by Marco Vichi
‘Pinocchio was a wooden marionette and his father was an old man with white hair called Geppetto …’
‘Come on, dear, don’t get so discouraged. You’re doing your best,’ said Rosa, knitting slowly away, as usual. Bordelli was lying on the sofa. He’d been carrying around a headache since the morning, and it had worsened that evening. Even Rosa’s massage had failed to make it go away. Maybe a storm was coming. He had the misfortune of being able to feel them coming well in advance.
‘I would like to catch him before he kills anyone else,’ Bordelli said bitterly, pressing his temples hard with his fingertips. He could no longer stand feeling so powerless. After his fruitless visit to Signora Zanetti he had phoned Dr Saggini to tell him the woman was not well, and the doctor had assured him he would go and pay a call on her at once. Aside from this, there were no new developments, and it wasn’t very encouraging …
The cat came home from his rounds across the rooftops and started miaowing about the room, snapping his tail.
‘Gideon’s nervous, too,’ said Rosa. At that moment a lightning bolt lit up the sky for a long second, and the lamps in the room started to flicker. Then, at once, a violent clap of thunder chased the cat under the sofa.
‘Finally,’ said Bordelli. ‘It’s coming.’
Usually his headache would begin to subside after the first flashes of lightning and eventually vanish altogether. There was another, louder burst of thunder, and the lights went off. The first raindrops started to fall, big and sparse, then ever more dense, until they became a downpour. Rosa lived on the top floor, and one could hear the water pounding the roof.
‘What a wonderful storm!’ said Rosa, moving in the dark. She lit a few candles and sat down in front of the window to watch the lightning. Bordelli sat up and poured himself more cognac.
‘You know what, Rosa? I’ve been with a woman.’
‘In what sense?’
‘Well …’
‘Oh, really?’ she said, turning round to look at him.
‘You don’t seem happy about it.’
‘That depends. I don’t want you to end up in the hands of a witch.’
‘Don’t worry, she’s not a witch,’ said Bordelli.
‘How old is she?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Why won’t you tell me?’
‘About twenty-five, I’d say.’
Rosa burst out laughing.
‘And what are you going to do with a child like that?’ she said, hysterical.
‘Rosa, what’s got into you? You’re acting like a jealous wife.’
‘Jealous? Me? Of what? It’d take a lot of little girls to make a woman like me.’
‘Don’t get upset.’
Rosa came over and looked him in the eye as the thunderbolts cracked in quick succession, sounding like a bombing raid.
‘You’re all the same, you men. You let yourselves be taken for a ride for a little packet of fresh meat,’ she said. The flashes of lightning filled the room, illuminating Rosa’s offended face. The atmosphere was one of tragedy.
‘Come on …’ said Bordelli. He took one of her hands in his and kissed it. Rosa still pouted a bit, but seemed to be calming down.
‘Is she really so beautiful, this infant?’ she muttered in a childlike voice, lowering her eyes.
‘What was that?’ asked Bordelli, who, because of a thunderclap, hadn’t understood.
‘Is this child really so beautiful?’
‘Extraordinarily beautiful.’
‘Blonde?’
‘Dark,’ said Bordelli, squeezing her fingers.
‘What about her feet? Are they pretty?’
‘I’ve never seen such pretty feet.’
‘Ah, there you go! So you’ve already slept with her!’ she said, withdrawing her hand just as a lightning bolt lit up her eyes.
‘What’s the matter with you, Rosa?’
‘Nothing’s the matter with me.’
‘Come on now, try to calm down.’
Rosa stood for a minute in silence, eyes wandering about the room. Then she stared at Bordelli again, looking unhappy.
‘You won’t forget about me, monkey?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘You won’t forget about your Rosina?’
‘What would I do without you?’
‘Do you really mean that? You won’t forget about your Rosina?’
‘Never.’
Rosa sat down on the edge of the sofa and ran her hand through his hair.
‘Shall I make you something to eat, monkey?’ she said with a somewhat forced smile.
