by Marco Vichi
‘I’m truly sorry about that.’
Closing the door behind him, Bordelli heard the commissioner sputtering curses between clenched teeth.
In the days that followed, he learned that the judge had thrown a tantrum. Without a formal denunciation or concrete evidence, the possibility of a search warrant was less than a mirage. Seeing red, Bordelli had decided to go and talk directly with Judge Ginzillo, the man with the smallest head he’d ever seen. He’d had to deal with him a number of times in the past, and it had never been pleasant.
‘Dr Ginzillo, please don’t always throw spanners in my works, if you can help it,’ Bordelli said politely the moment he was allowed into the judge’s office.
‘Please sit down, Inspector, and excuse me for a moment,’ Ginzillo said without looking at him. He was busy reading something and seemed engrossed. Bordelli sat down calmly, repressing his desire to grab him by the ears and lift him off the ground. He even resisted the desire to light a cigarette, but not for Ginzillo’s sake. He’d decided to stop smoking and was always trying to put off the next cigarette for as long as possible.
The judge glanced at his watch, took a sip of water, and drummed his fingers on the desk, all the while hypnotised by that bloody, stamp-covered piece of paper.
‘All right, let’s hear it, Inspector, but make it brief,’ he said suddenly, without looking up. Before the inspector could open his mouth, a forty-something secretary dressed like an old maid walked in carrying a number of documents that urgently needed signing. The judge adjusted the glasses on his nose, and with a solemn mien sought the proper pen on his desk, found it, then started skimming the documents, murmuring the words as he read them. When he got to the end of each document, he gave a nod of approval, appended his signature, tightening his lips, then pushed the paper aside and went on to the next.
‘Go ahead, Inspector, I’m listening,’ he muttered, still reading. Bordelli didn’t reply, for fear he would utter an obscenity. When the secretary finally left, Ginzillo removed his spectacles with a weary gesture, cleaned them with a handkerchief, and put them back on. Then he resumed reading, fiddling with a very sharp pencil with a rubber at the end. He was holding it between two fingers and making it bounce off the wooden desktop.
‘So, you were saying, Inspector?’ he said, still hunched over the sheet of paper.
‘I haven’t breathed a word.’
‘Then please do. What are you waiting for?’
‘When I speak to someone I like to be able to look them in the eye, sir. It’s a fixation of mine.’
Ginzillo raised his head and, sighing, set the pencil down on the stack of papers. It seemed to cost him a lot of effort.
‘Go ahead,’ he muttered, looking at Bordelli with what seemed like great forbearance.
‘I need that search warrant, Dr Ginzillo.’
‘What search warrant?’
‘Badalamenti,’ the inspector said, staring at him.
‘We needn’t be so hasty.’
‘Hasty? Tell that to the people who’ve left their bollocks on the loan shark’s table.’
‘Please don’t be so vulgar, this is no place for that kind of talk.’
‘Why don’t you go some time and have a look for yourself at all the misery the man has caused? It’s not catching, you needn’t worry.’
‘Please, Bordelli …’
‘I said misery, sir, and while it may indeed be an obscenity, it’s not a bad word.’
The judge was getting upset. He put the pencil back in the cup and wrinkled his nose as if noticing an unpleasant smell.
‘Please sit down, Inspector, I want to have a little talk with you.’
Bordelli was already seated. Indeed, it felt to him as if he’d been sitting there for ever, and now he wanted to leave.
‘I don’t need to have a little talk with you, sir. What I need is that search warrant …’
The judge raised his eyebrows, looking irritated.
‘Just bear with me for a moment, Inspector,’ he said, sighing, putting his open hands forward as if to defend himself from the muzzle of a drooling, excessively friendly dog. Having caught his breath, he then stressed every syllable as if he were hammering nails.
‘If you really want to know, Inspector, Mr Badalamenti has a number of friends in our city government and socialises with some important families … Do you get the picture? Or can you think of nothing but your precious warrant? If I did as you ask and you found nothing … What would we do then? Can you imagine what the newspapers would say? Or have you already forgotten what happened with the Colombian jeweller?’
