by Marco Vichi
‘Two.’
‘And they both …?’
‘Yes, both.’
‘How did they get inside?’
‘I don’t know, they were already here.’
‘What time did you come in?’
‘Ten-thirty.’
‘Would you be able to identify them?’
‘They were hooded.’
‘Florentines?’
‘Yes,’ she said, shrugging, with a shudder.
‘It’s all my fault.’
‘Don’t ask me anything else,’ Eleonora whispered.
‘You’ll have to report this …’
‘No … leave me alone … I just want to forget …’
‘Maybe in a little while …’
‘Take me home … to my parents …’
‘Please, I beg you, don’t leave.’
He hadn’t wanted to say it, but it had slipped out. She put on her jacket as if she hadn’t heard, then left the room without turning round. Bordelli grabbed his coat and went after her. They descended the stairs in silence, without touching. They got into the car.
‘Via d’Annunzio …’ she whispered, as if speaking to a taxi driver. When the 1100 started moving, she pulled up her feet and wrapped her arms round her legs. For Bordelli began the shortest and longest drive of his life. The silence weighed terribly on him, but he couldn’t find anything meaningful to say. After asking his inspectorly questions, his tongue had gone dry. Eleonora stared at the road indifferently, every so often resting her chin on her knees.
They drove across Florence, passing by a few cars and the usual military vehicles, then turned on to Via d’Annunzio, and about half a mile later, Eleonora pointed to a small, three-storey building. Bordelli pulled up alongside the pavement and turned off the engine. He summoned the courage to take her hand.
‘You want to get out right away?’
‘I’d rather …’
‘If you need me you only have to—’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she cut him off.
‘But you’ll at least let me know you’re all right?’
‘I’m going,’ she muttered, grabbing the door handle.
‘I know it’s not the right moment, but … Will I see you again?’
‘Don’t ask me anything,’ she said. And all of a sudden she burst into tears. Her throat filled with all the sobs she’d been holding back, and she started whimpering like a dog. Not knowing what to do, Bordelli squeezed her hand. He always felt lost in the presence of a weeping woman.
After a few minutes of this, she finally calmed down. She wiped her eyes and heaved a big sigh, staring at the road. Bordelli squeezed her hand more tightly.
‘Eleonora …’
‘Leave me alone … I’m fine …’
And she withdrew her hand, got out of the car, and gently closed the door behind her. She unlocked the door of her building, slipped inside, and a second later it was as if she had never existed.
Bordelli lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and headed home. Monsignor Sercambi had succeeded in destroying the most beautiful thing in his life. He could always kill the priest, but it wouldn’t make any difference.
He drove back across the city, crushed by anguish. The mud and desolation he saw around him seemed an emanation of his soul. Would Eleonora ever recover? Would she remain the free-spirited girl full of life he had known? Would she continue to make love joyfully?
When he closed the door of his home behind him, he felt as if he had entered a prison. He looked into the bedroom. That was where it had all started, where it had all ended. He didn’t dare hope she would return, and even if she did, it would never be the way it was before. All he wanted was for her to be safe and to start to forget. That was enough.
He remade the bed with clean sheets and put the blankets back on. He took off his shoes and lay down still dressed, leaving the light on. Now he wanted more than ever to leave this flat. He felt annihilated. Even the idea of revenge gave him no satisfaction …
He suddenly realised that there was a sheet of paper taped to the windowpane with something written on it. He didn’t remember noticing it before he went out. He got up to see what it was, and he felt his heart sink. It was a typewritten list of names. At the top was Eleonora B., which had been struck out with a pen, and this was followed by Rosa Stracuzzi, Ennio Bottarini, Dante Pedretti, Elvira Bandini, Pietrino Piras … He realised that the war was over before it had even begun. And he had lost. He crumpled up the sheet of paper and dropped it on the floor.
He lay back down in bed and turned off the light. He had failed. He had to accept it. He couldn’t forgive himself for the fact that Eleonora had got dragged into it. The idea that other people might pay for his mistakes prevented him from carrying on the fight. The long arm of Freemasonry could strike again, possibly even killing innocents. The case was closed. All that remained was to bury it and give it a tombstone …
A thought slowly worked its way into his head and stayed with him until he was lucky enough to fall asleep.