‘You know what I’d like? A little plate of spaghetti, the way you do it so well, with a spicy tomato sauce.’
‘Brown-noser!’ she said, elbowing him.
‘Seriously. Would you make me some?’
‘You certainly can’t say that girl cooks better than I do, ’cause I won’t believe it.’
‘Are you kidding? She can’t even boil beans,’ Bordelli lied.
Rosa looked at him with suspicion, then shrugged, grabbed a candle, and went into the kitchen humming a song by Celentano.The domestic squabble seemed to have been averted, but outside was sheer pandemonium. Bordelli took a gulp of cognac and lay back down. His headache was subsiding. He enjoyed lying there motionless, listening to the sounds of the rain and the crashing thunder, with Rosa bustling about in the kitchen, howling the tune to Pregherò off key. All that was missing was a warm fireplace. He closed his eyes and thought of Milena. Who knew where she was at that moment?…
Gideon recovered his courage and came out from under the sofa, jumped up on to Bordelli’s paunch, lay down and started purring. It wasn’t quite eleven o’clock. The air filled with an aroma of sauted onions, carrots, celery …
‘Put in a lot of hot pepper,’ Bordelli said in a loud voice. Suddenly the lights came back on all around.
‘Oh no, it was so lovely with the candles!’ Rosa cried from the kitchen.
At midnight it was still raining buckets, and the sewers were at their limit. The lightning, however, had receded a bit into the distance. The Beetle was parked some thirty yards from Rosa’s front door, near the corner of Via dei Leoni. In that narrow street the roar of the rainfall sounded like the sea during a storm, and in spite of everything, the spectacle had something fascinating about it. The inspector opened the tiny umbrella Rosa had lent him, pressed it down over his head, and made a run for it, but by the time he got inside the car, he was soaked to his underpants. Luckily it wasn’t cold outside. He started up the car and drove off, the windscreen wipers struggling uselessly. His mouth still burned from the hot pepper.
He didn’t feel like going directly home. He’d thought of something to do, though he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. His headache was finally gone, and he didn’t even feel very tired. He drove at a snail’s pace to Piazza Antinori, still somewhat undecided as to whether he should do the thing or not. The rain kept coming down in torrents, and he couldn’t see much, if anything, beyond the nose of the car. He slipped on to Via de’ Giacomini with heart racing, and travelled its whole length, taking care not to scrape the tyres against the kerb. Then he turned right on to Via delle Belle Donne, and stopped a few yards down. Leaning forward to look at the windows of Levi’s flat, through the sheets of rain he espied some lights and felt a shudder run down his arms. That was the effect the thought of Milena had on him. He was like an adolescent in love for the first time.
‘Why are you leaving so early?’ Rosa had asked him.
‘I can’t keep my eyes open.’
‘You’re not going to see her, are you? You seem so addled …’
‘Oh, come on, I’m going straight home,’ he’d said, running a hand over his face to simulate great fatigue.
He parked the Beetle with two wheels up on the pavement. The street was flooded; it looked like a torrent in spate. Holding Rosa’s tiny umbrella just over his head, he ran and took shelter inside the
great doorway of Levi’s building. He was wetter than if he’d fallen into a bathtub. He knew that the best thing would have been to go home and take a nice hot shower, but he didn’t always follow common sense. After a moment of indecision, he rang the buzzer and got an electrical shock in his finger. Bloody rain, he thought, looking over at the river of water that was beginning to flood over the kerb and inundate the pavements. There was no reply. He began to feel like an ass. Protecting his finger with the sleeve of his jacket, he rang again, but the front door didn’t open. He waited a while longer. It felt as if he’d been standing for ever in the downpour, like a fool … It was too ridiculous. As he turned away to leave, cursing the goddamned spring weather, the lock on the door clicked open. Immediately he regretted having rung … The stuff of mental retards … Milena wasn’t going to like this little surprise one bit, he was sure of it. For a second he thought of running away, then summoned his courage and went inside. Leaning the tiny umbrella against the wall, he headed up the stairs, dripping water everywhere … Utter idiocy, he thought to himself.