His voice came out through his nose with a metallic sound.
‘That wasn’t my case,’ Bordelli said, glancing compassionately at the timorous judge. Ginzillo raised his forefinger and his voice came out in a falsetto.
‘That’s exactly my point! If you’re wrong, it will be the first time for you, Inspector … but the second time in six months for the police force. Do you understand what I’m saying? The second time! And if you think I’m going to …’
‘Goodbye, Dr Ginzillo,’ Bordelli said unceremoniously, getting up and leaving the room.
As he had given Commissioner Inzipone to understand, the inspector had decided, after his fruitless meeting with Ginzillo, to enter the usurer’s flat illegally and search high and low for any evidence that might help to nail him. He was convinced he would find something but, truth be told, he was also hoping for a little luck.
That same night, at about three in the morning, he’d gone to inspect the site, to determine how difficult a job it would be. The small palazzina in which Badalamenti lived was quiet and dark. It was February and very cold outside. In the glow of the street lamps he could see a fine rain falling and turning to sleet.
Some years before, the inspector had taken lockpicking lessons from his friend Ennio Bottarini, known to intimates as Botta, a master of the art of burglary, and he was now able to pick some two-thirds of all the locks on the market with a mere piece of wire. His intention was to ask one of his friends from the San Frediano quarter to keep watch while he broke into Badalamenti’s flat right after the loan shark went out.
He managed to open the front door to the building in just a few seconds. Then, after tiptoeing up the stairs to the top floor, he met with disappointment. One look at Badalamenti’s door and he knew he was faced with a lock that his teacher classified as ‘curseworthy’. Bordelli was incapable of opening that kind. Only Botta could.
The following day the inspector had gone looking for him at home, only to learn that he’d been in jail for several weeks. He’d been arrested near Montecatini, at Pavesi di Serravalle, trying to shift a television set stolen from the office of a service station. Botta was an artist of burglary, and a very good cook, but he was terrible at disposing of stolen goods.
The inspector was shocked to learn he’d started doing these small jobs again. The last time he’d seen him, Botta was still coasting on the money he’d made on a successful scam in Greece.
The following Sunday morning Bordelli had gone to see him at the Murate prison. A guard accompanied him down the long corridors, opening and closing gates along the way. Water dripped from the ceilings, and the floor was scattered with dirty little piles of sawdust. The doors of the some of the cells were open, and the inmates walked about the corridors in groups, dragging their feet. Under the general murmur of voices the inspector heard the distant sound of an ocarina. After the umpteenth barred door, the guard pointed to a man scrubbing the floor at the end of a long, deserted corridor. It was Ennio. The inspector went up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Ciao, Botta, how’s it going?’
‘Inspector! What are you doing here?’ Ennio asked, feeling somewhat embarrassed.
‘How much time did they give you?’
‘Fourteen months, Inspector. I’m supposed to come out in March of next year, but by now I know how these things go. If I’m good, they’ll let me out for Ch
ristmas.’
‘And the money from Greece?’
‘The horses, Inspector. It’s the last time, I swear.’
‘I certainly hope so, for your sake.’
‘Fourteen months for a television set … Though I must say it was a Voxon, one of the best.’ Botta sighed histrionically.
‘Why don’t you ever call me when you have a problem, Ennio? You know I’ll help you if I can.’
‘But you already own a television set, Inspector! A beautiful Majestic …’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘And I hadn’t even stolen it myself ! I was just lending a friend a hand … You know who gave it to me?’
‘I don’t want to know. Listen, I’m here to ask you a favour.’
‘A nice Greek dinner at your place?’
‘That too … but there’s something else.’
‘What is it, Inspector?’
‘I want you to pick a lock for me,’ Bordelli said, lowering his voice.
‘Did you lose the keys?’ Botta asked, laughing.