He woke up very early and washed the dirty dishes, humming popular tunes. But his mood was darker than the bottom of a well. After drinking an entire pot of coffee, he went out in the car for a long drive through the hills, ending up at La Panca. He needed a little time alone to reflect. He left the 1100 by the side of the road and walked up the slope. The sky had a sort of greenish glow that was anything but cheerful, and a cold breeze was blowing. When he reached the top of the ridge, he was out of breath and drenched in sweat. Seeing these woods again was like going back in time, to when he still had hopes of winning.
He continued to follow the path, and when passing along the plateau where he’d found the kitten, he peeked behind the brambles. The carcasses of the other kittens were gone; some animal must have eaten them.
He walked under the boughs of the great oak and reached Monte Scalari. Looking at the ancient abbey, he decided once and for all that he would sell the flat in San Frediano. Immediately. As soon as possible. He would go and live in the country, spending his time reading and gardening, far away from everybody.
He pushed on a bit farther, then stopped at the fork for Pian d’Albero. He stood there for a few minutes, looking at the trees, the rocks, the thorny shrubs scattered across the carpet of dead leaves. He’d grown very fond of the peace and quiet of these hills, and thought once again that he wanted very much to explore them in every detail.
He calmly began to make his way back down. By now he’d made his decision and would never turn back. Returning to La Panca, he got into the car and drove off along the dirt road with a disgusting cigarette in his mouth. It wasn’t quite ten o’clock.
When he got to the station he felt devastated but calm. He went into his office and, without sitting down, took his regulation pistol out of a drawer. He’d never used it, and often left it at work. Grabbing an old bag, he started putting his personal effects in it, trying not to forget anything. He left the bag on his chair and went out. On his way up to the second floor he ran into a colleague and asked him whether Commissioner Inzipone was in his office.
‘He should be, I saw him just a few minutes ago.’
‘Thanks.’
He arrived outside the commissioner’s door, knocked softly, and let himself in without waiting for a reply. Before Inzipone could open his mouth, he dropped his pistol and badge on to the desk. The commissioner looked at him as if he was mad.
‘What is the meaning of this, Bordelli?’
‘I’m going to start raising chickens.’
‘What the devil is wrong with you?’
‘The police force is no longer for me.’
‘You can’t just quit like this, Bordelli.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Commissioner,’ said the inspector, heading for the door.
‘You’ve an ongoing investigation, dammit!’ Inzipone shouted. Bordelli stopped on the threshold and turned round.
‘You can shelve it,’ he said, and he walked away, ignoring the co
mmissioner’s protests.
He passed by his office to get the bag and then went down to the courtyard. He looked over at the 1100, thanking it for its company. Leaving the station on foot, he waved goodbye to Mugnai, as usual. Who knew whether he would ever see him again. Perhaps by chance, going into a cinema or at a pizzeria. He almost felt as if he were running away, but he had no desire to go and say goodbye to all his colleagues. They would ask too many questions he wouldn’t want to answer. He would tell only Diotivede and Piras how things actually stood, and certainly wouldn’t lose touch with them.
He started walking towards the centre of town, in no hurry. Twenty years on the force were all contained in that bag. Now he had all the time in the world to finish Herodotus’s Histories and read all the other books he’d never read.
Passing by the baptistry he glanced up at the windows of the Episcopal Curia, imagining Monsignor Sercambi behind the curtains, looking down at him and gloating. He felt a wave of heat envelop his chest, followed at once by a sharp chill. Would he ever manage to swallow this ignoble abuse of power? Would he ever be able to forget? At the moment he didn’t want to think about it.
He pushed on towards the Arno, distractedly watching the busy military vehicles and lorries with wrecked cars in tow. He didn’t want to think of the murdered boy or Eleonora, but it wasn’t easy.
