Death In Florence

by Marco Vichi

  Reaching the end of Viale dei Mille, he parked in front of the butcher’s shop and noticed a few customers queuing up. Around the stadium there was the usual bustle of people and army vehicles, but at that moment his thoughts were elsewhere. He went into the shop and greeted Panerai with a friendly smile. The butcher returned the smile, but it was clear he was anything but cheerful. While serving the customers he eyed Bordelli suspiciously. He was almost certainly asking himself: Is he the police inspector who paid a visit to the Giraffe? This likeable gentleman who is loyal to the Duce and likes his steaks four fingers thick? Is it possible? And yet he fits Gualtiero’s description …

  Bordelli strolled about the shop while awaiting his turn, humming a tune. He noticed a small frame hanging in a corner. Printed on tricolour paper were three lines of verse that aped a tercet of the Inferno:

  By the true light do we still abide,

  the same that shone across our land:

  so bright still shines our supreme Guide.51

  It must have been a nice little souvenir of Predappio, like the bust of Mussolini in the cellar on Via Luna. He waited patiently for the last customer to leave, then approached the counter with a jovial air.

  ‘Now, to us …’

  ‘What can I get for you?’ Panerai asked guardedly, knife in hand.

  ‘I’d like a nice leg of little boy,’ Bordelli said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘Whaa …?’ said the butcher, open-mouthed, a thick furrow across his brow. It was finally clear to him that the ball-busting police inspector was indeed the steak man, and he realised he’d been under surveillance for quite some time. Bordelli pulled out one of the photos of Giacomo’s dead body and thrust it under his nose.

  ‘Young meat is always more tender, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Panerai muttered, turning pale. Bordelli put the photograph back in his pocket.

  ‘Who knows what your beloved Fathead would think of you and your friends? At least he bragged about fucking women, not little children.’

  ‘Who are you, anyway? What the hell do you want from me?’ the butcher spat out, terrified.

  ‘Come on, Piglet, you don’t expect me to believe that the monsignor didn’t forewarn you, do you?’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘I may well be, but soon I’ll have proof that you raped and killed that boy,’ Bordelli lied, knowing the butcher wouldn’t believe him. But that sort of statement always had an effect.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Panerai, squeezing the handle of the knife.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough. Tell Penguin the lawyer that I’m on my way to see him, maybe he’ll get in some pastries.’

  He walked away whistling, and when he got back in the car he shot a glance at the butcher’s counter. Panerai was gone, probably already phoning Beccaroni.

  He drove back downtown to continue his work. The three friends must certainly have gone looking for Signorini, and when they couldn’t find him they’d grown suspicious. They were probably wondering whether it wasn’t indeed the rich young fool who’d snitched on them. Before long, however, they would hear the news of his suicide on the radio or television, and they would breathe a sigh of relief. So the question on Bordelli’s mind was now: with Signorini dead, which of the three left was the weakest link? Certainly not the prelate. Perhaps it was Panerai, with his tough-guy façade …

  He felt as if he had set out on a path of no return, as in certain wartime operations. He had no hope of gaining anything, other than the fact that the three killers now knew that he knew. A miserable consolation. But what else could he do? Take revenge? He imagined himself lurking in the bushes in front of Monsignor Sercambi’s villa, with a precision rifle with a silencer on it. Head in the cross-hairs … Zap! … Meet your maker, Monsignor. The lawyer he would wake up in the middle of the night, make him get down on all fours, and then slit his throat. For the butcher, special treatment: a big stick up the arse and wire round the neck. Amen.

  He stopped the car in Piazza Santissima Annunziata in front of Palazzo Budini Gattai and continued on foot. A breakdown lorry was removing the last wrecked cars from the square, and here and there could be seen the usual little mounds of debris gathered together by the bulldozers. Turning the corner of Via dei Servi, he stopped in front of number 50. He rang the buzzer for the Beccaroni law offices, but nobody replied. He tried again twice, then went back to the car.

