by Marco Vichi
Halfway down Via Alderotti, he saw a man on the pavement walking briskly, hat pulled down over his eyes. He thought he knew him. Turning the car around, he drove past him again. It was him, in fact: Clemente Baroncini, known as
‘The Baron’, a con artist nobody’d ever been able to nab. A great one, in his way. The inspector stopped the car and got out. The man was coming towards him.
‘Hello, Baron,’ Bordelli said, accosting him. Clemente stopped dead in his tracks, looked him straight in the eye, and his face broadened into a smile.
‘Bordelli! What a lovely surprise!’
They embraced, slapping each other on the back. The Baron was tall and well built, and rather handsome.
‘You’re looking good,’ said the inspector.
‘You don’t look too bad yourself.’
They were on familiar terms, having attended elementary school together.
‘What are you up to these days?’ Bordelli asked.
‘Oh, nothing much, the usual stuff.’
‘Are you about to rob another dunce of his millions?’
‘Bordelli! You know well that there are certain things I don’t do any more,’ said the Baron, pretending to be offended.
‘Ah, sorry, I’d forgotten.’
‘It’s all water under the bridge.’
‘Of course it is … Did you hear about that Milanese collector who bought a fake Cézanne a couple of months ago?’ The Baron narrowed his eyes, trying to recall.
‘Yes, that does ring a bell.’
‘Sixty-five million,’ said Bordelli, raising his eyebrows.
‘Damn!’ said the Baron with a look of amazement.
‘You should have seen how angry he was …’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Just think, the gentleman was even a great connoisseur of art, especially French Impressionism. I do wonder how he could have fallen for it.’
The Baron was staring at Bordelli with a twinkle in his eye, but said nothing. The inspector was sincerely curious to know how it had been done. He couldn’t understand how one could so deceive an expert in French art. And if the unfortunate Milanese man could realise the Cézanne was fake after buying it, why not before? Bordelli would have paid a hundred thousand lire to know the whole story.
‘It’s not so easy to make a monkey out of an expert like that,’ he said.
‘I realise that,’ said the Baron, repressing a smile.
‘How would you have done it, Clemente?’
‘How would I have done it?’ said the Baron, with the same barely repressed smile in his eyes. Bordelli put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it amicably.
‘I know it wasn’t you … I’d just like to know how you would have done it, that’s all.’
‘I really don’t know,’ said Clemente with a satisfied air.
‘I’m sorry, you’re quite right. You’d really have to be a genius to pull off something like that.’ The Baron seemed stung by these words, and his smile vanished. His vanity was bleeding.
‘Well, actually, I can imagine one way it could be done,’ he said, massaging his chin. He knew he was giving in to a provocation, but he couldn’t help it.
‘How?’ asked Bordelli, feigning innocence.
‘Well, you would need two paintings, a real one and a fake … But a good fake, a fake with bollocks. At the first meeting, you show the sucker the real one, and then, at the moment of payment, you bring the fake, making sure to arrange the meeting in a room without good lighting. It’s a classic bait-and-switch, requiring manual skill and a touch of psychology. But it could work.’
‘And where did you— I mean, where would you get the original?’
‘I would borrow it from another collector, replacing it temporarily with the fake. And obviously on the sly.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand … If you’ve got the original in your hands, why not sell that?’
‘Well, in my case, because I’m not a thief.’
‘Ah, I see. I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘But there might be another reason too.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘Sentimentalism,’ said the swindler. They exchanged a glance of understanding and smiled.
‘Thanks, Baron, that’s a load off my mind. Got any plans for Christmas?’
‘I was thinking of going up to Paris. It’s quite a village. Apparently people sleep with chickens there … but I don’t know in what sense, so I thought I’d go and check.’
‘Keep the purse-strings tight, Baron. In Paris you can spend seventy-five million in a hurry.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind, copper.’
‘Take care of yourself.’