‘I want to get inside the flat of someone who should be in here instead of you.’
‘And what about all those things I taught you?’
‘It’s the kind of lock that calls for Botta.’
Ennio puffed up with pride.
‘No problem, Inspector, as soon as I get out of here I’ll open it for you.’
‘Just so it’s clear, what we’re going to do is illegal. If they catch us, they’ll bugger us both.’
‘No problem all the same, Inspector. If you’re there it’s fine with me.’
‘Thanks.’
‘At any rate I assure you, Inspector, you’ve got a real knack for it. I mean it.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’d make a pretty decent burglar yourself.’
‘Well, coming from you, that’s a compliment.’
‘I’m not kidding, Inspector, it’s the truth.’
‘You’re too kind, Ennio,’ Bordelli said, and as he shook Botta’s hand before leaving, he slipped two thousand-lira notes in his friend’s shirt pocket.
‘This may come in handy.’
‘I owe you one, Inspector,’ Ennio said, winking.
‘Don’t forget to give me a ring as soon as you get out.’
‘You’ll have to be patient, Inspector, I’ve still got thirteen months to go. And even if I get out at Christmas, that still leaves ten.’
‘We can wait. Break a leg, Ennio.’
‘Thanks.’
For some time thereafter the inspector had carried on his personal investigation of Badalamenti, without results. He had discreetly tried to initiate a review of the city’s banks, in order to comb through the usurer’s accounts, but without a court order it would have been like trying to empty the ocean with a spoon. He had even thought of having Badalamenti’s phone tapped, but it was too risky and, most importantly, would have involved other people. He didn’t feel like taking anyone else into his unsteady boat. And it was anyone’s guess whether it really would have helped. Badalamenti was very shrewd and seemed to feel quite protected by his acquaintances. As Ginzillo had said, the man had an entrée into the homes of rich businessmen and ambitious young politicians. It led one to the disturbing conclusion that everyone present at those dinner parties had something in common. This was one of the more unpleasant faces of the new, changing Italy, Bordelli said to himself, thinking of all those who had died in the hopes of leaving a better world to their children …
In short, stopping Badalamenti had proved to be a far more difficult matter than expected. But the inspector was determined to see things through. He would have to wait for Botta and hope for a bit of luck.
The months went by.
The second channel of the RAI, the national television network, inaugurated by Mina4 three months earlier, expanded its programming, and to some it seemed as if the world had doubled in size. The television news programmes vomited out information from all over the world. From Algeria came troubling reports: after a century of colonialism and a million deaths, the country was in chaos. The French were leaving en masse, including legionnaires and pieds noirs, heeding the advice of the FLN, whose slogan was:
‘The boat or the coffin’. In June Ben Bella was swept away by Colonel Boumedienne, while, back in France, De Gaulle was preparing for the presidential election against the socialist Mitterrand.
From the US and the UK came new music, new faces, new fashions. Girls’ skirts became impossibly short, men’s hair grew longer and longer. It was anybody’s guess what it all meant. Everywhere one heard the songs of Adriano Celentano, Bobby Solo, Nicola di Bari and Gigliola Cinquetti. Bordelli often found himself humming a tune of Petula Clark’s, but could never remember the words.
Italy was advancing at a gallop, even though there weren’t enough horses for everybody. The number of Motoms and Vespas on the roads steadily increased, and there were more and more cars, especially Fiat 600s and 1100s. But there was no lack of Lancias and Alfa Romeos, either, and there were even a few Jaguars here and there. The traffic was already worse than the year before; at certain hours of the day one had to queue up at junctions. Billboards were getting bigger and bigger, and the laundry was now done by a machine.
