Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘That beats me,’ said Ettore, putting his cards back in the deck.

  ‘Three eights,’ said Piras, laying his cards down and picking up the kitty.

  ‘So she’s a blonde …’ Ettore persisted, not caring that he’d lost the hand. He was the oldest of the three and had arms as big as tree trunks.

  ‘And what makes you think I have a girlfriend?’ asked Piras, feigning indifference.

  ‘We could tell by your face,’ said Ettore.

  ‘Well, I haven’t got one,’ Piras quipped, shuffling the cards.

  ‘Oh, go on, everybody in town knows you do,’ said Angelo.

  ‘Everybody but me,’ said Piras.

  ‘Is she Florentine?’ asked Ettore.

  ‘Hey, what’s with you guys? Are you working for my mother or something?’ said Piras, and as he was dealing the cards he couldn’t suppress a smile.

  ‘Beware of those city girls, they’ll cut you open like a sheep and eat your heart out,’ said Ettore, staring at him. His eyes were as black as wet stones.

  ‘Just cut the crap and play,’ said Piras, looking at the cards in his hand. Three kings, an ace and a nine. The cards were treating him well that evening, but remembering the famous dictum about luck at cards, he wasn’t terribly pleased. Who knew what Sonia was doing at that moment, down in Palermo.

  Ettore and Angelo kept needling him about his mysterious girlfriend but were unable to extract any information. They played another two or three hands, and the luck remained with Piras, who threw his cards down in the end and stretched in his chair. He’d won about eighteen hundred lire.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said.

  ‘The last drop,’ said Ettore, already filling their glasses. He was the one who had to get up at the crack of dawn, but it had never bothered him much to go without sleep.

  ‘What do you say we all go to Sassari on the twenty-sixth?’ said Angelo.

  ‘What for?’ asked Ettore.

  ‘To look for girls.’

  ‘I’ve already got a girlfriend,’ said Ettore, shrugging. She was a twenty-year-old from Santu Lussurgiu whom he saw on Saturdays and Sundays.

  ‘Well, then Pietrino and I’ll go,’ said Angelo, looking at Piras.

  ‘I don’t go looking for girls while I’m hobbling on crutches,’ said Piras.

  ‘Why not? Maybe they’ll feel sorry for you.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Piras. He downed his glass and stood up, leaning on his crutches.

  ‘Want some company?’ asked Ettore, who lived right next door and had only to cross the courtyard to go home. Piras, on the other hand, lived practically on the other side of town.

  ‘Only if you carry me piggy-back,’ said Piras, moving his tired upper body. He’d sat for too long and his back hurt.

  ‘If you want I could drive you home,’ said Ettore, standing up. He’d just bought a new Fiat 500, the kind whose doors opened the right way. Coral red, almost like a Ferrari. He kept it in a stable his father no longer used.

  ‘Thanks, Tore, but I think I’ll hoof it,’ said Piras, heading for the door. After all, he lived only about half a mile away, and every opportunity to use his legs was beneficial.

  The three went out into the street. After all the grappa, it was nice to feel the cold air on their faces. The sky was clear, the moon on the horizon. Piras heaved a big sigh.

  ‘Noschese’s going to be on TV tomorrow,’ he said. His friends gestured as if to say they’d be there.

  ‘A si bìere,’12 said Piras, starting on his way down the sloping street.

  ‘A si bìere,’ replied Ettore and Angelo, almost in chorus.

  Taking care not to slip on the damp cobblestones, Piras arrived at Corso Italia, the village’s high street. There were few street lamps in town, and some were extinguished. Beyond the cones of light lay the darkness of night. When it got dark there, it got really dark, not like in Florence. The sky was clear, and the moon in its first quarter was rising right in front of him.

  After a few minutes’ walking, he saw the silhouette of his house loom ahead, low and broad. Attached to one side of it was the Urtises’ house, whose façade was entirely covered with seashells large and small, the work of their great-grandfather Efisio at the time of the unification of Italy.

