by Marco Vichi
‘Why did you kill those little girls, Rivalta? And what’s the meaning of that bite on the tummy?’ Bordelli asked for the umpteenth time, without ceasing his pacing.
Rivalta didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him, but only spread the four-fingered hand over his thigh and started studying it. He acted as if he were the only person in the room.
‘Why do you refuse to speak?’ Bordelli asked.
Nothing. No answer, not even a raised eyebrow.
‘Do you want a lawyer? It’s your right, you know.’
Rivalta kept ignoring him, then began humming a song through his closed mouth. In the silent pauses, Piras dozed in a seated position, hypnotised by the sound of the inspector’s steps. His head would bend slowly forward, then fall all at once, and he would wake up with a look of alarm. Bordelli kept on pacing back and forth, increasingly nervous. Suddenly the phone rang, and Piras leapt in his chair. Bordelli ran to pick up. As he’d been hoping, it was De Marchi.
‘I’ve just finished now, Inspector. The mud matches up,’ the technician said sleepily, with a furred tongue. Bordelli felt a shiver in his face.
‘Go and get some sleep,’ he said.
‘I can’t wait,’ said De Marchi.
Bordelli hung up and shot a glance at Piras. Then he walked towards Rivalta and stopped behind his back.
‘I’m afraid it’s all over for you,’ he said.
Rivalta had picked up a pen and was playing with it. He was clicking the tip in and out, and looked as if he was concentrating very hard.
‘Why did you kill them?’ the inspector asked again.
No reply. Rivalta’s thoughts seemed somewhere else entirely. Bordelli put his cigarette out in the ashtray and ran a hand through his hair. He, too, was very tired. He circled round behind the desk and, without sitting down, leaned forward, resting his hands on the wooden desktop. He started staring at Rivalta.
‘Tell me why you killed them,’ he said yet again, restraining an urge to pummel the man’s face. He wanted to know what had driven a man like Rivalta to strangle those little girls, and he realised he wanted to know at any cost. He could feel it becoming an obsession.
Rivalta seemed untroubled, though every so often a vertical furrow appeared on his brow, as if he were thinking of something. He put the pen back in its place, grabbed Casimiro’s little skeleton, and couldn’t hold back a smile. Bordelli stared hard at him and thought he glimpsed, behind those lively, violent eyes, a crippled soul.
‘I’m asking you for the last time … Why did you kill those little girls?’ he said harshly, practically yelling.
Piras woke up with a start and ran a hand over his face. Bordelli went up to Rivalta again, a strange expression in his eyes. He looked very pissed off, too pissed off, and Piras started to get worried. Rivalta, for his part, did nothing. He was shut up in a world all his own. Then the inspector raised the suspect’s chin with one hand and raised the other hand as if about to punch him in the face. Piras shot to his feet and grabbed Bordelli’s arm.
‘Calm down, Inspector,’ he said. Rivalta wasn’t the least bit flustered.
‘Take him away, Piras,’ said Bordelli, lowering his fist, then running his hand through his hair. He went and sat down. Piras grabbed Rivalta by the shoulder.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Rivalta calmly put the little skeleton back on the desk and stood up listlessly. He let the Sardinian handcuff him, and without a sound he left the room, towed by Piras.
Bordelli sat there staring at the wall, frowning darkly, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He simply couldn’t accept it. Why did Rivalta kill those children? How much hatred must he have inside him, and why? Dante Pedretti’s words came back to him: ‘If a wretch kills little girls, there must be, at the source of his crime, an even greater wrong …’
After a short spell he heard the sirens of a couple of squad cars leaving the courtyard of Via Zara with tyres screeching. He pressed his eyeballs hard with his fingers. The commissioner’s words of congratulation came back to him, and those of the others as well, but none of it gave him any satisfaction.
MONSTER CAPTURED, said the poster for La Nazione in big block letters. Mugnai was having trouble holding back the journalists who wanted to talk to Bordelli.
