by Marco Vichi
Piras pricked up his ears, staring at a tiny mole on Sonia’s lower lip while awaiting the reply.
‘We’re just friends … why do you ask?’ she said.
Piras relaxed. Bordelli brought his cigarette over to a little pot that looked like an ashtray, but before tapping it with his finger, he looked at Sonia for approval. She nodded and Bordelli knocked off some ash. At that moment he felt a bitter surge of bile rise up through his oesophagus and burst at the back of his throat like a rotten flower. He’d been having digestive problems the past few days.
‘You wouldn’t happen to have the keys to Simone’s place, would you?’ he asked, repressing a grimace.
‘Yes, I would. Why?’
‘We’d like to go and have a look.’
‘Maybe he’s at home and doesn’t feel like answering the door,’ said the girl, embarrassed.
‘Let’s go and see,’ said Bordelli. There were a few seconds of silence, a few quick exchanges of glances.
‘You really don’t want to tell me what’s happened?’ Sonia asked with a worried smile.
‘Nothing serious, but we need to talk to Simone as soon as possible,’ said Bordelli.
‘Has he done something wrong?’
‘Please, I beg you …’
‘I’ll go and get the keys,’ she said, standing up. She crossed the room, devoured by Piras’s gaze, and disappeared behind the door, which she closed behind her.
Piras sought the inspector’s eyes. A gleam of suffering shone in his black pupils. Bordelli smiled.
‘Pretty, eh?’
‘Not bad,’ Piras said indifferently.
Sonia returned with the keys, and they followed her out to the landing. She had a beautiful body, and Piras didn’t miss a single movement. Those two fine legs stretching out from under her skirt were good for his health.
Before going into Simone’s flat, the girl rang the doorbell and knocked several times, but there was no answer. In the end she made up her mind to unlock the door. Sticking her head inside, she called out loudly to her friend. The apartment was dark and all was still.
‘He’s not here,’ she said needlessly, then automatically turned on the light and let the two policemen inside. From her movements it was clear she knew the space well. The flat was messy but pleasant.
‘This is the conversation room,’ said Sonia, going through the first door they encountered in the hallway. It was a big room covered with carpets and large cushions strewn across the floor. One wall was entirely taken up by a bookcase painted blue and overflowing with books all the way to the ceiling. Bordelli went up to it and started reading the spines: Dostoyevsky, Mann, Kafka, Leopardi, Svevo, Lermontov, Flaubert, Primo Levi, Poe, Foscolo, Tolstoy, Simenon, Chekov, Bulgakov … All good stuff, he thought. On one shelf was a framed photo of a young man with black hair, intense eyes, and a large, imperfect nose that nevertheless looked good on him.
‘Is this Simone?’ the inspector asked. Sonia nodded.
‘Handsome, isn’t he?’ she said, picking up the photo. Piras craned his neck to have a look, and a furrow appeared between his eyebrows. Simone really was handsome, he had to admit. This discovery troubled him, and in reacting to it he smiled like an idiot. Bordelli had never seen him look so asinine. Sonia put the photo back in its place and folded her arms over her breasts, awaiting instructions.
‘I’d like to have a look around the place,’ Bordelli said.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said the girl.
The inspector raised a hand.
‘Thanks, there’s no need. Meanwhile Piras will ask you a few questions.’
‘Don’t you want to tell me what’s happened?’ Sonia persisted.
‘Well, not now, anyway,’ said the inspector.
‘Then when?’ she asked.
‘Piras, be sure to write everything down.’
‘Of course, Inspector,’ said the Sardinian, blushing. Bordelli suppressed a smile and left the room, leaving Piras in Sonia’s hands. There was no need to ask Sonia anything. He had merely wanted to play a little trick on Piras. Or do him a favour.