  He heard some dogs barking in their kennels behind the stables. He could recognise each by the way it bayed. Zia Bona’s German shepherd let out a long howl at the moon that sounded like an amorous lament. Piras stopped to listen, feeling chills at the back of his neck as when he was a child. The moment the dog stopped, a chorus of even more sorrowful wails started up, and it seemed it would never end. These were the feral dogs of Montiferru, which every so often came down to the plain.

  Bordelli crushed his last cigarette butt in the ashtray, switched off the light and turned on to his side. He wanted to sleep but couldn’t stop thinking. He’d noticed that during the day he’d paid more attention to the women on the street than usual, feeling a mild but persistent desire for all of them, which was like saying for none. Perhaps he was finally breaking free of the beautiful Milena’s spell. That afternoon, in Via San Gallo, he’d seen a very fine woman with black hair in an offwhite overcoat that she wore wrapped around her like a mummy’s shroud, and as if in jest, he fantasised about her a little. It was a game he knew well and had played since early adolescence, but for some time now he’d found it boring. By this point in life, he felt as if he knew certain things too well and could no longer take dreams seriously. It was all much more thrilling before, when he was young and still hoped that something might change his life from one day to the next. Now he no longer believed it, and that was perhaps another reason why he lately felt the full weight of his fifty-five years. At times he imagined himself facing death alone, and at moments he even liked the idea. There was, of course, a bit of self-pity in this, and he was well aware of it. On the other hand, at the end of Westerns the hero always went away alone, without ever turning back, and that always made one hell of an impression. Usually there was a woman there crying for him, who would remember him for the rest of her life … But the cowboy always left anyway, into the unknown, on his white horse, gaze impassive …

  He buried his face in the pillow, trying to sleep, but his brain really had no intention of turning itself off that night. Perhaps it was because of the change of season or the moon. Sleep seemed like a mirage.

  In his somnolence his thoughts slowly drifted into remote images from when his mother and father were still young …

  He saw himself as a little boy again, with a great big head, dirty knees and scrapes on his toes. It seemed like a century ago. He didn’t like the thought of growing old. For some time now he had been constantly checking the wrinkles on his face in the mirror. His brain still functioned well, for the time being; it was his skin that was deserting him. Turning on to his other side, he kept still in the hope of falling asleep, but as soon as he started to drift off, he would suddenly wake up as if someone had knocked at the door. In the end he turned the light back on and tried to read, but he only kept reading the same sentence over and over without understanding a thing. He threw the newspaper on to the carpet and got up. He’d brought a bottle of Badalamenti’s cognac home with him, and he went into the kitchen to get it. He poured himself a glass, lit his very last cigarette of the day and smoked it while pacing back and forth.

  The alarm clock beside his bed read 4 a.m. He looked distractedly at the spines of his books, the shirts hanging one on top of the other on a clothes hanger, a stack of old newspapers on the chair. He stopped in front of the two framed French prints that for years had hung in the entrance of the house in Via Volta, where he was born. They were hunting scenes of faithful dogs and dead pheasants. Not great art, but Bordelli was fond of them. All he sought in them was a taste of the past.

  He put out the cigarette butt and went back to bed. He left the light on and, instead of lying down, sat leaning back against the headboard. He started staring at the wall in front of
him, then slapped himself on the head. It was a method he’d learned during the war from Potì on a very silent night.

  ‘When you can’t sleep, sit up in bed with the light on, as if you wanted to stay awake, and you’ll see, in a little while your eyes will shut all by themselves.’ It usually worked, but this time, what came to him was not sleep but memories … Of the war, same as always … It had left a deep furrow in his brain, a sort of boundary between before and after … One morning in ’44 he’d broken away from a patrol in the Umbrian countryside with three of his men, all jailbirds. Day was breaking. Marshal Badoglio’s San Marco regiment was advancing ahead of the main body of the Allied forces, demining the roads and fields and signalling the positions of the German divisions to the rear lines. That morning Bordelli and his men were walking with their heads down through a densely wooded area. They knew the Germans were very close, but they had no idea how close. After crossing a stream they started climbing a slope, eyes wide open and breathing softly. When they reached the top, the terrain evened out, and there before them, enveloped in a light fog, was a German camp. Dragging themselves along the ground with their elbows, they approached the first tent. There was a rent in the fabric. Looking inside, they saw at least fifteen bare-chested German soldiers shaving. They were laughing heartily, splashing one another and trading insults. There was a very young soldier with blue eyes and a delicate face whose braces were unhooked so that his trousers were sliding down his hips. The others were whistling at him and slapping his bottom, calling him