  He took the Viali to the end, then crossed the Arno and went as far as Porta Romana. Turning up Via Ugo Foscolo, he continued on to Via di Marignolle … 4 … 18 … 36 … 62 … 80 … 92 … 94 … 96 … 96A … He pulled up in front of 96B and got out. A high stone wall, a closed gate, a villa immersed in greenery. He stuck his head through the bars to have a look at the garden. Two large dobermans trotted over and, growling softly, they sat down one beside the other a few yards from the gate. He heard some cautious steps in the gravel and Beccaroni appeared, in gardener’s overalls and holding shears. He stopped at a distance from the gate. He was frightened, but forced himself to appear composed.

  ‘If you’re looking for the barrister, he’s gone on holiday,’ he said with a vague hint of menace.

  ‘When he gets back, tell him his gardener likes to amuse himself by raping children.’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ said Beccaroni, trying to imitate the Giraffe’s cold aplomb.

  They stared at each other long and hard, with no need for any more words. Bordelli stepped away from the gate and got back in his car.

  While descending the Via Foscolo, he felt like a pathetic fool. What did he hope to gain from this farce? The three killers were well aware there was no proof. The only hope was that one of them would lose his head and trip up somehow … but it was like waiting for apples to grow on a cypress. Gattacci knew everything, even though he hadn’t taken part in their happy little banquet. He wouldn’t talk, either, assuming it was even possible to track him down … Perhaps he was already in Brazil …

  So what the hell was he looking for, then? A way to vent his personal feelings? To pretend he was avoiding defeat? A servant of the law couldn’t afford to fall into such traps. His job was to find evidence, not to play chess with killers. Maybe he’d gone down the wrong track. Maybe he should rather have been patient and spun a web for them. But now it was too late, and it made little sense to torment himself with doubt. He had let things get away from him and now he had to follow them through to the end. He would prod the three comrades every so often, if only so that they wouldn’t sleep well at night … And what if one day he actually managed to bag them? One thing was certain. He didn’t intend to tell Giacomo’s parents anything, to avoid making them suffer needlessly and consequently risk turning them into avengers.

  When he got to Porta Romana, he took Viale Petrarca. As he was approaching Piazza Tasso, he thought of Botta. After a morning like this, he needed to talk calmly with a friend. He took a right turn down Via del Campuccio. Ennio was still emptying out his lair, one bucketful at a time.

  ‘Inspector, what’s wrong? You should see your face …’

  ‘I’m trying to digest an elephant turd, Ennio. I assure you, it’s not easy.’

  ‘I try every day, and I’m starting to get used to it.’

  ‘I wanted to thank you for your help,’ said Bordelli, to change the subject.

  ‘Was it useful to you?’

  ‘You can’t imagine how much …’

  ‘Meaning?’ Botta asked, curious.

  ‘I’ll tell you the next time we get drunk together.’

  ‘As soon as I’ve got my flat back in order I’ll come calling on you with such a grappa you have no idea—’

  ‘I can’t wait, Ennio. And maybe before Christmas we’ll arrange a dinner at my house.’

  ‘Whenever you like, Inspector. I could cook Lebanese.’

  ‘You can cook whatever you like, I trust you.’

  ‘I learned when I was on
holiday in Marseille with two really nice guys from Beirut.’

  ‘Were they on holiday for drugs or armed robbery?’

  ‘Murder, actually, but they could cook like gods,’ said Botta, kissing his fingertips.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ Rosa asked in a whisper, still massaging his neck.

  ‘I wish,’ Bordelli groaned. He was lying belly-down on the sofa with his shoes off. That morning the electricity had finally returned to Santa Croce as well, but Rosa still amused herself by using candles, and the room was full of quivering shadows. The cats were chasing each other around the flat as usual, slipping on the floors like in the cartoons. Briciola had gained weight and looked like a little ball.

  ‘You seem strange …’ said Rosa.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve been frowning all evening.’

  ‘I’m just a little tired.’

  ‘I know you too well, monkey. You’re hiding something from me.’

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you. But you have to believe me.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’ said Rosa, dying of curisoity.

