by Marco Vichi
He passed behind the baptistry and parked just outside the front door of the Episcopal Curia. He rang the bell. A couple of minutes later a spyhole opened.
‘What can I do for you?’ asked the eye in the hole.
‘I would like to speak to Monsignor Sercambi.’
‘Your name?’
‘Inspector Bordelli, police.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘It’s about a rather urgent and delicate matter.’
‘I’m sorry, but I doubt the monsignor can see you.’
‘Tell the monsignor I’m a dear friend of Piglet’s.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ The eye scowled.
‘Tell him exactly that: a friend of Piglet’s.’
‘Please wait.’
The spyhole closed abruptly. A good five minutes went by before the door opened.
‘Come,’ said the man. He was short with rather dramatic eyes and a soft step, even though he walked a bit askew. They went up a stone staircase and then down a long, silent corridor with a coffered ceiling until they came to a large inlaid door which the little man opened with a solemn motion.
‘You can wait here. Monsignor will see you as soon as he can.’
‘Thank you,’ said the inspector.
He went into the room and the door closed delicately behind him. It was a luxurious little waiting room, with a wooden Madonna in a niche and a large crucifix hanging on the wall. Poor Jesus, he thought. Too often men have used him as a sword, a purifying fire, a hammer for nailing coffins. Now he was even being waved about to gain votes for a political party. If he ever came back to earth to speak his mind, they would lock him in a loony bin. Poor Jesus.
He sat down in one of the small armchairs, waiting patiently for the monsignor to deign to receive him. Meanwhile he thought of Eleonora … when would he see her again? He needed her kisses, he needed to fall asleep in her warm embrace. Sooner or later he had to pluck up the courage to ask her to come and live with him, perhaps in an old country house. But he had to find the right moment …
The door opened and the same little man as before appeared. He invited Bordelli to follow him and took him to the floor above. He knocked on a dark door and then opened it to let the inspector in. Bordelli entered and found himself in a large room with just a few pieces of antique furniture that made the space at once sumptuous and sober. A scent of incense and dead flowers floated in the air. Monsignor Sercambi was seated behind an antique desk and did not move. His long neck rose up from the collar of an impeccably tailored cassock, and on his straight, slender nose rested a pair of round spectacles in a very fine gold frame. His utterly bald head sparkled as if it had been polished with floor wax.
The inspector approached with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and remained standing in a wilfully boorish pose. The prelate eyed the stranger in silence, his gaze as cold as steel. On the wall behind him hung another poor Christ on the cross, looming over his head like a dagger. Bordelli decided to let the monsignor have the first word and returned his stare. They kept glaring at each other for a very long time, without either of them showing any sign of embarrassment whatsoever. In the end it was the prelate who broke the ice.
‘With whom do I have the honour of speaking?’ he asked, in a deep, steady voice.
Bordelli put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, blowing the smoke through his nostrils.
‘Chief Inspector Bordelli, murder squad.’
‘What can I do for you? I haven’t got much time.’
‘Mind if I smoke?’ Bordelli asked, trying to be as unpleasant as possible. Sercambi didn’t answer, limiting himself to a slight, haughty movement of the eyebrows. The inspector smiled.
‘Actually, we both deal in death, don’t we? Though for different ends, I’ll admit …’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I look for killers to lock them up in jail, and you absolve them in the name of the Father, the Son and so on …’ said Bordelli, miming a sign of the cross in the air.
‘Please get to the point.’
‘Tell me, Monsignor … Can someone who rapes and kills a little boy actually go to heaven?’
‘God’s mercy is infinite, if the sinner is moved by genuine repentance,’ Sercambi said icily.
‘That’s fantastic news. I can’t wait to tell Sheepie, Piglet and the Penguin …’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ said Sercambi, unruffled.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot Giraffe …’
‘I don’t follow, Inspector.’
‘The masked parties, the drugs, the unpleasant incident in Via Luna … Now do you follow?’
‘Even less than before, I must say.’ He was harder than stone.
‘In fact, I’ve come to give you a chance to confess. For a man of the cloth it must be a good healthy habit.’
‘Please stop making insinuations and speak clearly,’ said the monsignor, but in his eyes one could read the question: who is the traitor?
‘Kidnapping, rape, murder, concealment of a corpse, drug abuse … I think that’s everything.’
‘And so?’
‘On the night of the twelfth of October, you and your playmates raped and killed thirteen-year-old Giacomo Pellissari in a cellar in Via Luna … Is that a little clearer?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It happens to me sometimes …’
‘This has nothing to do with me.’
‘I’m going to prove it and drag the lot of you into court.’
‘I advise you to get your facts straight,’ said the prelate with the vaguest hint of a smile.
‘And I advise you to have a little chat with that poor Christ hanging over your head. He might have some very important advice for you.’
‘I’m afraid I have to end our discussion now,’ said Sercambi, pressing a button screwed to the edge of his desk.
‘Deep down I understand you. It must be very exciting to rape a little boy while he’s screaming for help.’
‘I have nothing more to say to you.’