‘Calm down!… Please, calm down … The commissioner will tell you everything you want to know at eight o’clock this evening,’ he kept saying, pushing back the herd. But nobody made any move to leave. They all wanted to talk to Inspector Bordelli, to get more details on the arrest, and they wanted to know why he wouldn’t show his face.
Bordelli wanted only to be left in peace. The killer had been caught; he had nothing else to add … Especially since he didn’t know much more than this himself, and it was eating away at him.
Early that morning Rivalta had been examined by a handful of psychiatrists, all of whom judged him to be in full possession of his faculties. For fear he might be killed by other inmates, he’d been put in a solitary confinement cell. Normally, those who attack children come to a bad end in jail. Bordelli still remembered a certain Bonanni, a man with an accountant’s face who had raped a ten-year-old girl just after the war. They’d put him in a communal cell. That night, the three men sleeping in the same cell had cut his balls off and let him bleed to death. The guards had heard him screaming endlessly, but paid no attention. It was one of those rare occasions when inmates and warders were in agreement.
The inspector slipped out of the police station through the usual back door, without anyone noticing. There was a bright sun shining, and it felt pretty hot outside. He took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt collar. Feeling like taking a walk, he headed towards the trattoria Da Cesare on foot, and in no hurry. There were a great many flies about, and they buzzed round his ears as he walked.
Crossing the Viale Lavagnini, he entered the restaurant, which was packed, as usual. Almost everyone sitting at the tables was avidly reading the newspaper, letting the food on their plates get cold. Bordelli raised a hand in response to Cesare’s and the waiters’ greetings, which were warmer than usual and full of tacit understanding. Then he slipped into Totò’s kitchen.
The moment he saw the inspector, the cook waved a copy of La Nazione in the air: MONSTER CAPTURED. He thumped his forefinger against the newspaper with obvious satisfaction.
‘You finally caught him, Inspector … Lunch is on me today.’
‘When did you get back, Totò?’
‘Last night,’ said the cook, hanging the newspaper from a hook as if it were a placard.
‘Get rid of that, Totò, there’s no reason to celebrate,’ Bordelli said, sitting down.
‘Out of the question, Inspector. In my kitchen I hang up whatever I like.’
‘Then forget I said anything.’
The inspector noticed that Totò had dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept for three straight days, and imagined the long, sleepless nights spent at his dying grandmother’s bedside.
‘How’s your grandmother?’ he asked with concern, expecting Totò to trace a cross in the air.
‘Ah, the poor thing …’ the cook said in a loud voice. Then, coming up to Bordelli, he whispered in his ear: ‘Actually my grandmother’s just fine, Inspector, she’ll end up burying us all …’
‘But wasn’t she at death’s door?’ Bordelli whispered.
‘She’s never been better, Inspector. Eats like a horse and drinks like a fish. I was just feeling a little homesick, that’s all … And there was also the feast of the patron saint. But I couldn’t very well say that to Cesare …’
‘So, did you have fun?’
‘Hell, Inspector, you have no idea what holidays are like back home. You sing and dance till dawn, you drink like mad and just about anything can happen.’
‘Sounds nice …’ said Bordelli.
‘Up here in the north you’re all sulkers. You like making sport of others, but you really don’t know how to have fun … It’s like you’
re afraid of your own feelings, for Chrissakes.’
‘Maybe one of these days I’ll go down with you to see your grandmother,’ said Bordelli.
Totò winked at him in agreement.
‘A nice little ribollita,18 Inspector?’ he said loudly.
‘Ribollita it is.’
Totò gave him a slap on the shoulder and went to fill a bowl. He added a drop of olive oil, one fresh hot pepper chopped fine, and a dusting of Parmesan cheese. Then he pulled out a large goblet, filled it with red wine, and put everything in front of Bordelli.
‘Today.I want you to be served properly, as you deserve,’ he said.
‘I could have caught him a lot sooner, Totò… Two little girls would still be alive. I was a complete bollock-brain,’ said Bordelli, noticing two greasy fingerprints on the belly of the glass.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Totò, raising his eyebrows.