‘Ciao. I’ll send you a postcard from Montmartre.’ They embraced again and the Baron went on his way. Bordelli got back inside the Beetle and watched his friend in the rear-view mirror, giving him one last look.
Baragli looked well that day. Some colour had returned to his face, and he was no longer in pain.
‘I’m feeling much better, Inspector,’ he said. He was sitting on the bed, in excellent spirits, and more confident in his movements.
‘Maybe you’ll even be able to spend Christmas at home,’ said Bordelli.
‘The doctor’s against it, but if I keep feeling this way I’ll lower myself out of the window,’ the sergeant said. Bordelli was well aware that it was the morphine that made him feel that way. He looked at Baragli with the knowledge that these were probably his last days, and felt very sad.
‘Diotivede came by to see me today … and the moment I saw him I thought he’d come to cut me open,’ said the sergeant, smiling.
‘From him, it would be an act of friendship,’ Bordelli said to keep them both smiling, though deep down he wasn’t smiling at all. With one hand, Baragli reattached a corner of the adhesive bandage holding the needle of the intravenous tube in the hollow of his elbow, then looked up to see whether the bottle was empty, but in fact it was still half full.
‘And how’s our Sardinian boy?’ he asked.
‘He’s spending Christmas in Sardinia, but then he’ll be back, just wait and see.’
‘Is he still with the pretty Sicilian blonde?’
‘Apparently.’
‘What a beautiful girl,’ said Baragli, staring into space.
‘I agree,’ said the inspector. Baragli stopped smiling, leaned forward, away from the pillows behind his back, and brought his head close to Bordelli’s.
‘See that bed there, Inspector?’ he whispered, gesturing to the bed opposite his.
‘There was an old man there, no?’
‘He died last night,’ said the sergeant, raising his eyebrows and drawing a cross in the air. Bordelli sighed in commiseration. He really wanted a cigarette. He looked Baragli in the eye and tried to smile. It was embarrassing knowing more about his death than he did.
‘A game of cards?’ he enquired.
‘Sure,’ said Baragli, rubbing his hands together. He was in a good mood. The inspector took the deck and dealt, and they started playing.
‘Any news about the loan-shark case, Inspector?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Diotivede is certain the killer is left-handed.’
‘Well, if he says so …’
‘Anyone can make a mistake.’
‘Except Diotivede,’ said Baragli in a knowing tone.
‘I haven’t seen any evidence to the contrary,’ said the inspector.
‘Have you called on any of the people on that list?’
‘I’ve made a first round.’
‘You’ll have to be patient, Inspector.’
‘I’ve got patience to spare,’ said Bordelli. As they played he started telling Baragli about his visits to the usurer’s various debtors, going into considerable detail. Then he told him about the post-mortem and the ring. They both joked about it a bit. Baragli laughed and the inspector forced himself to laugh along, but he was feeling more and more dejected. Bordelli even told the sergeant a
bout Marisa, and how the beautiful young girl had fallen for Badalamenti’s lies about the movies. Baragli shook his head.
‘Today’s kids want to do things too fast, Inspector. It’s as if they’re snakebitten.’
‘Maybe we just don’t understand them … Maybe we’re too old,’ said Bordelli.
‘Have you ever gone into one of those dance clubs where the kids go? I have, when I was on the job … You get a headache just watching them.’
The inspector also told him about Raffaele and Odoardo, again in great detail. He said that Raffaele was left-handed and could not remember what he’d done that Friday. Then he told him about his difficult conversation with Odoardo and his suspicions about the reticent and seemingly fragile youth. Thinking aloud, he said that putting a tail on either Odoardo or Raffaele, or tapping their phones, would probably serve no purpose, and the same was true for any other potential suspect. The murder was not the sort of crime that would be repeated. There wasn’t anything to keep watch over. Baragli listened to the inspector with the attention of a child. Bordelli fully satisfied his curiosity, and shook his head when he had finished.
‘That boy, Odoardo,’ he said, ‘made a very strange impression on me.’