Without realising it, he was back in San Frediano, like a horse returning to its stable. Passing under his own windows, he crossed Piazza Tasso and went to Via Villari, where he’d abandoned the Beetle. He hadn’t driven it since the day after the flood, but it started up on the first try. He turned on to the Viale, with the familiar, reassuring sound of the Volkswagen buzzing in his ears.
He arrived in Santa Croce and parked right outside Rosa’s building. There was still a viscous patina of slime on the street and pavements.
He went up to the first floor and knocked at the door. There was music inside, but nobody came to the door. He knocked harder; at last he heard the sound of high heels approaching. Rosa opened the door and let out a cry.
‘I don’t believe it – I was thinking about you just one minute ago,’ she said, giving him a smacking kiss on the lips.
‘Feel like going out, Rosa?’
‘If you ask me with a face like that, the answer is no,’ she said, pulling him inside.
‘I’m sorry, I’m in a bad mood.’
‘Because of your sweetheart?’
‘Rosa, let’s make a deal. No questions today.’
‘Well, aren’t you a barrel of laughs …’
‘I’ll get over it soon enough. Come on, let’s go.’
‘Give me a minute,’ said Rosa, then dashed off like an actress to her dressing room.
Bordelli went and sat on the sofa, resigned to a long wait. He felt strange without the badge in his pocket. He felt naked, but also lighter. Getting out was the only right thing to do. Like the forty-year-old boxer who loses the title to a youngster. It was the first time in his life that he’d lost a battle in such a definitive way. The most humiliating part of it was knowing who the killers were and not being able to … But enough. He had to stop thinking about it. He was no longer a chief inspector of police, but a common citizen like everyone else.
The one-eyed kitten drew near on the sly and, leaping through the air, attacked his shoelaces, chewing them as if they were the bars of a prison. The little ball of fur felt like a tiger. Bordelli grabbed her and lifted her high in the air. He let her flail about for a second or two, then set her down, and she shot off like a rocket.
‘Rosa, you ready yet?’
‘I’ll be right out …’ she said from the bathroom.
She came out some forty minutes later, completely made up and as fragrant as a prostitute, then disappeared again into the bedroom for another half-hour. When she reappeared she was as beautiful as the sun, as striking and luminous as ever. She went into the kitchen to fill the cats’ bowls and returned to the sitting room.
‘Shall we go?’ she said impatiently, like someone who’d been waiting for hours for her escort. They descended the stairs arm in arm, like husband and wife, then got in the Beetle and drove off.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Rosa asked, feeling content.
‘No questions,’ said Bordelli. He turned on to the Viali and went as far as Novoli. When he picked up the Firenze–Mare motorway, Rosa went back on the attack.
‘Are we going far?’
‘No questions, Rosa.’
‘Bah!’
‘Sing me a song,’ said Bordelli, stepping on the accelerator. Rosa didn’t have to be asked twice. She cleared her throat and started singing.
‘Con ventiquattromila baci-i-i … Oggi saprei perché l’amore-e-e … Vuole ogni tanto mille ba-a-ci … Mille carezze all’ora all’o-o-raaaa… . Con ventiquattromila baci-i-i … Felici corrono le ore-e-e … Un giorno splendido perché-é-é … Ogni secondo bacio te-e-eee … Niente bugie meravigliose, Bu-bum-bu-bum … frasi d’amore appassionate, Bu-bum-bu-bum … Ma solo baci chiedo a teeeee-eeeee … ie… . ie… . ie … ie … ie … ie … ie! Con ventiquattromila baci-i-i … Così frenetico è l’amore-e-e …’53
She knew the whole thing. Too bad she was tone-deaf.
With one song after another, they arrived at last in Migliarino. Bordelli turned on to the lungomare, the seafront road, and half an hour later they were at Marina di Massa, the small seaside town where as a child Bordelli used to spend his summer holidays with his parents. It was like a second home for him, as he’d spent at least four months a year there for many years. He’d gone back a few times as an adult to look up old friends, and once he’d even gone there for an investigation. Casting a quick glance at Piazza Betti, he continued down the lungomare, until the asphalt ended. On the right was a restaurant with big picture windows and a green sign: Da Riccà. He turned into the car park lot and found a space among the other cars.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘As a wolf,’ said Rosa.