The door opened and the little lame man reappeared.
‘Please show the gentleman out, Vito,’ said Sercambi, showing no sign of agitation. The inspector smiled, even though he really didn’t want to, then he leaned forward and lowered his voice so that only the prelate would hear him.
‘Remember me in your prayers, Monsignor. I am God’s instrument for saving your corrupt soul.’
‘Goodbye, Inspector,’ said the prelate.
Bordelli tapped his ash on to the magnificent desk and left the room. The little man led him down the same corridors and stairs as before, not saying a word. He had the sort of frowning and vaguely arrogant demeanour that the servants of the powerful often have. He showed him to the exit and, after a vague gesture of goodbye, locked the door behind him. Amen.
It was nine o’clock when he turned on the telly.
As soon as he’d got home he’d lit the gas heater in the bedroom, to warm the air for sleeping. He took off his shoes and collapsed on the sofa with a reheated dish of lasagna that Totò had given him. He didn’t feel like seeing anyone except her. He was hoping to wash away the disgust of his day, but it wouldn’t be easy. He couldn’t stop thinking about Signorini’s confession, his suicide, the lifeless body with its head cracked open still lying on the pavement outside the villa, the repulsive conversation with Sercambi and everything else …
He ate the lasagna while watching the evening news on Channel 2. They said things were getting back to normal in Florence. The Florentines, however, knew that this was a lie. There were still tons of mud and debris in the streets and thousands of wrecked cars to be removed. Some areas still had no electricity, telephone, gas or even water. Many shopkeepers and craftsmen had lost everything, with no hope of going back to work. Hundreds of families still couldn’t get back into their homes and were being put up in hotels at public expense. Fire engines were working day and night, pumping the mud o
ut of the basements of public buildings, and thousands of men, women, soldiers and students were still splashing about in the stuff. There were queues for food at the stadium, queues outside the few open shops and stores, queues around the tankers. Careggi hospital was bursting at the seams. Not to mention the works of art and thousands of ancient books covered in mud and heating oil. And in the provinces things were even worse … Back to normal, indeed.
He flipped through the newspaper to see what was on the television, and stood up to switch to the National channel. He started watching the second instalment of The Count of MonteCristo, accompanying it with a glass of wine and a cigarette. He missed Eleonora, her smile, her scent … and everything else. It was better not to think about her. One needed patience with today’s girls.
When the episode ended, it was followed by a variety show featuring Orietta Berti. By the second song he had fallen asleep sitting up on the sofa and begun to snore, chin resting on his chest. He missed the goals in This Sunday in Sports, did not watch the late edition of the news, and did not hear the key turn in the front door. He didn’t even hear Eleonora approach and turn off the television. He didn’t know she was looking at him and could never have imagined what was going through the mind of the beautiful girl he had lost his head over. Had he known, he would have woken up and asked her to come and live with him.
Eleonora watched him with tenderness, thinking that the grumpy inspector was a wonderful man. She had to accept it: she was wild about him. But she didn’t want him to find out too soon, for fear of frightening him. At his age it was anybody’s guess how many women he’d been with, and he certainly wouldn’t want a clingy young girl beside him all the time. The evenings she hadn’t spent with him had cost her a great deal of effort. But she wanted to show him she was a mature woman, not an insecure teenager in need of constant reassurance. If their relationship continued, maybe they could try living together … Why not? It would be the first time for her, and the very idea gave her butterflies in her stomach. She sat down beside her man and caressed his brow. Bordelli woke up, but it took him a few seconds to realise he wasn’t dreaming.
‘I must’ve fallen asleep,’ he mumbled.
‘You mean you weren’t contemplating the universe?’ she said, laughing.
After a long kiss, Bordelli lay down and rested his head on her thighs.
‘I had a terrible day,’ he let slip.
‘Tell me …’ she said, stroking his cheek.
‘No, I beg you. I’m trying not to think about it.’
‘Was it really that bad?’ Eleonora insisted.
‘A lot worse than you can imagine. Let’s talk about something else … How’s your cellar coming along?’
‘I’ve almost finished. A handful of good-looking boys gave me a hand.’
‘Out of sheer altruism, I expect.’
‘You’re the only one who sees me as irresistible …’
‘Liar. Every man in the world fancies you and you know it.’
‘If that were true I wouldn’t be here with an ageing, melancholy cop.’
‘I’m not at all melancholy,’ Bordelli protested.
‘Then I stand corrected: an ageing cop.’
‘Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better.’
‘I bet you’ve been with hundreds of women and probably can’t even remember all their names.’
‘That’s why I set up an archive.’
‘Really?’
‘Unfortunately it was destroyed by the flood. I kept it at the Biblioteca Nazionale. There were too many volumes for me to keep it at home.’
‘Come on, tell me the truth … How many women have you been with?’
‘Please don’t make me count them.’
‘Are there really so many?’ she asked, worked up.
‘One really has to be careful with you women. You’re all in love with Don Juan and Casanova, and at first you’re thrilled that your man is a skirt-chaser. Then as time goes by you’re liable to get jealous of a chicken … I mean the kind that cluck.’
