by Marco Vichi
He went back to the threshing floor in the forecourt. The sky was a grey dome. Unable to hold out any longer, he lit his first cigarette of the day, thinking he would take the bull by the horns another day. He smoked it while poking about in the barn amidst carcasses of bicycles and motorbikes, pots and pans without handles, glass jars, crates, torn blankets and dismantled bedframes. There were six or seven old tyres stacked on top of one another, and through the holes in the middle stood some pestle-shaped sticks used to crush grapes in tubs. He’d seen them being used once or twice as a child, when he and his father would take the bus out to the country to buy wine from the priest at Montefioralle or some other vintner. Those big sticks had a precise name, but he couldn’t remember it just then.
He went back outside. Crushing the cigarette butt on the brick threshing floor, he glanced at his watch. It was almost one o’clock. He didn’t feel like waiting any longer and decided to come back another time. He got into the Beetle and turned on the ignition. As he was backing up, a young man arrived on a Vespa. He was wearing goggles that covered half of his face. Bordelli turned off the engine and got out. The lad parked the Vespa under the loggia and took off his goggles. He looked about twenty years old. He was wearing a raincoat that must have once been white. He walked towards Bordelli, a leather bag in his hand, and stopped about ten feet away.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ he asked. He had a beautiful face, dark eyes and black hair.
‘Hello,’ Bordelli said provocatively.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ the youth repeated, slightly annoyed. His expression seemed to be one of eternal resentment.
‘I would like to speak with Signora Beltempo,’ the inspector said.
‘My mother died three months ago.’ This might be the Odoardo mentioned in the letter, Rosaria’s son.
‘I’m sorry … Your mother must have been very young,’
Bordelli said.
‘Forty-two.’
‘What happened?’
‘To whom am I speaking, if I may ask?’
‘Sorry … I’m Inspector Bordelli, police,’ said the inspector, pulling out his badge.
The lad’s face tensed.
‘My mother was hit by a car. Why are you looking for her?’ he asked coldly.
The inspector took a few steps forward and stopped in front of him.
‘I wanted to give something back to her and talk to her a little,’ he said vaguely.
‘Whatever it is, you can give it to me.’
‘It’s a private matter. I don’t know if your mother would approve.’
‘My mother is dead. Is there anything else you have to tell me? I’m in a bit of a rush,’ the youth said, stiff as a tree trunk.
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘To know whether you have any brothers or sisters.’
‘Good answer.’
‘Does your father live with you?’
‘I live alone,’ the lad said.
‘Oh … And where is your father?’
‘I don’t know, I’ve never met him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I stopped thinking about it a long time ago,’ said the youth, shrugging. Aren’t you afraid to be here all alone?’
‘Are you referring to the bogeyman or the big bad wolf ?’
The inspector smiled. He was amusing himself, but that wasn’t why he’d come.
‘Do you know someone called Totuccio Badalamenti?’ he asked out of the blue.
‘No,’ the boy said decisively. But Bordelli had seen him give a slight start, with nostrils flaring. Perhaps it was only a coincidence, or perhaps the boy was just nervous because a policeman was asking him strange questions.
‘So you live here all alone,’ Bordelli repeated, gesturing towards the large house.
‘Yes, I live here all alone.’
‘It’s a nice big place. Is the land around it yours?’
‘A few hectares,’ the lad said placidly. He’d already recovered his cool.
‘You’re very lucky … Do you tend the olive trees yourself ?’ Bordelli asked with great apparent interest.
‘No.’
‘Who takes care of them?’
‘An old peasant who lives near by.’
‘I can just imagine how good the oil must be … The new oil’s ready now, you know, the kind that stings on the tongue,’ said Bordelli.
The boy’s eyes narrowed. He seemed annoyed.
‘Do you have anything else to ask me, Inspector? I’m a little busy.’
Bordelli calmly took another step forward.
‘No, nothing else,’ he said.
‘Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going,’ the youth said, staring at him with hostility.
‘There’s no need to hurry.’