  ‘I’ve fallen in love …’

  ‘Oh my God, is it possible? It’s never happened to you before,’ said Rosa, breaking into a hysterical laugh.

  ‘What can I do if that’s how it always ends up?’

  ‘He who always falls in love never falls in love …’

  ‘Let me have a little hope, Rosa.’

  ‘Hope is the virtue of the dead.’

  ‘Are you going to spend the evening stabbing me with a knife?’

  ‘And who’s the unlucky girl this time? Is she pretty?’

  ‘Gorgeous.’

  ‘So she’s obviously young.’

  ‘Thirty-five,’ Bordelli lied, adding a good ten years.

  ‘Come on, you could be her father.’

  ‘Age doesn’t matter,’ Bordelli said in self-defence, thinking he could actually be her grandfather.

  ‘Is she tall?’

  ‘No, not really, but she has something about her … how shall I put it? … like a Greek statue.’

  ‘Dark or fair?’

  ‘Raven-haired.’

  ‘You see? Amelia was right!’ Rosa said, as if she’d just won a battle.

  ‘Pure coincidence.’

  ‘I hope so, for your sake.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because she said it wouldn’t last.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me …’

  ‘What do you care, if you don’t believe in the stuff?’ she said, messing up his hair.

  The massage, unfortunately, was over. Bordelli pulled himself up to a sitting position. He felt as if he’d been used as a bell clapper. He glanced at his watch. Almost eleven. Maybe Eleonora was waiting for him at home …

  ‘I’m going home to bed, Rosa.’

  ‘Come on, one last little cognac …’

  ‘Just a finger.’

  ‘Good God, are you ageing badly …’ said Rosa, filling two little glasses to the brim.

  ‘I’ll be going now …’

  ‘What’s the big hurry …?’

  ‘I’m a wreck, Rosa,’ said Bordelli, putting his shoes back on. Rosa grabbed the kitten and accompanied him to the door.

  ‘Say bye-bye to the inspector, Briciola. He’s the man who saved you.’

  ‘Bye, one-eye,’ said Bordelli, stroking her head with a finger. He kissed Rosa on the cheeks and started down the stairs.

  ‘Give your sweetheart my best,’ she said coquettishly, and after blowing a burst of kisses she closed the door.

  Bordelli bit his lip, hoping Eleonora really was waiting for him at home. He needed her now as never before. But he didn’t want to make it too much of a habit, and so he prepared himself for a solitary night.

  While driving towards San Frediano he started contemplating Botta’s Lebanese dinner, just to keep all his other thoughts at bay. Next Sunday, perhaps? Or was Saturday better? He would invite Dante, Piras and Dr Fabiani, as on all the other occasions. And maybe after dinner he would tell the happy tale of the butcher and his friends, glass in hand …

  He glanced often in the rear-view mirror, under the impression a dark car had been following him for too long. He was thinking like a cop again, but perhaps it was better to make sure. He pulled over abruptly to let the car pass, then turned to see who was inside. Nothing alarming. A Lancia Appia with a sixtyish-looking couple inside. He calmly drove off again. Where was he? Ah, yes, the Lebanese dinner and the uplifting story of the butcher and his friends … Why not? Spreading the rumour might actually be a good way to torment them. The word would spread from mouth to mouth across the city, slowly creating a clearing around the three blackshirts. It didn’t compare to the satisfaction of throwing them in jail, but at least they wouldn’t be able to live in peace.

  He parked just outside his front door, determined to leave these thoughts in the car. He climbed the stairs, praying to heaven that she would be there. He reached the third floor out of breath and noticed that the door to his flat was ajar. Careless girl, he thought with a smile. Once inside he noticed that the light was on in the bedroom but he couldn’t hear a fly breathing. He headed down the corridor …

  ‘Here comes the big bad wolf,’ he said in a monster’s voice, stepping into the doorway … and his playful mood was swept away in an instant. Eleonora was curled up under the covers with a pillow over her head, trembling lightly. Her clothes were scattered about the room in tatters.