  ‘Fräulein’ and laughing. Bordelli released the safety catch on his machine gun, and the other three did the same. Then they stuck the barrels through the rent in the tent, ready to open fire. They stayed that way for at least a minute. Bordelli looked at the uniforms hanging from hooks and pondered. The other three were only waiting for their commander to decide to begin the festivities. They could have slaughtered them all in a few seconds and raced back down the slope, protected by the woods. No one would even have seen them. But suddenly Bordelli put the safety back on and signalled to the others to do the same. As they went back down the slope, all four of them realised they were drenched in sweat and exhausted from the tension. They walked briskly, in silence. When they were far enough away, Sgatti pulled up alongside Bordelli and tapped him on the elbow.

  ‘What do you think, Commander, were we right not to open fire?’ he asked.

  Bordelli didn’t answer but just kept on walking. His head was fuming. The next day those same Nazis might be lining civilians up against the wall and shooting newborns and raping every woman under fifty. And maybe the blue-eyed lad was the worst of the lot. Bordelli was worried that sooner or later he might regret not having shot them all, but at that moment he was satisfied with his decision. He hadn’t felt like killing men with lathered-up faces, even if they were Nazis. He knew well that the SS, in their place, would have committed a massacre without thinking twice, but wasn’t this very difference the reason they were fighting them to the death?

  Maybe some of those Nazis were still alive today and married with children. They would never know how close they had been to dying at the hands of the San Marco regiment. He emptied his glass, put out the light, lay down and turned on to his side. A few minutes later he was snoring.

  18 December

  It was Saturday and the sun was shining. Italy was mourning for Tito Schipa,13who had died during the night. Giorgio La Pira was continuing his pointless attempts to‘mediate’ a solution to the war in Vietnam, as the United States continued to triumph in outer space with its Gemini missions.

  Among the many fingerprints taken from the usurer’s apartment, De Marchi had found those of two persons with prior convictions for larceny, one now seventy-seven years old, the other eighty-two. Going by what Diotivede had said, this was useless information; they were both too old to kill anyone in that fashion.

  Young Marisa still hadn’t been located, and by late morning Bordelli was getting impatient to talk to her. Rinaldi and Tapinassi were still carrying on the search. Rinaldi was combing the Identity Cards Office at police headquarters, looking for all girls of about that age who were called Marisa and lived either in Florence or the surrounding province, and checking the photos on the index cards. It was going to take time. Tapinassi, for his part, was making the rounds of the schools. But tomorrow was Sunday, the schools would be closed, and Rinaldi wouldn’t be on duty … Everything would grind to a halt.

  The inspector could easily have had one of Badalamenti’s photos published in La Nazione, the Florentine daily, but he didn’t want the girl to encounter any trouble of any sort before he had a chance to talk to her. His only choice was to wait. They would find her sooner or later.

  Every now and then his thoughts turned to Fabiani. He tried to imagine the moment when he would see him again, but kept feeling embarrassed about it. Putting an unlit cigarette between his lips, he took a few empty drags just to taste the scent of the tobacco, then tossed the cigarette on to the desk. He was making progress. He wanted to get to the point of smoking only four a day, five at the most. He might just pull it off.

  He took out the ring that Diotivede had recovered from Badalamenti’s stomach and rolled it around between his fingers.