At the end of the hallway he pushed open a door and entered a large room that looked on to Via Trieste. More shelves full of books. It must be Simone’s room. The bed was unmade. On the wall was a poster of a film starring Virna Lisi, the most beautiful of Italian actresses. A few books lay scattered across the desk, along with a full ashtray, a typewriter and a number of typescripts stapled together or bound with paper clips. They must be Simone’s stories. The inspector picked one up at random and started reading the first page. It wasn’t bad, though there was a certain immaturity in the fanciness of the words. He put it back in the pile, picked up another, and began to leaf through it, reading a passage here and there. All the same, there was something powerful in his way of writing, a sincerity that one read with pleasure. But this wasn’t the time for it. He put it back down and continued thumbing through the typescripts, reading only the titles: The Paralytic; The Contract; Love’s Darkness; Half the House; Betrayal … The last in the stack was The Tower, a rather short story. He read the first page. It wasn’t bad, so he continued …
All at once the sound of Sonia’s laughter floated lightly down the hall. Apparently Piras was keeping himself busy. Never mind those who say Sardinians are closed and taciturn. Bordelli smiled and continued reading Simone’s story, which was slowly drawing him in. He’d remained standing beside the desk and kept on turning the pages, one after the other, increasingly engrossed in the horrific tale. Holding his breath as he read, every so often he felt a tingling at the back of his neck. And, almost without realising it, he read it through to the end. Then he looked up and shook his head. The lad might very well become a writer, he thought, but for the moment he had better not let that story end up in Judge Ginzillo’s hands, since it told of a little girl who was raped and then killed.
He heard Sonia laugh again. Could Piras possibly be so amusing? Normally he spoke little and laughed even less. The inspector folded The Tower in two and put it in his jacket pocket. He opened the desk drawers and rummaged about without much interest, then resumed looking around. It was a beautiful room, with a coffered ceiling and big windows. He opened the wardrobe. There were few clothes inside, but a number of shelves were covered with stacks of typescripts of every imaginable length. There was something for everyone. Simone obviously spent a lot of time at the typewriter. The inspector closed the wardrobe and, after one last look around, went back into the hallway. He stuck his head into the bathroom: light blue tiles, a dark, wood-framed mirror, a plant by the window and, next to the toilet, a shelf with some ten books. He closed the door and, accompanied by Sonia’s laughter, found his way to the kitchen. A stack of dirty dishes rose up from the sink. On a marble table were some half-empty packets of pasta, a wilted head of lettuce, a few apples, and many dirty glasses. There must have been a party. On one shelf of the glass-fronted cupboard was a collection of coffee pots from different eras, some of them quite strange.
Bordelli continued his tour and, after having seen everything, he returned to the ‘conversation room’ and the two youngsters. Before entering, he eavesdropped at the half-closed door and heard them talking quite animatedly. They weren’t making much sense, but they were laughing a great deal. As soon as they saw the inspector, they stopped.
‘Signorina Zarcone, where can we find Fantini?’ Bordelli asked.
‘You mean now?’
The inspector nodded. The girl shrugged and gestured as if throwing up her hands.
‘I don’t know … He’s often at his cousin’s,’ she said.
‘What’s this cousin’s name?’
‘Francesco Manfredini,’ said Sonia, as Piras kept on looking at her.
‘Where does he live?’
‘Nearby, in Via Stibbert.’
‘What number?’
‘Seventy-seven … You really don’t mean to tell me why you’re looking for Simone?’ Sonia asked yet again, though she no longer se
emed too worried.
‘We just want to have a little chat with him,’ Bordelli said curtly.
‘Someone like Simone would never do anything bad,’ she said sweetly. When he heard her affectionate tone, Piras’s expression changed. Bordelli noticed and looked at him with amusement.
‘I’m very sorry, Sonia, but we have to take Simone’s photo away with us,’ he said, gesturing towards the small frame on the shelf.
‘Please, Inspector, tell me what this is about,’ Sonia insisted, looking to Piras for help. Bordelli threw his hands up and shook his head in a definitive way. Piras went and picked up Simone’s portrait, stared at it for a few seconds, then took the print out of the frame and handed it to the inspector.