Everything seemed to be going right. Money seemed to reproduce like loaves and fishes, the dream of wealth spread like a disease. But one had to be on the right side, or there was trouble. Trains kept coming up from the south, full of men without return tickets heading north to sell their flesh and muscles, dragging their poverty behind them. They kept the whole sideshow moving, but couldn’t climb aboard …
More than anything else, one felt the young people’s yearning to change the world, which to them seemed to have grown old and decrepit. Bordelli thought that it wasn’t only, as some believed, a desire to have fun. Nor was it only that they wanted to be rid once and for all of the dark past the old people were always telling them about with reproach and admonishment in their voices. At least from a distance, these kids almost looked as if they were of another race. They didn’t give a damn about the war that had ended not long before and which their parents claimed to have won.
For the first time, Bordelli felt all the violence of a real transformation in the air, even though it was hard to say exactly what it consisted of. The forces heating up across the country were diverse and numerous. In a sense, everything was being renewed. New wealth, new poverty. The word ‘freedom’ was being used in new ways, and the prisons to be destroyed had names never heard before …
More and more people were abandoning the countryside without regret. The old peasant houses and villas outside the cities were being sold at cut rates behind closed doors, furnishings and all. More than once during those months, Bordelli had wandered about with the idea of buying a ruin with a bit of land and growing old there, but he continually postponed acting on his desire. Before taking such a step, he had to think it over very carefully.
And so the months went by. December had arrived. Christmas was approaching with its coloured lights and stacks of fir trees on street corners. All that was missing, as usual, was snow.
Ennio might call at any moment, and Bordelli was ready to do what he’d been planning for months. But fate had decided otherwise. Someone had killed Badalamenti. The body was discovered that Wednesday, but the murder had occurred a few days earlier. The building’s other tenants had been smelling a sickly-sweet odour in the stairwell for some time and, sniffing around one morning, traced it to Badalamenti’s flat. Only then did they realise they hadn’t seen him for several days, and that his red Porsche hadn’t moved from the square for a while. They all agreed they should call the police. The report was passed on to Bordelli, who immediately got down to work. The firemen were summoned, and they broke down Badalamenti’s door with the solemn imprimatur of the law. The stench of death immediately assailed with full force the nostrils of everyone present. Bordelli had smelled that sweetish odour man
y times, too many, perhaps, and had never got used to it. He went in first, handkerchief pressed firmly against his mouth and nose, and opened all the windows. Badalamenti’s body lay face down on the floor of a small room done up as an office, halfway down the central hallway. His hands were curled, and he had one eye wide open, the other at half-mast. His half-open mouth rested against the tiled floor, and there were two dark spots of dried blood beside it. His eyeballs were already in bad shape. The scissors were stuck deep inside the flesh beneath the neck.
Bordelli immediately sent for the assistant public prosecutor. A police officer took a number of snapshots of the corpse from a variety of angles. The chief of forensics, De Marchi, and his assistants pulled out their tools and started searching the flat for fingerprints, cigarette ash, and anything else that might be of use, taking care not to move anything. De Marchi was just over thirty years old and had the face of a nerdy schoolboy, but was a real bulldog when it came to his work.
Bordelli had a great deal of confidence in him. Even though he knew him only on a professional basis, he addressed him in the familiar form, since the forensic expert was young enough to be his son.
The apartment had been visibly and thoroughly ransacked without compunction. It had a number of rooms, all furnished in more or less the same fashion – that is, with a lot of money and little taste. Faux-antique dressers and wardrobes next to green Formica tables, huge mirrors with modern gold-plated frames, ugly but flashy paintings, and imposing beds intended for much larger rooms.
Half an hour later the young assistant prosecutor, Cangiani, arrived. Standing in front of the corpse, he visibly gagged several times, then called Bordelli aside.
‘I’ve already seen what there is to see. Once the forensic team and the pathologist are done, you can go ahead and take the body away,’ he said, and then rushed out of the apartment.
Bordelli wanted to inspect the flat in his own good time, and alone, after everyone else had left. Possibly even the next day.
He was in no hurry. Phoning the station, he asked for Rinaldi.
‘I want you to come here with six or seven men and interrogate everyone in the building, and all the tenants in the buildings on Piazza del Carmine,’ he said.