‘Unfortunately, I happen to be in a hurry.’
‘Tell me … What are you doing for Christmas?’
‘Nothing I have to tell the police about,’ the lad said.
‘I wasn’t asking as a policeman.’
‘At any rate I’ve still got nothing to say.
Bordelli glanced at the old Ardea.
‘Beautiful car. Did it belong to your mother?’
‘We found it.’
‘In my day it was everybody’s dream.’
The lad made a gesture of exasperation.
‘Goodbye, Inspector. As I said, I’m very busy.’ And he turned away and walked towards the house, keys in hand.
‘Just a second, Odoardo,’ said Bordelli.
The boy turned round abruptly.
‘How do you know my name?’ he asked.
The inspector walked towards him with his hands in his pockets.
‘I’m a policeman …’ he said as though excusing himself.
‘Why don’t you tell me straight out why you came here?’
‘Do you know that this same Mr Badalamenti was killed?’ Bordelli asked, looking him straight in the eye.
‘I don’t know him,’ Odoardo said indifferently, looking for the right key on the chain.
‘Don’t you want to know who he was?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll tell you anyway. He was a loan shark … A despicable usurer and extortionist.’
‘I’m not interested,’ Odoardo said impatiently, sticking the key in the lock. With his left hand, Bordelli noticed, but perhaps that was because he had his bag in his right.
‘Somebody stabbed him in the neck with a pair of nice sharp scissors, the pointed kind …’
‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t care.’
‘The killer searched the whole house, but in my opinion he didn’t find what he was looking for.’ Odoardo shot him another exasperated glance.
‘I really don’t know what you’re getting at,’ he said, annoyed, letting the key chain dangle from the door.
‘I just wanted to have a little chat.’
‘What does any of this have to do with my mother?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Bordelli. Then he took out the ring with the name Ciro inside and went up to Odoardo.
‘Does this ring look familiar to you?’ he asked, handing it to him.
The boy looked at it for only a second.
‘Never seen it,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Of course not, I would need several days to think it over.’
‘You see? You can be funny when you want to be,’ said Bordelli.
‘Let’s make this quick. Is this what you wanted to give my mother?’
‘Do you know where I found it?’ Bordelli asked, ignoring the question.
‘Do you want to keep me here until nightfall, Inspector?’
‘It was in Badalamenti’s stomach …’
‘So what?’
‘The guy swallowed it. When the police pathologist opened him up, he found it in there somewhere … Odd, don’t you think?’
The youth
looked at the ring again.
‘I’ve never seen it before,’ he repeated. Then he handed the ring back to Bordelli and turned the key in the lock.
‘Have you got a telephone?’ the inspector asked absently, eyes narrowing.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Could you please give me the number?’
‘What for?’
‘I may need you.’
‘You can find it in the phone book.’
‘Since we’re here, tell it to me yourself …’
Odoardo looked at him in defiance, then shook his head and told him the number. The inspector searched his pockets, pretending to be looking for something to write with.
‘I haven’t got a pen on me,’ he said, shrugging. Odoardo couldn’t take it any more and just wanted to get the whole thing over with. He set his bag down on the seat of the Vespa, yanked it open, and pulled out a pen and notebook. He scribbled the number, tore the sheet out, and handed it to Bordelli. The inspector noticed he held the pen in his right hand.
‘What do you do for a living, Odoardo? I’m not asking as a policeman,’ he said, putting the piece of paper in his pocket.
‘I work with an architect.’
‘Where?’
‘In Via Bertelli,’ the youth muttered, repressing the urge to tell him to go to hell.
‘Ah yes, over by Coverciano …’ said the inspector.
‘No, I’m referring to Via Timoteo Bertelli.’
‘I’m not familiar with it.’
‘It intersects with Via delle Forbici,’ said Odoardo, looking at him with antipathy.
‘I don’t believe it … I was born about a hundred yards away from there. Can you imagine?’
‘I can spend the rest of the afternoon imagining it. Now I have to go.’