‘But he’s not left-handed.’
‘No, but the other one is, Raffaele,’ said Bordelli. Baragli distractedly threw down a card.
‘Whatever the case, Diotivede can’t be wrong,’ he said, shrugging.
‘If you say that again I’m going to start thinking you don’t really believe it.’
‘Your turn, Inspector.’
‘Three and four makes seven,’ said Bordelli, picking up the seven of diamonds.
‘Scopa …15 And how old is this kid?’ Baragli asked.
‘About twenty, I’d say.’ The sergeant looked lost in thought, eyes staring at the bed opposite. The empty one.
‘Shall we stop playing?’ Bordelli asked.
‘No, I’m sorry … Whose turn is it?’
‘Yours.’
At that moment the brunette nurse came in and greeted the two policemen. It must have been time for more morphine.
‘Sleep well, Sergeant?’
‘Very well, and I even had a dream about you,’ said Baragli, turning on to his side and exposing a buttock.
‘About me? And what did you dream?’ asked the nurse.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’
‘Ah, I get it,’ she said, shaking a finger at him. Baragli was like a child in the woman’s hands. She rubbed some cotton on his bottom and administered the injection.
‘We’ll be eating shortly,’ she said.
‘Can I invite you to dinner?’ asked Baragli, grabbing her wrist.
‘I never dine without champagne,’ she said, then left humming to herself.
‘If your wife could see you, she’d drag you home,’ said Bordelli.
‘With my feet tied to the rear bumper,’ Baragli said, laughing. For Bordelli it was a relief to see him smiling, though his good humour had something macabre about it. They finished their card game and immediately started another.
‘You know what I think, Inspector? I think you’re planning to go and see that boy again, whether or not he’s left-handed.’
‘You mean Odoardo?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re right.’
‘And I know why.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Because,’ said Baragli, and he burst out laughing.
Bordelli woke up in the middle of the night wanting a drink of water. He’d fallen asleep with the light on and a book lying open, face down, on his belly. He could hear a light rain falling in the street. As he sat up, the book fell off the bed. He was rereading Beppe Fenoglio. He liked listening to another tell stories about partisan fighters and things that were happening at the same time as he was fighting the same enemy in another part of the country. He often wondered how certain Italians could remember the Nazis so well and the Fascists so poorly.
His throat was parched. He had forgotten to fill the basin on the radiator, and now the air was too dry. But it was also the fault of those delicious anchovies alla piemontese he’d eaten in Totò’s kitchen. He always kept a bottle of water beside the bed, and he set upon this avidly, drinking almost all of it.Then he lay back down and turned off the light.With a little patience he would soon be asleep again …
Actually, he himself had encountered very few Fascists during those years, from ’43 to ’45. All in all, he was happy he had never shot an Italian, but if he’d found himself in a situation where he had to, he would not have hesitated. One October morning in ’44, he was out on patrol with three of his comrades in a mountainous area in northern Tuscany.They were all very tense, and nobody breathed a word. They’d been hearing terrible things about the Nazi retreat. A few days earlier there had been rumours of a massacre in the Apennines. They told of some two thousand civilians killed by the Nazis, but nobody in the San Marco camp wanted to believe it.
They were advancing abreast of one another, about a yard between them. There was some sunshine, and a few birds were screaming in the treetops. When they came out of the dense wood, they heard a burst of machine-gun fire and immediately fell down flat into the high grass. A cluster of bullets slammed into the trunks of the trees over their heads, throwing up a rain of splinters. Dragging themselves along on their elbows, they crawled quickly back into the woods. A strong smell of resin and fresh wood lingered in the air. But the shooting had stopped. A minute went by.
‘Come out with your hands on your heads,’ a voice shouted in the local accent. It sounded about a hundred feet away, and seemed to come from a long strip of low shrubs dotted with a few isolated trees. But nobody was visible.
‘Are you Italian?’ Bordelli shouted, trying to buy time.