‘Do you like fish?’
‘I love it …’
They got out of the car, and Bordelli led the way into the restaurant. A large dining room, with crabs and conches hanging in the corners over large sections of fishing nets. Almost all the tables were taken. Bordelli stuck his head into the kitchen, and was greeted with such enthusiasm that it was audible outside. A blue-eyed Hercules came towards him and embraced him with his greasy hands.
‘Ciao, Nobody,’ said Bordelli, using Riccà’s partisan nom de guerre.
‘Hey, old copper, nice to remember your friends now and then.’
‘From now on I promise I’ll come more often.’
‘Nice little paunch you’ve put on there, old man,’ said Riccà, slapping Bordelli’s gut with the back of his hand. Then he looked at the beautiful blonde next to his friend.
‘This is Rosa,’ Bordelli hastened to say. Riccà gave her a firm handshake and didn’t let go.
‘I’d be careful with this one if I were you. He’s actually a stubborn mule who needs a few kicks up the arse now and then.’
‘What?’ said Rosa.
‘He’s no good … A bandit …’
‘Oh, I’m well aware of that,’ she said, chuckling.
‘A good-looking lady like you deserves better.’
‘Don’t worry, he’s not my man … Far from it,’ Rosa said with a sneer.
‘How are things down in Florence?’ asked Riccà, accompanying them to a table.
‘I’d rather not think about it today.’
‘Then we won’t mention it any more. What would you two like to eat?’
‘You decide, we trust you.’
‘And I’ll take good care of you … I have to return to the kitchen, but later we’ll drink a glass of some good white wine of mine,’ said Riccà. He gave Bordelli a pat on the back and then left.
‘Nice guy,’ Rosa whispered.
‘I’ve known him since we were little kids.’
‘You should learn from him �
� He’s not a sourpuss like you.’
‘Everyone’s different, Rosa,’ said Bordelli.
He looked up through the window and was spellbound by the white peaks of the Apuan Alps standing out against the sky … How was Eleonora doing? Would he ever see her again? He’d rather not think about it; he didn’t want to be poisoned with bitterness. It wasn’t Monsignor Sercambi’s fault that she was gone. He preferred to think it was fate, as the fortune-teller had said. If that hadn’t been the reason, there would have been another. The tarot never lied.
He kept his eyes fixed on the distant mountains, lost in other thoughts. Giacomo Pellissari … Piglet the butcher … Rich-boy Signorini … the telephone bill in the woods …
‘What are you thinking about?’ Rosa asked, squeezing his wrist.
‘About Briciola …’
If not for the kitten, he would never have discovered anything.
La Nazione, Monday, 20 February 1967
Page three
HILLS OF HORROR
SUICIDE IN THE WOODS
FLORENTINE BUTCHER, 44 YEARS OLD
SHOOTS HIMSELF IN MOUTH AT CINTOIA ALTA
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER GRIEF-STRICKEN
Yesterday morning Livio Panerai, a butcher of 44, killed himself by firing a shotgun into his mouth near the abbey of Monte Scalari. Shortly before 7 a.m., a hunter found the butcher’s lifeless body in the woods, still holding the double-barrelled shotgun. Signora Cesira Batacchi Panerai, the victim’s wife of nineteen years, had no explanation for her husband’s extreme act. He had left before dawn that morning to go hunting in the hills of Cintoia, as had long been his custom on Sundays. Livio Panerai had no apparent causes for distress in his day-to-day life. A hard worker, always cheerful and beloved of his customers, he led a transparent existence. The inhabitants of La Panca, the site of the tragedy, now speak of ‘hills of horror’. Not only was the area the scene of atrocious massacres by the Nazis at Pian d’Albero and other locations nearby, but the horror hasn’t let up since. The suicide victim was found not far from the spot where the lifeless body of Giacomo Pellissari, the young kidnap victim who had been raped and murdered, was discovered a few months earlier. Pellissari’s killer has never been apprehended.