‘What’s the architect’s name?’ Bordelli asked in a friendly tone.
‘Why? What do you want with him?’
‘I was just curious. Maybe I know him.’
‘Do you want to ask him if I go around at night killing people?’
‘I just want to know his name,’ said the inspector.
‘Giampiero Balducci.’
‘No, I don’t know him. Would you happen to have a cigarette? I’ve finished mine,’ Bordelli lied.
The young man pulled out a packet, nostrils flaring. With a brusque flick of the wrist, he made a cigarette pop out. Bordelli took it and thanked him. They were Alfas, matching the ash found in Badalamenti’s house. That didn’t mean anything, of course. A lot of people smoked Alfas, especially youngsters with no money.
‘Would you like a light, too?’ asked Odoardo, with feigned courtesy.
‘I’ll smoke it later, thanks,’ said Bordelli, putting it in his pocket.
‘Good. Do you need anything else, or can I get on with my life now?’
‘That’ll be all for now, but I’ll be back to see you soon, mind you … I like this place,’ the inspector said, looking around.
‘Goodbye, Inspector.’
‘Oh, one last thing, I’m sorry … What do you call that big stick in the shape of a pestle used to crush grapes in the—’
‘It’s called a plunger,’ the lad interrupted him, patience at the limit.
‘Ah yes, a plunger … Thank you so much.’
‘Not at all.’
‘See you soon,’ said Bordelli. He shook the youth’s hand and noticed that it was sweaty. Odoardo opened the door and disappeared inside.
Before leaving, Bordelli looked around again. He really did like the place. There was something glorious about the two tumbledown buildings.The carcass of the Ardea and the rusting motorcycles weren’t just scrap iron. All piled together like that in the barn, they were as fascinating as an archaeological find. Bordelli had a weakness for those sorts of things. He liked to see that time didn’t ravage only living beings.
He got into the Beetle and drove slowly back into town. When he turned on to the Viali, it was almost three. He passed the Fortezza and turned down Viale Lavagnini, which when he got confused he sometimes called Viale Principessa Margherita, as it was known before 1947. He was about to stop by the Trattoria da Cesare to see whether he could get a quick bite to eat, but then realised that Totò would only manage to make him eat more than he wanted. So he skipped it. Every so often one needs a break. He turned down Via Santa Caterina and shortly thereafter stopped in Piazza del Mercato Centrale. He went to the friggitoria in Borgo la Noce and had some fried polenta. Coming out, he noticed that the sky was still overcast with dense, grey clouds. At the tavern next door, he drank a glass of red. After a cup of black coffee, he lit Odoardo’s Alfa … Was it the third or the fourth cigarette of the day? He had to find a way to keep track. Inhaling the smoke, he felt a sort of thud in his chest. That blend of black tobacco was too strong for his taste.
While he was at it, he bought a piece of pecorino cheese at the Casina Rossa, for those rare occasions when he happened to eat at home. Heading back towards his car, he thought again of Odoardo. The boy was closed as tightly as a sea urchin. He seemed to be at war with the world. Bordelli imagined him plunging the scissors into Badalamenti’s back. The picture seemed right. But he wasn’t left-handed, and Diotivede had said …
He put the pecorino in the car and went for a stroll in the centre of town to do a little window shopping. Everything would be reopening shortly. He couldn’t let himself forget that he also had another big problem at that moment: finding a present for Rosa. Porcinai had made it seem so easy. Give her something strange. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
He stopped to look in all the shop windows but couldn’t make up his mind. Perhaps it was better to go into a shop at random and ask a salesgirl for advice. He tossed aside the fag-end and blew the smoke upwards. He was still thinking about Rosaria Beltempo’s son, reviewing the young man’s every gesture and expression in his mind. He’d seen him give a start two or three times. Was Odoardo lying or was he simply surly by nature? It was hard to know. Bordelli decided he would pay him another call soon; it probably wasn’t a bad idea to talk a little more with him. He didn’t quite know why, but there was something about the boy that aroused his curiosity. He wondered whether he was being guided by his sixth sense or was simply prey to suggestion. The danger was that he might be led astray by a false intuition or by his habit of always interpreting human behaviour no matter what. He had to be careful. But, all things considered, he liked the kid. He seemed quite intelligent and had a keen sense of irony. Meanwhile he continued looking in the shop display windows, but didn’t see anything for Rosa. In the end he surrendered and slipped into a gift shop full of useless knickknacks. He put himself in the hands of the saleswoman, a blonde of about thirty-five in spiked heels. Luckily he got away after almost spending a fortune on a tiny blue horse in Murano glass. He’d escaped just in the nick of time. The saleswoman had already started to wrap it up when he suddenly came to his senses and said he was no longer convinced, rushing out of the store under the nice lady’s angry glare.