‘Let’s go, Piras,’ said Bordelli, putting the photo in his jacket pocket. The girl accompanied them out to the landing and then locked Simone’s door. The Sardinian continued to feast his eyes on her, clenching his jaw.
Suddenly Sonia put her hand over her mouth.
‘Oh no!’ she said. The door to her flat had closed by itself, and she had left the keys inside. Piras started to shake in his clothes and seemed to grow three inches taller.
‘You go on ahead to Via Stibbert, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I can take care of this.’
‘What do you mean, Piras?’ said Bordelli.
‘I was just thinking that … I could go look for a locksmith and then meet back up with you at the station,’ said the Sardinian, eyes sparkling.
Bordelli looked at him with affection and bent down to have a look at Sonia’s lock. A few years back he had taken a few lockpicking lessons from his friend Botta, a professional thief and swindler, and ever since, he had been able to pick about seventy per cent of the locks on the market.
‘If you’ll allow me, I can give it a try,’ he said.
The girl looked at him with hope in her eyes. Bordelli took out his wallet and extracted his lockpicking tool, a simple piece of firm iron wire bent into a hook at one end. He got down to work and, a few seconds later, the lock clicked open. Sonia clapped.
‘Oh, thank you!’ she said, smiling brightly. Her teeth glistened like wet pebbles.
‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ said the inspector.
‘I’d already filled the bathtub,’ she added with a sigh of relief. The statement had a powerful effect on Piras, who immediately imagined the girl in the water with her hair all wet.
‘It’s probably cold by now,’ he said in an almost grieving tone.
‘Well, I can just add a bit more hot water,’ Sonia said, smiling, flattered by all the attention. Bordelli nodded faintly.
‘Goodbye, Sonia … We can go now, Piras.’
He took the lad by the arm and pulled him away. Piras barely had time to make an awkward gesture of goodbye to the girl, to which she replied with a smile full of shiny little white teeth. As they were descending the stairs, the inspector put another cigarette in his mouth.
‘What’s wrong with you, Piras? Did you see a fairy with turquoise hair or something?’
‘I was just trying to make myself useful,’ said Piras, having turned very serious again.
The Beetle’s engine rumbled in German down the street, sounding like something that could never break. The windscreen was covered by a very fine yellow sand that came from Africa, and a drizzle began to fall. The windscreen wipers were old and didn’t work very well.
‘I can’t see a bloody thing, Piras …’
‘Watch out for the pavement, Inspector!’
They turned on to Via Stibbert and started going uphill. Piras had opened his window and was studying the numbers on the front doors with a rather imbecilic expression on his face. You could tell he was still thinking about the Sicilian girl. They pulled up in front of number 77 and got out. It, too, was another fine old building, with a stone façade and sculpted mouldings. They rang Manfredini’s bell several times, but nobody answered. Bordelli threw down his half-smoked cigarette, which was wet with rain.
‘Got any intelligent ideas, Piras?’
The Sardinian made an idiotic face.
‘Let’s go back to Sonia’s … Maybe we could ask her—’
‘I said “intelligent”, Piras, not “pleasant”.’
‘I was just thinking that we—’
‘Let’s go, we can try again later,’ Bordelli cut him off. They got back into the Beetle and drove down Via Stibbert. Then they turned on to the Viali13 and slowly headed back towards the Parco delle Cascine. A fine drizzle continued to fall as they got out of the car, but the wind had died down. There was still some activity in the meadow. The inspector gestured to Rinaldi, and the officer came running, water dripping from the brim of his cap.
‘Has the mother arrived?’ Bordelli asked.
‘She left just a few minutes ago, Inspector.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘She just stood there staring at the child without saying anything. She didn’t want to talk to anybody.’
‘Any other news?’
‘No, sir, nothing to report.’
Bordelli stood there in silence, staring at the little path that led into the oak wood. He looked hypnotised. Then he snapped out of it and ran a hand over his eyes, as if trying to wipe something away.
‘Come on, Piras, let’s go back to Via Stibbert.’
‘It hasn’t even been half an hour, Inspector.’
