! In all modesty, I’ve even given lessons.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Do I ever lie, Inspector? I can lift a wallet and put it back any time and any way I want.’
/> ‘Do you do it often?’
‘I’m no longer that kind of thief,’ said Botta, laughing.
‘Are you sure you haven’t lost your touch?’ the inspector asked with concern. Ennio made a gesture of irritation, lost his balance, and grabbed hold of Bordelli.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector … this damned mud …’
‘I was already imagining you on the ground.’
‘I’ve dirtied your coat,’ said Botta. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and tried to repair the damage.
‘Never mind …’
‘You’re better waiting for the mud to dry, it comes off easier then.’
‘So will you help me out, Ennio?’
‘First open your wallet and give me back the rolled-up thousand-lira note I just put in it,’ Botta said, smiling.
‘You’re joking, of course …’ Bordelli took out his wallet, opened it, and found a one-thousand-lira note rolled up inside it. His jaw dropped.
‘Now do you believe me?’
‘I believed you before,’ said Bordelli, giving him back the thousand lire.
‘You seemed a little sceptical.’
‘Force of habit,’ Bordelli explained.
‘Who’s the sucker?’
‘A rich, melancholy young man.’
‘I’ve heard the sulphur mines are a good cure for melancholy …’
‘I’m almost certain the guy goes and buys cocaine in the blind alley of Via della Fonderia. Are you aware of any dealers on that street?’
‘I’ve nothing whatsoever to do with that stuff, but if you want I can ask a friend.’
‘When?’
‘Give me just one minute.’
Botta walked away, towards Via Romana, an area the flood waters hadn’t reached. A hundred yards or so farther up, he disappeared into a doorway. Moments later he reappeared and returned to the inspector, whistling. He spoke in a very low voice, without moving his lips.
‘A bloke from Genoa, thirty-five years old. He’s a bartender at a nightspot and does a little business on the side as a top-up …’
‘Cocaine?’
‘A bit of everything, but he’s small potatoes. Not even worth the cost of a day at Murate.’
‘I couldn’t care less about a dope-dealing bartender, I’m looking for something else.’
‘Tell me what you want me to do.’
‘The next time the guy goes to Via della Fonderia, I want you to grab his wallet before he gets back in the car. And let’s hope we find some cocaine in it.’
‘How will I know when he goes there?’
‘Tomorrow morning I’ll send an unmarked car to keep you company, and when the time is right, I’ll call you on the radio.’
‘Having policemen around isn’t exactly my idea of fun, but if it can’t be avoided …’
‘It’ll only be during the day. At night I’ll leave you in peace.’
‘Thanks for being so sensitive, Inspector.’
He didn’t leave the station until after midnight, feeling dead tired and wondering whether he would come home to the same surprise as the night before. The same stale smell of heating oil and sewage hung in the air, but the situation in the streets was much improved. In the glow of the street lamps one could still see the thick black line running across the fronts of the buildings, getting higher and higher the closer one came to the Arno.
When he got to San Frediano, the neighbourhood was still in darkness, but he was finally able to park the 1100 just outside his door. Only two or three other cars were parked along the street. It felt like the late forties again.
He’d finally remembered to buy a little gas heater, along with a small gas canister that was as heavy as a boulder. He reached the third floor out of breath and was greeted only by darkness when he opened the door. He went to look in the bedroom, convinced he would find her in his bed. He was wrong. On the pillow lay a note: Shhh. Well, it was better than nothing. He sniffed the piece of paper and thought perhaps he could smell her scent. He was dying to hold her in his arms but didn’t feel like going to look for her. He would play along and patiently wait for her to decide.
He lit the heater to warm the room up a little, then went into the dining room and sat down to smoke his last cigarette. What time had Eleonora come by? Why hadn’t she stayed? Had she got tired of waiting and left? Or had she already known she wouldn’t stay?
He returned to the bedroom, determined not to tax his brain with pointless questions. The air was barely less cold than before, but to make up for it, it now stank of hot metal. He didn’t have the strength to read even one page of Herodotus. He closed the gas bottle, turned off the torch and got into bed. How long would it take for him to fall asleep? In the silence, every so often he thought he heard a key turning in the lock, but it was only his imagination.
MASSIVE CLEARANCE OPERATION
BUT SITUATION REMAINS CRITICAL
HOPE RETURNS TO THE STREETS OF FLORENCE INCIDENTS AT SENATE AS MORO SPEAKS
He left the house very early the next morning and went to watch the gate in Via Bolognese in person with Piras. He felt the need to follow developments from up close, to keep from thinking about Eleonora. An unmarked car with Tapinassi and Rinaldi in it was still shadowing Ennio, with the radio on.