‘I mean that the killer made a fool of me … He had a lighting system in his house that turned the lights on and off when he wasn’t at home.’
‘No!’
‘The newspapers don’t know this yet.’
‘Totò never talks,’ said the cook, proud to be let in on the secret.
‘I let myself be fooled like a shitbrain …’ Bordelli persisted.
‘And why did he kill them, Inspector?’
‘That’s what I want to know! But I couldn’t get him to tell me anything.’
‘Who the hell knows what someone like that’s got in his head …’
‘Well, it seems nobody will ever know, Totò, and that’s exactly what I’m having such a hard time swallowing.’
‘The important thing is that you caught him, Inspector, the rest is just bollocks,’ said the cook, shrugging. He went back to the cooker to do his job. He was particularly full of energy that day, perhaps because of the spring. He was handling the fish and steaks almost violently.
After the ribollita came the rabbit stew. Bordelli was nervous. He ate frantically and knocked back the wine as if it were water, watching the columns of smoke rising over the pots and pans on the stove. Totò cut a steak practically two inches thick, availing himself of the cleaver to cut through the bone, and threw it on to the red-hot grill. Then he returned to Bordelli and poured himself a glass of wine.
‘You know what, Inspector? If I was a cop, I’d probably shoot certain people right between the eyes without a second thought.’
‘It’s a good thing you’re a cook, Totò.’
‘Have I ever told you about that guy back home who killed two twin girls in ‘55?’
‘I think so …’ said Bordelli, hoping he would drop it.
‘He’d just escaped from the insane asylum and ran across the little girls playing in the woods … One was ten years old, the other was twelve …’
‘Rather odd for twins, no?’ said Bordelli. The cook froze for a moment, then waved his hand in the air.
‘Never mind, Inspector … That madman raped them both, then chopped them into little pieces with an axe and dumped them in a river. He was found a few hours later, sitting in a field, drunk on grappa, his clothes soaked with blood. When they put the handcuffs on him he started crying like a baby … He said they should lock him up and throw away the key, and if they cut his head off, that would be even better. “If I get out again, I’ll do it again, I can’t help myself,” he kept blubbering. So they locked him back up in the loony bin, and a few days later they found him dead with his head split open. He’d killed himself bashing his head against the wall … Bah! There’s just one thing I wonder about all this: why the hell does the good Lord bother to create such people …?’
‘A long time ago, some saint said that God always has his reasons, even if we can’t understand them,’ said Bordelli.
‘So why doesn’t He come and explain them to us?… Excuse me just a second, Inspector …’ The steak was asking to be turned over. Totò stuck a fork in it and flipped it. Then he grabbed a handful of juniper berries and threw them on the hot coals. There was a crackling sound, and for a few seconds the steak was enveloped in dense smoke.
‘Would you like a piece of this, Inspector?’ Totò shouted, picking up the smoking steak.
‘Another time, thanks.’
‘A bit of pecorino?’
‘I’m happy just as I am.’
Totò shrugged his shoulders, put the steak on a serving platter and summoned the waiter by slapping his hand against the wall. Immediately a hand poked through the serving hatch and carried away the three-pound slab of meat.
‘How many people is that for?’ Bordelli asked.
‘Two,’ said the cook.
‘I would have thought at least four.’
‘A little grappa, Inspector?’
‘Just a drop.’
Totò filled the glass to the brim, as always, then raced to drain two pots of pasta. When he returned, he shot Bordelli a cocky, southern glance.
‘To change the subject, Inspector … From what I’m told, that Bottarini didn’t do such a bad job in the kitchen,’ he said, trying to summon a magnanimous expression.
‘I told you he knew what he was doing,’ Bordelli ribbed him.
Totò tried to force a smile, but managed only to make an ugly face.
‘Apparently Cesare wants to hire him for Saturdays and Sundays on a steady basis,’ he said, feigning indifference.
‘Great. That way the two of you can trade secrets.’
‘Yes, yes … Very nice … But tell me something, what’s this about the pork chops with milk and fennel?’
‘There’s tomato, too.’