‘Who is it?’ Levi’s voice called from above.
‘Bordelli.’
Levi waited for him in the doorway. He had a strange light in his eyes. One couldn’t tell whether he was pleased or upset.
‘I hadn’t expected to see you, Inspector, in this weather … Any big news?’ he said, shaking his hand.
‘No, no news.’
‘Ah, so you’ve come just to pay us a visit.’
‘I guess I’m getting to like you,’ said Bordelli, coming inside. Drenched to the bone, he sneezed. Walking through the apartment, he left a stream of water in his wake. Levi showed him into the usual room.
‘I’ll bring you something to dry yourself with,’ he said, heading towards the door. Bordelli thanked him with another sneeze. He then took off his sodden jacket, tossed it aside, and collapsed into an armchair. His hair was still dripping and wetting everything around him. He really had been a bloody idiot to come here. Imagining that Milena was at home and had heard him come in, he felt as ashamed as a thief. On the other hand, the thought that she was there, only a few yards away from him, on the other side of those walls, brought butterflies to his stomach. Rosa was right. He was in a sorry state. He had best get the hell out of there and go home to bed. So he thought, at any rate. But he didn’t budge.
Levi returned with a large, scented towel and handed it to the poor wayfarer lost on a stormy night … He looked at him with feigned compassion.
‘Thanks,’ said Bordelli. He rubbed his face and hair for a long time with the towel, to put off the moment of explanation.
‘Cognac?’ asked Levi.
‘Just so you won’t have to drink yours alone.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
Levi went to get the cognac, filled two glasses, and set the bottle down on the coffee table. Bordelli raised his glass slightly, hinting at a toast, and knocked back a slug of cognac. He immediately felt better.
‘Aside from your fondness for us, is there another reason for your visit?’ Levi asked.
‘Karl Strüffen,’ said Bordelli, smiling.
‘Ah, I see. You came here at this hour, through the Great Flood, to talk about Karl Strüffen …’
‘I’ve been a bit anxious lately.’
‘Don’t be in too big a hurry, Bordelli. Our friend has hidden himself well, but we’ll find him. It’s only a matter of time,’ said Levi, staring at him and smiling ironically.
‘I’m well aware of that. I have a great deal of faith in the White Dove.’
‘You need only have a little more patience.’
‘I’ve got plenty of that, too,’ said Bordelli. At that moment a telephone rang in another room, but only twice. A second later, Goldberg poked his head round the door. Levi excused himself to the inspector and went to answer the phone, glass in hand. Bordelli refilled his own. The rain was still coming down hard outside. He thought again of Milena and hoped she would come into the room, even though he knew he cut a pretty sorry figure. A fifty-four-year-old man behaving like a child … But he wanted to see her face, to hear her voice. He ran a hand over his stubbly face and sat there, staring at a crack in the ceiling with his glass in his hand. The only sound was the rain.
Levi was taking for ever, and the inspector lit a cigarette. Suddenly the door opened and Goldberg came in, took something from a drawer in the filing cabinet, greeted Bordelli with a nod, and went back out without so much as a smile. Maybe he was still sore at him.
Levi returned a few minutes later, excusing himself for having made him wait. He sat down across from him and refilled his glass.
‘Milena’s not here,’ he said out of the blue.
‘What’s that?’ said Bordelli, a little embarrassed.
‘She’s out of town … should be back in a couple of days.’
‘Any news about Strüffen?’
Levi calmly took a sip of cognac without taking his eyes off his guest.
‘Tell me something, Bordelli. Are you sleeping with her just to extract information?’
‘No,’ said the inspector, blushing.
‘At any rate it’d be a waste of time. Milena will never know a thing about the organisation, even if you marry her … Another drop of cognac, Inspector?’
‘The last.’