‘Maybe he’ll come back for lunch,’ said Bordelli, walking down towards the car. Piras shrugged and followed him. The rain was rapidly gaining in strength and, to judge from the sky, it wasn’t going to let up any time soon. Before shifting into third, Bordelli lit a cigarette. Piras opened the window and started waving his hand around.
‘Couldn’t you smoke a little less, Inspector?’
‘Not now, Piras.’
Bordelli was driving at a snail’s pace, to kill a little time. When he finished his cigarette, he lit another, to Piras’s great joy. It started raining harder. There were very few people about.
By the time they began driving down Via Vittorio Emanuele it was pouring. They turned on to Via Stibbert and parked in front of Manfredini’s building.
‘Don’t you have an umbrella, Inspector?’
‘I’ve got several, but not here.’
‘Well, it’s just water,’ said Piras.
They dashed out of the car and took shelter in the great doorway of Manfredini’s building. They rang his buzzer, but no one answered. Piras repeatedly wiped the rain off his face.
‘What are we going to do, Inspector? It’s almost one.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Not terribly, but I would gladly eat a …’ Piras stopped talking, distracted by a guy with an umbrella who had stopped in front of the entrance to number 77 and was searching his pockets for the keys. He looked to be about thirty and was short, with round glasses and a rebellious shock of hair on his head. As he slipped the key into the lock, he cast an inquisitive glance at the two strangers standing motionless out of the rain.
‘I beg your pardon …’ said the inspector. The man looked at them with a serious expression, his gaze moving quickly from one to the other.
‘Yes?’ he said. He had skin as delicate as that of a young child, and two dark, intelligent eyes behind the lenses of his glasses.
‘Do you know Francesco Manfredini?’ the inspector asked.
‘And who are you?’ the man said, rather provocatively. Bordelli took out his badge.
‘Inspector Bordelli. He’s Piras.’
‘I’m Manfredini.’
‘Could we have a little talk with you?’
‘What about?’
‘It’ll only take a minute. Could we go up to your flat?’ Bordelli asked, indicating the rain with a gesture. Manfredini didn’t say anything, but just pushed the great door open and turned on the light. The staircase lit up with a yellowish glow, as if the light itself was from the past. They climbed the stairs in silence, water dripping from their clothes. Manfredini’s he
els made noise against the stone, and he was continually running his hand through his wet hair. On the third floor he opened the door to his flat and showed them in. The entrance was bare, but the ancient flooring sufficed to give the space a certain warmth. A long hallway leading into darkness gave the impression of a rather large apartment. Manfredini slid his umbrella into a tall earthenware vase, took off his coat and, without saying a word, led them into the drawing room, a great big space with ceilings nearly fifteen feet high and frescoed by some naif seventeenth-century painter. There was a vague scent of old wood and wax in the air. The chandelier gave off a faint, wan light, and a dark, enormous armoire covered nearly the whole wall between two tall, curtained windows. Two sofas were set up facing one another, with a small, oval table between them.
Walking silently across the carpet, Manfredini went and turned on a twenties lamp on a corner table, immediately giving the place the feel of a brothel.
‘What did you want to tell me, Inspector?’ Manfredini asked with a nonchalant air, turning towards the two policemen and stopping a short distance from them. All three had remained standing.
‘How long has it been since you last saw your cousin Simone?’ Bordelli asked.
‘I saw him yesterday. Why?’
‘Do you know where we can find him?’
‘Did you try his place?’ Manfredini asked, a little disingenuously.
Bordelli glanced at Piras, who was staring at Manfredini with an air of suspicion. Then he calmly lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
‘Signor Manfredini, if you know where Simone is, you’d better tell us straight away.’
‘I don’t know where he is, I’ve already told you … Could you please tell me what this is about?’ Manfredini asked, getting more upset than was warranted. He no longer seemed so nonchalant. Bordelli had the distinct impression that he was lying, and decided to get straight to the point.
‘Your cousin is in a lot of trouble, and I’m sure he won’t come home for a good while. If you know where he is, I advise you to tell me.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ asked Manfredini.