The cleaning lady, the dustbin lorry, the delivery boys, the same things as the previous morning. A lethal bore. In order to smoke in peace, Bordelli got out of the 1100 and went for a little walk. The cleaning lady came out at twelve on the dot and headed down the pavement towards town.
Waiting, waiting …
The red Alfa popped out on the street at 3.25. As usual, Signorini got out to close the gate, then drove off with a roar. He always opened and closed the gate himself, therefore had no one to perform this service for him. Piras called Tapinassi’s car to tell them to get ready. Across from the Trattoria da Cesare, the Alfa turned on to Via Nazionale. It then parked in Piazza Indipendenza, and the driver got out and continued on foot towards the centre of town.
‘Call Tapinassi again and tell him it was a false alarm,’ said Bordelli, and he got out to tail Signorini on foot. He watched him walk with a hesitant step, bent slightly forward.
The young man went on a long hike through the flood-stricken areas, a bit like a tourist visiting the ruins of an ancient city. He was smartly dressed and rather conspicuous amid the filth. As he walked by, the people toiling in the mud watched and whispered comments to each other. When the daylight began to fade, Signorini went back to his Alfa and drove home.
Bordelli decided to call off the night-time surveillance. He wasn’t interested in where Signorini went at night. He had another purpose: to scare the kid, threaten him, force him to talk. It was his last hope for keeping the case from being shelved. He had to give it a try, even though he had no evidence to hand, no real clue at all … Was his intuition corrrect? Had he really cornered Giacomo’s killers? He was ready to do anything to find out. It was do or die.
When he went home that evening, he noticed with relief that electrical power had returned to the neighbourhood. It seemed like the end of a nightmare. In some ruined shops there were still a few insomniacs keeping busy, while above he saw a number of heads hanging motionless over the windowsills. He looked up at his bedroom window … it was illuminated. He raced up the stairs and opened the door with his heart in his mouth. Lights were on in the hallway and kitchen as well.
‘Is that you?’ he called out, going into the bedroom with a half-smile on his lips. The bed was exactly as he had left it, and there wasn’t even a note on the pillow. What a nincompoop … The light switches had been on since the day of the flood. He should have remembered.
Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this game of expectations and surprises, he thought to himself, putting the very last cigarette of the day between his lips.
He made his way around the flat, seeing by the light of the lamps the state it had been reduced to. Muddied floors, kitchen sink overflowing with plates and cups, dirty cloth
es on the backs of chairs. The bathroom smelled like a sewer. He tried turning on the tap in the bathroom basin, and after some gurgling, a stream of dark water started to come out. He really hadn’t expected it, and couldn’t help but smile. He let the water run for a while. He pulled the chain to flush the toilet, and the familiar sound was a joy to hear. The tap water was becoming gradually clearer, though there wasn’t much pressure. As he always left the water heater on, he turned off the basin tap and opened the one on the bath. Waiting for it to fill up, he went and grabbed the gas heater and lit it.
Easing himself into the hot water, he moaned with pleasure. He lay back, eyes closed, enjoying this unexpected well-being. Realising he was in danger of falling asleep, he pulled himself up. He grabbed the soap and scrubbed himself long and hard, scraping his skin.
When he got out of the tub, the water was black with all the filth he had been carrying around for the past few days. He felt five pounds lighter.
The air in the room was stifling, and he turned off the little heater. Then he shaved, standing naked in front of the mirror. He felt like a different man. Wrapping himself in a bathrobe, he raced to the bedroom. He quickly changed the sheets, put the blankets on top, and slipped into bed. He managed to read only a few pages of Herodotus, before turning out the light. After all those days in the dark, the glow of the street lamps through the slats of the shutters gave him a warm feeling. The only thing missing was her …
TEN DESPERATE DAYS IN FLORENCE AND OTHER TOWNS
BARGELLINI TAKES STOCK OF THE DISASTER MANY PARTS OF TUSCANY STILL ISOLATED
At 7 a.m. that morning the unmarked cars took up their positions. Same formation as before. Piras and Bordelli in Via Bolognese, Rinaldi and Tapinassi in San Frediano outside Botta’s place.
It was a Sunday. The cleaning lady didn’t show up; no dustbin lorries, no delivery boys. The waiting was more boring than ever. Bordelli had great difficulty restraining himself from lighting one cigarette after another, as when he had been on the cruiser San Giorgio staring at the empty horizon …