‘You can’t get any more Italian! Who are you?’ the same voice called out.
‘San Marco.’
‘Shit, so are we!’ cried a shrill voice. Bordelli exchanged a glance with his men.
‘Who’s your commander?’ he shouted towards the clearing.
‘Who’s yours?’ shouted another voice. Nobody wanted to be the first to answer.
‘We’re with the king,’ Bordelli said at last, winking at Gennaro, who lay on a bed of moss beside him. Nobody replied. A couple of more minutes passed. Then a fourth voice said:
‘We’re coming out, don’t shoot.’
‘Okay,’ Bordelli shouted.
A few seconds later six men rose up from the earth like ghosts and started walking towards the wood. They came forward with their machine guns under their arms, pointing downwards. They were wearing clean uniforms and the same black berets that Bordelli and his men had on. It seemed sort of eerie. Bordelli and the others stood up, their machine guns pointing down, fingers on the trigger, and came out into the small clearing. The other six were still advancing, and they all looked rather young. The shortest one must have been the captain. He had a round face and eyes too small for even a child. But his gaze was sharp and alert. The others followed him like chicks.
‘The little midget can go fuck himself ! Italy belongs to Mussolini!’ he said, with the passion of one whose only consolation lay henceforth in words. Bordelli waited for them to come nearer.
‘Let’s forget about that,’ he said calmly. The Fascists stopped about twenty feet away. One of them was tall and fat and looked like a woodcutter. He had a gentle face. Another, tall and hollow cheeked, had a blade of straw in his mouth and was chewing it nervously. Four against six, thought Bordelli. They all looked each other in the eye, studying one another like animals. One of the six Fascists was smiling, and it wasn’t clear whether he was afraid or just wanted to start shooting.
‘Your king is a traitor,’ the short one said, and spat on the ground beside him. Deep down, however, he seemed untroubled. Bordelli put on the safety catch on his weapon, then slung the gun over his shoulder. He turned towards his men and gestured for them to do the same. He wai
ted till all their guns were at rest, then turned back towards the six Fascists.
‘So why do you like the Germans so much?’ he asked. Nobody answered. They didn’t even change expression. But, one by one, they slung their machine guns over their shoulders. The short guy lowered his head.
‘And yet you look exactly like us,’ he said, ‘from the outside.’ The other five punctuated the quip with some throaty laughter.
‘Disappointment is part of life,’ said Bordelli.
‘So is death,’ said the other, rather dramatically. Bordelli didn’t reply. The whole situation was very unpleasant and dangerous, actually like the whole shitty war itself. On one side stood those who were about to lose everything, and on the other were those who had nothing left to lose. Somebody could get seriously hurt. Bordelli looked at the Fascists’ boots; they were clean and fairly new. He hadn’t seen such shiny boots in quite a while.
‘We’re going to go now,’ he said, looking their commander in the eye, ‘and we’re going to forget we ever saw each other …’ Everyone remained silent for what seemed a long time, staring hard at one another … When he thought about it now, it reminded Bordelli of the final scenes of one of those Westerns he’d seen at the Aurora cinema … After a few bars of music and some extreme close-ups, the biggest bastard would draw his pistol and a slaughter would take place.
But the commander only smiled in the end, even though he had the face of someone about to howl in pain.
‘That’s fine with me,’ he said.
‘Let’s hope we don’t meet again,’ said Bordelli. He wanted to head back to the woods, but before turning his back on them he wanted to be sure he could trust them. They might be Italians, but they were still Fascists allied with Nazis. He continued staring at the short one. He hoped he wouldn’t have to start shooting. He was used to doing so against Germans, but this situation seemed strange. And yet they were the same people, he kept repeating to himself. Whether Nazis or Black Brigades, it made no difference. But if he had any say in the matter, he would rather leave and forget he’d ever seen them. The commander cleared his throat and spat again.
‘We made Italy, and we’ll take her back, that much is certain … But I don’t shoot at Italians in uniform,’ he said.