Piras was lying in bed, resting after his long afternoon walk. He wanted to hurry up and mend. He’d gone out early that morning and taken the street past the church, on the left, which climbed steeply towards the vineyards. He’d arrived at Pavarile with his lips dry from the north wind, then come back down, passed his house and decided to continue walking. He went almost all the way to Seneghe, through the pastures and thickets of scrub oak where pigs roamed wild. Behind the village, at the foot of the Montiferru, lay the olive groves. In all he’d walked over six miles. He felt in better and better condition. His legs were stronger and the back pains had almost disappeared. But he couldn’t bear hopping about on crutches much longer. If he’d had sound legs he could have run all the way to the pond of Cabras.
It was past five o’clock. He started reading another Simenon novel, but kept getting distracted by the thought of Benigno in the armchair with his tongue hanging out. His father had gone back to the field, where he’d gathered a mountain of cavolo
nero that he’d piled on to the kitchen table. The cabbage was to be prepared for the following morning. That was always Maria’s job, since she had two hands. She would clean the vegetables while watching television, tying them together into little bundles to be sold at the market. She would sometimes start with children’s TV in the afternoon and then resume work after supper. The telephone rang, and from his room Piras shouted that he would answer it. Getting out of bed, he grabbed the crutches and headed for the entrance hall as fast as he could. At that hour, it was almost certainly Sonia. To spare her the inevitable questions, he always managed to pick up the phone before his mother could. The telephone kept on ringing. Piras leaned against the wall to free one hand and then picked up.
‘How’s our little convalescent?’ Sonia asked.
‘Better and better, but to fully recover I need the cure I mentioned,’ said Piras.
‘Well, if you’re wrong I’ll scratch your eyes out.’
They carried on in this fashion for a good while, needling and desiring each other. Piras had decided not to tell her about Benigno’s suicide, so as not to put a damper on their pleasant banter. Now and then Sonia would lower her voice and recall some details of their first night together. Piras would feel a wave of heat rise up from his belly to his brain. Her words were the best possible incentive for a speedy recovery.
Maria was in the kitchen, already preparing the bunches of cavolo nero, sitting in her low chair in front of the embers in the fireplace. The instant the phone started ringing, she had run to turn down the volume of the television, hoping to overhear a few words of their conversation. With the ease of habit, she stripped away the yellowed cabbage leaves, or those half eaten by snails, and threw them into a basket. When she’d cleaned four heads, she bound them together with a rubber band, all the while thinking of Benigno and poor Pina, who loved him like a brother. Such thoughts did not, however, prevent her keeping her ears pricked to try and catch a few words of Nino’s telephone call, even though her face showed none of this. Her curiosity was whetted by the secrecy of her son, who hadn’t revealed a blessed thing about this girl. But she could do nothing about it. Nino was a grown-up now. Soon, by the grace of God, he would be fully recovered, and unfortunately he would go back to the big city to resume his dangerous job. She had tried to change his mind, saying there were so many other things he could do for a living, perhaps in Oristano. But Nino was as stubborn as his father, and when he’d made up his mind, it was final. Being shot by criminals hadn’t sufficed to make him change his mind. In fact, he seemed more determined than ever to carry on, the mule.