  It looked pretty expensive. Who knew why the loan shark had swallowed it, or whether it had anything to do with the murder. In late afternoon he dropped by the archives office, an enormous, poorly lit room, the domain of the giant Porcinai. Stacks full of bulging files rose up to the ceiling in the penumbra. Porcinai’s lamp illuminated only the top of his desk, which was covered with papers and folders. It was always too hot in there, and the smell of old dust dried one’s throat. It was a mystery how Porcinai managed to live there year round without getting sick. Maybe it was all the fat on his body that protected him.

  He was the largest human being Bordelli had ever seen. The archivist was typing, and the movements this required made the fat on his neck tremble. He was a very fast typist.

  ‘Hello, handsome, did you prepare those addresses for me?’ asked Bordelli.

  ‘I was about to send for Mugnai so he could bring them to you,’ said Porcinai, handing him an envelope. He and Bordelli were about the same age and on familiar terms. Porcinai was so fat that they’d had to have a chair made to measure for him, one that he could fit into and that could also bear his weight.

  His demeanour was always serious. His completely shaven head was always slowly bobbing. And he never stood up. Bordelli had very rarely seen him walk. Whenever Porcinai had to find something in the stacks, he would call a younger policeman and give him instructions.

  Bordelli opened the envelope and started reading. It was the typewritten list of Badalamenti’s debtors, with the address and birth date of each.

  ‘Did you find them all?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  Bordelli leaned against the wall and suppressed a yawn.

  ‘Did you count them?’ he asked.

  ‘Look on the back.’

  Bordelli turned the page and read: Men: nineteen. Women: twenty-seven. Total: forty-six. With Fabiani and Rosaria Beltempo, that made forty-eight.

  ‘How’s Piras doing?’ asked Porcinai.

  ‘Getting better by the day.’

  ‘Give him my regards.’

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’

  ‘The usual dinner with the usual relations. We sit down at the table at seven p.m. and at midnight we exchange presents.

  How about you?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Bordelli said curtly, continuing to study the sheet of paper in his hand.

  Porcinai spent his life in the dusty heat of the archives, and always kept a handkerchief near by to mop his brow. And he always wore the same white sleeveless T-shirt with red horizontal stripes. Bordelli had never had the heart to tell him that white and horizontal stripes make one look fatter.

  ‘Cigarette?’ he asked, offering him one.

  ‘No, thanks, I’ve never
had any interest in smoking,’ said Porcinai, raising a hand.

  ‘Sorry, I always forget.’

  ‘I think if I ever started I would prefer cigars.’ Porcinai then reached into a drawer, took out a funnel of greaseproof paper and shoved his fingers into it.

  ‘Would you like an olive?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re pitted and stuffed.’

  ‘Another time, Porcinai. I’ve still got the taste of coffee in my mouth.’

  Porcinai grabbed a handful and put the cornet back in the drawer. Then he put all the olives into his mouth at once and wiped his hands on his trousers. The inspector put the list of addresses in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Porcinai, what sort of Christmas present would you give to a woman who is no longer young but still pure of heart?’

  ‘Is she your girlfriend?’ asked the archivist with his mouth full.

  ‘Just a friend.’

  ‘Does it have to be something special?’

  ‘I just want to make her happy.’

  Porcinai picked a piece of olive skin from between his teeth.

  ‘Give her something strange. Women like gifts that are strange,’ he said.

  Bordelli brought his hand to his chin.

  ‘What exactly do you mean by strange?’ he said.

  ‘Something nobody else would give her … I don’t know, sing her a song, make a rabbit appear out of your hat.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘Or write her a poem.’

  ‘Thanks, you’ve been a great help.’

  Suddenly the door opened and Rabozzi appeared with his chained-up-dog face. His shoulders were as broad as a door.

  ‘Hey, look who we have here,’ he said.

  ‘Ciao, Bordelli.’

  ‘Ciao, caro.’

  ‘I hear you’ve been working on a nice little murder.’

  ‘Great fun.’

  ‘Getting anywhere?’

  ‘I’m still at square one. Diotivede’s still got the body.’

  ‘I’ve been after a bloke who amuses himself scaring old ladies, and he’s even managed to hurt a couple of old maids. The guy’s really getting on my nerves.’