‘Tomato, too … Mmmm, my goodness!’ said Totò, clearly pulling the inspector’s leg.
‘You really ought to try it, Totò.’
‘Of course, Inspector! Milk and tomato sauce … it must be a masterpiece!’ said the cook, coming towards the inspector with a malignant smile.
‘Just taste it, Totò, then we can talk about it.’
‘Some muck I won’t even smell …’
‘Listen, Botta even knows a lot of international recipes,’ said Bordelli, who was amusing himself trying to provoke him. Totò opened his eyes wide.
‘So what? A whole lot of people like to pretend they’re American, too … They even made a song about it!19 But it certainly doesn’t mean the Americans are better than we are …’
‘What’s the matter with you, Totò? Jealous?’
The cook poked himself in the chest.
‘Me, jealous? Are you joking, Inspector? Why should I be jealous? Of what, anyway? Of a chop with tomato sauce and four bits of foreign slop on it?’
Bordelli finished his grappa and got up. He’d eaten and drunk like a pig, and his head was spinning.
‘Don’t get upset, Totò, you’re still the best,’ he said, seeing that his friend had taken childish offence.
‘Now you’re exaggerating,’ said Totò, barely unable to restrain a grin of satisfaction.
‘Ciao, bello, thanks for lunch.’
‘It was my pleasure, Inspector. And be sure to come back tomorrow: I’m gonna make squid in zimino.’20
He sat up and stuffed a pillow behind his back. Then he lit a cigarette. The cool night air blew in through the open window. It must have been about 4 a.m. There was deep silence. Milena lay beside him, naked under the sheets, eyes still beaming with pleasure. She kept one hand on his belly and played around with all the hair.
‘You braved the deluge just to see me …’ she said, smiling faintly. Her hand climbed Bordelli’s chest and lightly grazed a nipple.
‘Oh, go on …’ he said, seeming annoyed.
‘What’s wrong, Mr Inspector?’ asked Milena, removing her hand.
‘Nothing.’
‘You seem strange.’
‘I’ve got a bee in my bonnet.’
‘Why won’t you relax?’
‘Because I’ve got a bee in my bonnet …’
‘Give me a kiss,’ said Milena, trying to pull him down, but
he didn’t move.
‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ she said, shaking him gently. Bordelli had a tired face and deep wrinkles under his eyes.
‘Why did he kill them?’ he murmured, staring into space.
‘Not that again … Isn’t it enough that you caught him?’ she said, poking his belly button.
‘I want to understand,’ said Bordelli, blowing smoke upwards. He could feel Milena’s breast against his thigh, but not even her smooth, soft skin was able to distract him from his obsession. Milena tried to pull him towards her again, but he was as stiff as a broom. He couldn’t stop thinking about Rivalta and the four little girls. He seemed trapped in a world all his own. At a certain point Milena lost patience, got out of bed and folded her arms across her breasts. She was naked but moved as if she wasn’t.
‘Look, Inspector … the killer is locked up in jail and will never kill again. What do you care about the rest?’ she asked with great irritation.
‘What’s the matter with you, Milena?’
‘I don’t understand you,’ she said, throwing her hands up. She seemed quite angry.
‘Calm down,’ said Bordelli, his eyes wandering down to Milena’s naked breasts, which were as beautiful as those on a Greek statue.
‘I just wonder why you’re so fixated on this!’ she said, more and more upset.
‘And I wonder why you’re getting so upset about it.’
‘You’re morbid.’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘I really don’t understand you,’ she said, turning towards the window. She had a beautiful bottom, and two long legs that sprang up from the ground like gushing fountains. Bordelli fell silent for a moment, to admire all that beauty. Then he crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and pulled out another.
‘I’m sorry, Milena, you’re right. I’m a bit obsessed about this. But that man is not your typical madman; he’s in full possession of his faculties. He knows exactly what he’s doing, he lives a normal life among his fellow men, he’s rich, he’s intelligent, he wants for nothing … So why the hell does he decide one day to start killing little girls? I want to know. Does that seem so strange to you?’