‘I’m not jealous at all,’ said Eleonora, shrugging.
‘I wish you were, at least a little.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you …’
‘You mean I can sleep with all the women I want?’
‘Of course, but if you do I’ll chop off your head.’
‘That’s what I call consistency,’ said Bordelli. He was finally starting to relax.
‘Have you ever lived with a woman?’ she asked.
‘I’ve come close, but it’s never happened.’
‘Are you usually the one to cut and run, or is it the women who leave?’
‘It’s always the women who leave.’
‘Well, that’s something to think about.’
‘Ah, you mean women can think?’
‘Silly …’ said Eleonora, rubbing his face with her hand. He stuck his hand under her jersey to tickle her, and between the yelps and laughter the skirmish continued in bed. The air in the bedroom was hot and dry from the gas heater, but they didn’t even notice. In the half-light they indulged in a thousand different games, whispering sweet nothings and obscenities to each other. They felt free, they could do whatever they liked …
When Bordelli got to the office, Signorini’s cleaning lady had phoned just a few minutes before. Tapinassi and Rinaldi had gone to the villa, and Diotivede had already been alerted. The inspector got back into the 1100 together with Piras and calmly drove off. He didn’t tell his young assistant about his pleasant visit to Monsignor Sercambi or his intention to pay a call on the other two as well. For the moment he preferred to set out alone on this desperate and perhaps pointless adventure.
When they arrived at Via Bolognese, the gate was open wide. They pulled up in front of the entrance staircase, alongside the run-down Fiat 600. As soon as they got out of the car, Tapinassi popped out from behind a corner of the villa.
‘It’s the guy we were tailing, sir,’ he said. Piras and Bordelli exchanged a fleeting glance of understanding.
‘Have you already searched the house?’ Bordelli asked.
‘Yes, sir. The cleaning lady let us in. And in the victim’s study we found a nine-calibre Beretta, a syringe and a few grams of morphine,’ said Tapinassi, leading them to the corpse.
‘Any signs of a break-in?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Can you tell what window he threw himself out of?’
‘From his bedroom, Inspector.’
‘Any signs of a struggle?’ Bordelli asked, pretending to assess the possibility of murder.
‘At a glance, I’d say no, Inspector.’
They went round to the back of the villa and stopped near the body. Signorini was in the same position in which Bordelli had left him, looking as if he were executing a dance step. The puddle of blood had dried, the facial colour was tending towards grey, and the blackened tip of the tongue was sticking slightly out of the half-open mouth. Bordelli looked up at the fatal window, feigning thoughtfulness.
‘Where’s the cleaning lady?’
‘Inside with Rinaldi.’
‘I’m going to go and talk to her.’
He went into the house with Piras at his side. They found the woman in the study, talking to Rinaldi. She was frightened and sorrowful over the young man’s death, and had clearly been crying. Bordelli asked her a few questions. Using roundabout turns of phrase and vague hints, he tried to find out whether the woman knew about Signorini’s drug abuse and sexual habits, but she genuinely seemed to know nothing.
‘He was always so sad … It was almost to be expected … Poor boy …’
‘For the moment I have nothing more to ask you, signora.’
Bordelli told Rinaldi to accompany the lady to headquarters for her witness statement, then went up to the second floor with Piras. Now they were alone.
‘I’ve got half a mind to fabricate evidence to implicate his friends in throwing him out of the window,’ Bordelli whispered.
‘I�
�m with you,’ said Piras.
‘It’s not so easy, unfortunately. Just write a report declaring it a suicide and let’s close the book.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As they were going out of the house they saw Diotivede’s 1100 coming down the driveway towards them. The doctor parked alongside the department’s 1100 and got out with his inevitable black leather bag.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a new car,’ he said.
‘The farthest thing from my mind. That’s a squad car. It’s only useful ’cause it’s got a radio.’
‘You could have a radio installed in the Volkswagen.’
‘Sooner or later I will.’
‘Where’s my client?’
‘Behind the villa. No need to waste much time on the post-mortem. It’s a suicide.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I’ll tell you another time. I have to go now. Give my regards to your girlfriend.’
‘Did you know that Marianna said you were handsome?’ said the doctor, perplexed.
‘I guess she knows men.’
‘I was thinking she should probably see a psychiatrist.’
‘Your sensitivity is touching.’
‘Oh, sorry … Maybe she only needs a pair of glasses,’ said Diotivede with a sly smile, before walking away whistling.
‘He’s not being mean. That’s just the way he is,’ Bordelli said to Piras as they were getting in the car. They didn’t say a word the whole way back to the station.
The inspector went up to his office and opened the Pellissari file. On a sheet of paper he wrote down Beccaroni’s two addresses, the lawyer’s office and home. He picked out a few photos of Giacomo Pellissari’s dead body, put them in his coat pocket, and drove off again. The moment had come to pay a little visit to the other two. Surely the monsignor had already alerted them, and surely they must be alarmed.