Bordelli left Levi’s place at two o’clock, head spinning. It was still raining, though by this point he didn’t care if he got wet. He forded the stream and got into his car. Letting the clutch out a bit too quickly, he fairly flew off the pavement. The streets were completely flooded, and the wheels raised great waves of water that crashed against the buildings’ walls. While crossing the Ponte alla Carraia, he glanced out over the Arno. It was swollen with muddy water and coursing like a torrent in spate. It was frightening.
He got home, sneezing all the way, tore off his rain-soaked clothes, and threw himself down naked on the bed. He felt like vomiting. He embraced a pillow and dragged his mouth across it, his nostrils filling with the scent of Milena.
After an uneventful morning with no new developments and no hope, Bordelli headed out on foot to have a bite to eat at Da Cesare. He hadn’t been back there for two or three days.
As he walked into Totò’s kitchen, there was Botta, firing up a skillet.
‘Ennio … how strange to see you here,’ he said, going up to him.
‘I passed the test, Inspector, as you can see. And I know all about your habits. Just take a seat and tell me what you want to eat.’
‘You decide, Ennio. I trust you.’ He patted him on the back and went and sat down on his stool.
As he resumed cooking, Botta appeared to be trying to think of something. He drained a pound of pasta, divided it into three bowls, poured some dense red sauce over each. He put all three on the sill of the serving hatch and called the waiter. After reading the next order, he dumped two packets of spaghetti into a pot of boiling water, stirred them for a second or two, then came over towards the inspector, wiping his greasy hands on his apron, exactly like Totò.
‘How about some penne with asparagus, then pork chops made my own special way?’
‘Perfect.’
Botta set a flask of red wine in front of him and immediately got down to work.
‘And what about that killer, Inspector?’
‘We can talk about it after I catch him, Ennio. For the time being I’d rather not hear any mention of it.’
‘Shall I put a dash of hot pepper on the pasta?’
‘You can even throw in a handful … But why don’t you tell me a little about Greece in the meantime?’
Botta smiled and gestured as if to say that he could talk about Greece only in a low voice. Bordelli half-closed his eyes conspiratorially and sipped wine as he waited.
The penne with asparagus arrived, and Bordelli discovered he was famished.
‘Good,’ he said.
‘The pork chops I make the way my father taught me: milk, tomato and fennel seed
s.’
‘Sounds a bit odd to me.’
‘Just wait and taste it first, then tell me what you think.’
Botta went back to the cooker and appeared to be having a lot of fun. Every so often he came back to the inspector and whispered a few things about Greece. He’d gone there to give a hand to a Greek friend he’d met in jail some ten years earlier, at Salonika. He was supposed to help him sell fake archaeological artifacts to some rich Germans. Botta was a wizard at transforming counterfeit coins and little home-made vases into ancient objects. They’d worked together for a week in an Athenian basement under Botta’s direction, then gone to Piraeus to please the German collectors. It had all come off quite well. The Krauts paid a fortune for a handful of phoney knick-knacks, and Botta pocketed thirty per cent. Returning to Italy, he passed through customs without any problem, hiding the cash in his underpants. After this deal, he could sit tight for a while and perhaps even devote himself to cooking.
‘And you’re telling these things to a policeman …’ said Bordelli.
‘You should have seen the joy in those Germans’ eyes, Inspector … They were like children. I felt like their benefactor,’ said Botta, pretending to be serious.
‘Well, when you put it that way, there’s not much I can say … And, after all, they were German.’
‘Precisely,’ said Botta, and then he went and put a generous amount of chopped onion in a skillet.
The pork chops arrived enveloped in a cloud of fennel essence. They had an unusual look about them, swimming as they were in a rather liquid, pink sauce. With some misgiving, Bordelli cut a little corner to taste them.
‘Didn’t you say you trusted me, Inspector?’
‘Yes, but …’ Bordelli said, not knowing what to say. He put the strange thing in his mouth, and before he had even swallowed, he sought out Botta’s eyes.
‘Damn, that’s good,’ he said.
‘Never trust appearances, Inspector … It’s just as true for meat as it is for people …’
‘Listen, I want you to give Totò the recipe. I mean it.’