  ‘What the hell’s happened?’ Bordelli gasped, slowly raising the pillow. There was no need for her to answer. It was enough to see her empty gaze, the bruises on her face, her shrivelled lips.

  He felt an animal rage take hold of him and dig deep down into his viscera … like during the war, when he would follow the trail of horrors the Nazis left behind on their northward retreat. A ferocious desire to kill, to slaughter, rose up inside him, in his very blood … but for now it was Eleonora who must command his attention. He clenched his teeth, knowing it was not the right time for questions. He took off his coat and dropped it on to a chair, then lay down beside her and embraced her with all the tenderness he could muster in a sea of hatred. Eleonora pressed up against him, shivering. She seemed like a small animal on the verge of death. He stroked her hair, trying to be gentle. His fingers ran over a large lump, and she flinched with a moan.

  ‘I’m sorry …’ he whispered, lightly brushing her cheek. He bit his lip until it bled. So they wanted to play rough, did they? Very well. He would launch a war without quarter, even if it meant getting himself killed … Calm now, he had to remain calm. Losing his head was pointless.

  It didn’t take much to figure out who had done it. In his show of bravado he’d stepped on some very important toes without giving much thought to the consequences. Why didn’t that son of a bitch of a priest take it out on him directly? Batini had told him. Monsignor Sercambi was very powerful and almost certainly a Freemason. Perhaps all it had taken was one phone call to take care of the troublesome nuisance. Easier than pulling out a nose hair. Hello, old boy. I have a little problem on my hands … A few people had briefly conferred as to the best way to satisfy the monsignor, and in the end they’d decided to send someone to beat up and rape a girl who had nothing to do with anything, just to send the ball-busting inspector a message. It wasn’t just to intimidate, this contemptuous show of force from people who knew they were untouchable. The powerful don’t like long, boring discussions; they prefer swift violence and blood …

  He could tell that Eleonora wanted to free herself from his embrace, and so he let go. She barely moved away at all, just far enough to look him in the eye. In her gaze he read disgust, anger, humiliation, and above all, fear. She almost seemed a different person. Bordelli said nothing. At that moment any word at all would have seemed to him useless or stupid. Eleonora got out of bed, wrapping herself in a blanket, and left the room in hurried little steps. Bordelli heard the bathroom door close, and immediately the h
iss of the shower. He couldn’t help but feel guilty. He sat up and lit a cigarette. While Eleonora was being raped, he was lying on Rosa’s sofa getting his neck massaged. It was a strange feeling for him, guilt. He was always getting into things he ought not to, and when he rightly should have been present he wasn’t. Only rarely did he act with any consistency, as he had done with Signorini.

  He got up to look for an ashtray, and his gaze fell on the bed. In a shudder of horror he tore off the the bloodied, sperm-stained sheets, gathered up Eleonora’s tattered clothes, went into the kitchen and thrust it all in two plastic bags. Then he returned to the bedroom and started pacing back and forth, clenching his fists.

  The noise of the shower suddenly ceased, and a tomblike silence ensued. A good five minutes went by before Eleonora emerged from the bathroom. She was wrapped in the same blanket, and had the same look in her eyes as before. She walked past him, avoiding his gaze, and went to open the wardrobe. She took out a white shirt, a pair of dark trousers and a belt, then got dressed without removing the blanket from her shoulders. She rolled up the trousers and shirtsleeves, then put on her boots. Even dressed like Stenterello52 and with bruises all over her face, she was still beautiful. But it wasn’t the right time to say so.

  ‘Do you feel up to talking?’ Bordelli asked, trying to get her to look at him. She sat down on the edge of a chair and wrapped her arms round her knees. At last their eyes met.

  ‘What’s the use?’ she said, barely shrugging a shoulder.

  ‘They won’t get away with this.’

  ‘It’s you they were pissed off at.’

  ‘I know …’

  ‘They told me to tell you to stop sticking your nose in matters that don’t concern you.’ She spoke in a calm, detached voice.

  ‘How many were there?’